The Revolution (19 page)

My front porch is filled with vases of roses in the deepest shades of red. I pause when I see them.
Oh God.
What will Kaz think?
There are at least ten vases with a dozen or more roses in each. My hold of the railing tightens and I look back, catching a glimpse of Kaz’s troubled face.

I try to pretend I’m not scared, try to pretend that my heart hasn’t dropped to the pit of my stomach, try to fool Kaz into believing that I’m fine. Moving forward, I step through the vases, leaving them there to rot outside. I don’t have to guess who they’re from. I know, and I want them gone, out of my sight, but I don’t want to worry Kaz though I have a feeling from his expression it’s too late for that. When we reach the door, I turn, put on a wide smile, and say, “Thank you.”

With his brows cinched together, he looks past me to the door. “Do you mind if I have a look around before I go?”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say nonchalantly.

“Lara.”

His tone is enough to cause me to step aside. He opens the door with the key we find just where Lane left it, and walks in, looking around. His gaze darts around the room and I follow him inside. Maybe he’s pretending like me because he asks, “You’ll call or text me?”

Each door is opened, but he’s not intrusive, just glancing around each room quickly.

“I will.”

He seems satisfied and heads for the door. “The offer still stands. You can stay with me or I’ll get you a hotel.”

“As you can see, I’ll be fine. But thank you. That doesn’t feel adequate for all you did for me last night, but it’s sincere.”

“Anytime. If you ever need me, I’ll be here for you.”

I nod, then lean closer to kiss him. I whisper against his lips, “Thank you,” then step back again. Neither of us says goodbye and I’m glad. I can’t handle the permanency of that, not with what I still have to face. He does say, “Change the locks right away.”

“I will.”

He shuts the door behind him and I lock it, then lean against it and take a deep breath. When I exhale, I push off and go into my bedroom.

I’m not home even ten minutes when a ring of the doorbell sounds throughout the townhome. I look through the peephole, but it’s the flower guy. Well aware of the routine at this stage, he sets them down and leaves.

I go into my bedroom and straight for the bathroom to start the shower. While taking off my clothes, I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror, something I’d been avoiding. My mouth drops open, breath catching, and the color in my face drains away in an instant as reality sets in. Kaz had taken my mind off things, allowed me the time to forget. But here it is in all its purplish glory, now perhaps Mark’s bragging rights to his steroid-using buddies. He’s not the first pro-athlete to hit a woman. In time, his paychecks will rise even higher and I’ll become locker-room fodder.

Covering my cheeks with my hands, I step closer. I’m hideous in blues, purples, grays, and hints of yellow. A little scab has formed at the corner of my mouth and my eye still has a little swelling around the lid, but I never would have known around Kaz. He treated me like he always does—like I’m beautiful.

I’m not. Mark took that away. He stole it without so much as an apology.

He’s not going to let me ride off into the sunset with Kaz. He won’t be happy until I’m as miserable as he is, and he’s come close already. I just don’t understand why. A knot in my stomach tightens, pulling my heartstrings attached to Kaz in with it.

I don’t want Kaz dragged under in the process of settling things with Mark.

In the shower, the water flows over my body, drowning the negative away and leaving me clean with the memories of being with Kaz. There’s something about him that exposes my heart in ways I’ve been so careful to protect in the past, an openness that I trust, and an honesty I need. He doesn’t have a hidden agenda or want something from me. And he wants me.

Once I’m out and dressed, I go into the kitchen. With a hot mug of tea in my hands, my subconscious braces for what lies ahead. My hands begin to shake, my thoughts well aware of the inevitable confrontation with Mark. He said I was his.
Only his.
He said I will stay willingly or he’ll make me. All the things he said come flashing back like the ringing in my ear. Hot liquid and shards of glass hit my feet making me jump, my scream deafening on the inside, but outwardly silent. I teeter on shaky legs as I slide down the cabinetry. The shattered mug and tea-covered floor beneath my feet. A throbbing draws me to look down and blood swirls with the dark liquid.

A lump forms in my throat stifling the need to call for help. There’s no one to help even if I could vocalize my need. Grappling for the edge of the counter, I secure my hand on the side, and pull myself up, careful not to press down on the balls of my feet.

I step out from the mess and hobble to the sink. Hopping up on the counter, I inspect the bottom of my foot. The cut is small, but the shard remains. The irony of Mark and the broken glass not lost on me. I pull the glass out and run it under water a second to clean it. Getting back down, I look at the mess as I pull a roll of paper towel from the holder. I kneel down on my hands and knees and with a huge wad of towels, clean the mess. This chaos of browns and reds on the paper, purples, blues, blacks on me, this is my life. Somehow in the span of a couple months, my better senses turned against me allowing me to let the little signs slide. This is what happens when you lose sight of the reason you started in the first place. This is what happens when you witness horrible things and brush them under the rug, or worse, don’t do anything at all.

Mark Renner was a ticking time bomb in our relationship. It started out good and somewhere during the fun, he twisted it into a game of control, obsession, and possession.
How did I not see that?

I shouldn’t have confronted him about the drugs. Not alone anyway. I had no choice. I was just turning a blind eye to what deep down I already knew, as the changes in him were evident. I grew up in LA. I know the signs. I’ve dated guys who did drugs. But Mark was different. He was a master of disguise.
Don’t the major leagues drug test?
I know they do, but they didn’t catch him. Or they turned a blind eye in exchange for a title win. Maybe I relied on what I assumed instead of what I knew.

My doorbell rings.
Again.
I know it’s more flowers, as it seems that’s his “thing” when he’s done something wrong. By the onslaught of deliveries, he knows it’s bad between us. I’ve told him. He knows. Why is he so desperate to hold on to something that he can’t? I heat my kettle to make another tea, not bothering with the door, but then I hear it open and freeze.
Damn it!
The deadbolt.
Shit.
I forgot to latch it. I reach into a drawer and pull out a knife.

“Lara?” Mark calls.

My hold on the knife tightens, my legs shaking as much as my hands. I stay still and silent, hoping he doesn’t find me.

When he rounds the corner a smile covers his face. “Hey there.”

The knife shivers in my hands as I hold it up. Despite wanting to drop into a ball on the floor, I steady myself, and force myself to speak. “Get out of here.”

The smirk on his face sends anger shooting through my veins. He shrugs. “Babe, c’mon. I came over to apologize.” With his hands up in surrender, he looks at me like I’m the crazy one, and chuckles. “No need for violence.”

I choke on his words. “No need for violence? Look what you did to me.”

“No. No.” Now that asshole grin disappears. “I didn’t do that.”

My eyebrows shoot to the ceiling in astonishment. “What are you talking about? Look at me.” My phone is nowhere near and my landline closer to him, but I square my shoulders. “Leave or I’ll call the police.”

He steps closer and my breath catches in terror. I swing the knife in front of me, my thoughts unclear if I am strong enough to take him on if it comes to it. “Don’t come any closer, Mark. I mean it.”

“You don’t look that bad. You’re always beautiful. You’ll always be my pretty woman. I screwed up, but I did not do that to you. You must have fallen and hurt yourself. You’re clumsy.”

“No, I’m not. I’m not weak and I’m not clumsy. I did not fall. You hurt me,” I spew through gritted teeth. “Leave. Now!” I step forward, stomping down the fear that leaves tremors along with my words. With my life on the line, my grip firms, and the knife is solid in front of me as my body steels itself for a fight.

“I can leave, babe. But we’re not over.”

“You’re a delusional drug addict. Get out!”

He pulls something from his pocket and I flinch. When he opens his hand, I see a flash drive. He sets it on the counter and backs up, giving me space.

My gaze flickers between it and him. “What is that?”

“It’s us, babe.”

My brow furrows, causing pain to shoot across my battered forehead. “What do you mean?”

“I screwed up. I apologize. But despite everything, I still want to be with you. You’re successful and smart. You’re not a gold digger, and I can bring you home to my parents. Basically, you look good on my arm and I look better for it. You’re what every successful athlete needs standing behind him: a woman who believes in him; a woman who can take care of him. That’s you. You’re that woman for me.”

I’m dumbstruck by his audacity to plead his case as if he has a chance in hell with me. “You’re lucky I don’t press charges, Mark.”

“Just watch this,” he says, pointing to the flash drive on the counter. “I’ll give you tonight alone. I expect you back at mine by tomorrow night.”

“You’re fucking crazy. I will never return to you or your house. Now get out!”

He leaves without another word and I follow him with the knife held in front of me until he’s out the front door. I bolt the locks this time. His key doesn’t work on the bolt, so I’m safe for the time being.

My heart races as I lean against the door, exhausted from the unexpected confrontation. I’ll call to have the locks changed tomorrow. That’s easier than trying to get my key back from him. I go back into the kitchen and grab the flash drive. My curiosity has gotten the best of me. When my computer comes to life, I plug it in, and wait to see what pops up. There’s only one file—a video.

I pause as dread fills my limbs. With the knife set next to the mouse, I click play.

My heart stops.

My breath stops.

My world stops.

Both hands cover my mouth just as a loud gasp startles me. Then I realize that sound came from me. I stare at the screen in horror. Mark is naked on top of me as he grunts my name for the camera.
My
body is exposed.

Mortified, I turn it off, not able to watch anymore. I run to grab my phone and dial his number.

“Hello?” he answers from his car, sounding so fucking full of himself.

“What have you done?”

“Nothing yet, babe.”

“Why do you have this?”

“Originally, because I liked watching it, but now I’ve found a new use.”

The fight leaves my body as dread sets in, knowing what he’s going to say next. “And what is that?”

“That’s up to you, Lara.”

“Just say it, Mark,” I cry. “What do you want?”

He sighs, and if I know him at all, he’s shaking his head. “Have I not made myself clear?”

“You’re as clear as mud.” I wrap my arm around my stomach, worried of losing its contents. “What do you want?”

“You. It’s that simple.”

“You can’t have me. I don’t want to be with you.”

“I’ve been nice—”

My anger battles with fear and my words and accusations come barreling out. “You beat the shit out of me and then say you didn’t. Are you psycho?”

“Lara, I remember us fighting, but I don’t believe I did that to you. I love you. I wouldn’t do that. I’ve never hit a girl before.” He pauses, then says, “Maybe I blacked out—”

“You knew exactly what you were doing.” I look down in disgust while readjusting the phone in my trembling hand. I want to throw it across the room, but I don’t, knowing this has to be finished. “You make me sick. I will never be with you again.”

“That video says otherwise. It’s my insurance policy. It’s awards season and I want you by my side.”

“No.”

“Yes, or I’ll send a copy of that video to every publication in California. And then I’ll send the other twenty-six videos I’ve made over the months to all the tabloids in the world, as well as hire the most successful porn directors to release it as my compilation.”

“You wouldn’t.” I hit him where I know it will hurt his ego. “You would lose sponsors.”

“When was the last time an athlete looked bad while having sex with his girlfriend? And,” he says, and I can tell by his tone, he’s smirking, “I look damn good in them. But as you know, the public doesn’t look well upon the women in sex tapes. This would destroy your career and make you the talk of the town in the worst of ways. God, I love public opinion.”

“You’re sick and need help.”

“But I’m also right. And you’re smart enough to know it.”

I’m too angry to cry, the hate I feel for him comes in a wave of venom.