What's Left Of Me (The Firebird Trilogy Book 2)

by Jennifer Loring

  He rotated his wedding ring back and forth. Jacob laid a hand on his shoulder. A last lifeline before the undertow dragged him beneath the waves. Already the pressure was crushing his chest, stealing his breath. Attempts to focus on his wife’s more annoying quirks—Stephanie’s refusal to put things back where they belonged, her hypersensitivity, her morning breath—somehow circled back to their fabled future reunion and his aching determination to fuck her senseless. His cock twitched just thinking about it.

  “Why are you drinking again? What’s this video she mentioned?”

  “Blya,” he mumbled. “I’m not telling anyone what’s on that video.”

  “Jesus, what did you do? It must be as bad as she thinks.”

  Alex shrugged him off. He slid the patio door open and lit a cigarette. “Yes, it’s as bad as she thinks.” He blew out a curl of smoke. “We’ve only been married eight months, you know.”

  “She doesn’t want to leave you, Sasha. She’s not giving up on you. You’re not, uh, thinking about hurting yourself, are you?”

  “That’s the first thing people are going to assume from now on, isn’t it? That I’m suicidal. For whatever it’s worth, I’m seeing my psychiatrist in the morning.”

  “Good. You okay for tonight?”

  “It’s not as if I have somewhere else to go. Besides, Anya needs me.” Alex rubbed his eyes. “Please tell her I love her. Maybe it’ll mean more coming from you.”

  Jacob started to say something else but switched tracks. “Yeah. Of course. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Alex nodded. The front door closed.

  The void haunted the edges of his mind, a welcoming black nothing that promised sweet release from all his troubles. He’d always want to die a little bit, if only because the idea that everyone would be better off was so damned persuasive once he inventoried the pros and cons. A flimsy chemical barrier held it at bay, and even now, it had begun to leak through the cracks. One more downpour before the crest, surging over the walls, engulfing him once and for all—

  No. He’d never let Anya see that happen. He’d never leave her behind to wonder why her father hadn’t loved her enough to fight. He would not disappoint her as he had Stephanie.

  His PSA came on, as it often did during this playoff season. Maybe an attempt on the league’s part, certainly the Earthquakes’, to reinforce their standing behind him during his latest trial. It was strange, watching himself, though he’d seen the spot many times since they shot it last fall. They’d seated him on a stool in front of a black backdrop, in his Earthquakes jersey. That had been the hardest part, putting on a sweater he was never again going to wear. “My name is Aleksandr Volynsky. Maybe you know me as Sasha. You definitely know me as this.ˮ A quick jump to some of his goals and hits, the crowd roaring. “What you don’t know is that, like nearly one in five people in the United States, I suffer from mental illness.”

  He slid further into the couch.

  “I’m not the first mentally ill hockey player. I’m not the first to try to commit suicide. But I’m here to tell you that there’s help. It doesn’t mean you’re weak; this is a sickness, and the only difference is that it affects your mind instead of your body. But you don’t have to go through it alone. The more we talk about it, the more lives we’ll save.” A slideshow of hockey players dead by their own hand flashed across the screen.

  “I’m Aleksandr Volynsky. I played seven seasons in the NHL. And I have bipolar type two disorder. Don’t let mental illness silence you. Speak up. Ask for help. Your life does mean something.”

  Too bad his brain was still waiting to receive that message.

  ***

  Alex never knew how to dress for these meetings with his attorney, so he typically showed up in a suit and spent the first five minutes re-examining the law degrees and family photos adorning the walls. This time, however, it was with Anya in tow, and she’d spit up on his jacket as soon as they entered the building. Alex had scrubbed at the stain in the men’s bathroom to no avail; the stuff discolored fabric like bleach. Then he’d discovered the note. Who knew how long it had been there? If he’d found it any day before yesterday, he’d have been jumping into the car, already hard, the Mercedes’ 197-mile-per-hour top speed not fast enough to get him home.

  Just sitting here thinking about your gorgeous cock and wishing I was riding it.

  Today, it made him wish he were dead.

  He squirmed out of the jacket before Ed could notice the stain. He’d have to swing by the dry cleaner on the way home. The note remained crumpled in a pocket.

  Ed Waggoner was sitting at his cluttered desk, staring at an open file and talking on the phone. He waved Alex in, then hung up. “Your turn to take care of the baby today?”

  “Something like that.”

  “All right, I need to know everything you remember about the morning after.” Ed waited, pen poised over a legal pad. Old school, as many attorneys were. Late adopters to the technologies that made their jobs a hell of a lot easier, distrusting even when they did accept the modern office’s status quo.

  “I woke up in my bed. I heard someone singing in my kitchen. It was awful. Off-key. I smelled coffee brewing. I felt hung over, worse than I ever had, and I couldn’t even remember how I got home.” Alex curled his fingers around a large, triple-shot black espresso. The heat through the paper cup singed his hand. “I felt nauseated and lightheaded. My arms and legs were heavy. All I wanted to do was go back to sleep.”

  “Was there any indication you’d had sex?”

  “I was naked. There was…the smell of it, you know?” He crinkled his nose. Everyone recognized the distinctive, combined fragrance of sweat, spunk, and pussy. He did not intend to regale his attorney with the details. “And there was dried semen on my penis.”

  “Anything else?”

  “She came into the room with two cups of coffee, and she was still singing. I just looked at her for a minute. I’d have never taken her home. Not my type. I wasn’t attracted to her.” He dragged from the recesses of his mind what he could recall of her that morning after, with the slutty club dress and makeup shed. Plain. Unassuming. A different sort of modesty from Stephanie. He’d sensed her entire personality was an act from the beginning, that if he peeled away her disguise, he’d find nothing beneath it at all.

  “She smiled at me, and it was like a mask. I rolled over and threw up on the floor. She actually cleaned it up. Who does any of that if they’ve been raped? I mean, wouldn’t she have just left?”

  “You hadn’t done any drugs that night?”

  “Just drinking.”

  Ed clacked the end of the pen against his teeth. His cell phone burbled its default ringtone, and he let it go to voicemail. “All right. I’m going to do a little research and dig into our girl’s history. Something sounds way off here.”

  “What do you mean, ‘off’?”

  “I don’t want to jump to any conclusions yet. Let me see where the cops are on interviewing potential witnesses, I’ll get some more intel on her, and I’ll call you in a couple of days. Oh, I may need your wife to come in, give us her perspective of you as a family man.”

  A metal cilice girdled his heart, sank its tines into each chamber. He stared at his black alligator-leather derbies. Women paid attention to details like a man’s shoes. Even married, he never wore his workout sneakers in public. Too many people became complacent about their appearance after they exchanged rings. He’d never give Stephanie’s eyes a reason to wander.

  “I understand she’s been having some health issues, so let me know when it’s convenient for her.”

  “Sure. I will. Thanks.” They shook hands as Alex engaged in the mental and emotional preparations required to face her absence.

  ***

  Ed introduced himself and Alex to the station receptionist, who summoned the lead investigator by phone. His attorney had been less than pleased that Alex had arrived with Anya, though he’d fed and changed her first to minimize potential
disruptions. He hadn’t yet explained to Ed why Stephanie was unavailable to care for her during these crucial interviews and meetings. As far as he was concerned, Stephanie had renounced her rights to her the moment she walked out the door, so he wasn’t about to drop Anya off at the Whites’. He’d be lucky to see her again after that.

  Detective Lane escorted them into an interrogation room and closed the door. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

  “I’m willing to take a polygraph,” Alex said. “Or whatever I need to do.”

  “Slow down,” Ed muttered.

  “Well, let’s have a chat first.” Lane gestured to two folding metal chairs on the opposite side of the table.

  Alex sank into one, acutely aware of the cameras recording each word and movement. He straightened his sport jacket. His open collar felt like a garrote. Cops didn’t take kindly to foreigners, as far as he could tell.

  “Is there a reason you brought your daughter with you?”

  “My wife…wasn’t able to take care of her today. We don’t have a nanny yet.”

  The fine line of Lane’s pursed lips transformed into a condescending smile. “Seems like something you’d take care of before your wife gave birth.”

  They had made all the other arrangements beforehand, including starting a college fund. An abstract compared to hiring a nanny, which bound them to the idea that they wouldn’t lose Anya before she arrived. Neither of them had been quite prepared to leap into that commitment until they could actually hold her, touch her, confirming she was here to stay. Some ghosts were more intractable than others, though Anya had mostly chased away the baby-that-might-have-been. That inescapable conversation fortunately remained many years off, and was Stephanie’s to have with her. “We’ve both been very busy, and—”

  “Is this going somewhere, Detective?” Ed snapped.

  He shot Ed a cold glare before returning his attention to Alex. “You’re sweating, Aleksandr. Are you nervous?”

  “My client suffers from anxiety comorbid with his bipolar disorder. Anxiety is not an admission of guilt.”

  Lane cocked an eyebrow. Pen scratched against paper. “Tell me about the night in question.”

  “I went out to the nightclub. I had a few drinks.”

  “A few?”

  “Before she came up to the bar. She bought at least two more rounds.” Alex held Anya close and gently bounced her on his thigh when she began to fuss.

  “So you would say you were both intoxicated.”

  “I would. She was aggressive, even when I told her to leave me alone. I woke up with her in my bed, but I know I didn’t—I mean, she made me coffee the next morning. Who does that if they’ve been raped?”

  Lane scribbled something on his legal pad. “What happened after you brought her home?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t remember leaving the club, and that has never happened to me before.”

  “Look.” Ed folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Any DNA evidence is long gone. Hospital records show that she never even went to the ER, let alone had a rape kit performed, despite what she claims. And last I checked, it’s not a crime to meet someone at a bar and take them home. So unless you have something other than a woman’s unsubstantiated allegation that a well-known athlete sexually assaulted her, I think we’re done here. She’s clearly fishing for attention, and she’s making you look like fools for pursuing this in the first place.”

  Lane crossed his arms over his chest, his mouth pinched. “You’re free to go, Mr. Volynsky. I’m sure we’ll be in touch again soon.”

  “Thanks,” Alex mumbled. He lifted Anya to his shoulder, supporting her bottom with one arm, then rose from the chair and grabbed her tote. Ed walked beside him through the station, slowing his pace to match Alex’s.

  “You don’t have to answer any of his questions, you know.”

  “Doesn’t that make me look guilty?”

  “It makes you look like you know your rights and that this entire investigation is bullshit. Don’t let Lane intimidate you. I’ve dealt with him before.” Ed held the door open for him. “Go home, get some rest. You look like hell. I’ll give you a call in a day or two.”

  Alex sagged a little with relief. He adjusted the tote, then shook Ed’s hand. “Thank you.”

  ***

  Stephanie

  Stephanie sat at the tiny, square kitchen table in a tiny, square studio apartment. Dust lined the moldings and the slats on the blinds, darkened the forgotten crevices on bookshelves and in the entertainment center. The white walls were dingy with age and disregard. Thick, acrid tension clung to the air and crawled into her throat, into her belly, curdling her insides.

  “Um…can I get you something to drink?”

  Shiny, dark hair poured over Courtney’s shoulders and down her back. Black liner emphasized her large brown eyes. More makeup than that was superfluous, and she knew it. Her clothes, while not tight fitting, revealed enviable curves in all the right places. Pretty, and young. She’d been barely legal with Alex.

  “Why do you want the money?”

  Courtney’s hard eyes adopted a haunted expression. “I don’t know how else to get it. It would take me decades to save enough. My mom is in hospice, and the medical bills—I mean, she lost the house, and now I’m in this shithole—” She swept her arm. She was biting her lip, but the tears came anyway. “I had to drop out of school, so I’ve got those loans too.”

  “So you decided to blackmail my husband.”

  “He’s the only person I know who has the money, and I had this video…It’s fine if you think I’m a slut. So does everyone else. I’m not a sick kid, so who gives a shit about me, right?”

  “Let me see it,” Stephanie murmured.

  Courtney wiped her eyes and cleared her throat. “Even I don’t want you to see it.”

  “That bad? Was it…” Stephanie barely mustered the courage to ask. “Consensual?”

  Courtney darted her gaze away. “Most of it.”

  Oh, God. Stephanie forced down her gorge.

  “Everyone has secrets, you know? There’s a side of him he doesn’t want you to see.”

  “It was two years ago.”

  “How much do people really change? They say they do, but all they’ve done is put a coat of paint on a house with structural damage.”

  “You know he’s bipolar. When he’s hypomanic, he takes risks. Mostly sexually.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it brought out a part of him that was there all along.”

  No. Not the Alex I knew. Know. “I want to see it.”

  “You don’t.” Courtney sighed and set a laptop on the table, opened the lid, and clicked a few buttons. She turned it so it was facing Stephanie. “I’ll be outside.”

  “Thank you.”

  Courtney stepped into the hall. Stephanie stared at the dark, grainy image in the media player. She could make out two pale shapes that resembled human bodies.

  She took a deep breath to steady her shaking hand, then tapped Play.

  It was Alex all right. Despite the poor quality, his voice—and the body whose every ridge and scar she knew intimately—confirmed it. The old Alex, bigger, uninjured, and unaware of the havoc his neurochemicals were wreaking on his brain. She’d allowed for some foolish hope that both Courtney and Alex were mistaken, that they had mutually misremembered it. Each second that crawled by, she wished for the strength to stop watching, to give Courtney the money and piece their lives back together. There was no good reason to view this except to permanently warp her vision of the man she had sworn to protect from himself.

  Ignorance was bliss. Knowledge was power. She could not have both.

  Stephanie flinched at the crack of a hand across Courtney’s face. The phantom imprint of her father’s hand seared her flesh.

  Tears raced down her cheeks. She scratched her fingernail on the touchpad. The morning in the hotel room. Pinning her to the bed, Alex’s hands sinking into her shoulders. Puncturing her with his cock. Bruis
es on her collarbone and pain so profound he’d required a new host in which to inject it before it destroyed him from the inside.

  So hard to tell the difference between pleasure and pain. Gritted teeth, closed eyes, glottal moans. A hand closing over a throat.

  All feeling had bled out of her limbs. Stephanie closed the laptop. She slowly rose from the table, then locked herself in the closet-sized bathroom so she could throw up. She splashed water on her face and rinsed her mouth before stepping into the shabby hallway where Courtney was sitting on the cheap, threadbare carpet with her back to the wall, playing a puzzle game on her phone.

  “Oh.” She pushed herself up and stuffed her phone into her pocket. “Hey.”

  “I’ll give you the money. Half of what you’re asking, though. That should be enough to cover everything. But it’s on the condition that you let me watch you permanently delete the video. I can help you with that if you don’t know how, but that’s the deal. The money for the video.”

  This wasn’t for Alex, who in participating had accepted the potential for blowback. And he’d been right again. The video was a gift dropped in his accuser’s lap, and the end of his career even if the allegation disappeared tomorrow. This was for Anya, assurance that her father’s behavior could not humiliate her in the future.

  “Yeah. That’s fair. Look, I’m sorry for—”

  “It’s done. Now I just want it gone.” They walked back inside. Stephanie refused to sit when Courtney offered. The video was stuck on repeat in her mind as she’d feared, the Stop button broken, irreparable. Her rigid muscles throbbed. “But let me tell you something, Courtney. If I so much as hear your name again, you will regret it. I can dig up every skeleton you have. I will drag you through the mud if you fuck with my family again. Are we clear?”

  Courtney’s eyes were wet, too bright. She licked her lips and clenched her hands in her lap. “Yes,” she said, her voice tremulous.

  “Good. Now get rid of it.”

  Chapter Seven