“Are you a victim of abuse? Do you have a story to tell?”
With my mind spinning, I listen to their questions, still too stunned to move. I can only assume they’re asking about abuse because the charity is one for abused children. I’m sure that, by the look of my scars, they think I might very well be one. I can understand their rationale, and perversely, I almost wish it were the case. Somehow it doesn’t seem quite as humiliating as the truth. But still, my lips can’t form an answer, my throat can’t utter a sound.
I look up for Rogan. He’s gone. I look at Calvin. His face is contorted in a sneer that I remember all too well. I look to my side at Victoria. She’s as smug as I’ve ever seen her.
“Told you he’d be mine,” she whispers, winking at me for the reporters, even though they can’t hear what she’s saying.
I urge my numb legs into motion, taking one step back. It feels so good I take another. Then another. The closer I get to freedom, the farther away the faces get, the more my muscles cooperate. Three, four steps later, I’m running through the maze of halls behind the stadium, looking frantically for a way out. Any way out.
I see a red Exit sign up ahead and I lunge for it, pushing through and out into the cool, dark night like a woman possessed. I run in a straight line, aiming for the lights of the street in front of me. When I reach it, I hail a cab, a skill I’m glad I never lost, and I give the driver the airport as my destination. I don’t care that I have only the clothes on my back. I don’t care that my belongings are still in the room I shared with Rogan. I don’t care that I’m acting irrationally. I have to get out of here. I can’t be in this city anymore. For the second time in my life, it’s taken from me everything I hold dear.
Everything.
THIRTY-TWO
Rogan
I’ve felt protective before. Over Kurt. Over my comrades in Delta Five unit. I’d fight to the death for them. But even my feelings for Kurt, my damn brother, don’t hold a candle to the almost violently protective surge that’s pumping through my veins right now.
Katie.
Seeing her expression just now, seeing the sheer panic on her face when this bunch of nosey asshole reporters saw me notice her . . . God, I just wanted to tear through them like teeth through meat, ripping and tearing and killing.
But I know better. I know better than to start something that could go sideways with her caught (physically and emotionally) in the middle. She could get hurt, and I couldn’t live with myself if that happened. So, without a word, I turn and run through the locker room, heading for the door that leads into an anteroom and then out into the hallway. It should empty out somewhere behind Katie, some place that I can get her and get her the hell out of here.
But when I burst through the door, there’s no Katie. The hall is full of the same reporters, all as voraciously curious as a tank of barracudas who’ve caught the scent of blood. Besides them, there is only Victoria. No Katie. Even Kurt is gone.
Unconcerned with niceties or worrying about the damn cameras, I reach through the crush of bodies and grab Victoria’s arm. She turns a blinding smile on me that only serves to piss me off even more. I’m not playing her games right now. “Where’s Katie? Where’d she go?”
“How am I supposed to know? She was here one minute and then she was running down the hall like a scared rabbit the next. I guess she freaked out over those scars.”
Scars? For about a tenth of a second, I’m confused. What happened while I was coming for Katie, while I was running through the back rooms?
I don’t ask because I already know the answer. I see it on Victoria’s face. The satisfaction, the malice. I wind my fingers around her stickish upper arms and haul her up against my chest, hissing down into her face, “What the hell did you do?” She doesn’t answer me, just smiles. “You bitch!”