by A. J. Pryor
“One. It was beautifully written and heartfelt. The emotions vivid and honest. You’re the only person who could have written it.” My voice is trembling, my mind frantically trying to put the pieces together.
“Why?”
“Because it was so detailed. Only a person in that relationship would be able to write those words, Derek.”
“Hannah”—he’s talking to me as he would a child—“you’re shaking.”
“It’s weird, Derek. Reading that letter, I pictured you sitting at a desk and pouring your heart out on a piece of paper. But it wasn’t signed. Your name wasn’t anywhere. What if the whole time you were with Lily, another boy was courting her? Could she have been dating someone at the same time she was with you?”
“No,” he says, his voice strangled, the idea obviously too painful to entertain. Everyone thought Lily was sweet and lovely. Was she actually seeing someone else? Chandler! Chandler might know.
“Then why wouldn’t she tell you about the letters? What was she hiding?”
He paces the room and I follow him, “Lily knew me better than anyone, Hannah. If someone was writing her letters, and it wasn’t me, I’d have gone on a rampage. She knew this. She must have been protecting me.”
“But why keep them? What if you’d found them? Had she not thought of that?”
His lip twists to the side, his tongue punching out the side of his cheek. “We were young, Hannah. I can’t say what she was thinking or why, but Lily wasn’t dating anyone else, and I never wrote her any letters. Do you have a copy?”
I shake my head. “They wouldn’t let me keep it, and when I asked to take a picture of the note, their demeanor changed.”
I shake my head in frustration. “Whoever wrote those letters left a note the night Lily died, a confession of sorts that pointed to you. Derek, all evidence pointed to you.”
“The Harolds told you this? Greg and Lydia?”
I nod. “Didn’t the police show you any of this? When they questioned you, didn’t they bring any of this to your attention to see if you were the author?”
“No. Did they tell you about the fingerprint?”
“Yes, but they said it was inconclusive. That no one would have been a match for that print.”
“That’s not true, Hannah. But the police knew it wasn’t mine. Once that was proven, and I wasn’t a suspect, my father wouldn’t let the police near me. They couldn’t show me those letters; my father would have never allowed it. If we find the owner of that print, we find the murderer.”
He looks to his hands, his palms facing him as if he can’t believe anyone would think he’d be capable of murder. “Did you believe them?” The hurt leaking through his voice kills me. “When they showed you the letter and told you I was a monster, did you believe them?”
I want to take away all his tragedy, all his doubts, and all his pain. But how can I help him, when I so easily lost my faith in his innocence? I’m as bad as everyone else. “I believed you wrote her letters.” His brow creases at my confession. “But the rest . . . it didn’t make any sense. It still doesn’t.”
“They made you doubt me. I can see it in your eyes.” He grabs my arms, and holds me firmly, like he’s afraid I might vanish.
“Yes.” The truth hurts. But I don’t know who feels it more, him or me. The disappointment crossing his face squeezes the life from my heart. “Because I can picture you writing love letters to Lily Harold. When I think of a seventeen-year-old Derek, that’s what I see you doing: pouring your heart out on paper, words of love, words of beauty. And I was jealous.”
“Of Lily?”
“Of the way you loved her.” He pushes a curl off my face then runs his thumbs along my cheeks. “But I believe in you, Derek. I don’t think you killed her. I never did.”
He tugs me against his body and nestles his face into my hair, his warm breath tickling my neck. “I’ll give you anything you want. Letters. Flowers. Candy. Fuck, I’ll serenade you outside your window if that’s what rocks your socks, but don’t lose faith in me, Hannah. I don’t know if I’ll survive if you do.” My heart squeezes and for the first time in months, I’m thankful Spencer drove me out of LA and into the arms of this man.
I hug him, feeling guilty, feeling sad, feeling incredibly confused.
“Derek? If you didn’t write those letters, who did?”
“No clue. Fuck, Hannah. Who would have been writing to Lily? She was my best friend, my girlfriend. Who the fuck did that, and why didn’t she tell me?” He rocks me in his arms, his chin resting on my head. “I think it stemmed from my family,” he finally says.
“What do you mean?”
“My father: Ivy League graduate, wealth, a beautiful wife, a loving father—he became the perfect political candidate, using his name as though the letters alone gave him power. Tom Cage will find your weakness, and then he will use it to destroy you. My mom killed herself, Hannah.” He says the words directly, as though they are fact, like this is something the entire world already knows.
“They told me it was an accident, but I know. I’ve always known. That’s the story, the one Tom Cage needs the world to believe. No Cage I know would leave the house in a blizzard, including my mother. Especially not in a sedan.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, his expression pained.
”I think Lily knew this, or she stumbled upon something in my house one day. Three months before she died, she was waiting in my room when I came home from practice, white as a ghost. Like something had spooked her. She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, and I asked a lot. Things changed after that. Lily clung to me, and the closer we got, the harder my dad tried to push her away.”
I run my hands up his arms, stuck in the center of my living room, unable to move, my heart erratic.
“She discovered one of his secrets,” I say.
“Definitely.”
“There has to be a connection. Someone set you up.”
He tightens his grip, leans forward and kisses my head, curling a hand around my hip and pulling me close. “I don’t have the answers, Hannah, but we’re going to find them . . . together.”
Picking me up, Derek carries me into the bedroom, our dinner forgotten, a silent promise made, a bond forged.
I wake up in bed alone, the sun beginning to edge its way into my room. Derek’s scent is everywhere: the bunched sheets next to me, the pillow still showing a crease where his head rested. I vaguely remember him kissing me before he left for training.
I have the bones of my story, one Larry won’t be expecting. He wanted me to focus on Derek, but with Derek comes the senator. That’s where this tale begins and where it’s going to end. People won’t like it. They’ll tear me apart, but if they want to know about Derek Cage, they’ll have to hear about Tom Cage, too.
I turn on the television and begin my morning routine.
“Derek “The Rage” Cage needs to tighten his game if he wants to win against the Cowboys this weekend.” I turn up the volume. The Channel 4 sports announcer is describing Derek’s game in precise detail.
“We caught up with Tom Cage outside of Mastro’s Steakhouse and asked about his son. His response garnered a few chuckles. ‘Derek won’t let us down. I’ll personally make sure of it.’”
An incoming text diverts my attention.
Derek: Come to Dallas with me this weekend.
Me: I’m already going.
Derek: Not as press. Come as my guest, in my room, in my seats.
Eyebrows will raise, speculation will circulate, and our relationship will be open to the public.
Me: How?
Derek: I’ll hide you in my suitcase and tie you to the bed. What do you mean how? I’m not going to hump you in public. I do have some self-control.
Giggling, I respond.
Me: Tie me to the bed? I’m game.
Derek: Would you let me?
I leave him hanging, getting ready for work.
Derek: You there, Hannah? Can I tie
you up? Is that like a sexual fantasy you’re trying to tell me about?
Derek: Hannah?
Derek: Hannah, I’m yours, whatever you want. I’m yours.
It’s not poetry or even a song. But it’s enough. Derek Cage is more than enough. Standing in my doorway, I make a promise to myself. No one will hurt him; no one will tarnish him. I will personally make sure of it.
She has fallen in love with me. I see it in the way she looks at me. I feel it in the way she touches me. I sense it in the way she comes for me.
Asleep in my embrace, her fingers clutching my arm, her naked body curled into the curve of my body, I know it in the way she lets me love her.
Up until this moment, I had no idea how much I needed that love.
Our game was awesome yesterday, beating the Cowboys in the last minute with a perfect pass to Maverick. He was wide open, the Cowboys defense weakened. Hannah was in our room when I returned from the interviews, the press, the handshakes, and we made sure to celebrate in our own private way.
It’s dark outside, those obscure hours between night and morning. I’ve barely slept, basking in the win, drowning in Hannah. My Hannah. I like the sound of that. I leave in a few hours, ESPN pushing me for a last-minute shoot, the production team adjusting to my schedule. But I’d rather stay here, hold her until she wakes, love her one more time before we part.
Sliding her hair away from her shoulder, I kiss her neck. It’s warm with sleep, soft, and smells like a combination of us. That one kiss and I’m ready, my cock hardening, and my balls tightening. I cradle her from behind, our legs entwined, her head resting perfectly in the hollow between my shoulder and neck.
Slipping a hand between her thighs, I stroke her, ready her, worship her.
Her legs part, a soft moan escaping her lips. “Derek,” she whispers, eyes closed, fingers gripping my arm. “Derek,” she moans.
Her hips rise, meeting my touch, begging for more. Finding her lips, I kiss her, sliding my tongue between her teeth, groaning into her warm mouth while her body responds. I swallow her cries of pleasure. Her body trembling.
Reaching beside the bed, I grab the discarded robe, slip the tie out of its loops, and weave it around her wrists.
“What are you doing?” she asks groggily.
“Fulfilling fantasies.”
She awakens and clasps her palms together, rolling onto her back.
I laugh at her eager willingness to submit so quickly.
Slipping the tie through the wrought iron of the bed, I bind her wrists.
“Can you move?” I ask.
She tugs on her hands; they stay bound. Her eyes widen, her face alight with excitement.
“I’m going to take a shower. I’ll check on you when I’m finished.”
Her eyes narrow. “Take your time, Cage. I’ll lie here dreaming of Tom Brady.”
“Oh, look at you, getting your football players in line.”
She giggles, bold and confident, her body an offering, her trust a gift, and I’m wrecked, my heart swelling, my cock painfully hard. It’s humbling and overwhelming—this woman who is putting her faith in me. She has given me hope, a feeling I’d forgotten.
I run my nose between her breasts, down her abdomen, and swirl my tongue in her bellybutton. She twists under my touch, and her knees fall open.
Fuck, I want her.
Placing my shoulders between her knees, I keep them apart, dipping my tongue into the apex of her thighs, and tasting her arousal, her want.
She pulls on the tie, moving her hips, moaning her approval, her body coiled with passion. I suck her into my mouth and use my teeth to nudge her closer to the orgasm she craves.
“Oh, God, I’m close.”
I take her to the edge, feel her about to crest, the cry on the tip of her tongue, and I ease off, my cock too needy to wait. A groan of frustration rushes from her lips.
“If you take that shower, you’ll regret it,” she says, her voice deadly.
I chuckle, run a finger through her desire, tease her with my thumb. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
I line up my cock, slip it deep inside, and lose the ability to think. Intense heat shocks me; soft and tight she grips me. I kiss her flushed chest as it rises and falls, her body and soul mine, her expression utter ecstasy. I keep up the slow, steady pace of my lovemaking, watch her respond, and hold back my desire for release until it becomes too much, and she falls apart beneath me, pulling hard on the tie and it releases. She throws her arms around my neck, shaking, sharp cries bursting from her throat.
Oh, fuck yes. My balls tighten, heat sears up my back as an immediate orgasm races through me. We’re panting, our skin sticking together, our lips locked in a scorching kiss.
I roll onto my back, move her on top of me, and her breasts press against my chest, her thighs straddle me. She runs her fingers along my chain, her eyes closed, and a smile gracing her lips.
“Note to self: learn how to tie a better knot.”
Her gentle laugh vibrates through me, and she buries her face deep into my chest. “Maybe handcuffs next time,” she whispers.
Handcuffs. My imagination runs wild. I have an interview in an hour, don’t have time for round two.
“Go back to sleep, Hannah.” I kiss her one more time, and then reluctantly get out of bed.
She sits up, naked body exposed. Fuck, she’s beautiful.
“Where are you going?” Her voice is concerned, her eyes holding a slight panic.
“ESPN interview.”
I find the sheets and blanket, pull them up, covering her, tucking her in.
“Don’t give them an exclusive. Save that for me.”
Within moments, she’s fast asleep, clenching the sheets with a smile on her face.
You will always be my exclusive.
Hannah: When was your first kiss?
What is she talking about? I’m walking and texting, almost as dangerous as driving and texting when you’re around expensive camera equipment.
Me: ?
Hannah: I’m writing. When was your first kiss?
She’s nuts, and I love her nuts.
Me: Fourteen, but you’re not putting that in the story. You?
Hannah: Twelve. People want to know.
I stop walking.
Me: Twelve?
Hannah: Carson Monroe. It didn’t mean anything. Why can’t I put this in the story?
Me: Glad to hear. I hope this morning meant something.
Hannah: It meant everything. You?
Me: Marry me.
Nothing. Not even the three little dots.
Me: That’s how much this morning meant to me. Marry me so we can wake up like that always.
It’s what I want. The sudden urgency is unexplainable but why wait? Why deny myself? I’ve been denying myself for too long.
I wait her out this time. She’s in my hotel room, her flight not scheduled to depart for another few hours. There’s no place she can hide from me. If I want to go to the hotel and make her answer, I will.
Finally, three dots appear.
Hannah: That was not a very romantic proposal, Cage. Can you imagine what your fans would say if I wrote that in your story?
Me: That’s not an answer.
Hannah: That wasn’t a real proposal.
“Mr. Cage, we’re ready for you.”
My spirits high, I head into the makeshift ESPN studio.
“Great game yesterday.” Randy Houston wastes no time getting to the point.
“Thanks.”
“Can we expect to see more of these performances from you?”
“Sure.” I’m such a dick to reporters.
Randy attempts to hold in a smile. We’ve known each other a long time now. He’s the one person at ESPN I’ll talk to, the only one I’m comfortable with.
“Everyone talks about this being your year. Want to dig into that?”
I shrug. “Not really.”
“It’s not your year, or you don’t want to dig
into it?”
Twisting my lips to keep from laughing, I give Randy a little more. “Every year is as important as the one before. But Chicago is my home. I hope to retire here.”
Canned, prepared, perfect. If I’m going to answer a question, it’s going to be exactly like that. Give the residents of Chicago a little something to talk about but not enough to be a water cooler topic. Reggie will be stoked today.
“How is it going with George Cox? He seemed like a wildcard choice to defend The Rage.”
Rummaging in my pocket, I retrieve a small rectangular slip of paper and hand it over.
“What’s this?” Randy says, a hint of humor in his voice. Then he laughs out loud. “Look at this. George Cox’s business card. I get it. If I want to ask how Coxy’s doing, I can ask him myself.”
My smile is immediate, and I know instantly I’ve fucked up.
Randy inspects my face. “Is that a real smile I see?”
Shaking my head, I rub my eyes, attempting to stop the laughter that wants to explode. Holy shit, I just asked Hannah to marry me through a text. What the fuck is wrong with me? Randy wants to talk about Coxy, and I’m itching to tell the world about Hannah. I need to get my shit together.
“Well, damn, I’d say this is a first, everyone. Derek Cage smiles, and he laughs. A little too much celebrating last night, Cage?” Taking the opportunity to hit me when I’m weak, Randy is desperate for more.
“I don’t drink during the season,” I say. “But give Coxy a call. He loves to talk to reporters.”
“We’ve been hearing about you and a particular reporter lately, Cage. Want to tell us about the new girlfriend? Is she the reason for all this sudden bliss?”
Taking the microphone from my shirt, I stand and begin to exit.
“Whoa, Derek, it was an honest question.”
Randy follows me out of the building. People are staring, camera crews following my every step. I wait until we’re outside before I face him. “Randy, don’t ever talk about my personal life like that again, or I’ll choose someone else to interview me.”
“You call that an interview?” His face is turning an unusual shade of red, a line of sweat beading around his receding hairline. “For six years I’ve met with you. Six fucking years, Derek. And you’ve given me nothing.”