Wild Card: Dallas Longhorns

by Tara Wyatt

  Her stomach filled with rocks. Fucking hell, what now? Her heart picked up speed, pulsing hard and fast in her chest. “No. Why?” she asked cautiously, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer.

  “Dirk gave an interview to Country Hits Today, the cable channel.”

  Her entire body jolted at the mention of Dirk’s name, as though someone had dumped cold water on her. “And I’m guessing he talked about me.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sent you an email with the link, but don’t feel obligated to watch it. Just wanted to give you a heads up.”

  “What exactly did he say?” Her free hand was shaking and she shoved it between her knees, clamping them together to try to suppress the tremors.

  “Uh…Well…” Chip floundered.

  “Sounds like I’d better watch it. Thanks for the heads up, Chip.” She ended the call and leaped up off the couch, pacing the room. No one knew the full extent of what had gone down between her and Dirk except for the two of them, and she’d be willing to be a lot of money that they had very different versions of the story. Her chest was tight and she walked quickly to the front hall, feeling the sudden urge to make sure the front door was locked and the alarm was set. Not that Dirk was here in Dallas, or that he knew where Hunter lived, and even if he did, the property was gated. Hunter was at the ball park to work out and put in some extra batting practice, but she hadn’t minded being alone in the house. Until the mention of Dirk’s name, anyway.

  She took a breath and headed up the stairs to the room she’d claimed as her own, retrieving her laptop from the desk and then climbing into the unmade bed with it. Adrenaline coursed through her as she forced herself to open the laptop and access her email. She saw the message from Chip and clicked on the link as quick as she could, before she could chicken out. If Dirk was talking about her, she needed to know what he was saying.

  It was a clip from Nashville Tonight, the nightly talk show on the country music station. The host sat behind a glass desk with Dirk sitting in an armchair beside him, wearing his usual plaid shirt and jeans, his dark blond curls tousled and styled, smiling and looking relaxed with one ankle propped over his knee. Marlowe’s stomach did a slow, sick turn and she swallowed hard. The clip was only a couple minutes long. She could handle a couple minutes.

  “And we’re back with country music superstar Dirk Marshall who’s been having a crazy year, with his song “Don’t Tear Me Down” a huge hit. He’s been nominated for four Country Music Awards. Thanks so much for being here.”

  Dirk smiled affably, looking handsome and charming. Anger burned through her at what a fucking phony he was. “Thanks so much for having me,” he said, waving at the studio audience. They chatted about Dirk’s song, the music video, his tour, and then finally, toward the end of the clip came the part Marlowe had been waiting for. Holding her breath to the point of aching for.

  “So, I have to ask,” said the host, looking mildly chagrined, “about the whole Marlowe Story getting married thing and what your reaction is to it, since you guys were a couple for a while.”

  “Yeah, we dated for a year.”

  “Were you surprised to hear the news?”

  Dirk smiled his aw shucks smile—the one that had worked so well on her originally—and shook his head. “I mean, Marlowe and I don’t really talk or anything, so I don’t know what’s going on in her life. But I don’t know about this Vegas marriage thing.”

  “What don’t you know about it?” asked the host, hanging on Dirk’s every word.

  Dirk shrugged his broad shoulders. “Well, if it’s a real, serious thing. If it’ll last. Seems awfully quick, you know?” He let out a little laugh and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his charm turned up to eleven. “Maybe I’m just jealous, though. Marlowe was the love of my life. Probably always will be. I’d do anything for another chance with her.”

  The crowd hooted and hollered as Marlowe’s blood turned to ice.

  “Well, she’s a married woman now,” said the host.

  Dirk laughed. “Married or not, I can fight for what should be mine.”

  Marlowe slammed the laptop shut and ran into the bathroom to throw up.

  The ball cracked off of Hunter’s bat and flew into the stands, sailing into the upper deck. His gloved hands vibrated with the contact and he resettled himself in the batter’s box, not letting himself get caught up in watching his batting practice home run.

  “Good. Choke up a little,” called out Abby, scrutinizing him from a few feet away. He did and swung and made contact with the next pitch, sending it screaming down the third base line. Once his pitches were through, he pulled off his helmet and headed toward Abby, who was studying her tablet.

  “Hey, I’ve got a question for you. Just your professional opinion,” he said, squinting at her.

  “Shoot.”

  “Not to sound like I’m bragging, but I’m fucking crushing it in BP. Am I doing something different during the games, something that’s messing up my timing or ability to see the ball?”

  She shook her head, her long brown ponytail swishing behind her. “I don’t think so. Look.” She tapped the tablet’s screen and then turned it to face him, showing him a page with several graphs and his name along the top. “Your contact rate has dropped—from seventy-eight percent to seventy-one percent. Your strikeouts are up. But, everyone knows what a threat you are, so pitchers work around you, making you chase things. Opposing teams play the shift against you more than any other player on the team. The good news is that when you do make contact, you’re crushing it. Your hard hit rate and exit velocity are both better than they’ve ever been. Long story short,” she said, tucking away the tablet, “teams know what a threat you are, so you’ve gotta push past the mental, get your head straight so you can focus on the physical. And maybe a little more patience at the plate. Don’t chase as much. Let things come to you.”

  “I really don’t think I chase that much.”

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Stats don’t lie. You chase. And you’re stubborn.”

  “No, I’m not.” He grinned at her. She smiled at back and then moved around him, on to the next batter in the cage. He made his way down to the dugout, wondering if Abby’s advice applied to Marlowe too. If maybe what she needed was a little space and freedom and then, when she was ready, she’d come to him. Maybe he’d been chasing her too much too, swinging at things he had no business swinging at.

  Dylan sat down beside him, a cup of Gatorade in his hand. Hunter tipped his chin at him.

  “How’d you break out of your slump? And I’m not talking about physically, about mechanics and shit. I’m talking about mentally. Abby says I need to get my head straight to hit better.”

  “It was all mental with me, man. I was so up in my own head that I was psyching myself out every time I got to the plate.”

  “How’d you shut it off?”

  Dylan grinned at him. “Well, for me, I needed release, so…sex. But, considering you’re a newlywed, I doubt lack of sex is your problem.”

  Hunter almost laughed out loud. “Yeah, uh, what else besides sex?” Given that sex with Marlowe was looking pretty unlikely, he’d need to find another way.

  “I don’t know, man. You just gotta find what works for you.” Dylan glanced at him. “There’s a boxing gym I go to sometimes. It’s awesome for blowing off steam and working up a sweat. You should come.”

  “Yeah, sweet. I like hitting stuff.”

  “We know,” chirped Javi from the stairwell leading to the clubhouse. “As long as you’re hitting inanimate objects and not, you know, people.”

  Hunter held up his hand, placing the other over his heart. “I solemnly swear I will not hit another person.” He waited until Javi rolled his eyes, nodded and walked away before adding under his breath “unless he deserves it.”

  I sit on the sofa, waiting. The house is empty. Quiet. Too quiet, so I turn on the TV. It’ s my main source of company these days because I don’t dare go out on my own. He’l
l get jealous, throw around accusations, especially if he’s been drinking.

  He’s drinking tonight. He’s out at a bar, and I know he’ll come home looking for a fight. But maybe this time, if I’m perfect, if the house is perfect, if everything is perfect, I can skate by. Maybe he’ll just kiss me goodnight and sleep it off. I know I should leave him. Hell, I should walk out that door right now, when he’s not home. But I’m too scared of what he’ll do to me if I try to leave. I’m ashamed that I’ve let this happen. And on top of that, there’s a part of me that loves him still, after everything. A part that hopes things will change like he always says they will. I’m a jumble of fear and shame and hope.

  I don’t recognize myself anymore. He’s swallowed me up, swallowed me whole. Owning me. Controlling me.

  I hear the front door open and my entire body stiffens, going on high alert. I send up a silent prayer. I hold still, thinking that maybe if I hold still enough he won’t even see me. Like a deer, hiding in the open. Hiding in stillness.

  It doesn’t work.

  “Marlowe!” He bellows my name from the front hall and I jump, vaulting off of the sofa and hurrying to him. Right now, I’ll give him whatever he wants. Whatever it’ll take to stay safe.

  “Hey, baby,” I say, forcing my voice to be bright, chipper. It trembles a little on the last syllable. Dirk stands in the hallway of his house, the house he insisted I move into with him when my lease was up. He’s stinking drunk, swaying on his feet. I can smell rum from where I stand and it makes my stomach heave a little. His eyes are red, bleary, his hair mussed, his jaw tense. He lurches toward me. “Why was this door unlocked?” he demands, his words slurred and angry. So, so angry.

  “I’m sorry, I must’ve forgotten,” I say, lowering my eyes, doing everything not to provoke him. But he’s looking for a fight, or a punching bag, or something. Whatever he needs, he’ll force me into the role.

  “You’re so fucking stupid sometimes, Marlowe. God, you’re such a dumb bitch.”

  His words burn through me, setting my cheeks on fire while the hair on my arms stands up. “I’m sorry.” I start to back away, slowly, but he lunges forward and shoves me against the wall, hard. His hands on my shoulders pin me in place, and I know better than to struggle.

  “Was someone here?”

  I shake my head, so hard my vision blurs. “No. No one was here.”

  “Are you cheating on me?” His voice is rotten, slimy and putrid.

  “No. I would never.” And it’s true. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t drag someone else into this mess.

  “I don’t believe you.” His eyes narrow and he sneers at me and then spits in my face. I suck in a sharp breath but don’t allow myself to react any further. “You’re a fucking slut. How many other guys are you fucking with that whore pussy?”

  “I’m not!” The words come out hot and angry, my fear giving way to my frustration, my desperation. They surprise him enough that he takes a step back, unsteady and off-balance. It’s just enough that I see my chance and I bolt for the door. He’s too drunk. He’s too angry. I have to leave. Tonight. Before he hurts me again. Before he does something I can’t cover up with makeup. I make it to the door, but my shaking hands fumble with the knob and he grabs me from behind, throwing me to the floor.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Don’t you dare think about leaving.”

  I struggle, trying to get up and he kicks me, hard, in the ribs, with his booted foot. I scream as pain shoots through me, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. I crawl forward, but his hand tangles in my hair, yanking me back.

  “Are you going to him?”

  I want to ask him who this nebulous him is he’s so convinced I’m cheating on him with, but I don’t dare.

  “Please. Let me go,” I say, my voice shaking. His fist tightens in my hair and then just like that, he lets me go. And then he’s on his knees in front of me, tears streaming down his face.

  “Oh my God. Marlowe. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he sobs. He reaches for me, and I let him pull me into his arms. “I just love you so much, you make me crazy.”

  I close my eyes and pray.

  Marlowe sat up in bed with a gasp, scrambling to press her back to the headboard and pull the covers around her. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the room, to remember where she was. Slowly, the darkened shapes around her came into view as the dream—the memory—receded back into the depths of her brain. She shivered, her breath bursting in and out of her lungs in violent gasps. Her limbs felt shaky and she bit her lip, trying to fight back the tears threatening to fall. The shadows in the room felt oppressive, the silence too heavy and with a jerky movement, she threw back the covers.

  Nine

  “Hunter.” The voice was a soft whisper in his ear, warm breath tickling his skin. Sprawled on his stomach, Hunter just started to pry his eyes open when he felt Marlowe slide into his bed next to him. He grinned, wondering what had brought on this middle of the night visit—not that he was complaining. He turned onto his side and moved to pull her into his arms, his eyes flying open and a frown replacing his grin when he felt her shaking. What the hell?

  She turned into him, burying her face in his chest. Immediately, he circled his arms around her, holding her against him while he smoothed a hand up and down her back.

  “Hey, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” He’d never seen her like this before.

  She took a deep breath, as though inhaling him, and he felt a bit of the tension leave her muscles as she allowed him to settle her against his chest. “Yeah,” she finally said. “Just a really shitty dream.”

  Relief trickled through him. “You wanna talk about it?”

  “No.” She answered quickly, shaking her head. “I just…I didn’t want to be alone.”

  He tightened his arms around her and kissed the top of her head.

  “You’re not alone. I’m right here.” Another tremor passed through her; whatever her dream had been about, it had her fucking spooked. Even though it was only a dream, Marlowe’s reaction to it had every protective instinct Hunter had roaring to life. He wanted to press her for what it had been about, wanted to fight those demons for her. Wanted to make her feel safe and protected in any way he could.

  “Thank you. Sorry to wake you.”

  He kissed the top of her head again, not allowing himself anything more than that. “I’m here, Mar. Whatever you need. Okay?”

  She nodded and relaxed into him. She had such a hard time trusting people—trusting him—and he’d always assumed it was because of the cutthroat nature of the entertainment industry, but now he had to wonder if there was more to it. Even though they were married, there was so much he didn’t know about her. About her past, about her fears, her hopes, her dreams. But he wanted to. He wanted it all. The tiny glimpses he’d gotten—of her warmth, her humor, her intelligence and sweetness—made him hungry for all of her.

  She made a soft sound in the back of her throat and shifted against him. He bit back a groan. It sucked that he had her in his bed, in his arms, and he wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it. Not when she was shaken up and looking for comfort. Unfortunately, his dick didn’t get the message and was already rising to the occasion. He shifted his hips slightly, angling himself away from her while still holding her. He held her until her breathing slowed and she relaxed fully, calming down from whatever had set her on edge. He started to wonder if she’d fallen asleep when her hand traced down over his bare stomach, across his hip and then around to his ass.

  “Are you naked?” she asked, her voice sounding a bit more normal.

  “What? It’s my bed.”

  “Mmm. And I’m in it,” she said as she nuzzled her face into her neck.

  “I noticed.”

  Her wandering hand circled back around to his abs, skating downward and brushing the heated skin of his cock. She curled her fingers around him, stroking him lazily. His hips jumped at her touch and he caught her wrist. She kissed his nec
k, her lips almost unbearably soft and warm against him. Fuck, she was perfect. He felt like he could jump out of his skin with how badly he wanted her, but he wasn’t going to be an asshole who took advantage of her when she was vulnerable.

  “I thought we agreed no sex.” His voice came out husky, strained.

  She lifted her head, one eyebrow arched. “Since when do you follow the rules?”

  He slipped a hand under her chin and kissed her once, lightly. “Since I made a promise to protect you and look after you.”

  Her eyes were bright in the dark. “We were drunk.”

  “Yeah, well, drunk or not, I meant it.”

  “Shit, Hunter.” Her voice was full of emotion and then her mouth was on his, kissing him. He let out a gruff moan and rolled her underneath him, kissing her back greedily. He wasn’t made of stone, even though his dick was pretty damn close. She wrapped her legs around his waist, rocking up against him. “I don’t care what I said,” she whispered against his mouth, her hands roaming up and down his back. “I need you.”

  Relief so sweet he could almost taste it burst through him and he wove a hand through her hair, kissing her long and deep. “I need you too, Marlowe. Fuck.” He tugged on her earlobe with his teeth, eliciting a hissing gasp from her. “Tell me what you need.”

  “Shut my brain off and make me feel good, like you always do.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. Sliding his hands down her body, he caught the hem of her T-shirt and lifted it. Marlowe reached her arms above her head, her long body stretching beneath his as she helped him undress her. He flung the T-shirt aside and dipped his head, catching her nipple in his mouth. Her back bowed off of the mattress, her hands tugging at his hair. He licked and sucked, nipping and teasing until her breath was raw and jagged. Until his own arousal surged through him, obliterating everything except Marlowe, here, now. So hot, so sweet, needing him.

  Moving to her other breast, he slowly tugged her panties down, slipping a hand under her ass and lifting her slightly. She kicked her panties free and her legs fell open, his cock sliding against the slick heat there.