by A. J. Pryor
Not needing to be told twice, I slide onto the seat, thinking Derek’s right there with me. He’s not. He’s circling the men like a predator ready to strike.
“Derek, let’s go,” I say.
He should walk away. Whoever these guys work for just found their payday. But he’s not retreating, and neither are they.
One dares to raise his camera and take a shot. The flash goes off like a shotgun. In one swift move, Derek grabs the man’s shirt, yanks the camera from his hands, and hurls it to the ground. The sound of breaking glass explodes around us.
“I’m going to fucking kill you.”
The Rage.
There he is.
He’s here.
Derek Cage’s temper flares when a paparazzi gets too close to his assumed girlfriend. Who is this woman, and why would The Rage risk so much to protect her?
Another of the NFL’s top players is accused of assault during the night when a photographer came too close for comfort. Will Derek Cage ever learn to control that temper?
“Is this your idea of staying out of the press?” My dad has the front page of the sports section open on my kitchen table. Hannah is looking up at me with trust in her eyes. A feeling I won’t soon forget. A feeling I then destroyed.
My father’s irate, cold expression makes me realize how exhausted I am. My life is lived through a microscope, a specimen existing in a Petri dish for the world to judge.
“Dad, this is nothing.”
“Nothing? You were almost arrested.”
“But I wasn’t.”
After dropping Hannah at her apartment, I called my attorney, and he handled everything. The photographers had been too close, a viable threat. My actions were warranted. Of course, the media chooses to leave those details out of their coverage.
“It’s that reporter. I’m sure she tipped them off. I told you to stay away from her.”
Crumpling the paper, I toss it in the trash. “No.”
He startles at my defiance. The air has shifted.
“This is not how a Cage behaves, Derek.”
“I never asked for this last name. Never wanted the life you lead. Don’t put that burden on my shoulders.”
“Most people would give anything to have your life, to be a part of the Cage dynasty. Yet you act like it’s a curse.”
I hold my father’s stare, wondering how flesh and blood can be so different.
“It is a curse.”
“They’ll destroy you.” He pounds a fist on the table, the noise vibrating off the walls. “The stories they’ll tell. You’ll be finished, your career done, your life worthless. Just like Lily’s.”
“You think I murdered her, don’t you?”
A shrug. “You’ve never proven your innocence.”
A shrug. A shrug from my own father. He thinks I’m capable of murder.
Prove my innocence. I can’t, and he knows it. Lily and I were alone in the mountains the night she died. I cringe when I think back to how I considered taking her virginity that cold winter night. Her sweet voice encouraged me; her cold fingers trembled as they gripped my arms. I failed Lily eleven years ago. I didn’t kill her. But somehow, her connection to me did.
I won’t do the same to Hannah.
Pulling out a chair, he takes an uninvited seat, his body old and tired. He’s always been a man of steel, someone I never thought would falter or show signs of weakness. Maybe needing to maintain his façade is getting to him.
“Derek, I know you think I was strict.”
“Strict? How about emotionless?”
“I did my best. I’m still trying to do my best. Your future, your success, they are the most important things to me. I don’t want to see you throw it away for some woman who’s going to burn you in the end.”
After my mother died, he never dated, never became involved with another woman. I’m sure he had his flings, most likely had women on the side, even when he was married, but if he did, I never knew about them. Becoming a rising star in the political arena became his obsession. I never understood why. I still don’t.
“I don’t want the life you had.”
“She’ll turn on you.”
“I’m willing to take the risk.”
He stands and goes to the front door, his wall back in place. “You may be prepared to take the risk, Derek, but make sure she is. People are afraid of you. You’re a murderer in most people’s eyes. Do you want her involved in that?”
He swings the door open to a startled Reggie.
“Good morning, Senator.”
“Reggie.” My father nods. “Where were you last night when this fool was gallivanting around town with that woman?”
“That’s why I’m here, Senator Cage. To make sure last night never happens again.” Reggie’s talking to my dad, but he’s staring at me.
“What the fuck? I’m not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
My dad finally leaves, and I wish Reggie would follow. I’m not in the mood to hear his shit, too.
“D, what were you smoking last night?”
I flip Reggie off. I don’t need these assholes tainting my night with Hannah. It was one of the best I’ve had in a long time. I sit on the couch and turn on ESPN, trying to drown out his voice.
“Seriously, man. You’re Derek Cage. You don’t get caught with your pants down.”
“I know who the hell I am. And if you look closely, my pants are secured around my waist, so go fuck yourself.”
He jolts as though sucker punched.
“Does this chick mean that much to you?”
“Her name’s Hannah. And what she means to me is none of your business.”
Like my dad, he takes an unwelcome seat, not getting the hint that I’m not in the mood for visitors.
“Actually, it’s all my business. This shit,” he holds up his copy of the Chicago Tribune, “doesn’t happen on my watch. And if Hannah is the source, then I need to know about it.”
“What do you need to know, Reg? If I’m spilling my guts to her? If she’s telling my secrets? If I’m fucking her? Which one is it?”
He kicks his feet up on my table. “All of the above.”
“Fuck off. Leave Hannah alone.”
“Okay. I’m gonna ask. I don’t want to, but I’m gonna ask. Have you gone mental? You know, like one too many concussions? Do I need to take you to get checked out?”
I glare at him.
He folds his arms. “You’re Derek Cage.” Our eyes meet. “You stay out of the papers. That was the deal.”
“It’s still the deal.”
“Really? Do I need to point out the obvious?”
When Lily was murdered, all evidence pointed to me. I was the last person to see her alive. Someone leaked that Lily knew a secret . . . a secret about my family and I’d silenced her. The media had swarmed like killer bees, aiming for a direct hit. A rich kid’s lovers’ quarrel gone terribly wrong. What a perfect story. A Cage gone bad.
There are secrets. They hide in the flesh and blood of the Cage clan; they spread their wings and destroy the value of trust, the value of true love. They are so deep, so vast, that even I don’t know what they are. If Lily discovered a Cage secret, she never shared it with me.
My father destroyed their theories and accusations. But the lingering question remained.
If I didn’t kill her, who did?
The case was sealed. Lily’s death was declared a random act of violence. Her life was cut entirely too short, and my heart was murdered right along with her.
No one was ever charged. A single hit to the head, a massive brain contusion rendering her lifeless in her own bedroom. Nothing was stolen, nothing disturbed, the murder weapon resting next to her lifeless body. I’m told a lone fingerprint surfaced on the rock that took her life, a print with no owner, a print that could have closed this case eleven years ago.
From that moment on, I swore to keep my life simple, never involve another human in my life’
s path, to live by the letter of the law and leave the rest to fate. Lily’s name was never mentioned with mine again. Heart crushing and sobering at the same time.
Caring father that he was, Tom Cage made a deal with me. Stay out of the media, no negative publicity, and he’ll use all his resources to keep me safe. He’ll protect me any way he can, guilty or not. In the end, it always circled back to his agenda. Having a felon for a son was not something Tom Cage wanted to hang on the family tree.
“You’ve spent your whole life avoiding gossip. Don’t do this. Cut this chick loose and avoid her like the plague.”
I wince. I physically wince at his words. And that scares the crap out of me. Mostly because he’s right, and I want to do everything in my power to prove he’s wrong. To show both him and my father I can handle Hannah Black. That I deserve a woman like her in my life.
“I want to give a shout-out to my brother, who’s locked up right now. Owen, love you, man.” We both turn to the television. Jackson Odem, one of the Packers’ starting linemen, is staring back at us.
“Shit, how ghetto do you have to be to say that on national TV?” Reggie asks in shock. “His people are going to flip.”
“She’s writing my story.”
“Say again? I don’t think I heard you right.”
“That day in the locker room, remember? Game one?”
He nods.
“She asked if she could write about me.”
Reggie turns off the television and faces me. “And you said yes?”
I whistle out a deep breath. “I’ve never responded. But it’s in the air between us. She sees a side of me no one else gets, and it’s a relief.” I meet his stare. “If she published a ten-page article tomorrow, detailing our experiences together, I wouldn’t care. She’s not going to fuck me over, Reggie.”
“And if she does?”
“Then I’ll deal with it.”
Reggie begins to snap his fingers. He does that when he thinks. Constant, continual, and fucking annoying. “Your fingers aren’t going to change anything, dipshit.”
“Fuck off. I’m processing.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out, and my heart picks up the pace.
Hannah: We made front-page news. I’m sorry, Cage. I’ll deny what I can, make it seem like we were working last night. I’ll protect you. Cross my heart.
All morning I’ve been worried about how to protect Hannah from my life, and here she is trying to do the same for me. Reggie and my dad are wrong. Spending time with Hannah makes me feel real, not simply a Cage. Even sharing small parts of my life with her has been cathartic, an awakening of the man I’m supposed to be. If anything, she may turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Derek Cage assaults paparazzi outside famed pizza parlor.
The captioned photo is not flattering. My eyes are wide in fear. Fear of Derek. Fear of the situation. Fear of his instant aggression. In a rush, we fled like two criminals on the run. One minute I was swooning, the next paralyzed.
Pulling up to my apartment building, he’d gingerly walked me inside.
“Hannah, I have to take care of that situation. Will you be okay?” His tone had been soft and caring, his anger buried.
I’d nodded, words stuck in my throat, my emotions torn. He’d been agitated, yet focused on my well-being. I’d wanted to comfort him but at the same time distance myself.
In the end, I did neither. After a quick peck on my cheek, he left. Sleep was futile as I tossed and turned, mentally dissecting the two different sides of Derek Cage. He has a rage that seethes deep within his soul. He’s been accused of using that rage against an innocent young girl. I need to find out the truth. I need to know what he’s capable of. And in the meantime, I’m going to protect him. It’s the only way I’ll ever get him to trust me.
Sighing at the disturbing photo, I turn the page and flinch when the next obnoxious headline screams at me.
Who is this mystery woman with The Rage, and will she up his game?
I fold the paper and push it to the side. I’m at Caribou Coffee, another step away from my West Coast ways. Starbucks isn’t the cool place to hang in Chicago; it’s all about Caribou. I have to admit the coffee rocks, and I’m addicted. But it’s not enough to ease the disturbing events of the previous night.
“Excuse me, do you mind if I share your table?”
An older woman wearing a black pantsuit is standing over me. She seems nice enough, with short brown hair and dark round eyes.
“It’s crowded in here, and I need a few moments to sit before I head off to a meeting.”
Her smile is infectious, and as I’m already running late, I nod my approval.
“Is it always this busy?” she asks.
There is a decent-sized line at the counter, and all of the tables are full. “You know, I’ve never noticed.”
“I’m Sarah. I don’t usually come into the city, and now I remember why.”
After my night in the daisies, I can see the appeal of the suburbs.
“It’s nice to meet you Sarah, I’m Hannah.”
“When I was young like you, I loved all the hustle and bustle, but at my age, it’s exhausting.”
Her voice is calming, a nice mixture of Midwestern and sophistication. Educated, and yet if she’s not in the city much, she’s probably a homemaker, wife to a businessman, or was at one point. Her ring finger is bare, so it’s hard to tell.
“I moved here from Los Angeles about a month ago. It’s an entirely different world.” I’m not sure what compels me to talk about myself, but Sarah’s maternal demeanor is comforting. Missing my mother, especially after last night, I welcome her presence.
“Oh, I love LA. That weather, there’s nothing like it. Why would you move here? Honey, you’re going to freeze this winter.”
The next ten minutes are spent discussing the difference between Chicago and LA, and what I’ll miss and what I won’t. Sarah’s spent her life traveling much of the world but plans to settle on the outskirts of Chicago for a while. Her son has just moved here, and she wants to be near him. Our conversation centers on abstracts, with the general idea of who we are and where we came from, leaving out the details of our everyday lives that one would save for a close friend.
Sarah’s attention floats to the table next to ours. “Oh, look at that. The media will report on anything these days.”
It’s the newspaper, flipped open, my face splashed across the page. Sarah doesn’t mention the fact that I’m in the center of that photo, out of respect or ignorance. I’ll take the omission.
“I remember when that boy was younger. Tragedy what he went through.” I rest my chin on the back of my hand, hoping she’ll continue. “I guess you wouldn’t know about any of that, given you’re not from here, and you were only a child yourself.”
“Doesn’t seem like life’s rough for him anymore,” I say. “Aside from all that anger.”
“Anger?” she asks.
“He’s got a temper. They call him The Rage.”
Pursing her lips, Sarah glances thoughtfully at the paper.
“I’m not surprised. You know, they used to say he killed a girl.” She leans over when she says the word killed, whispering like it’s a secret.
I bend toward her. “Do you remember it?”
Her brow creases, and she nods. “It was some time ago. A girl was found beaten to death. From what I can recall, evidence pointed to Derek Cage, and the public crucified him. But he was never charged. It was interesting. News one day, nothing the next. Odd.”
“Why wasn’t he charged?”
She purses her lip as though she’s deep in thought.
“Forgive me, it’s been awhile. But if memory serves, there was one missing piece to the crime, and it was crucial.”
The anticipation of her next words has my blood racing through my veins and pulsing between my ears.
Her eyes brighten as though a light bulb suddenly went off. “Oh, that’
s right. A fingerprint was discovered inside the girl’s room that night. One that didn’t belong, and one they couldn’t place. Without the identity of that person, the prosecution didn’t have a case.”
“How do you know this?” I’ve tried for four weeks to discover details in this case and am stopped at every turn.
“My husband, he’s—”
A man bumps our table, spilling Sarah’s coffee everywhere. He doesn’t apologize. Defeated, she mutters something about the city not being what it used to be, her thoughts of Derek obliterated. Heaving a frustrated sigh, I help her clean the mess.
“Oh my, is that the time? Thank you for allowing me to share your table, dear. I hope you have a pleasant rest of your day.”
“You too, Sarah. Nice to meet you.”
Ugh! I cannot catch a break. I sigh in dismay as I watch Sarah’s exit.
I bend to pick up my bag and my world tilts. My body falls forward as a hand presses against my side.
“Burn in hell, bitch.” The B is drawn out, CH crisp like a gong. The words have fire, they have movement, they have hate and they settle in my soul as my face meets the hard, cold cement of the coffee shop floor.
Gasps are inhaled, chairs scrape against the floor, and questions of concern are tossed in my direction. It all blurs as I look for the man with the raspy voice, the man whose blood flows with fire and hate. There’s nothing but kind eyes and worried expressions.
“Did you see someone push me?” I ask. I’m met with blank stares.
“You tripped,” someone says. “From what I saw, it looked like you tripped on the foot of the table.”
She’s wrong. I know what I felt. I know what I heard. But there’s no point in arguing.
I stand and pull my bag across my body. “Excuse me,” I say, as I head for the door, jittery with a story that’s itching to break open, and the knowledge I need to watch my back. I just don’t understand why.
”He looks delicious when he’s angry.”
“Gwen,” I scold. “You’re missing the point.”
“The ‘this man rocks the brooding angry look’ point?” She’s holding up the paper, looking at Derek’s fire-breathing expression. I push the salad around on my plate and refuse to take another glance at that photo. After this morning’s run-in, and my face plastered all over the sports section of the Chicago Tribune, I’d insisted we eat in my office.