Pete and I say our hellos and wait for her first question, which will no doubt be directed toward me.
“Elizabeth, you are an heiress and also the wife of seven years to Pete McGrath, is that correct?”
“Please, call me Libby. Yes, my family is in the automobile industry as well as other industries. Yes, I have been married to Pete for seven years,” I answer. I wish I could tell the whole truth, that our marriage was a sham brought on by my father’s need to control every little thing in life, but I can’t. It would end so very badly.
“Were you devastated when you found out that Pete had been carrying on an affair with a woman who looks remarkably like yourself?”
I want to punch her in the face and kick her in the vagina. Her question is beyond rude and uncalled for, but I squeeze Pete’s hand a bit tighter and I answer. This is why I came on here, to answer these types of questions, even if I don’t want to.
“I was a bit surprised, I suppose, but Pete and I were separated at the time. Faithfulness was never discussed. I was under no illusion that he would remain faithful to our marriage during our split. It was a very difficult time for me. I wasn’t able to be the wife that he needed. I was also making it difficult for him to be the husband that I needed him to be.”
“Can you explain your separation to the viewers? How does a seemingly perfect couple, with everything available to them, become estranged?”
God I want to pull her extensions out of her fat head. The bitch.
The passive aggressive cunt.
Jesus, I am starting to sound more and more like Pete every day, even in my own thoughts.
“I became depressed. I have been in counseling for years and my depression spiraled out of control. It was a nightmare for me, but also to live with me. Am I sad that during our separation Pete found comfort in another woman? Of course. Do I comprehend why he did and empathize? Definitely.
“I, personally, didn’t stray from our vows during that time; but I was completely shut off from everybody and everything that once mattered to me, which can be just as bad.”
I hope that this interview is over soon because I am feeling sick just talking about Pete and this other whore. Patricia nods her head, her lip poking out in fake-as-shit sympathy. I clench my thighs together to try and keep myself from standing so I can get the hell out of here.
“Are the rumors true? Did you run to The Plaza, taking your possessions with you when you learned of your husband’s affair? Assuming you had been living together during this supposed separation?”
This bitch goes right for the jugular.
“Though the affair surfacing and my leaving closely coincide, one had no bearing on the other.” The lie slips freely and Pete wraps his arm around my shoulders after releasing my hand.
“Pete, why did you cheat on your wife?”
Pete’s body turns to stone next to mine at her blunt question. I wrap my fingers around his thigh, clenching the muscle and hopefully relaxing him a bit—but probably not.
“Well, Patricia, honestly…my intention was not to hurt Libby in any way. I was lost, lonely, and I felt helpless. Libby was somewhere else and I couldn’t reach her or help her. It’s incredibly lonely and hard to cope with not being able to be with or help your own spouse. I reacted badly by seeking comfort elsewhere. It was a mistake. A mistake that will forever haunt me,” he admits. I believe him—every single word. Not that he hasn’t said them before, but saying them now, publicly, it affects me differently.
“How is your marriage today? Are you still working on it or are you healed?”
“It has only been a few weeks since I have left and then moved back into our home. One day at a time. I am happy and healthy, right now. Pete and I are working through our problems and are closer than we have ever been. I can honestly say that, without Pete, I don’t know where I would be. He has been my rock.
“We aren’t the first couple to have problems, and I am not the first person to suffer from depression. However, we are thrust in the public eye, so we wanted to come forward, together, and explain our situation instead of leading people to believe what is printed in the gossip tabloids or shown on television,” I say with a smile. It’s a dig at Patricia and she knows it. Her eyes narrow a fraction before she turns to the camera and closes the show out.
Patricia doesn’t say another word; she just stomps off, probably pissed that we didn’t give her much ammunition or information about our problems. Pete helps me stand and together we walk toward Jolene, who is waiting patiently for us off to the side.
“I think that could do it. You were both outstanding. Once I get some numbers, crunch them, and scour the gossip sites, then I’ll update you.” She leaves before we can say a word.
Pete places his hand at the small of my back and guides me in a bit of a daze out of the studio. The whole interview felt like it lasted just a few moments. I know that it needed to happen and that it will be all over television in just a few hours. I can’t help but feel like that it was all just too easy. Nothing is ever that easy, ever.
Like my marriage seven years ago, it seems like that all just happened with such ease. This, too, will surely blow up in our faces. There is a niggling in the back of my mind that tells me I need to hold the fuck on because shit it about to get crazy.
Pete doesn’t say anything to me as we drive through the busy city. I’m grateful, because I prefer being in my own thoughts for the moment. Suddenly, the car stops and I look up to see that we’re at my favorite restaurant. I blink twice and turn to Pete, who hasn’t moved a muscle since shifting the car into park.
“What are we doing here?” I question.
“We are going to forget that bullshit interview and have lunch with our friends,” he announces. My eyes widen and then I throw my arms around his neck and hug him tightly.
Just when I think our marriage has been a huge fake disaster and that he didn’t ever really know me, he shows me, yet again, that he does know me—and well. All of those years, he paid attention to little details, like what my favorite foods are, my favorite restaurants, and that when I’m stressed out, I need girl time and booze.
“Let’s get in there, get a few cocktails, order some great fuckin’ food, and then we’ll go home and I’ll eat dessert.” His eyes darken at the mention of “dessert” and a shiver runs through my whole body. My lips part in awe as I nod.
Hand-in-hand, we walk into the restaurant and, without stopping, we stride right over to the fullest table in the whole place. Jarrod, Amalie, baby Axel, Victoria, Carlos, their babies, Jackson, and Maggie are all waiting with huge smiles on their faces. I quickly leave Pete’s side and give each of my girls a hug. The four boys are at one end and we are at the other. I plant my ass right next to Victoria, across from Maggie and Amalie.
“How was that interview? Was it torture?” Victoria asks, signaling for the waiter.
“7 and 7,” I order without looking up at the waiter. As soon as everybody else orders their drinks, I offer my answer.
“I wanted to shove my heel up that bitch’s vagina; but other than that, it went fantastically,” I admit.
Amalie blinks before she throws back her head in laughter. I chuckle alongside her and I am glad that the tension is gone between us. This moment, with my friends and my husband at my side, feels right.
I feel right, for the first time in years, and I am finally happy.
The rest of the meal, we talk about everything but Pete and me. I assume they’re saving that conversation for game day, when Pete won’t overhear. I’m glad, because I can’t wait to tell them how deliciously dirty Pete is in bed and how much I love it. It’s finally my turn to dish the dirty details. The guys have a game tomorrow, so it isn’t like I’ll have to hold in all of my boasting and gossiping for too long.
I am full of delicious food, and tipsy from the flowing cocktails, when we arrive home. Though, I am not too far gone that I have forgotten Pete’s promise of dessert for us both. I take him by the hand
and I drag him past my bedroom and into his, soon to be ours.
I made the decision this morning that I will move everything of mine into his larger room while he is at his first away game. I want to surprise him by making the space ours, finally combining our lives together.
Pete doesn’t respond with words. Instead, he picks me up by the backs of my thighs and throws me on the bed. He quickly tears the clothes from my body and his mouth is on my bare breasts before I can catch my breath. His tongue teases my nipples to hard points and when he bites down and tugs slightly on the taut peaks, one right after the other, I cry out in surprise.
It feels so good. He feels so good. I nearly come just from his mouth on my breasts alone. When his tongue slides through my center, I almost hyperventilate at the sensation. We spend the rest of the evening in each other’s arms. Loving, fucking, and kissing each other with zero abandon. We’re both a little too drunk off of lust, love, and booze.
I SLUMP DOWN ON THE bench between Jarrod and Carlos, wiping the sweat from my forehead. Whoever decided baseball season should be during the summer in New York should have been decapitated. It’s so fucking hot, I swear to Christ, steam is actually rising from my fucking skin and it’s still technically spring. Jarrod hands me a bottle of water from underneath my seat and I grab it with a nod.
“Libby seems good,” he remarks. My eyes cut to his as I interpret his unasked question. What he really means is, Libby seems to be sticking around instead of running off to The Plaza.
“She is. Real fuckin’ good.” I don’t elaborate, but Jarrod doesn’t let it go. He wants to know more. Nosy bastard.
“You guys get yourselves all situated?”
“Are you asking if I stopped being a dick to my wife? Then, yes. We’re situated.” I’m fuming with anger, but not at Jarrod—at myself. Every time I turn around, there is some reminder of how I fucked over my wife. How I let seven goddamned years go to waste.
“Watched that interview last night. Amalie insisted. Never knew a woman who had been done wrong to take after her man’s back quite like she did.”
My only response is a nod. If Jarrod is trying to make me feel bad, he can’t add anymore guilt to what’s already swimming around inside of me—eating me alive. Libby’s putting on a good front, but I won’t feel satisfied until she’s talked to her shrink about everything that has happened in the past few weeks.
“She loves you,” Jarrod mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
“She really shouldn’t. She’s better than me, and I treated her like shit for way too many years,” I say, standing and sliding on my batting helmet. I take my bat and slowly walk out of the dugout.
“Don’t focus on that shit, brother. Focus on the future. You can’t do dick about the past. She’s obviously forgiven you, or at least is on her way. You need to forgive yourself, too. Move on and be good to her from now on,” he advises. I nod at my best friend, my brother, my teammate, and somebody who has no fucking clue what I’m feeling. He can dish advice all day long, but never once did he treat his wife the way I have treated Libby.
I don’t deserve her.
I don’t deserve her funny as shit, whacked humor.
I don’t deserve her filthy mouth.
I don’t deserve her smile that lights up the fucking world.
I don’t deserve her gorgeous face.
I don’t deserve her future.
She sure as shit doesn’t deserve the tears that I’ve given her.
I’m a selfish fucking prick.
I don’t deserve her, but I’m fucking keeping her.
She’s mine.
She’s been mine since she was twenty fucking years old.
Every part of her body and soul is mine and only mine.
I step out of the on-deck box and up to the batter’s box at home plate. I dig my back toe into the fresh dirt and face the pitcher’s mound. I narrow my eyes and let all of my personal shit melt away. I focus on the way the pitcher rejects the calls that the catcher behind me signals to him, and when his body tightens, I know he is accepting this pitch—whatever it will be. He nods and checks his runners. Bases loaded. If I can get some good wood, then we’ll be in the lead by six runs instead of just the current two.
“Saw your interview last night. Goddamn, your wife is hot as fuck. She ever wants to pay you back for cheating, she can climb on my dick anytime she wants to man. Fuck me, I’d like to fuck those big tits of hers,” the catcher murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear.
I close my eyes and try to block the asshole out while I swing, but I miss a ball that goes straight down the sweet spot. This motherfucker behind me is going to get his ass beat in about two point three seconds.
“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter, trying to block him out.
“Bet she’d appreciate a real man pounding into that pussy. What I really want is to watch my dick slide past those puffy lips of hers. Christ, with those blue eyes looking up at me like I’m a goddamned hero; because, you know, once she sees my dick, that’s exactly what she will think.”
Without thinking, I throw my bat down and he stands up, throwing off his helmet. It’s on. I’m intent on beating this asshole into the ground.
Nobody, and I mean fucking nobody, talks about my sweet Libby that way—ever.
The two skank-twins, Alana and Carrie, are surprisingly quiet about my return to the ball field. I was a bit nervous about showing up today to watch Pete play. Though Alana and Carrie don’t particularly frighten me, I find that dealing with them is taxing. They are such crazy, stupid bitches.
“Pete’s up,” Amalie says, bouncing in her seat.
I readjust my McGrath tank and stand up to hoot and holler for my man. I decided to be more myself today. Gone is my normal luncheon attire of a loose shift dress and high heels, or stylish skinny jeans and a blouse. I am wearing jean cut off shorts, converse, and a tight tank with my husband’s number and name on the back. My hair is even in a high ponytail.
When I arrived, Amalie gave me a huge grin and a hug. She informed me that I looked perfect for the game. I feel like one of the girls, not just an observer, like I have felt in the past. We are all wearing our men’s numbers and I finally feel good. Amalie insisted on ordering food for me and informed me, along with everyone else who could hear, that it is time to fatten me up. I laughed at her when she ordered chili cheese fries, nachos, red hots, pretzels, and beers.
“Who the fuck is going to eat all of this Amalie?” I asked, my eyes playfully narrowing on her.
“I’ll help you,” she shrugged. I stared at her in disbelief.
“The whole team could help me and there’d still be food left over.”
“You’re too skinny,” she responded. I just rolled my eyes.
The girl is crazy.
I love it.
I then proceeded to eat all of the chili cheese fries by myself.
“What the fuck is happening?” Victoria gasps. My focus returns back to the game just in time to see Pete throw his bat down and lunge toward the catcher for the Boston Red Sox.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“You need to get down there and calm his ass down. I’m not sure just a blow job is going to suffice,” Maggie urges, her eyes staying glued to the horror taking place on the field.
I can’t believe my eyes. I watch as Pete beats the shit, I mean really wails, on this guy for a solid two minutes. Finally, Jarrod grabs him and yanks him off of the catcher’s body, which is covered in dirt and sprawled out over home plate.
Pete is screaming and pointing down at him. Luckily, no cameras pick up his words. I doubt they are television appropriate. My eyes widen and I look at my friends in shock. Not once has Pete blown up in anger like that and I have no clue what this guy could have said, or done, to make him behave this way— especially during this delicate time in his career.
“I don’t think he’d want to see me right now,” I murmur as nerves simmer throughout my entire body.
“Uh,
yeah he would. He has too much testosterone flowing. You need to relieve some of that shit,” Victoria points out. I narrow my eyes at her, understanding dawning on me as to what she means.
“I’m not going to go down there and fuck him calm,” I hiss.
“You really, really should,” Amalie says, holding a squirming Axel in her arms.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah. That quick fuck during the seventh inning stretch was the best. I still fantasize about it,” Amalie says as her eye glaze over. She stares off into space, undoubtedly reminiscing.
“Follow me, woman. Christ, you girls get yourselves in more damned trouble,” Marcus, our security guard, rumbles from beside me.
“I didn’t do anything,” I whine, following him like a scorned child.
“You don’t have to fuckin’ do a damn thing. You’re all fuckin’ gorgeous, smart, and have tits that would make a priest forget his fuckin’ vows.” I stumble at his words and then smirk.
Marcus is such a perv.
“You need to get laid, Marcus, and stop ogling our tits,” I state.
“No fuckin’ shit, honey. You offering? I don’t think Pete would be too happy. Matter-of-fact, I’m pretty goddamned sure he’d do more then throw a few punches my way for fuckin’ his wife.” I throw back my head in laughter.
“He’d kill you,” I deadpan.
“Yeah, I figured as much. I had a broad like you in my bed, I’m thinkin’ I’d probably cut off any guy’s dick that came within twenty feet of her, and that’s the damn truth. You can take that shit to the bank,” he says with a smile. I giggle softly as we arrive at the locker room door.
“Thank you, Marcus,” I mumble.
“You’ll be alright, girlie. The past is the past and what yous twos got is good. I can see a change just in the past few weeks. I don’t know nothin’ about your personal shit, but what I know is that he’s playing better, and in your eyes there’s a brightness that wasn’t there before.” He grins. He’s so sincere that I have to fight back the tears that threaten to spill.
Forced Play for Libby (Men of Baseball #3) Page 13