“I have seen the footage,” Rupert concluded diplomatically. “And it didn’t look like she was having too much trouble with reconciliation.”

“You know where she is, Rupert. Please tell me.”

The man took on a look of true compassion, laid both his hands on the bar, and waged the battle of the decision.

“Look, Chase. I like you. You’re a good kid. Do I think Amanda is making too much of this? Yes, I do. Do I think the longer she stays away, the bigger she makes the problem? You bet. But only she can decide how and when she can make peace with this. She was always so concerned about doing the right thing, making a good impression. I love her with all my heart, and her happiness is my only concern. I can tell you that she’s been in touch and that she’s safe, but I’m sorry, son, I can’t tell you where she is.”

Chase’s shoulders slumped, dejected. He understood Rupert’s hidden message. He knew exactly where his daughter was. The last road to Amanda had effectively been blocked. He stood up and made his way out the door. He still had a game to play. The one constant, where he still felt in control and at the same time could take a break from the calamity his life had become. He needed to leave it all behind and get back on the field. Before he got to the door, he heard Rupert’s voice, in a tone that reminded him of his own father.

“Hang in there, Chase, she’s worth it, too.”

He went back to his car, pounded the steering wheel until the horn went off, and let out a broken sigh.

CHAPTER 14

AMANDA SAT ALONE on the nearly deserted beach. September in the Outer Banks of North Carolina brought with it a certain measure of seclusion, especially midweek. Families were sending children back to school but would return for the weekends to grab the last remnants of summer. Other seasonal houses were boarded up and battened down in the hopes of withstanding any potential storms. The remaining full-time residents randomly roamed the beaches. They all politely greeted Amanda in passing when they encountered her and returned to going about their business. At least she stopped thinking in terms of every interaction as an aspersion cast upon her. It was a relief. She had been wearing her guilt as a mask that she couldn’t take off. Every person who crossed her path became her judge, jury, and executioner. Even the feeding gulls and egrets sounded like they were laughing at her. Every trip to the supermarket was an exercise in how to handle a panic attack. Amanda felt she had made great strides by refusing to give in to the voice in her head telling her to wear a wig, but she did don a hat and sunglasses. It took her at least five days to get over the feeling that she was constantly being watched or followed. But she never walked with her head down because that just wasn’t in her nature. She may have been beaten, but she wasn’t broken. Or was it the other way around?

Now, two weeks later, Amanda occupied her same spot in the sand, her knees up and arms wrapped around them. She watched the changing of the tide, wave after wave washing onto shore, cleansing the beach. If only the waves of her varying emotions could be so dependable. She tried to assume a pose conducive to meditation, as she had every day she claimed her spot, but it was still a waste of time. She started with the best intentions; was sick and tired of being sick and tired. It was time to think on the matter logically and rationally. It didn’t take long before she was daydreaming, reliving, and rehashing.

The first week had been the worst. Like a rubbernecker unable to keep from looking at the crash despite the severed head rolling across the road, when she got to the spacious, airy house, she immediately turned on the television. With a false sense of security created by the distance between her and New York, she surfed the channels, tearing her eyes away only when the actual tape was being shown. But then she found herself searching it out, not to watch a careless moment forever memorialized, but to see him. And see him before her reckless disregard for his reputation ruined it all for both of them. But there were way too many brief glimpses of him coming in or out of his apartment surrounded by security, unsmiling and dogged. She was grateful she didn’t have access to his games. Either he would appear cheerful and not tortured like she was, which would cut her to the core, even if he was acting. Or he would be disturbed and his numbers would show it, and then she would know she had managed to destroy the only other thing he’d ever loved.

It all happened in real time and at lightning speed. There were the jokes and the debates. Late-night shows always made some sort of reference, and while a few of the suggestive and subjective one-liners actually made her laugh out loud, the humiliation far outweighed the moments of humor. Talk shows all weighed in on whether Amanda has single-handedly set the feminist movement back decades or if Chase was really the devil in disguise. The one thing she and Chase had wanted to keep to themselves was being slowly dissected like some sexual science project. After hating to admit she should’ve listened to Alan Shaw, she finally turned the television off for good after a day. She had stopped calling into her home voice mail, as the calls from the bizarre left her equally violated. It was amazing just how many people were able to get her number. Kinky crackpots, S&M magazines asking for interviews, the list went on and on. Her number would be changed by the time she got back. She kept her cell phone off, but turned it on intermittently to read and ignore every text and listen to, then delete each voice mail. The message from Alan Shaw never came.

Chase only called once, about a week into her self-imposed exile. His message had been heartbreaking. Even though he sounded as bad as she felt, she read the single attempt to reach her as proof he was more concerned with repairing his image. In contradiction, he sounded like a forlorn child trying in vain to win back the approval of a disappointed parent, which only made her more depressed and confused.

“Mandy, this has been so hard to do without you. Alan told me about your little vacation. But I just wanted to let you know, everyone else has moved on, it’s yesterday’s news. I know you’re mad at me, I get it. And I hope this isn’t about me punishing you. You can f-bomb me till the cows come home, but you have to do it in person. You’re killing me here. I won’t bother you again.”

She saved that message, played it over and over again, until the tears were blinding. Now she listened to it for the last time, and when it finished, the only sound she heard was of the methodic, pounding breakers as she sat alone on the beach, all cried out, with nothing but the memories of what she had had and what she had lost.

She leaned back in the sand, looking at the gray sky with its accumulating clouds and recalled their last time together, when she was foolish enough to think she was allowed to believe in fairy tales . . .

As soon the door was closed to his apartment, Chase grabbed her around the knees and upended her over his shoulder, bearing her down the long hall to his room. After placing her back on the floor, he sat on the bed, pulling her between his legs. His eyes glued to hers, he expertly undid the button of her jeans and pulled them down. She stepped out of them, gave him a slow, lingering kiss, and with his help, laid herself over his lap. With his index finger, he hooked her panties in the middle and ever so slowly pulled them down, his finger trailing a line down the cavern that separated her round cheeks, tickling her. The sensation still so vivid that even as she lay in the sand, she couldn’t help but wiggle. He adjusted her panties to right below her backside, framing it. And then she held her breath and waited. The first slap was always the hardest, and it took her a while to figure what he was about. He wanted to admire his handiwork.

He would look at her bottom, trying to find the right spot, and bring his hand down hard, enough to take her breath away. His objective was to leave a perfect print against her skin. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. He would never do it twice, and if it wasn’t what he wanted he would give an exasperated “humph,” but if he got his desired effect, she could swear she heard him purr, and he would take a few moments to appreciate the sight, at times even tracing the outline his hand created on her soft skin. He found his sweet spot that night, and she relaxed, readying herself as he marveled. She knew when he was going to get down to business by the slight pressure he created at her waist as he held her in place.

He knew how much she could take and always gave only slightly more. There had never been a safe word between them; it never occurred to her to ask for one. She turned herself over completely to him, guided by faith and love that he would never go beyond what she could endure. His hand rained down over and over, precise and effective, until the heat began to rise, her wriggling turned to kicking, and finally the release of all her control. But she’d better not start crying, because her crying was something he couldn’t take for long even if it was brought on by euphoria.

“Do you promise to be a good girl?” he asked authoritatively, but with the distinct undercurrent he knew she was as good as it gets.

“I promise, I promise,” was her sob-filled response. The first one said in response to his question, the second for all the things he would ask of her in the future.

He stopped spanking her, waiting only a moment before lifting her back up, and while she tried in vain to rub out the burn, he kissed away her tears, murmuring words of love, telling her over and over again there could never be another, his own eyes becoming glassy with emotion.