by A. J. Pryor
She belts out a laugh. “No. But why am I not surprised?”
“Or when Reggie snuck a bottle of vodka into the ninth-grade dance and hid it in my backpack.”
“Oh God. I should be interviewing Reggie. He knows all your dirt.”
“He’d never talk to you. It’s his job to keep me away from people like you.”
“Then he should be fired.”
“You’re not the first to suggest that.”
Confusion wrinkles her brow.
“Some people think Reggie’s not right for my image.”
“Because he’s a party boy?”
“That and other things.”
“Past things?”
Her persistence amuses me. “Are you digging for dirt, Ms. Black?”
She trails her fingers up my chest, pressing gently, exploring. “I’m always digging, Mr. Cage. Talk to me about Priscilla.”
“Is this on the record?” I ask.
“That’s up to you.” She traces the outline of the chain around my neck. Curiosity sparks in her eyes, but that story is locked in a vault. I’ll never tell her.
“Priscilla Paisley is the ninety-two-year-old woman who hit on me once a month for four years until she died.”
My chain forgotten, her lips curve up. “Please tell me you never took that poor woman up on her offer.”
I shake my head. “My father was furious that I insisted on public high school, so he made me join a charity group. We served lunch to senior citizens one Saturday every month. I’d throw an apron over my clothes and wear a set of plastic gloves to spoon out whatever we were serving that day. Priscilla Paisley, ninety-two, with frisky hands and a foul mouth, made me sit with her every Saturday. She’d rest her hand on my knee and tell me about her promiscuous life before everything went south.”
Hannah buries her forehead into my chest, her body shaking with laughter.
“It’s not funny, Hannah. I felt molested every time I sat at her table, her hand inching farther up my thigh with each passing minute.”
“If she made you uncomfortable, why name a bike after her?”
How can I explain this without revealing too much of myself? I’m an expert at hiding my emotions, at giving the media just enough to satisfy their thirst, but that’s where it ends. Something about this woman makes me want to change that. I entwine our fingers and walk her back to the bike.
“I missed her when she died. Priscilla lived her life how she wanted, not succumbing to anyone else’s wishes, not conforming to society. My bike reminds me of her.” She reminds me of the freedom I wish I had. The freedom to be true to myself. True to Hannah.
She sits sideways on the seat and pulls me down next to her.
“You had a rough childhood, didn’t you?”
When I’m with Hannah, I forget she’s trying to write a story about my life, forget her boss wants to uncover every dirty detail of my past, expose me . . . expose my father. If I were to let anyone in, it’d be her, but that can’t happen, no matter how much I wish it could.
“Are you asking because you want to know or because you need to know?”
She takes a minute. “Both,” she finally answers.
“Why are you writing this story?”
She leans her head on my shoulder, and I wrap an arm around her, tucking her into my side, holding her close. I have slept with multiple women over the years. Sex is a basic need, a way to feel connected to another human, a tool to relieve pent-up stress and anxiety. Sex makes you remember you’re alive. But since Lily, I’ve never held anyone in my arms. It’s a natural reaction to embrace Hannah, to give her a tiny bit of myself and to take a little of her for me. And she fits as if made for me, as though she was sent for me.
The understanding of what I’ve been missing all these years settles like regret among the memories that haunt me.
“It’s the job I was given. They said you’d be evasive, that you’d shun me. But I’m not a quitter.”
Sitting straight, she breaks our connection. I study her in the dark of night, the outline of her slender nose, the mass of curls that frame her angelic face. She straddles the bike and cups my cheeks in her hands, her fingers cold against the warmth of my skin, her breath deepening the longer she touches me. My pulse quickens, my desire growing, I slide a leg over the seat and face her. I should take her home and never attempt see her again. She wants to expose me, to find the truth, a truth I don’t know how to explain. A truth I can’t explain.
“I know what Larry’s looking for, and I can’t give you that story.”
Her curious eyes meet mine. “Then give me something else. A look at Derek Cage that no one else gets to see.”
I tilt her face up, her pink lips part slightly, and her eyes smoke in the sexiest way. “I am.”
“Well then, don’t stop. Show me more.” I want to show her everything, but I can’t. If only my life were easier. But being here with Hannah, being this close, this uninhibited . . . It’s a necessity. A need. A want. And I need more.
“Hannah,” I whisper, “can I touch you?”
“Yes.” The speed of her answer makes me smile.
I slide the zipper of her jacket down, and peel it off her shoulders. My breath catches at the sight of her breasts, heavy and full in a top that reveals entirely too much, but barely anything at all. I press my thumbs into the soft flesh on either side of her neck and trace a line to her collarbone, grazing along the hard bones to her shoulders. Bending, I trace the same path with my tongue and sigh as she moans in satisfaction.
Her hands run through my hair, keeping my lips to her cool skin. I lay her backward, pressing a kiss on her lips, the warmth of our mouths a stark contrast to the cold night air.
Slipping a hand under the hem of her shirt, I feel every dip and groove of her hips, her back, her ribs, touching her soft and supple skin until I reach the hard wire of her bra. Short, quick breaths make her chest rise and fall in anticipation.
She inhales as I slide a finger inside the lace material of her bra and graze it along the hardened peak of her nipple. My lips part hers, our tongues joining, sighs of passion echoing through the still air. “Hannah,” I whisper. Her skin is warm under my touch, the scent of flowers intoxicating, the darkness and wilderness making me wild, wild for her. “I really like you,” I whisper against her mouth, and I feel the beginning of a smile.
“Yeah? I couldn’t tell.”
I laugh and rest my head beside her shoulder.
“Cage?”
“Yeah?”
“I really like you, too.”
Sitting up, I pull her to face me. “What are we going to do about it?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Keep liking each other and see where it goes?”
Placing my forehead against hers, I nod.
Her words hit a place inside I wasn’t sure existed, a melting of something that’s been frozen a long time. “Come home with me tonight.”
She runs her hands along my thighs, her palms pressing firmly, her fingers getting dangerously close to my groin. I resist the urge to flex my hips, to move closer to her touch, needing her to say yes. She nods, and I relax. I kiss her again, a foreshadowing of what’s to come.
A gust of wind whips her hair around my face, and she shivers. Memories assault me, taking me back in time.
“Lils, I think we should wait,” I said.
Teeth chattering, she grips me tighter. A thin blanket lies beneath us, the hard ground digging into my knees. It must be brutal against her back. “No, I want to do this,” Lily says.
Rolling off her, my erection at half-mast, the cold air not making things any easier, I bargain with her. “My dad is on the campaign trail next week. Marta will be home, but I can sneak you in.”
“What if we’re caught?” I can see her breath in the cold night air, and I wrap my arms around her, trying to keep her warm.
“We won’t be.”
She settles, her muscles relaxing. Her fingers trail under my shirt and gentl
y scratch at my stomach. I love it when she does this. It feels intimate, yet innocent. “Think about it, Lily. My bed, my room, warmth. Do you want your first time to be on this hard dirt in the freezing dead of night?”
Laughing, resting her face on my chest, I smell her strawberry shampoo, feel the girl I’ve loved my entire life.
“You promise?” Her voice is muffled, her breath warm through the thin material of my shirt.
“I promise.”
I didn’t keep that promise to Lily, and I won’t be able to keep any promises to Hannah.
My heart clenches. Hannah has no idea what life with me would entail. I’m not free to give her everything she deserves.
I kiss her again, wishing my life were different, wondering how I can protect her from the sins of my past, from the notoriety of my life. I dip my tongue inside her lovely mouth, and then pull back . . . I do it again and again. Gently tasting her, slowly kissing her, memorizing everything about her.
Her palms cup my cheeks, tender and sweet. I could sleep out here with her, cradle her, keep her safe. Worship her body, claim her mind, protect her soul. But then reality would strike, and everything would implode.
“You look tortured.” Derek startles at my voice, like he forgot he wasn’t alone.
“Maybe I am.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Yes. But I won’t.”
There is an edge of torment in his words. Despair I wish I could ease.
“I think I like being a Midwesterner. Making out in a field of daisies, surrounded by the changing leaves, I’m not sure you can top that.”
His serious expression softens. “I’ll top it.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “I promise.”
I pull on my jacket, the cold air beginning to bother me. Derek zips it for me and then stands, adjusting his jeans. He could be in a magazine, an advertisement for almost anything. A perfect image against the dark starry night, his hair mussed up, his jeans resting low on his hips, and his dark, brooding mood is so sexy. He offers me my helmet, and I take it. Then he leans forward and kisses me on the lips before helping me secure it on my head. “You’re beautiful. Come on. We have one more stop before my place.”
The ride to wherever we’re going is more carefree than earlier. Derek soars through the streets like we’re two free spirits with nothing to do tomorrow but sleep in and make love.
He pulls up in front of a pizza place and parks the bike.
“Pizza?” I ask.
“Favorite food, right?”
“Right.” I’m too touched to say anything else.
We enter the restaurant and the scent of basil, marinara, and all things Italian makes me salivate. Derek orders while I get a table. When the pizza arrives, it looks better than anything I’ve ever had in LA.
Cheesy, gooey, crisp, mouthwatering . . . I’ve died and gone to heaven.
“You like it?” he asks.
Mouth full of delicious deep-dish pizza covered in mozzarella, sausage, peppers, and mushrooms, I moan my approval.
“Can’t be a Midwesterner until you’ve gone to Lou Malnati’s, Angel.” I’m not an angel, but I feel lighter when he calls me that. And for some reason, I even like Freckles. Spencer used to call me baby, unoriginal and plain. My dad calls me Banana, which I have always loved. I have a feeling Angel will similarly warm my heart.
Washing down my mouthful of calories with a giant gulp of Bud Light, I sigh and go back to my pizza, not speaking until the entire slice is gone.
“Is it official now?” I ask.
He is openly amused. “Not yet. Dip it in this.” He’s pushed a bowl of something white in my direction. “It’s ranch dressing, and it’s considered a food group in this part of the nation. If you don’t like it, you better learn to love it.”
“I know what ranch dressing is, but I’m not ruining my pizza with it.”
“Dip your pizza in the ranch, Hannah.”
Reluctantly, I dip the pizza and then take a bite. I’m offended by the combination of flavors. How could anyone destroy man’s greatest creation with ranch dressing? I dip again, and again, taking bigger bites each time, and slowly begin to understand the affinity.
“The Midwest has a love affair with ranch dressing, Hannah. A crucial fact to remember.”
“Why aren’t you eating it?” I ask.
“Hate the crap. Gives me gas and it’s terrible for your diet.”
I stop mid-chew and push the bowl away. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Said I’d teach you how to be a Midwesterner, didn’t say you’d like it.”
We both laugh and I can’t help but look a little deeper at Derek Cage. He’s not the person I was looking for, yet he’s everything I’ve always wanted.
“Did you miss Chicago the past seven years?” I ask.
He sits back and contemplates my question. “There were things I missed, places, smells . . . seasons, but when I left Chicago, I never thought I’d come back. At least that had been my plan the day I moved away.”
“Because of your dad?” I’m prying. I know I am. If this were a date with anyone other than Derek Cage, I’d be asking the same questions. I don’t know how to be anyone else, but right now, I wish I were. If that’s what it would take to get him to open up, I could pretend to be anyone he wanted. But this is reality and I can’t change who I am.
He stops chewing and sits back in his chair, inhaling deeply. “I’m not answering that.”
“If I weren’t a journalist, would you? If I were someone else, would you tell me?”
He stares at me, his brows furrowed, mulling over my question.
“Probably not. But you aren’t someone else. You’re you, and you’re who I want. Can that be enough for right now?”
I nod. You’re who I want. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Hold up,” he says, his pointer finger in the air, his phone balanced in his other hand. “I need to timestamp this moment. Hannah Black is asking for permission to interrogate me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“I’d never dream of it.”
“Do you ever go on vacation?”
“You mean a break from football?”
“No, I mean go somewhere. Like Hawaii or Europe. Do you ever do anything for just you?”
He twists his lips to the side, as though he doesn’t understand my question.
“It’s simple, Cage, either you travel, or you don’t.”
“I understand the question. My answer is embarrassing. No. If I’m not playing football, I’m traveling for my endorsement deals.” He shrugs. “I don’t ever have any time off. What about you?”
Most people would be jealous of Derek’s life, but he’s lived a very sad existence.
I shake my head. “When I was a kid we vacationed as a family all over America. I love to travel. I was planning to go to Paris this summer, but then . . . well then my dad found himself in some trouble, and I didn’t feel right leaving. One day I’ll see the world. I’ll go skiing in Japan and sunbathing in Hawaii.”
“You love your family, don’t you?”
I do love my family. I fill Derek in on the trouble my dad is in and my role.
“Isn’t what they’re doing fraud?” Derek asks of the Hamiltons.
“Technically, yes. But she was a patient and she did suffer complications from a procedure my dad performed, or so she says. If it went to court, there’s a good chance my dad would win, but the toll a trial would take, let alone the legal fees . . . it’s all too much.”
“What a disaster.”
I nod. “That’s an understatement.” I can tell he wants to ask more, to dig deeper, but he’s restraining himself. “Can we talk about something else?” I ask. “Like where your dream destination is?”
“Bora Bora, in one of those private over-water cottages.”
“Really? I’d pegged you for a hiker, someone more outdoorsy.”
“You didn’t let me finish.” He leans close to me. “Yo
u and me in Bora Bora in an over-water bungalow, clothes optional, room service mandatory, and complete privacy. If I could go anywhere tomorrow, that’s where it would be.”
“Oh.” I feel my cheeks heat. You and me in Bora Bora . . . clothes optional . . . complete privacy. This man has the ability to take me from warm to hot in seconds.
“You ready to go home now, Hannah?”
I swallow.
We’ve already crossed the line, risking my story, tainting my reputation, but when I’m with him, all rules are broken, all fears abolished. It’s just the two of us, and I don’t see a killer. I see a man with a tortured past, a man whose nickname is in complete contrast to who I believe he is. I’m not sorry the line was crossed, and I don’t plan to step back over it anytime soon.
The chilly night air surrounds us as we leave the restaurant. Derek takes my hand and pulls me close. ”It’s going to be colder this late at night. Make sure you wrap your arms around me and snuggle in.”
“Nice move, Cage. I see what you’re doing.”
“What?”
“You just want me to straddle you.”
He laughs and turns me into his arms. “Damn right I do. Your legs wrapped around my hips.” He presses his lips to the side of my head. “My cock buried deep inside you. I can’t fucking wait.”
I swoon. Visibly. I fist his shirt. My lips brush against his warm neck, and from the smell of his aftershave and the stubble of his jaw against my cheek, I’m dizzy.
He holds me, kissing my forehead. “I want you every which way I can have you.”
Flashbulbs blind me, the sound of clicking cameras deafens me, and I’m thrown back to earlier today, sitting at my desk sifting through photos. But this time, the photographer isn’t hiding his presence. Throwing my arm up, I cover my face. Derek shoves me forward, his hand a constant at my back.
“Rage! Is that your girlfriend?”
“Derek, finally settling down?”
“What’s her name?”
“Who is she?”
His face is a mask of fury. His nostrils flare, his jaw twitches. “Get on the bike,” he barks.