The Revolution (21 page)

Satan himself enters the room. I move quickly behind my chair, hoping he just sits and eats, and doesn’t expect more from me. But I’m foolish to think he’d want any less.

“Sit down, Lara,” he says from the head of the table. “You know I don’t like to eat alone.”

“I thought that was why you pay the hookers,” I reply, inwardly berating myself for speaking out.

“Silly woman.” He laughs, but there’s no amusement in his eyes, sinking fear right back into me. “I pay hookers for deviant sexual acts that you wouldn’t do. Oh, but maybe you’ll reconsider now.” The smarmy smile that crosses his lips makes me lose my appetite, as if I had one. “Now sit down.”

I sit and take my napkin, folding it across my lap. After a few sips of wine, I gather my thoughts together before raising my chin. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” He sets his fork down, as if my very voice annoys him.

“You don’t have to do this. You can have a million women. You’re famous, rich, and Mark Renner for crying out loud. Why are you doing this?”

“I told you. But I also told my parents about you. I said you were the one.”

“If I was the one, you wouldn’t have been fucking all the others.”

His hand slams down on the table. “Are you dense?”

I jump and the saltshaker tips over. My breathing picks up, so rough in my chest that I reach for my water to quench my throat that’s gone dry. “Do not touch that glass,” he warns. I look up, our eyes meeting across the table. “You were supposed to be different.” He makes it sound so easy, so obvious. “And now you know too much. You could destroy me in one leak to the press
.
I can’t have that. I’d lose everything. Now eat.”

“I won’t say anything. I promise,” I beg. “I’ll sign anything you want and be silent, never speak a word of it to anyone.”

He stands so abruptly that his chair falls back, causing me to jump. His plate hits the kitchen cabinets, making me scream. All the visions of him hitting me come flashing back as he yells, “Clean that mess up!” His heavy footsteps are heard as he walks out of the room, leaving me in the middle of his disaster.

I swallow hard, wiping away the tears that flood my eyes. My body ceases to rock and I stand up, holding on to the table for support. I don’t understand how life can change so dramatically in a few days. I don’t know if I should clean up or leave or try some other tactic. Fighting against everything I want to do, I take a deep breath, a large gulp of wine, and go into the game room. He practically lives in there when he’s home.

When I open the door, the projector is on, the reel from last season playing on the large screen. Any other time, this would be normal for him. He watches playbacks regularly, but this isn’t a playback reel to see what went wrong and to correct it. This is a highlights reel. He sits in the center recliner and stares at the player like he doesn’t recognize him.

I don’t anymore. Scanning the room for a laptop, I don’t see one, so I say, “Please erase the videos, Mark.” He doesn’t move, not even an inch. “Please.”

“I feel like you haven’t been listening to me, Lara.”

“I have.” My voice quivers. Damn it.

“Bring me that black box on the bar and make me a drink.”

Since dinner didn’t go as I planned, I do as I’m told, trying a new angle. “Mark, it doesn’t need to be like this. Women love you. Men envy you. You should be with someone who celebrates you, not fears you.” After dropping the ice in the glass, I fill it to the halfway mark with Scotch. I grab the box and take both to him.

“Do you fear me?” There’s sincerity in his tone that brings me to look his way. The handsome man I was first attracted to gazes back at me in curiosity. Then confusion clouds his eyes, as if he genuinely doesn’t understand why I would be afraid of him.

“Yes.” The ugly truth—plain and simple.

He closes his eyes and I stand there waiting. Waiting on a reaction, realization of what he’s done, for him to do anything to make this right and hoping it doesn’t get worse.

When he opens his eyes again, he takes the drink and downs it, and then hands the glass back to me. Looking right into my eyes, he says, “Fear is a strange emotion. We fear love sometimes or the act of falling in love. We fear death. We fear losing. Sometimes we fear winning. Winning isn’t always easy to accept because we start to fear never winning again after tasting victory.” Taking the black box from me, he opens it on the wide arm of the leather chair.

I thought I knew fear.

I didn’t.

I don’t move a muscle, not even to breathe when I see the needles and vials inside the dark blue velvet-lined box. “So fear,” he says, preparing the needle, “is not always a bad thing.” He loads a vial and I watch though I should probably be running for my life. Tapping the needle twice, he looks up at me and squirts a little, testing it. “Fear drives us to do things we wouldn’t normally do.”

“So do drugs,” I add, wishing I had my phone to record this so I have my own insurance policy.

He nods, and then slowly repeats, “So do drugs.”

He injects himself right in front of me, my body tensing even more as if that was possible. Acting calm, cool, collected, I can tell by the intensity of his tone that this isn’t just a casual conversation. This is a confession and I’m going to be held liable to keep the secret. “We pay a lot of hush money to keep this secret, but I’m not paid millions for fun. I have to perform and my team looks the other way. Do you think I’m the only one? They love to win as much as I do. You don’t get to our level by playing fair. This isn’t little league. This is the Majors.”

Leaning back in the plush chair, he asks, “What else do you fear, Lara?”

His lids blink, the action not smooth, then he hits me with his gaze again. “Do you really fear those videos being leaked? You fear that people will find out that you have sex, that you enjoy sex? Most people have sex. It’s nothing to fear for them to find out, so I’m thinking it’s not the videos that you worry about.” His hands are balled, fisted until the knuckles are white. “What do you really fear?”

When I don’t answer, he stands, grabs the back of my hair and twists down. I scream. My defenses kick in and I slam my fist into his stomach. His hand tightens until I’m bended on my knees in pain, sobbing for his mercy.

His hold on me stays firm while he sits back down. Hatred fills his eyes, his lips contorted in disgust. “You
should
fear me. I can end you. I can end him.”

Him—Kaz.

End both of us.
My heart lurches into my throat.

“I can make it so he never plays that fucking guitar again. So I’ll ask you again. What do you fear, Lara?”

Through pained breaths, I answer, “You.”

I’m released and pushed to the ground. “Good.”

He clicks play on the remote, and with his eyes glued to the screen, he says, “The Entertainers of the Year Awards are in ten days. I’m nominated in two categories—MVP and Homerun Hottie. Be ready. You’re going.”

Scrambling to my feet, I trip and land on my hands and knees just behind his chair. Pain shoots through my kneecaps and up my thighs and that’s when I realize there is no escaping this. He doesn’t hurt me where it can be seen this time because of next week.
Bastard.
There is no escaping him, much less time to search his computer for the videos.

Nice doesn’t work.

Fighting back doesn’t work.

He’s right. The sex tapes don’t matter at the end of the day. I might lose clients, and I’d definitely lose respect. One day though, someone else’s scandal will bury mine.

But Kaz… I don’t know that I can save him when I can’t even save myself, but I’m willing to do anything to try.

I don’t run this time. I get to my feet and look at the screen. There’s a man running bases with a huge smile on his face and the taste of victory on his tongue. That’s not the same man sitting in the La-Z-Boy.

No, they’re not the same at all.

The man on the screen used to be charming with an award-winning smile. He had a contagious laugh and caring touch.

The man in the chair would hurt someone just because he feels threatened, because he feels little inside. The man who used to play the game because it made him smile is lost. He traded his soul for a paycheck and his greed may kill me in the process.

My heart goes numb, the beats quiet to the slight ringing in my ears. Walking out of the room, I grab my car keys and leave. The night air is thin and I shiver from the chill.

I’m not the woman I was in that house. I’m not weak.
Normally.
He wants me to be. He wants me weak and under his thumb. What length is he willing to go to make that happen? What length will he go to not just control me, but to hurt Kaz?

Mark is a drug addict. That much is clear. Will it be an intervention or a drug test that takes him down? I’m willing to stage both. This is not about my safety or me.

I have to do something to end this once and for all.

I MANAGE TO
avoid most everyone the next week, especially Kaz. He had two out-of-town shows, which helped me to stay away. But his words have played over and over in my mind.
There’s no point dragging this out then. Have a good life, Lara.
I have almost texted him so many times, wishing I could replay our last conversation and tell him how I wish things were different. My life is in shambles though. I can’t—
won’t
—drag him down with me, so I try to remain strong most of the time. Despite what we decided, my heart hasn’t gotten the memo.

My office down the hall is busy this morning. Lane comes into my bathroom while I’m putting makeup on and sets a coffee down in front of me. “Late start?” he asks.

“Tired.” I’ve covered the remains of the bruising, which is light at worst and gone for the most part. Hopefully no one can tell.

“Oh God, me too. This guy at the club was a mess last night at disco night, and I had to rescue a friend, dragging his cute ass home, after they got in a kerfuffle.” Kerfuffle makes me smile. Lane makes me smile. He’s resilient, troubles rolling right off his back. It’s a quality I’ve always admired in him. I take things to heart and carry my troubles around like a mass that can’t be amputated.

He sits on a bench near the tub and starts scrolling on his iPad. “I have Calliope’s this morning. The samples came in from France for the toile we ordered. You need to approve two before we can take them to show her. You have Kaz’s this afternoon and,” he says, smiling to himself, “maybe into dinner, if all goes well. Hubba hubba.”

“The Fabian project has been cancelled. Take it off the books please. What time do you leave for Calliope’s?” I ask while swiping on mascara. “I’ll work from the studio today and I have four ca—”

“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa! Hold up there, cowgirl. I know he’s been traveling, but what do you mean the Fabian project has been cancelled?”

I dig through my makeup tray, keeping my eyes lowered. “It’s been cancelled. No big deal. Just changed his mind is all.”

“No.”

My eyes meet his in the reflection of the mirror. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean that no one cancels on us and especially not someone I know for a fact, after much pressuring from Rochelle, admitted that he likes you. So try again. What’s the real story?”

“Don’t go all Sherlock on me. Sometimes it is what it is. There’s no hidden conspiracy here, so move along, Watson.”

“Oooh, nice work in with the Sherlock reference. Gives me an idea for Halloween.” He comes over and leans his ass against the counter next to me. “That’s another conversation though. Now tell me the truth, woman.”

I drop the mascara into the tray. “We decided to stay friends and with that, not work together. It would put undue stress on our friendship that neither of us wants right now.”

“Since we’re sharing truths and all—”

“I don’t remember you sharing any truths other than you think your friend has a cute ass,” I reply.

“When I say we, it’s the royal we, meaning you, honey.” His eyes search mine, his happiness showing in the smoothness of skin around his eyes. He Botoxes way too much to actually see the happiness, so I pretend it’s there. “Anyway, you know everything about me—”