Page 21 of Roughing the Player
Chapter 6
Eleanor
PLEASE GOD,DON’T LET ME RUN INTO ANYBODY I KNOW. The chances might be slim to none, but life has a funny way of screwing with you. After reaching a nearly empty lobby, I rush toward the elevator that leads to the parking lot. I don’t feel safe until I get into my car. Only then do I break down and cry.
So my pregnancy would have been a disaster? Of course, he’d think so. After all, he was headed for football glory at Clemson. Becoming a father at such a young age would have derailed his career. Like it almost did mine. If it hadn’t been for Mama and Steve who supported me through my pregnancy and Kaylee’s birth, I would have been one more pregnant teen statistic. Chances are I wouldn’t have graduated from high school, much less attended college. But I did have them. And that made all the difference.
I’ve asked myself a million times whether I’d made the right decision by not telling him. What would have happened if I had? Would he have supported me? Or would he have refused to acknowledge the baby as his? Well, today I have my answer. He would’ve considered it a disaster. At the very least, he’d have resented my pregnancy. I would’ve surely crimped his style as busy as he was screwing his way through the cheerleading team. He might have even demanded I get an abortion, after offering to pay for it as well. After all, his family was filthy rich. Not that I would have done it. Nothing in the world could have prevailed on me to get rid of my baby.
Granted those first few years were rough. Leaving Kaylee with Mama and Steve so I could attend college was unbelievably painful. Once she came to live with me, money was tight. There were nights when all we had to eat were noodles and peanut butter for dinner. I’d felt like a total failure. But somehow we made it through. I graduated from college and law school. I have a career and a great paying job. And more important than anything else, Kaylee is beautiful, smart, and the biggest blessing in my life.
So if he thinks she would have been a disaster, well—that’s his loss.
Feeling only slightly better, I put the car in drive and head home. The house is dark except for the porch light which I always leave on. After hanging my coat in the foyer closet, I walk into Kaylee’s room and breathe in her pre-teen essence. I fall asleep clutching her pillow.
By the time Monday rolls around, I’ve regained my even footing. I refuse to let Brock’s words haunt me. They belong in a past we once shared. Not the present, and most certainly, not the future. He’s nothing but a client. All I need do is keep things professional. And that I can do.
Today’s duties include overseeing Brock’s furniture move-in. Rather than stop at the office, I drive directly to his condo since the movers are scheduled to get there by ten after they drop off some things in storage.
Unfortunately, they arrive an hour late. Having skipped breakfast, I’m starving, but hey, that’s on me. With any luck, they should be done in an hour, and then I’ll have time to eat. As it turns out, luck’s not with me. Not by a long shot.
I’d asked my assistant to handle things in the condo, while I supervise the unloading from the lobby. At first, things proceed smoothly.
But then disaster strikes.
Massive bedposts come off the van with some medieval-looking things attached to them. As they get closer, I realize what they are. Metal chains with manacles and cuffs.
I gulp. Hard. “Oh, dear God.” Why didn’t they remove them?
A little, old lady and her companion stand by the front doors waiting for the movers to pass so they can exit the building. As they shuffle past the woman, her eyes grow wide. “Walter, what are those things?”
Her companion, a wizened octogenarian, covers her eyes. “Bertha, don’t look.”
“Walter, stop that. I can’t see.”
But Walter doesn’t pay any attention to her. His focus is all on me. As he pushes Bertha out the door, he fairly vibrates with outrage as he stabs his walking cane at me. “Hussy. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
Branded with a scarlet letter. God. This is all I need. I don’t know who. I don’t know how. But somebody is going to pay.
As if I haven’t suffered enough humiliation, an older man is busy snapping pictures in between smirking and winking at me.
Not to be outdone, a young woman with multi-colored hair snickers as the movers stroll the manacled bedposts through the lobby.
I run toward the movers before they disappear into the elevator to see if there’s something I can do to hurry them along. But then I hear a crash behind me. Fearing the worst, I turn. The contents of one box are spread helter-skelter all over the front entrance—whips, chains, dildos, vibrators, those rabbity things.
“Nice,” the rainbow-colored hair woman says. Before walking out the door, she hands me a card. “Call me if you want to play.”
Shoot me now. With steam practically coming out of my ears, I yell to the movers. “Pick that up!”
“Nuh-uh. Not touching that, lady,” one of them says. “Not without some rubber gloves. Got any?”
While they tape the box back together, I hunt around my purse for tissues. I gingerly pick up each and every item and throw it into the box, not caring if it breaks, not caring about anything other than to get the box and me away from the gathering crowd, some of whom are pointing their cells at the scene probably videoing the whole scene. Thankfully, that’s one of the last boxes, and in fifteen minutes the movers are done.
With Brock’s things delivered to the apartment, I send my assistant back to work. She has no clue about what happened downstairs. There is no evidence of the lobby disaster. Well, except for all the witnesses and photos they took. Damn it. I need a drink.
But I can’t indulge. I need to report what happened to Marty.
As soon as I arrive at the office, I dial his number.
