Page 91 of Work It Out
“Sweet Jesus,” a deep voice groaned.
“My eyes!” shouted another. “My eyes!”
Rayah squealed, snatched the throw off the back of the couch, and wrapped it around her body. Neither of those were the deep timbre she’d gone in search of. “What the hell are you guys doing here?”
Blaine stood in the kitchen, coffee grounds spilling from the scoop in his hand. At her question, he shook his head and turned back to the coffeemaker. “We’ve been tryin’ to get hold of you.” He cleared his throat, easing a little of the gravel from his voice. “Couldn’t wait any longer. We came to wake you up, but this is not the kind of conversation anyone should have without coffee. Actually, it’s a Kahlua kind of convo, but I couldn’t find any in your cabinets.”
“My retinas are toasted.” Samuel rubbed his eyes. “I can’t unsee it. I’m going to go stare at the sun for an hour. Maybe I’ll go blind.”
Rayah ignored his exit and focused on Blaine. “What do you mean? What happened?” Yes, she sounded like a bad recording, but this was so far from what she’d planned, and she hadn’t caffeinated yet.
Blaine flipped the switch. The coffeemaker gurgled and sputtered, but he stayed quiet, back to her. Finally, his shoulders shifted, spine straightening, and he turned to face her. He held out his phone, the screen lit with a story from an online tabloid.
“No.” She hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to back away. She didn’t know what was on that screen, but it was wreck-your-life bad. She could feel it.
Blaine grasped her wrist gently and placed his phone in her hand. “I’m so damn sorry, Ray-Ray.”
She didn’t want to look. Everything would change. She didn’t know how or why, but the moment she looked down, her life would never be the same. But life was funny like that; there was no putting off a train wreck.
Rayah read the headline like the eulogy of her old life: “U.S. Gymnastics Rocked by False Allegations”. Below that was a photo she’d hoped never to see again, one she’d thought she’d burned in the backyard of her childhood home years ago. Dr. Orman stood beside her, his arm around her waist, both of them smiling—his warm, hers plastic.
“Who…” she started to ask, but the answer was so clear it all but smacked her upside the head. “Dad.”
Last week’s nasty email. For years, he’d been threatening to sell her story to the media if she didn’t cough up a healthy chunk of her settlement money. It was part of why she’d sunk everything she had into her maternal grandfather’s land. Donald Summers might demand what he thought of as his due, but he’d have a hell of a time getting it from the bank.
Guess he’d finally figured out she’d never pay.
She glanced back at the screen. That smile still haunted her nightmares, that smarmy, twisted perversion of affection. Dr. Orman had treated her like a granddaughter, tricked her into loving him. Then he’d turned her life into a cautionary tale. Six years and a hefty settlement from the U.S. Gymnastics Association and people still didn’t believe her. Of course, that was what gag orders were for, right?
Oh, no.
“How many times has Kingsford called?” Because her lawyer—Samuel’s uncle—had definitely reached out to the gym if he couldn’t reach her personally. Blaine sighed, which meant… “They’re crying breach of contract, aren’t they?”
Millions. The USGA would demand millions, and she didn’t have it to give.
He nodded and pulled a cup from the cabinet. Not waiting for the pot to finish brewing, he filled the mug with blisteringly hot coffee and pushed it toward her, along with the cream and sugar.
Shit. This was bad.
She looked back at the article long enough to get the gist. Same song, different verse. “Sources close to the athlete” said she’d been on the verge of being pushed out after her injury. When blackmail couldn’t keep her on the team, she’d made formal allegations that landed her an indeterminant but hefty sum.
“Gotta say—” Her voice crackled. She stopped, tried again. “Kind of impressive, they dug up an old quote from Janet Dashnell.” Of her teammates, Janet hated her most. One thing bothered her, though. “Why now?”
Blaine’s big fist tightened, turning his knuckles white. “Samuel! Stop being a baby and get back in here.”
Samuel strode through the door, and Rayah sucked in a breath. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him before he’d run out screaming about ruined retinas. “Oh my God.” His knuckles were raw, scabbed over only enough to stop the bleeding. Rayah plunked her mug down on the island and rushed over to him. “What the hell happened to your hand?”
“I broke the wall.” He didn’t look at her. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”
“Samuel answered the first call from Kingsford,” Blaine explained. “He took exception to the news.”
Rayah gaped. Samuel was the least violent person in the world, or so she’d thought.
He didn’t appear particularly peaceable at that moment. He looked ready to watch the world burn. “No, I was pissed. And don’t pretend you aren’t just as mad. You’re only playing it cool so when he turns up dead, no one will think it was you.”
Blaine sipped his coffee like this was some lazy Sunday morning. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turned to Rayah. “On a completely unrelated note, I need a few more vacation days. The beach is calling my name.”
He hated the beach, and they all knew it. Jellyfish creeped him out.
