I nod with the smallest motion of my head, not wanting to jar the gun resting on my tongue.
“Good.” He laughs harshly. “And I don’t have to worry about your mother. We both know what a mercenary whore she is. I’m paying for her silence.”
My eyes widen with an unspoken question.
“Yes, I’ve been paying her bills down in Atlanta,” he confirms. “She has a much better apartment now. In Buckhead, no less. You know how many men she would have had to fuck to get that? I’m doing her a favor, and she’s much too grateful to ask questions about how I’m treating you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, betrayal and shame for my mother burning a hole in my heart. He bends to whisper in my ear, slipping the gun free of my mouth and running it down my neck.
“I hope tonight has demonstrated that I hold all the cards.” He circles my nipples with the muzzle and stops to dig it into my belly button. “If you try to leave me, I will at the very least gain partial custody of Sarai. You have no money, and whatever court-appointed lawyer you’ll get will be no match for what I have—the best legal representation money can buy. Between that, your Dear Diary entries, and the ‘concerning behavior’ Ramone reported to social services, I think I’ll have a pretty strong case.”
He walks to the end of the bed, slides the pistol down to the juncture of my thighs, and my blood slams in protest against the skin at every pulse point.
“Add your exploits with the police tonight and you’ll be lucky to even see her on weekends by the time I’m done with you.”
He slides the gun another inch downward, nudging it against my pussy, separating the lips. My chest rises and falls with anxious breaths. Tears run over my cheeks and collect around my neck like a noose.
“But beyond custody of Sarai, and beyond your mother and Lotus and anything else I could use to keep you with me,” he says, each word a brick in the fortress he’s building around me, “the only thing you really need to understand is this.”
He glances up from between my thighs, and if everything he’s ever told me before was subterfuge and lies, I have no doubt that what he’s about to say is the absolute truth. His eyes are finally honest. “If you ever try to leave me again, Iris, I will kill you.”
A sob rattles my chest, and I bite my lip to contain it.
“Have you ever thought about the similarities between a gun and a dick?” he asks, pushing my knees open wider with his free hand.
“Please don’t do this, Caleb,” I beg, pressing my lips together against a moan.
“There’s the obvious,” he goes on. “You cock a gun. Get it. Dick. Cock?” His laugh is low and breathy, excited. He pushes the muzzle to my opening, exerting the slightest pressure.
“Oh, God, Caleb. Please, stop.” A sob breaks my words up. “Pl-pl-please. Oh, God, please, Caleb.”
With one hand he undoes his belt, the jangle of the buckle and the harshness of the falling zipper a knife cutting across my ears.
“With a gun, you have to consider safety,” he says. “Just like sex. Not that I’ll be using a condom tonight. Another new rule. I’ll be fucking you raw from now on.”
My eyes are closed, and everything blares on my senses. The fresh smell of his recent shower mixes with the scent of my terror. The rough muzzle biting into the sensitive tissue of my vagina. The sound of his pants slithering over his legs and hitting the floor.
“What a relief.” He laughs. “No more holey condoms.”
Anger slices through me. I open my eyes, waiting for him to continue, because I know he will.
“Yeah.” He grins unabashedly. “I may have used a few condoms with holes, but we got Sarai, so it all worked out.”
Lo was right. God, I’ve been such an idiot, trusting someone else with my body, with my future. And now I’m paying for my naivety.
“Sorry,” he says with a laugh. “I took a little rabbit trail there. Back to the similarities. A gun discharges, and so does my dick.”
He squeezes my thigh so tightly, I bite my lip to lock down a scream so I don’t wake up Sarai.
“So, I ask you, Iris.” He reaches up to grab my chin, tightening his fingers there until I meet his eyes. They’re obsidian, hard and black with lust. “Choose. Do you want this cock or mine?”
He presses the gun deeper, not quite inside me, but deep enough, hard enough to leave abrasions on the most delicate part of me. My head lolls to the side, and I squeeze my eyes into complete darkness as I weep. Weep for my little girl, whose father is so evil. Weep for my innocence, squandered on a man worse than any of the ones my mother ever brought home. Weep for lost chances with a good man like August West, who will never have me now. I can’t imagine anything beyond these walls. I can’t think of anything other than the weapon between my legs.
“I asked you a question.” Caleb’s voice comes sharp and harsh, a cat o’ nine tails, a whip dragging my flesh with its hooks. “Choose which cock you want, Iris.”
If it weren’t for the tiny sighs, the faint, steady infant snore coming through the baby monitor, I would beg him to shoot me. Shoot me right now instead of what is about to happen. But there is Sarai.
She makes the word I finally whisper not surrender, but survival. “Yours.”
“I didn’t hear you,” he says. But the gun is already gone, and he lowers himself on top of me, his elbow on one side of my head and the gun on the other. His dick is hard against my entrance, a hammer poised to strike a nail. “This cock or mine?”
I open my eyes and look right at him. The cruel mouth, the lawless soul, the beauty God wasted on this animal. I want him to see my pain and the refusal I can’t voice while he dangles violence over me. I want him to see the hatred in my eyes when he takes this from me. In this awful moment, it’s the only brave thing I can do.
“Yours.”
It starts as a sharp pain that dulls with every thrust. I’m dry and unready, and he is thick and aroused. He tunnels in and out of me, a raw passage for his lust. He’s a ravenous beast, biting my nipples until I cry. He hurts me until I’m dizzy—he feeds on my whimpers. He stiffens, emptying a virulent stream into my body.
I want to hide behind my shame, behind my closed eyelids, but he jerks my chin and holds my stare long enough to make sure I know who’s inside of me. He’s rotten, and the golden façade is gone. He swipes at the wetness on my cheeks and shoves his thumb in my mouth so I taste my own tears.
Even after he rolls off and walks away, I still feel him. I fear I always will. His cum leaks out, a trickle of violence that scalds the vellum-thin skin inside my thighs. At the bathroom door, his eyes maraud my body, studying the bites and bruises. He looks at me like he’s the conqueror and I am his scorched earth.
20
August
It’s my first surgery.
I’ve been balling most of my life and this isn’t my first injury, but it was my first time under the knife. The pain is being managed with medication, but I don’t want to become too dependent. I take less than I should, and my leg hurts like hell. It’s been three days, and I’m finally home. At my real home here in Maryland, not the empty condo in San Diego. If I have to rehab the entire off-season, I want to do it surrounded by the people I love and in the place that’s most familiar to me.
We’re at least six weeks away from physical therapy. This first chapter is all about keeping weight off the leg, letting time and titanium do the healing. That means being more sedentary than I have been since I could only crawl. It’s driving me crazy and leaving me too much time to think. Too much time to dream.
I dreamt of Iris last night. We were by the water, surrounded by trees, and the sun was high. The sky was an explosion of color, vivid, vibrant just before sunset.
We were happy.
How can I dream about Iris when, in a roundabout way, she’s the reason I’m here? I’m flat on my back, staring at the same spackled ceiling I fell asleep under when I was ten years old. And just like then, my mom stands at the door, ready to take care of me.
“You hungry?” she asks, walking in to fluff the pillows behind my head. “I can make those crab cakes you like so much.”
“Nah.” I shift my left leg on the bed and the right one on the small platform that elevates and stabilizes it.
“You need to eat,” Jared says from the door. He was an athlete in high school and still carries traces of a baller’s swagger, though it’s usually hidden beneath a suit these days.
“Okay,” I say, more to get my mother out of the room so I can talk to Jared than because I’m hungry. “Your famous crab cakes would be great, Mom.”
Her face lights up. She’s felt helpless over the last few days, like she wasn’t doing enough. Laid up and barely able to leave this damn bed for the next few weeks, I feel helpless, too. I wish making me feel useful again was as easy.
I study the walls, still plastered with childhood heroes, the idols who shaped my game: Jordan, Magic, Kareem, Kobe. I’ve been staving off depression ever since I hit the floor, and the thought of Kobe Bryant and the Lakers makes me think of the first night I met Iris.
“What’s the league saying about Caleb?” I ask Jared, balling my fists on the bed to contain my anger. “They rule it dirty?”
Jared grimaces, pulls a chair beside my bed, and flips it around to straddle. He rests his crossed arms on the back. “Everybody knows it was a dirty play,” Jared says. “But his dad is a Hall of Famer, part-owner of a team, and a front office executive. That’s a lot of power and influence. It’ll always be hard to make shit stick to Caleb even in a shit storm.”
“Are you kidding me?” I point to my leg. “I’m missing the end of this season and part of the next because of what he did. I knew he wasn’t the saint everyone thinks he is, but even I didn’t know how low he’d go.”
“What’s up with you and Caleb anyway?” Jared tips his head, his look probing. “I mean, I knew you were never fans of each other throughout college, but it seems to have gotten worse since you guys turned pro.”