Page 64 of Spinning Out Of Control

“Don’t,” she says, holding up a hand while her gaze lingers on the now-black screen. “Just don’t. It’s fine. Jonathan is trash. We’ve always known that. He wants to talk shit about me. So what? I’m fine. I’ve got to get ready for work.” Kira places her nearly full mug on the kitchen island and turns away, but not before I catch a glimpse of the tears brimming her eyes. She’s back down the hall and in the room we shared last night before I’m able to catch up with her.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I should have told her last night. I should have insisted. Swallowed down my fear of the unknown and just fessed up that the company was hers if she wanted it. I should have killed Jonathan Graham a month ago and dumped his body in The Lake in Central Park.

I should have told Kira that I love her, because I’m not sure she’ll believe me anymore.

Now it’s all tainted. I could feel the shift back in the kitchen. All the truths we’ve shared, the vulnerabilities, the late nights and early mornings tangled with each other are suddenly hanging on by a thread because whether I meant to or not, I was complicit in the great fuck-over of Kira’s career.

I can only hope that the trust I’ve worked so hard to try to earn from Kira will win out over me being a living reminder of what can happen when you put your faith in the wrong person.

In the bedroom, I find Kira half-dressed in black leggings and nothing else, rummaging through her an overnight bag. I would normally treasure the sight of her naked and semi-frantic, but I miss the soft tenderness of the moment before that fucking snake opened his mouth on a live broadcast.

“Kira, love,” I say softly as I round the bed to pull her into my embrace. She leans in for the shortest of seconds before pulling away, as if she was placating me with the simple touch before striking her blow.

“I’m gonna head back to my place. Get changed,feed Pancakes. I’ll see you at the studio, okay?” She busies herself again, pulling out a cropped black sweatshirt and yanking it forcefully over her head.

“Darling, you know everything that he said was bullshit, he’s–”

“Of course, I know it’s bullshit, Warren. I’ve always known that it’s bullshit. But it doesn’t matter what I know. It doesn’t matter what my truth is. It doesn’t matter how much work and effort I put into things. It doesn’t matter how fast I run or how many smiles I fake. It never fucking has. For ten years, Jonathan has dangled the carrot ofmywork,mycreativity,myvision in front of my face, making me feel like I had to earn it when he fucking took it from me. He stole it from me like a thief in the night and he got away with it. He’s still getting away with it, and now…”

Her voice trails off, but the unspoken words are as clear as day.

Now I hold the power to do the same damn thing to her. I’m already halfway there.

My throat grows dry, and my eyes burn as the weight of it all settles heavy on my chest. It’s over. Kira doesn’t trust me. She can’t, and after what she’s gone through, I can’t even blame her.

Everything hurts. Every nerve in my body is screaming to lunge for her, touch her, hold her, and not let her go. But if I did that…that would be for me. Just like me flirting with her at the wedding was for me. The teasing, New York, ambushing her at restaurants, every question I’ve ever asked her and every orgasm I’ve given her…they’ve all been for me. Her smile is my drug. Her laughter is the blood pumping through my body. Her pleasure is the song my soul sings. Because Kira McKenna is my happiness. She makes me delirious with joy.

But I…I have the power to fill her with nothing but sorrow.

“I still have to tell you something. Last night–”

Kira holds up her palm, cutting me off.

“Please, Warren. I think I know what you’re going to say, and I can’t right now. I’m going, please don’t follow me. I will see you at Spin Sync. And don’t you worry, boss man, I’ll have on my brightest smile as I skip through the lobby. Fake it till you make it, right? No one has to know that I’m fucking miserable.”

Kira’s use of my full name is like a knife to the gut. Her despondent smile makes my chest ache. I bring a knuckle up to my sternum to rub at the spot. I know what she thinks I mean to say to her. She thinks I’m going to tell her I love her. That might be true, but I won’t be telling her that today.

I might not get the chance to ever tell her.

I let her go, aching to capture her lips with mine as she passes but refraining. The kiss would be for me. Letting her go is for her.

On my way out, I’m met with the sad and sympathetic looks from my–no, not my friends. Kira’s friends.

When I get to the studio a short while later, Kira is nowhere to be found.

I go to my own office, where my emotions bubble over, manifesting in the desperate need for a physical release. Since the person I’d love to beat to hell isn’t here, I take to destroying my office to hell instead. I toss office supplies at the wall. I kick over furniture. Papers fly dramatically into the air before gently descending to the ground like feathers. I howl at the top of my lungs and beat my fist into the wall.

The force of it causes a frame to shift. The black and white shot of the Golden Gate Bridge was here before I was, a relic from when this was once Jonathan Graham’s office. I never cared to move it, figuring if I ever wanted to redecorate, I’d deal with the cliche photo then.

I barely spare the photo a passing glance, but what looks like a seam painted over on the wall behind the frame catches my eye. I squint, running a finger over the spot. I remove the frame and up close, I can see that the seam makes a perfect square. It seems too perfect to be a coincidence. I tap the spot with a knuckle, then do the same thing in the middle of the space. The sound echoes through the room, light and airy. I tap outside the square a few times, and then in the middle once again, my suspicions confirmed.

Hollow. There’s a fucking hollow spot behind the frame. My heart starts to race as a million thoughts and possibilities flood my brain. The likelihood that there’ssomething behind this sheet of drywall is low, and I doubt that my life is about to become the semi-titillating third-act of a made-for-tv movie. Still, something inside of me is screaming to find out what, if anything, is back there.

I look around the tornado-swept room, looking for anything that will break through the wall. Nothing jumps out at me. I consider punching a hole through the spot, but think better of it. There could be…I don’t know…knives or dead fish or something back there. And it’s too high up for me to kick through.

Warren

Get over to my office. Bring a hammer or a paperweight or something

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