No, this wasn’t the first time he had physically abused me. Yes, I did give him an amount of money; no I didn’t pay him off completely.
This whole exercise is dragging on into its 20th minute and I’m doing my best to hang in there, to answer as many questions as possible and try to limit speculation and thus, hopefully facilitate the whole thing to blow over just a little quicker.
Finally, at about the point where I’m seriously questioning whether there’s going to be any lasting damage to my cornea because that jerkoff in the back can’t figure out how to light me without blinding me, I say, “One more question.”
I’ve just had enough.
“Yes,” one reporter asks. “Did you find it sexually arousing to be photographed like that?”
“I’m sorry, who are you working for?” I ask.
“I’m freelance,” he says.
“No,” I tell him. “I did not find it sexually arousing to have my abusive boyfriend-at-the-time commemorate the savage beating he’d given me, but go to hell for asking.”
“Okay, that’s going to be all,” Damian says, jumping in, only they just start asking him questions instead of me. He has a way, though, of not saying anything no matter how many people are trying to get him to talk.
It’s miraculous.
“Thank you for coming,” Damian says.
Damian leads me back through the throng and back to my house as some of the reporters try to slip one last question in.
When we get back into my house and the front door is closed behind us, I just sit with my back against the door and cry.
Chapter Fourteen
The Baton
Damian
It’s only been a couple of hours since the press conference, and Emma’s starting to calm down. Although we both knew that this press conference would likely be the most difficult part of the process, neither of us expected the questions to be so thoughtless.
She’s in the living room, trying to clear her head with a movie and I’m in the kitchen trying to find the liquor when the doorbell rings.
“Could you get that?” she calls. “I’m really not in the mood to see anyone right now.”
“Yeah,” I call back.
I drop what I’m doing and go to the door. Opening it, there’s an older man standing on the other side of the door.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“You’re that actor fella, aren’t ya?” the man asks.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask.
“I’m Shane,” the man says. “Shane Roxy.”
“You must be Emma’s father,” I respond.
This should be interesting.
“That’s right,” the man says. “If ya don’t mind, I need to talk to my daughter.”
“She’s been through a rough day and she’s resting now,” I tell him. The way it comes out, it sounds like she’s just gotten out of the hospital. “I’d be happy to let her know that you stopped by.”
“If I could just talk to her for a minute,” Shane, Emma’s father, says.