“By all means. And if she doesn’t ask . . .” I shrug like she can see me. “She’ll find out when she gets there, and we’ll help the community center, which is the ultimate goal, right?”

“Right, but I don’t want any trouble.”

“There won’t be. Promise.”

It’s silent on the other end for a few moments, and I hope I’ve convinced her.

“Alright,” she finally says, her voice still a little uncertain. “I guess we could leave it a surprise for everyone. That might add some excitement.”

“Excitement. Exactly. Great idea. It’ll be fine. I have no beef with Iris.”

“Okay, well, I’ll send that email of the topics we suggest. You can modify as you see fit.”

“Thanks, Sylvia. I’m really looking forward to it.”

Once I disconnect from Sylvia, I sit on the plastic bin alone. On instinct, I walk back over to the box of my father’s things and pull out the jersey, slipping it over my head again.

“Perfect timing, huh?” I ask the empty garage. “Looks like the game is coming to me, Dad. We’ll see if I get to take the shot.”

24

Iris

We’ve found a new normal, Caleb and me.

I’ve learned to negotiate the terrain of the hell in which I’m trapped. There is this strange balancing act of compliance and strategic resistance. Caleb is a sleeping volcano, always primed to erupt. I’ve learned his cycles. He’s a pendulum that swings from Jekyll to Hyde. I try to anticipate his triggers as much as I can, but sometimes they don’t follow the pattern they should.

He doesn’t attack every day. In some ways, the unpredictability of it makes it even worse. He’ll go weeks being perfectly well-behaved. He’s still repulsive because I know what he’s capable of, but he manages his behavior—and I manage to ignore it. And then something will set him off, a straw I didn’t even know had landed on the camel’s back. His steak is too rare. He’s lost a game. His favorite show has been cancelled. There’s no rhyme or reason to his viciousness.

“We’re really looking forward to next week, Iris.”

I glance up from my plate of chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans, to the source of that statement.

Sylvia.

Sylvia’s one of the eight or so people at our table. The Stingers are celebrating the end of a successful season with this dinner. They made it to the second round of the playoffs.

Whoop-dee-doo.

“I’m sorry.” I bring Sylvia’s face into focus. “What did you say about next week?”

“Yeah.” Caleb slumps a little in his seat beside me, then leans back and rests his elbow on the back of my chair. “What’s next week?”

He shifts to caress my neck under my hair. I force myself not to flinch at his touch. That infuriates him, seeing me flinch.

At least, it infuriates him when I do it in public.

When we’re alone, it feeds him. It empowers him to see the fear he has carefully cultivated over the last few weeks thriving and growing inside of me. My fear is a plant he nurtures in the dark.

“Oh.” Sylvia’s dishwater blond eyebrows snap together. “The community center? Iris is scheduled to volunteer there next week.”

Thank God.

Give me something. Something outside of that house and the open-air prison of my life with Caleb.

“I don’t know if she’ll still be able to do that,” Caleb cuts in with a frown.

His hand at the curve of my neck probably looks like affection from the outside—like the hand of a rich, powerful man stroking his pet. He displays a possessiveness that might send a thrill of excitement through someone else. Most women have a bit of a crush on Caleb when they first meet him. They don’t know him the way I do. Only I feel his fingers tighten. Only I know his hand at my neck is not love. It’s a warning. It’s a shackle.

Only I know the real Caleb, and it’s a violent intimacy I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

“Really? That’s a shame.” Sylvia flicks a glance between the two of us, like she’s unsure where to direct her dismay. Instinctively, she knows that I have little say.

“It’s all arranged, though,” Sylvia continues . . . nervously? Yes, nervously. She doesn’t know Caleb is a predator, but on some cellular level, maybe atavistically, her body knows, and it makes her nervous.

The heart speaks in whispers.

I heard too late.

“The kids are looking forward to seeing your family, even though you can’t be there,” she says. “We have signed jerseys and autographed photos for Iris to pass out, and we thought the kids could meet your daughter. You’re one of the Stingers’ star players. That would go a long way with them.”

Sylvia looks to me like she expects me to advocate for myself. She has no idea that her request will earn me a slap or worse when I get home. Maybe a hard pinch under the table. Caleb is usually careful with my face—with all the parts people see. Only when he knows he can keep me home long enough to heal does he hit my face. If I have my phone with me, he’ll make sure I have no real evidence to display. And when I have real evidence of his brutality, my phone will go ‘missing’ for days. He and Ramone have my captivity down to a science.

“I’m away next week,” Caleb says, picking up a glass of wine and taking a sip. He looks casual, but I’m so tuned into him now, to his moods, that I know there’s nothing casual about him. He’s tense at my side, a predator feeling threatened—like he might lose his prey if she gets out of her cage. “I’m away for the next two weeks actually, in China.”

Basketball is exploding there, and the market is so ripe Caleb and his agent are exploring endorsement opportunities. Thank God Sarai has been sick and couldn’t get the necessary shots. The pediatrician didn’t clear her to travel, so I get two weeks without Caleb. Ramone will still be there, but Ramone doesn’t hit me. Doesn’t rape me. He just makes sure I never get away.

Complicit bastard.

“We knew you wouldn’t be there, though.” Sylvia frowns. “We could—”

“Iris is very particular about who watches Sarai,” Caleb cuts in, sliding his thumb over my bare shoulder.

“Sarai is fine with the childcare provided for the event tonight, right?” Sylvia directs her question to me.

“Yes, of course. They seem awesome,” I say. “And Sarai loves people. She loves to be out and interacting with other children.”

Caleb doesn’t look at me, but his displeasure nicks the surface of my composure.

“And there will be childcare at the community center for the players’ wives and girlfriends’ children,” Sylvia says. “You’re welcome to inspect the area and meet the workers, Iris. That is if you still want to do it?”

Shit.

Of course, I do, but it’s not worth the fight. I pick and choose my battles, and this is not a battle I choose. I’m still searching for the best response when someone beats me to it.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Michael Cross says.

I hadn’t spoken to the Stingers’ president of basketball operations seated at our table all night, but now I’m really glad he’s here.

“We could use some goodwill after all that talk of a dirty play with August West,” he says sternly. “That cloud still hangs over the organization.”

An awkward silence falls on the table, one with clearing throats and bodies shifting in straight-backed chairs. Not me. I remember what happened when I accused Caleb of hurting August on purpose. I’m quiet. I’m still, but August’s name lands heavily on my ears. Even heavier on my heart.

“The league didn’t fine me,” Caleb says, his “I’m handsome and harmless” smile firmly in place. “Nothing was proven because it was an accident. Shit happens when you’re on the court.”

“Yeah, well, it’s bad for the team’s image. And West getting Rookie of the Year didn’t help,” Michael says, his eyes hard on Caleb.

What a night that was.

When August was named Rookie of the Year, I knew we would have a bad night. He actually doesn’t bother me sexually very much—probably because he’s getting it everywhere else. If I could send those women fruit baskets, I would. But that night, no one else would do. August wasn’t there for him to take out his rage on, and I was the next best thing.

“Let’s decorate that pretty face West seems to like so much,” he’d grunted, ejaculating all over my face. His semen had flooded my mouth, blurred my vision, invaded my nose, and sunk into my pores.

“Iris, do you still want to do it?” Michael Cross’s question jerks me back to the table, into the conversation. “Would you do it?”

All eyes on me.

I hazard a glance in Caleb’s direction, but he’s studying the wine in his glass. What am I supposed to say here?

I do want to do it. I need it. He and Ramone have me on lockdown every hour of the day. To draw a few breaths free of them? I won’t have a better excuse than Caleb’s boss practically ordering him to “let” me do it.

“Sure.” I spread an easy smile around the table. “I’d love to help.”

“Great,” Michael Cross says, offering me a friendly smile. “Then it’s settled.” His eyes are a little stonier when they pass to Caleb. “That’s okay with you, right, Caleb?”

“Of course.” Caleb links his fingers with mine on the table, turning our hands so his albatross of a ring catches the light perfectly. “Iris will represent our family well.”

“Oh, I just noticed your ring,” Sylvia says, her eyes widening at the rock weighing down my finger. “I didn’t realize . . . well . . . congratulations.”

Her eyes rest covetously on the engagement ring during a chorus of well wishes from everyone at the table,

You can have him!

I want to scream it so that Sylvia and every woman in a thirty-mile radius knows I don’t want Caleb and he’s on the market. If you like being slapped around, blackmailed, entrapped, and held prisoner, he’s your man.