Breaking Cage

by A. J. Pryor

  The scratch of a stool breaks the connection, and I shut my eyes.

  “You’re not asking the right questions, Hannah,” he whispers hoarsely.

  I look at him. “It’s backstory. It’s important information.”

  “No, Hannah, it’s not. Important information is why I continuously allow George Cox to guard me when I’ve been sacked twice on his watch. Or how it felt to throw a sixty-yard pass into Stephen Davis’s hands just before he made his cut to break free of the cornerback and entered the end zone against the Raiders. Those are relevant questions. If you want to know how my life began, Google that shit. It’s no secret.”

  “I did.” He startles and I can’t read the expression on his face. He’s confused, angry, or disappointed.

  “Google that shit. Your past begins when you were fourteen, the year you picked up a football. All the other information is boring.”

  Unaffected, his cocky smile grows. “Maybe my life was boring.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  One side of his mouth quirks up. “I lost my virginity at age fifteen. I wear boxer briefs when I play, but I go commando in every other situation. I sleep in the nude. I couldn’t care less about fashion, but I love the way that dress hugs your body. I honestly want to take you upstairs and slip it off you, then lay you on my bed in nothing but those shoes. Tease you until the only question you’re asking is when I’m going to let you come.”

  I stand, my stool scraping along the floor behind me. With fire in his eyes, he tracks my movements. My hands are trembling, my breath coming in gasps. “You may find this funny, Mr. Cage, but this is my job. I came here to watch your game, not play it.”

  My leg crashes into his, the solid muscle of his thigh causing an instant surge of pain. I ignore it and rush to the elevator, furiously pressing the up button until it arrives. I hop in alone, both relieved and disappointed he didn’t follow me.

  The doors begin to slide shut, and Derek slips between them.

  Shit.

  He hits the stop button.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Hannah.”

  He towers over me.

  “I’m not going to be one of your groupies or your flavor of the month,” I declare.

  Confusion crosses his face. “I don’t fuck groupies, and if you did your homework—”

  “My homework?”

  “Google my shit . . .” He arches a brow. “You’d see I don’t have a flavor of the month. You would see that sitting in that bar with you is the first time I’ve been in public with a woman in years.”

  He enters my personal space, his body almost touching mine. I can smell him, and my body reacts.

  “And my game? Angel, you started playing my game the minute you showed up at my hotel with that dress on. If you want to grill me with questions, then do it. If you want to accuse me of hating my family, go ahead. If you want to fuck me, ask. But don’t play games. I’ll win every time.”

  I cross my arms, defiant and angry. “I’m a journalist. Doing a story on you. Being seen with me doesn’t count.”

  “Hannah—”

  I poke him in the chest. “If you don’t want to be interviewed, why did you tell me to ask you anything?”

  The pulse in his throat is racing, his nostrils slightly flaring, deep breaths loudly exiting his chest.

  His palm circles my finger, removing my hand but not letting go. “You’re right. I don’t want to answer your questions. But I want to help you.”

  My anger begins to chip away. My fight faltering.

  He releases my fingers and toys with the plunging neckline of my dress, tracing the seam, grazing my skin. My nipples ache while he continues to swirl a finger on my heated flesh. Desire replacing anger.

  He backs me flush to the wall and places his hands on either side of my face, caging me. My pulse spikes. I’m confused and aroused all at once. His scent, the heat of his body, the presence of him is overwhelming, and I can’t catch a clear thought.

  “When I’m with you, I can’t think of anything but touching you,” he says and aligns his body to mine, pressing his hard length against my belly, making me dizzy. “The mere thought of you turns me on. This outfit. I want to peel it off you and claim you.” He runs his nose along my jaw, and I moan, short of breath, lost in a flurry of desire.

  “You want to play my game,” his breath is hot in my ear, his cheek resting against mine, “or you wouldn’t have dangled sex in front of me. But the moment I mentioned it, you ran.”

  All anger leaves me, replaced by something calmer, something foreign. “You want to help me?” I lock on to his heated stare. “I need a story. On you. Is there anyone else who will talk to me about your life?”

  “No one will talk to you,” he says. “Hannah, you’re not going to get what you’re looking for.” I should be angry at his words. Disappointed. But, my insides are on fire, my quest to get his story taking a back seat to the desire burning within me.

  He brushes his nose against mine, and our lips touch. “Hannah,” he breathes, and then his mouth covers mine. In a searing moment of passion, he kisses me. Our tongues tangle, our lips move with fervor. He grips my hair, pressing me firmly against the wall. It’s rough, dirty, and intensely erotic.

  A low growl leaves his throat, his body coiled tight as he ravages my mouth like his life depends on it. And I’ll gladly give him every last breath. This kiss, as blistering as it is sensual, is going to destroy me, scalding me for a lifetime.

  The elevator bell rings, and a man’s voice calls through the intercom. “Is everything okay in there?”

  Tearing away, our breaths come in deep gasps. My heart is pounding as we stare at each other, a war of unsaid emotions dancing between us. Me with horror at the line I just crossed, him with a resolve I haven’t seen before.

  “Back off, Hannah. I’ll talk to you about football. I’ll talk to you about the women I date. I’ll talk to you about anything other than my mother. She’s not your story.”

  The women he dates?

  “Hello? Anyone there?” the intercom blares again.

  I slip under Derek’s arm and tap the stop button, my legs shaking, my body trembling. “Sorry, sir. We’re moving now.”

  I focus on the dark metal doors, my mind spinning. How many other women are there? Where does he take them? His home? A hotel? The doors open, and I exit the elevator before looking back over my shoulder. “I want Derek Cage’s story. Not the son of Tom Cage, not the silent football player, but you. I want answers to the questions no one else is brave enough to ask. That’s my story.”

  Derek’s deep voice penetrates me. “Then you don’t have one. That person doesn’t exist.”

  The Bears are crushed in Denver. Derek Cage’s performance one to forget. Did someone clue him in that his career is on the line?

  Is it a woman causing The Rage to lose focus? Spotted having drinks with the same woman he was with at Bryson’s Realm, rumors swirl around Chicago’s legendary bad boy and the mystery woman on his arm.

  Tom Cage has faith his son will not let the Bears down. In an exclusive interview airing tonight on ABC, he talks about their life without Madeline, how Derek triumphed after losing so much as a young boy, and the steps Senator Cage has taken to keep his family secure.

  I couldn’t keep my hands off her. That dress, those eyes, the way her body taunted me, I’d lost control and made myself vulnerable.

  In one sentence, I’d told Hannah everything she needed. I saw it in the stiffness of her shoulders, in the nod of her head, the widening of her big brown eyes. I spoon-fed her a fact she’d been itching to confirm. I’m not the Derek Cage the world perceives. That person died the night Lily was murdered.

  Lily and I grew up together, our parents next-door neighbors, our lives intertwined. When we were young, we climbed trees until we reached the top. We’d disappear into the woods behind my house, pretending we were on the run from cops who’d found our hidden treasure. She’d let me come to h
er house when my father was on one of his many rampages, and I’d let her play with my Star Wars figures when one of the girls at school called her carrot-top.

  When my mother died, I relied on Lily even more. She held my hand during my mother’s funeral. And after, she let me fall asleep in the sun, my head in her lap.

  I loved Lily. I had loved her my entire life.

  When we got older, and her carrot-colored hair turned the color of a sunset, and her chubby body formed curves that made men’s mouths water, that love blossomed. I was going to marry Lily Harold. I knew it in my bones. But then she died, and accusing eyes turned to me. I had taken her home that night. I was the last person to see her alive. Who else could have killed Lily? How could anyone have believed it was me?

  My dad used his connections and freed me, kept my name out of the press, kept me off the official suspect list. Lily’s death is a cold case, her story left in limbo, her family left to wonder what happened to their only child.

  My father saved me from the cruel injustices of the law that night, but in return, he handcuffed me to his side. Stay out of the press. Make the Cage name proud. I’ve followed his rules, done what he’s asked, lost the person I was, and forgot who I wanted to be.

  Hannah is threatening to change that, and while terrifying, it’s also a surprising relief.

  “Need another?” An untouched glass of tequila sits in front of me. We lost big on Sunday. I made some good plays, great ones actually, but my team faltered. Not Coxy, though. Coxy had my back, saved my ass on more than one occasion, but it wasn’t enough to secure a much-needed win. I’m at Johnny’s, my go-to place when life’s throwing lemons. I’d love to down this drink and have another, but the season has started.

  “Yeah, he’d have ten more if you let him.”

  I’m not surprised Reggie found me. “Figured you’d end up here tonight.”

  He takes the stool next to mine. “It’s one loss, D, not the end of the season.”

  “Of course.” But it’s not the same for everyone. I’m the quarterback. My game is scrutinized under a microscope. Any poor plays, and all eyes turn to me.

  Johnny hands him a beer. “It’s maddening,” he says. “This team could be great, but Walters lets the ball slip right through his hands. Right. Through. Them!”

  “I know. That brother needs to be let loose . . . and soon. No way we’re ever going far with that dude as our number two receiver.”

  Moving back to Chicago was supposed to have revived my career, not tanked it. But when a receiver doesn’t catch a perfect pass, the blame falls on the quarterback. The pass was too high, an inch too far, veered to the right—whatever bullshit they want to make up, they do.

  I should tell Hannah to write that in her story.

  Hannah Black. She’s frustrating and exhilarating. It messes with my equilibrium. But fuck, she tasted like heaven. I’d give almost anything to be back in that elevator with her. If the intercom hadn’t buzzed, I’d have lifted her dress, and taken her up against the wall.

  Dammit! The thought alone makes me fucking hard.

  “Cage, what are you doing here?”

  Closing my eyes, I rub my temples. I hear Hannah’s voice. I must have gone temporarily insane. I feed off control, rely on it to get me through life. Hannah Black has stripped me of it, and I gave it to her willingly.

  “That bad, huh?”

  This time I do look. She’s standing before me. Medusa hair wild and sexy, liquid-brown eyes laughing at me, her dress cut teasingly low. I dip my finger in the cleavage.

  “Again?” I ask.

  She playfully slaps my hand away. “No, Cage. This dress isn’t for you.”

  “Hannah, how’d you find me?”

  Her laugh loosens something within me, something that’s been coiled tight for too long. “Who says I was looking? I was meeting an old college friend here for a drink, but he cancelled.”

  “He?” I ask, annoyed.

  She nods. “But finding you here instead has made this day a whole lot better.” Sitting next to me, she orders tequila on the rocks.

  Bar Hannah is cooler than reporter Hannah. I want to clear the place and lay her on top of the hard wood in front of us, strip her of her clothes, and screw her senseless. She seems unaffected by our last encounter, a kiss that almost brought me to my knees, and she’s acting like it never happened. Fine. If that’s how she wants to play this, I’m game.

  Reggie places himself between my sexy reporter and me. “Ms. Black. Derek’s not in the mood—”

  “It’s okay, Reg. She’s good.”

  Reggie scowls, but I don’t give a fuck.

  “Got it. I’m going to walk around, see what this place has to offer. I’ll see you two in a few.” He places his empty bottle on the bar. “Don’t give him a hard time, Hannah. He’s had a rough few days.”

  Hannah gives a curt nod, her lips set in a pinched smile. It’s not an attractive look on her, but fuck me if her protective stance doesn’t set my blood racing.

  Johnny places her drink on the bar. Lifting the glass, she hesitantly smells its contents. Her nose crinkles, and her brow furrows in doubt. She tips the glass to her lips, then downs the entire drink in one gulp.

  “Slow down, woman.”

  Pushing her glass to the center of the bar, she indicates to Johnny that she wants another. “Don’t tell me what to do, Cage. I’ve had a crap day.”

  “You don’t drink.”

  “I do today.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  Placing my hand over my heart, I feign hurt. “Why not?”

  “You never answer my questions. Why should I answer any of yours?”

  “Difference is, I’m not going to spill your business all over town. You’ll do that to me.”

  She shrugs. Indifference is not a reaction I’m used to.

  Picking up her new drink, she takes a tiny sip, and focuses on the people around us, her perusal of the customers clear. Hannah may have had a shit day, but a lot of the people here have shit lives. Customers have been coming to Johnny’s for years to escape their reality. It’s out of the way, clean, and quiet. No one’s going to take your picture here or even care who you are. It’s the perfect place to get lost for a few hours.

  Most people would be surprised to find me drinking with the regulars, acting like I fit in, but I find it comforting to be reminded that life goes on around me. That I’m not the center of the universe like my dad likes to claim. When I’m at Johnny’s, I feel like I fit.

  “I’ll make a deal with you, Hannah Black.” She turns those soulful eyes on me. “For one night, no questions.”

  She glares. “A deal is when each person benefits, Derek. I’m. A. Journalist. No deal.” Her eyes roll, and she goes back to people watching, her leg bouncing in time with the country tune played by the band.

  “You didn’t give me a chance to finish,” I say.

  Sighing deeply, she nods curtly for me to continue.

  “No questions.” She rolls her eyes again. “But you can write about anything you learn tonight. Nothing is off the record.”

  Interest swims in her wide eyes as she taps the bar in thought. One, two, three, four . . . each finger taps separately, one after the other.

  “No questions?”

  I shake my head.

  “Not even ‘What are you drinking?’ or ‘I’m drunk, will you take me home?’”

  I laugh. “But if that ‘Will you take me home’ is followed by ‘and fuck me senseless,’ I may reconsider.”

  “Wishful thinking, Cage. So, a night with no questions.”

  “None. If you can’t figure out what I’m drinking on your own, and if I don’t know you’re too drunk to drive, we are both losers. An entire night with no questions, but you can take anything you want from it and use it in your story.”

  She picks up her glass, inspects the contents, takes a big sip, and places it on the bar. “Deal.”

  Three hours
later, Hannah is going on and on about some dude in Los Angeles. I have no idea why she had such a crap day, but it has something to do with this guy named Spencer. “He’s going to ruin my dad.”

  “Your dad?”

  “That’s a question.”

  Damn. I just got schooled by my own rules.

  “The minute you found out his name, you should have run the other direction.”

  “What’s wrong with his name?”

  “Uh-uh, Angel.” Wagging my finger back and forth, I can’t help but laugh at her annoyed expression.

  “Okay, but seriously, Spencer is a fun name.”

  “Spencer is a name for blond surfers who have nothing but waves on their brain. You can do a lot better than a Spencer.”

  “Like a Derek?” She throws a hand over her mouth, laughing. “Shit, the questions just come naturally.”

  “Derek is an awesome name, Hannah.”

  “Okay, okay, anyway, now that I’m a Midwesterner, I’m moving forward. Upward and onward away from . . . blond surfers named Spencer.”

  “Hold up. You have lived here about a month. You can’t call yourself a Midwesterner.”

  “I just did.”

  “But you’re not.”

  She lifts a brow, daring me to challenge her.

  “Hannah, have you ever eaten puppy chow?”

  “That’s a question, Cage. And a disgusting one.”

  I laugh. “There are specific rules to being a Midwesterner.” I look at her black leather jacket, the low-cut dress, and her black high heels. Her skin glows like it’s fresh from the sun, yet she’s naturally pale skinned. She has that dry normal dialect that screams California. She’s fucking hot, and she’s so West Coast it’s like she’s wearing a neon sign.

  “What are . . . ugh, screw this no-question game. Tell me what they are.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  She smiles, and it’s so sweet, so sexy, it blows my fucking mind. “By the time I’m done with you, Hannah Black, you’ll forget Spencer what’s his name ever existed in the first place.”