Three words, and the vultures pounce.
"Mr. Jones, are you here to clear your name?"
"Mr. Jones, are you denying the allegations made against you?"
"Mr. Jones, is there any truth to what was published in Choice Magazine this morning?"
Their words blur into one. I squeeze my eyes shut, blood draining from my face, until Olive’s leg stops bouncing.
I hear her chair scrape back.
My eyes fly open.
No, no, no.
She’s on her feet, and just like that, the room goes dead quiet.
"Good. That got your attention," my wife says, her glare sharp enough to cut anyone who dares to evenbreathe.
She rips off her cardigan, then rolls up the sleeves of her top.
"This right here?" she snaps, pointing to a fading mark. "It’s from my Goddamn medication."
She yanks her shirt up, revealing the marks on her stomach.
"Medication."
Her finger shakes as she points. She fumbles with the zipper on her jeans.
I reach out to stop her, but she swats my hand away, one brow raised in warning.
Then she turns back to the sea of piranhas. She tugs her jeans down just enough to show a fresh mark—red, raw, and inflamed.
"My. God. Damn.Medication."
She breathes heavily, pulling her cardigan back on, buttoning her jeans with shaking hands. "What happens between my husband and me is none of your business. But tothinkhe is capable of leaving these marks on my body? Unbelievable." She looks down at me. "He made one mistake.One. And you hold it over him like he’s the goddamn devil. You took the game he loved and turned it into something he can’t even look at. You made him hate the sport. Made this city hate him. His fuckingteamhate him. And for what?" She rests her hands on her hips, waiting for any of them to grow a set of balls, but none of them do.
"Time to wrap it up." Orlando starts, but Olive throws up a hand, silencing him with a single finger.
"I am not finished, Davis."
He backs off, hands raised, retreating to the corner.
"The day the Akira Rain tour started, I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. And do you know who’s been with me every single step of the way?"
She waits.
A reporter in the front row raises a finger.
Olive nods.
"Avery Jones?"
"Avery Jones." She punctuates every syllable in my name. "Do you know who has made sure I’ve been rested? Helped me with my injections, knowing how hard it has been for me?"
More voices join in, murmuring my name.
She looks at me. "Avery. Jones."
