by Tara Wyatt
“Mags said she’d sit with her and introduce her around,” said Dylan, following Hunter’s gaze. “She’ll be okay.”
Hunter nodded. “Tell Maggie thanks. I appreciate it. Marlowe can be surprisingly shy.”
Dylan shook his head, still glancing up at the stands. “Man. Marlowe Story. No wonder you didn’t say anything. She’s kind of a big deal.”
“Yeah. She is.” The biggest of big deals, as far as Hunter was concerned.
“I have to admit, though, that I’m surprised. I wasn’t expecting…” Dylan trailed off awkwardly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“Such a good girl to go for a guy like me?” Hunter finished for him, one eyebrow arched. Dylan tipped his head.
“Well, yeah. Kinda. I mean, I know that no one’s image is really what it seems, but…you guys have that whole opposites attract vibe.”
Hunter shrugged. “We’re not so different, Marlowe and I. Once you dig beneath the surface.”
Dylan clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, I’m happy for you, man. I’m glad it all worked out. You were kind of a mess over her.”
Hunter snorted. “If that isn’t the kettle calling the pot black, I don’t know what is.”
Dylan laughed and then waved up into the stands. “Yeah, but it was worth it.”
Hunter saw Maggie taking her seat, Dylan’s jersey on her back, a bag of popcorn in her hands. She waved back, the seat beside her still empty. Hunter’s heart sank as he realized that Marlowe probably wasn’t coming. He kept forgetting that for her, this was only a temporary PR stunt. But just then, Marlowe’s song “Heart Breaker,” one of her biggest hits, started playing through the sound system and her image filled the screen at the far end of the stadium as she took her seat in the stands. A cheer went up in the crowd, the excitement at Marlowe’s arrival palpable. Apparently people really did like their story, pretend though it was. Marlowe smiled and waved and something that felt a hell of a lot like possessive satisfaction filled Hunter’s chest at the sight of her wearing his jersey, a Longhorns cap on her head. All of the tension left him as she settled in, chatting with the women around her, taking selfies, looking happy and relaxed.
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, smiling while he tried to remember what this was really about as far as she was concerned: he had an image to rehab, and she had albums to sell. And so far the plan was working. Her album sales and downloads were up, as were ticket sales for her upcoming tour. Aerin had finalized everything with Evolve and Hunter was scheduled to shoot his first commercial with them next week. On top of that, they’d be hitting the New York interview circuit soon when the team traveled to play the Yankees. Marlowe would come with him so they could appear on all of the morning talk shows.
But as far as Hunter was concerned, the good PR was only the icing on the cake. He was playing for keeps.
“We’re happy to be with you here on this beautiful sunny day here in downtown Dallas from Dell Park, where the Longhorns are set to face off against the Twins in a double header. I’m Wayne Hopkins and I’m joined in the broadcast booth by Ron Whittaker. Today kicks off the first two games of a four game series against the streaking Minnesota Twins, who may have met their match in the equally hot Dallas Longhorns. The name everyone’s talking about, of course, is Hunter Blake, newly married and newly returned from his suspension after having to sit out this year’s All-Star game. And not only that, but Blake’s on the cusp of a big milestone.”
“He sure is,” chimes in Ron. “Hard to believe we’re here already in his young career, but he’s currently sitting at 999 career hits.”
“As a player, does a number like that weigh on you?”
“It can, but it all depends. I’d hope that as a newlywed, he’s got other, more interesting things on his mind.”
Wayne chuckles. “One would hope. For the few of you living under a rock and wondering what the heck we’re talking about, Hunter Blake recently married country singer Marlowe Story in Las Vegas. Rumor has it they’ve been a couple for a while, but managed to fly under the radar.”
“This could be the fresh start that Blake needs to put the rough start to the season behind him. We’re in the second half, the Longhorns are in wild card contention, he’s a married man, and he’s a single hit away from a major career milestone. It’s a good time to be Hunter Blake.”
Hunter returned to the dugout and just barely managed to fight back the urge to snap his bat over his knee. It was the bottom of the eighth inning of the second game and he was 0 for 7 on the day. He’d struck out swinging four times, flew out to left, flew out to right, and just now, had hit into a double play. He’d been cold before, and he knew it would pass, but it felt so much heavier with his 1,000th hit hanging over him. Waiting. Taunting. Just out of reach, meaning people would keep fucking talking about it.
He poured himself some Gatorade from the cooler and sat down hard on the bench, agitation rolling through him and making him feel restless. Javi clapped him on the shoulder as he passed.
“Don’t let it shake you. It’s your first day back. It’ll take you a bit to find that rhythm and timing again,” he said, popping a few sunflower seeds into his mouth. His eyes still out on the field, he took a seat beside Hunter, leaning forward with his elbows braced on his thighs. “It’s hard to change. Believe me, I know. Even if you’re trying to change for the better, it’s like dropping a pebble into a pond. There’ll still be ripples, no matter how you go about it.”
“You think I’m too up in my head at the plate because I’ve turned over a new leaf, so to speak.”
“Maybe. It’s hard to be one of the good guys. Trust me, I try all the time and still manage to fuck it up pretty much daily. But you keep going, you keep trying, and that’s what really matters. I hope, anyway.”
Hunter frowned. “Why do you think you’re not a good guy, Javi?”
He leaned back against the bench and stretched his legs out in front of him. “I have an ex-wife who hates my guts. I have two amazing daughters who I never see. Because I chose the game. It cost me my marriage. My family. But I’m trying to move forward and be better, and so I get how hard that is. Even when you think there’s light at the end of the tunnel…” He trailed off, his eyes following Abby as she walked through the dugout, chatting with Alejandro Cruz. “You just gotta keep going. I know I’ve been hard on you, but it’s because I know you can do more. Be more. You have it in you.”
Well, this conversation had taken a weird turn, and Hunter had no idea what to say, so he just sipped his Gatorade and nodded. “Thanks.” All he wanted to do was hit the shower and go home so he could put this shitty double header behind him.
Hunter stepped into the house, quiet and empty as always. Marlowe had taken one of his other cars to the game, so she’d come home before him and had probably hidden herself away in her room again. He sighed, pushing a hand through his hair as he wandered through the living room and into the kitchen. His limbs were heavy with exhaustion but he wasn’t ready to turn in just yet. He always needed some time to wind down after a game, and in the past, he’d usually gone out, hitting the bars until he’d tired himself out. But now that he had a wife to go home to, his bar hopping days were behind him.
He was surprised how okay with that he was. He’d be even more okay with it if Marlowe was his in a real, lasting sense and not just a pretend one.
“Hey, there you are.” He spun as Marlowe moved toward him from the family room, where he saw her acoustic guitar leaning against the sofa. She wore a thin sweater, light pink and slipping down one shoulder, and a pair of cotton shorts. Her hair was up in a messy bun, and she’d taken her makeup off. She looked…at home, and goddamn, he liked that. But more than that, he liked that she wasn’t hiding from him. She tilted her head and leaned against the island as he pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and twisted the cap off. “Tough night, huh?”
He blew out a breath and took a long drink of water. He set his bottle down and then braced his ar
ms on the island. “Yup.”
She turned and beckoned him over her shoulder into the family room. She’d lit a few candles, and he noticed a beat up notebook open on the coffee table in front of the couch. Hastily, she closed it. “Sorry, I was working on something before coming to the park.” She settled into one corner of the couch, tucking her legs up under her. He debated taking the other end of the couch, but instead he sat down right beside her, and he wasn’t sorry about it. She didn’t seem to mind, though, which settled something in his chest, like a spinning penny finally coming to a stop. For a moment, they just sat in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Surprising him, she laid her head on his shoulder.
“Performing—or trying to perform—under pressure sucks.” She rested a hand on his thigh and he looped his arm over her shoulders, gladly taking the comfort she was offering him. “One of the worst performances of my career was at this tiny little bar in Nashville. There was so much pressure because I knew there were multiple record execs in the audience and I was dying for a record deal. I’d been writing and performing for a while and I wanted that record contract more than anything. I got so nervous, so up in my own head, that I totally blew it. I missed my cues, came in off-key, forgot lyrics. It was horrible.”
“Let me guess: they signed you anyway.” He trailed his hand up and down her arm, marveling at how her skin could be so soft.
“Nope. I didn’t get a record deal for another two years. But I did, eventually. Just because it was an opportunity, it wasn’t the only opportunity.” She sat up and looked at him. “Your hit will come. Obviously. Just focus on the task and not the outcome, you know? You’ve done this 999 times before. You’ll do it again. I know you will.”
He nodded slowly, basking in how seen he felt. In how well she clearly knew him, and that she understood what he was dealing with right now.
“It’s hard when everyone expects you turn something off and on like a switch, when it’s more complicated than that,” he said.
“Oh, so much more complicated! We’re just people. We have off days, we get nervous, we look for ways to cope just like everyone.”
“And how do you cope?” His fingers were almost itchy with how badly he wanted to explore, to touch and tease, but he knew he’d probably ruin the moment if he tried to take more than she was offering.
She shrugged, her sweater slipping down a bit further, revealing a tantalizing swath of skin. Hunter’s cock perked up at the sight of it. He was trying to respect the boundaries she’d set, but damn it was hard. “For me, it’s about headspace. I focus on how much I love performing, I remember past performances that went well, I try to stay positive and grateful that I get to do what I love. I’ll listen to music that inspires me or helps me focus, I visualize things going well. If I’m feeling out of sorts, I’ll talk to someone, like one of my Nashville friends.”
“How come you called me when you were in Vegas instead of one of your Nashville friends?” The question fell out of his mouth before he’d even known he was going to ask it.
She blushed. “Because my girlfriends don’t give me multiple orgasms.”
“If they wanted to, I wouldn’t object, so long as I get to watch.” He grinned at her.
She grabbed one of the throw pillows and whapped him across the chest with it. “You wish,” she admonished, laughing. He picked up one of the other pillows and gently hit her back. She grabbed for it, trying to wrestle it out of his hands. He let her take it, but then reached out and tickled her, his fingers skating over her ribs. She shrieked and squirmed, trying—and failing—to use the pillow as a shield. She managed to wriggle away, her fingers going for his stomach, but he circled his fingers around her wrists and pinned her beneath him on the couch.
“Is that all we are? Sex?” he asked, his breathing heavy, but not from the playing around. No, it was because having Marlowe’s gorgeous body stretched out beneath him always made it a little hard to breathe. Her nostrils flared and she tugged against his grip. He let her hands go but didn’t move off of her. To his relief, she threaded her fingers through his hair, her eyes full of emotion. Sadness and want, fear and hope.
She shook her head slowly. “You know we’re more,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. And then she lifted her head off the couch and grazed her lips against his, more of an invitation than an actual kiss. He lowered his head and kissed her, softly and gently, every cell in his body bursting with arousal. She sighed into his mouth and wound her arms around his shoulders, opening for him. He deepened the kiss but still kept it slow and gentle, tasting and exploring her mouth, wondering how much more she’d allow before she pulled away. Even though he wanted to do so much more—tease his knuckles over her nipples, grind his hips against her to show her what she did to him, pull her sweater up over her head—he did nothing but kiss her, lips and tongues moving together, sliding and sucking and nibbling. Fuck, he wanted her. More than anything, he wanted her. But for now, he’d kiss her until their lips fell off if that’s what she wanted. He licked into her mouth, and she moaned, a soft little sound in the back of her throat that made him want her even more.
But she broke the kiss abruptly, her lips a little swollen, her skin faintly red from his beard. “I…I should go to bed—I mean to sleep. Um…” He pushed himself up off of her, letting her scramble off of the couch, immediately missing the feel of her underneath him. “Night,” she called over her shoulder as she practically ran for the stairs. Hunter sat back on the couch and touched his hand to his mouth.
“Fuck,” he whispered and headed downstairs to his bedroom. He didn’t care that she didn’t want to have sex—he just wanted her to stay. Talk. Hang out. If they were more, he wanted to be more. Have more.
He brushed his teeth and went to bed. Alone.
Eight
Sunlight streamed into the family room through the massive windows as Marlowe picked at the strings on her guitar, letting melodies run through her head, trying to match them up with the snatches of lyrics that roamed through her brain. She was trying to write something new, a surprise single to drop in order to boost ticket sales for her upcoming tour. A bouncy country-rock chord progression, fun and light, making fun of the cliché of getting married in Vegas. Since her marriage to Hunter was all anyone seemed interested in these days, she figured she might as well lean into it.
She set the guitar down and picked up her notebook, scribbling a few more lyrics across the page.
I know you’re not like other guys
When I’m with you the time just flies
Need to get away, need to feel free
And I think you might be the key
So let’s do something crazy, it’s a love-themed spree
Because you’re lookin’ fine
Might as well make you mine
* * *
And then we’re
Waking up with rings on our fingers
Heads pounding, it’s astounding
Walked down the aisle, said I do
In a cheap veil because we had a few
Now I’m a Mrs. with a Cheshire grin
Hit a home run when I married him
Won me a husband at the casino
What happened in Vegas ain’t staying there, though
She smiled, playing it back a few times, refining the chords and the rhythm of the lyrics while she thought about ways to tweak the melodies. It was hard to walk the line between giving fans what they wanted to hear and telling too much truth in the song. It scared her how easily it could turn into a love song, and no way was she going down that road right now. Things were already confusing enough and then she’d gone and kissed him the other night…She pressed a finger to her lips as they tingled at the memory of Hunter’s mouth on hers. They’d kissed dozens of times before, but that had felt different. Maybe because they were married now, or maybe because of the conversation they’d had just before—they’d connected in a way they didn’t usually, as preoccupied as they were with getting naked during their
limited time together.
But this marriage was nothing but a PR stunt, a way to capitalize on a drunken mistake. She’d be crazy—stupid, foolish, self-destructive, even—if she let herself think of it any differently. It didn’t matter how easy it was to talk to Hunter, or how much they had in common. It didn’t matter how attracted she was to him or how much he made her laugh. It didn’t matter how much she liked being around him because none of it was real. Because love wasn’t real. Love was just a pretty word for all of the ugly things it hid. Things like jealousy, and possessiveness, and the need to control. The need to own. The daily power struggle. Sacrificing bits and pieces of yourself in order to make someone else happy, to make someone else stay. Love was a demon that ate away at a person’s soul until there was nothing left, leaving an empty shell behind. She’d come so close to becoming an empty shell, just like her mother. So, so close.
She glanced down at the page in front of her, frowning at the happy, bubbly lyrics. Just then, her phone rang from where she’d set it on the coffee table, and she picked it up, swiping her finger across the screen when she saw that it was her manager, Chip.
“Hey, how’s married life treatin’ ya?” he asked. She could just picture him behind his desk in his Nashville office, his cowboy boots propped up on his desk.
“It’s good. Things are good. I’m working on that new song I emailed you about. Think you could rustle up some studio time for me here in Dallas? I’ll need musicians, too.”
“Sure thing. Let me make some calls and I’ll get back to you.” There was a pause, and she sat up a bit straighter, feeling a little on edge at Chip’s silence. “Have you been online today?”
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.