Long Shot

“Andrew will be here to take care of you,” he finishes. “I’ll be back tomorrow night, baby. I know you’ll be mad, but we’ll get past this. We’ve been through so much together.” His rough chuckle pricks my skin with porcupine needles. “Maybe you’ll have good news when I come back. I keep hoping for another baby.”

My gag reflex almost gives me away. The thought of his seed planted in me again roils my stomach, and the thought of his daughter in the next room is the only thing that has me holding on. The kiss he leaves on my forehead slithers over my flesh.

The most welcome sound is his retreating footsteps. My relief, the sound of his car pulling away.

It usually takes hours for me to move after a beating half this brutal, but I don’t have hours. There’s only now. This beating, timed with Caleb’s trip, is the perfect opportunity. I’ve had these things before, but what I’ve been missing is help. Today, though, I’ll ask for it. Ignoring the protest of my ribs with every breath, I force myself to sit up, to roll out of bed, wrapping myself in the sheet.

The debris of our fight litters the floor. A shattered lamp and glass from broken picture frames. There’s a crack in the wall in the shape of my defeat—the shape of my body slammed into the plaster.

I fought back.

It was my worst beating at Caleb’s hands, but I pray it was also the last.

I make my way gingerly over to Sarai’s diaper bag in the corner of the room. I search the small pockets, almost weeping with relief when I find my cell phone, still where I stowed it yesterday. Footsteps approach in the hall. I clutch the diaper bag to my chest just as the door eases open.

Andrew and I stare at each other. From the horror on his face, I can only imagine how I look.

“God, Iris.” Pity dulls his eyes. “I’m sorry. Let’s get you taken care of.”

“No.” I expel the word with force.

“What do you mean ‘no?’” He shifts his medical bag from one hand to the other. “We need to get you patched up.”

“Patched up?” Disdain saturates the air between us. “Is that what you think I want? For you to patch me up so he can beat me again? Until one day he kills me? Because one day he will, Andrew. If I stay, he’ll kill me. He almost did last night.”

His glance roams my face, my battered features testifying on my behalf. Telling him I’m right.

I walk toward him, pain marking every step. I death-grip Sarai’s diaper bag with one hand and the sheet with the other. Once I’m standing right in front of him, where he can’t escape what I’m sure is the bruised, cut, and swollen topography of my face, I speak.

“I need your help.”

The doors slam shut on his expression the way they do every time I plead with him.

“I can’t.” He shakes his head and averts his gaze. “You know I can’t.”

“All I need is your cooperation, not your assistance,” I say desperately. “Just don’t stop me. Don’t shout when I run.” I pause, letting my simple request sink in before the biggest ask. “Don’t treat me.”

He looks up sharply, narrow-eyed and curious.

“You have friends who could examine me, right?” I ask.

“No, Iris. I don’t.”

“A doctor who can document this and all the things that have been done to me. I need X-rays, and tests, and . . .” I swallow shame, embarrassment, guilt—all the artificial things that have held me back from asking for help in the past. “A rape kit.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I may know someone,” he finally admits. “But I can’t get you out of here. Ramone is downstairs on guard as usual. I don’t put it past him to shoot you in the back if you try to run.”

“I have a plan.” I pull my cell phone from the diaper bag. “Let me worry about Ramone.”

“You know Caleb monitors that phone,” Andrew says quickly. “He’ll intercept any message you send.”

“I know.” I type one word in and press send. “If he bothers to look, this message won’t make any sense to him.”

I stare at the word in all caps on my screen, hoping it’s enough of a distress signal to bring in my cavalry.

HOPSCOTCH.

31

Iris

There’s a ruckus downstairs just a few hours later, and it’s the most blessed sound I’ve ever heard. The proverbial music to my ears.

“Get the hell out of my way or I’m calling the cops and every news station I can get here. You want shit at your front door? ’Cause I can bring shit to your front door.”

“This is private property,” Ramone’s deep voice rumbles up to me.

“Yeah, and my cousin lives on this private property,” Lotus fires back. “If I don’t see her in the next thirty seconds, whatever is going on here will be on every major broadcast tonight. Test me.”

I don’t give him a chance to test her. That kind of exposure would work against my plan. I open the bedroom door and step onto the landing. Two pairs of eyes climb the stairs until they reach me with Sarai on my hip.

“Oh, my God, Iris.” Outrage, incredulity, and fury war in Lotus’s voice and on her face.

By now I’ve looked in the mirror and know what she sees. I’m not so much Iris as a black-eyed Susan. My face is the canvas of an abstract painting with eyes distorted and mismatched, one bigger than the other. I’m splashed with wild streaks of black and magenta and scarlet. My lips are split and triple-sized. A many-colored bruise blossoms on my forehead and flowers into my hairline. My other parts haven’t fared much better. My body is a patchwork of violence.

And it’s all the evidence I need.

“Lotus.” Her name releases from me like a held breath. There is still so much ahead, and my plan must be perfectly executed to the last detail for me to truly escape, not just today, but for good.

I look to Ramone standing beside her. Panic widens his eyes, and he immediately starts dialing.

“Call him, please,” I say, starting down the steps, holding Sarai close and carrying a small bag with only our most essential things. “Tell him I’m gone.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Ramon snaps, his brows jerked together.

“Try and stop us.” Lotus climbs the last few steps to meet me halfway. She takes Sarai and buries her face in the baby-scented curls for a second before grabbing my hand. Linked at our hands, linked at our hearts again, we rush down the staircase and across the foyer.

When we reach the door, Ramone’s hand snakes out to grab my arm, but I force myself to stand straight.

“Get your hands off me.” I meet his eyes with no hesitation. “Or we call the cops right now, and I tell them everything. Think you’re the only one who can lie to the authorities? I’ll say you’ve been beating and raping me, too. You want to go down with Caleb? Does your loyalty really stretch that far?”

His hand drops, and his throat bobs with a gulp.

Lotus and I open the door and walk swiftly through. A green Volkswagen Beetle sits out front, parked haphazardly in the circular driveway.

“You got a new car?” I ask. This banal question is all I can manage. Let’s talk about the easy things we’ve missed, not about the purgatory I’ve been trapped in.

“No, I don’t even own a car. I borrowed a friend’s as soon as I got your message.” Tears flood Lotus’s eyes and she sniffs, swiping under her running nose, even as she climbs in. “What the hell, Bo? How did this even . . . happen? What’s going on?”

I ignore her questions, my heart battering my chest cavity with the promise of escape so close. I climb in the back, because I don’t even have a car seat for Sarai. I’m leaving it behind with all the other things Caleb bought. A small portion of our possessions is in the duffle bag, along with a little fistful of cash Andrew gave me and the little I’ve been able to hide and hoard over time. I pull the seat belt across us both and spend a few seconds hating myself for not trusting Lo sooner—for letting my shame and resentment and our petty disagreement come between us. I hate myself for not taking the risk and reaching out. Letting that minutiae stand between her and me, and between me and freedom, for too long.

I’ll make up for it now. I’ll pull back the curtain and show her my scars. “Just drive, Lo, and I’ll tell you everything.”

32

Iris

“What will it take to make this go away?” Caleb’s father asks, closing the folder on the conference room table in front of him.

Caleb shifts in his seat, the muscle in his jaw ticking and barely checked rage rolling off the tightly held muscles of his body. I look at him until he looks up and returns my stare unblinkingly, unflinchingly and without an ounce of remorse.

“This doesn’t go away,” I answer, my eyes never leaving Caleb’s face. “Ever.”

“Then what are we doing here?” Caleb stands abruptly, the chair scraping across the hardwood floor. I chose neutral ground for the meeting I called with Caleb, his father, and his agent at the hotel where my credit card was denied that first night when I tried to escape. I hope Caleb appreciates the irony.

“Sit down, Caleb,” Mr. Bradley says, his voice flinty. “And shut your fucking mouth. You’re lucky she’s even offering us terms.”

Mr. Bradley’s cold eyes turn to me again, the same shade of blue arrogance as Caleb’s.

“I assume there are terms?” he asks me, one brow lifted and his hand already drawing a check book from his pocket.

Ah, he came prepared.

“You can put that away.” I nod to the check book. “I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything from you or your son, except my freedom and my daughter.”

“No,” Caleb snarls. “You’re not leaving, and you won’t take my daughter from me.”

“You sadistic bastard, I’ve already left.” I lean forward, fixing my eyes on the piece of shit who fathered my child. “She’s my daughter, and we’ll go wherever I say.” I hold up my copy of the folder they have. “Unless you want the NBA, all your fans, sponsors, and the entire world to know their golden boy is an abusive monster.”     PrevNextTip: You can use left and right keyboard keys to browse between pages.

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