by Tara Wyatt
There was something incredibly intimate about letting him draw on her, and a soft yet needy throb started between her legs. She shifted on the bed and she heard him chuckle.
“Do you like having me mark you like this?” he asked, his voice raw, and she knew immediately that this was turning him on too.
She nodded. “I do.”
“Almost done. Then you can see.” He leaned closer to her, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “And come.”
She let out a strangled little moan and he returned to his work, her arousal growing with each smooth pass of the marker. After a few more minutes, he stopped, and she heard the cap click back on the marker. He took her hand and led her into the bathroom, where she’d be able to see what he’d done in the mirror. She squinted as he flicked on the lights. After blinking a few times, she looked in the mirror, and her throat thickened, her skin as warm as summer.
On her shoulder blade, he’d replicated the sketch of the crane. It didn’t have the level of detail the finished drawing did, but it was an unmistakable copy all the same.
“Hunter,” she whispered, not having any words for what she was feeling. This wholeness of connection was something she was still getting used to.
He dropped to his knees in front of her and licked between her legs, wasting no time. Given that she was already halfway there, she didn’t mind. And as her orgasm sparkled through her, she went limp, letting herself crumple into Hunter’s waiting arms.
Letting him catch her.
Thirteen
“Are you sitting down?” asked Marlowe’s manager Chip over the phone, sounding breathless and excited. His tone made her heart kick up a notch, but she couldn’t tell if it was good news or bad news coming.
“I am,” she said cautiously, nibbling at the edge of her toast. Across the kitchen, Hunter opened the fridge and assembled the ingredients for his usual morning protein smoothie. Their dream-like wedding reception in Philadelphia behind them, they’d been back in Dallas for a few days now, settling into their easy routines. Baseball for him, and songwriting and rehearsing for her upcoming tour for her. She’d also put the finishing touches on her newest song, “What Happens in Vegas” before they’d left for Philly, and last night it had gone live on all the streaming platforms, along with a splashy, casino-themed lyric video on YouTube.
“The video’s only been up for about eight hours, and it’s already got almost twenty million views.”
“WHAT?” Marlowe shot up and Hunter spun to face her, a look of alarm on his face.
“People love the song, and they love the you and Hunter story. You’re back on top, baby girl.”
She hated when Chip called her baby girl, but nothing could’ve brought her back down to earth in that moment. Nothing. Hunter moved closer, his brow furrowed with concern.
“What?” he mouthed, his eyes shining at her, his body tense.
“Hang on, Chip,” she said, resisting the urge to call him old man in retaliation. “The song’s a hit,” she said to Hunter, her entire body vibrating with excitement, with happiness, with relief. “It’s got millions of views already on YouTube. People love it.”
Hunter let out a whoop and scooped her up into his arms, whirling her around as she shrieked with laughter. He set her down, smiling at her, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I’m so proud of you, Mar.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “You’re so fucking talented, and everyone can see it.”
She didn’t say anything, too overcome with emotion to trust her mouth to form coherent words. For the first time in a long time—maybe ever—it felt as if all of the jumbled puzzle pieces of her life had fallen into place, making a complete picture. A hit song, a new life in Dallas that she was enjoying, and Hunter. For once, she wasn’t running from anything because she was happy exactly where she was. She’d fought past failure, past doubt, past fear and pain to get here.
It felt like despite all odds, she’d won.
Hunter laced up his cleats, still smiling after the morning he’d had with Marlowe. He didn’t even have words for how proud he was of her for the way she’d kept working on her music even when the chips were down. The way she hadn’t let everything she’d been through stop her from succeeding. She was so talented, so strong. And she was his—God, it made him feel twenty feet tall knowing that a woman like that had chosen him.
After her good news, he’d forgotten all about his smoothie and had made them mimosas instead, which they’d enjoyed by the pool. Then they’d enjoyed each other by the pool.
Twice.
Yeah, he couldn’t stop smiling.
Marlowe had had a busy day ahead of her with interviews and other press to do. And Hunter had a busy day with his regular workout, practice, and a game against the Orioles that night. The Longhorns were streaking, having won twelve of their last fourteen games. They were fighting for that wild card spot, surprising just about everyone except the guys in the clubhouse.
Hunter stood and stretched, still smiling. Yeah, life was good. He glanced around the clubhouse, and slowly, his smile faded. There was a weird vibe in the room that he was just picking up on, caught up as he’d been in his good morning. Guys were looking around, having wordless conversations with each other. Javi was in his office, the back of his head visible through the little glass window in his door. The room felt…bigger. Like there was room.
Like…there were guys missing.
Hunter turned to Dylan, who was also looking around. “Trade?” With the trade deadline looming, everyone was on edge.
Dylan nodded, his eyebrows together. “Looks like.”
It wasn’t unusual for a team in their position to make some roster moves as their postseason hopes grew. Hunter swiveled his head from left to right, eyes sweeping across the clubhouse as he tried to figure out who was missing. But before he had the chance, Javi stepped out of his office, an unreadable expression on his face.
“Everyone listen up,” he said, louder than necessary given how quiet the room was. “As you may have noticed, we’re down a few men today.” He put his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. “We all know that we’re making a push for the wild card. We’re close, but not quite close enough, so management thought we could do with shoring up in a few key positions. We’ve traded Alejandro Cruz to the Astros in exchange for pitcher Connor Slate and Hiroshi Miyata to the Reds for veteran catcher Jake Landon.”
A loud crash sounded from across the room, drawing everyone’s attention. Abby looked up from where she’d collided with a rack of equipment, her face red as she started piling elbow pads and catcher’s masks back onto it. She didn’t say anything, just fumbled awkwardly with the equipment as she struggled to get it to stay on the rack. It all tumbled back down in a slapstick display and she eventually gave up, letting it all pile on the ground, her face flaming.
“Cruz and Miyata were great guys and great players, but we have infield depth. We needed another arm for the pitching rotation and Slate’s a former Cy Young winner. Landon’s a vet with experience behind the plate, and management is hopeful these additions will give us the edge we need to make that push. They’ll both be joining the team within the next few days.”
Slowly, over the course of a few minutes, the tension in the clubhouse dissipated as guys returned to their normal pre-BP routines. Cruz and Miyata would be missed, but Hunter couldn’t deny that they could use some help behind the plate and in the bullpen.
Beside him, Dylan finished lacing up his cleats and slipped his hat on. “Trades suck, but hopefully this one works out for us.” Having been traded to the Longhorns earlier in the season, Dylan knew firsthand just how much trades could suck. Hunter nodded in agreement. He’d been traded in his career too. It was never easy having to uproot your life and join a new team, starting over in a new city.
“Hey, you still going to that charity thing this weekend?”
Dylan nodded. “Yeah. The Scott Foundation thing.”
“I’ll see you there. Maggie comi
ng?”
At the mention of his girlfriend, Dylan’s face lit up. “Sure is. Marlowe?”
Hunter shook his head. “Nah, she’s doing a surprise performance at the House of Blues, so she won’t be able to make it.” He was disappointed she wouldn’t be able to come with him, but he was excited that she’d booked this gig. He was even more disappointed he wouldn’t be in the front row, singing along, but the reality was that sometimes, their jobs took them in different directions, and he’d committed to this charity event months ago. Grabbing his hat and sliding his sunglasses onto its brim, he headed for the batting cages.
Normally he was first up, with Abby already waiting for him, but when he stepped into the cage, it was empty, the machine silent. He went and turned it on, then started working through a few warm up swings while he waited. Eventually, she emerged, and her face wasn’t red anymore. No, it was deathly white, as though she’d seen a ghost.
“Hey, what’s going on with you today?” he asked, and when she didn’t answer, he reached out and touched her shoulder. She jumped about a mile in the air, letting out an undignified yelp.
“Sorry. Just…tired. Weird day. Let’s get focused.” He wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or to herself. He settled into his stance, taking the first few easy pitches.
“Tired because it’s a weird day, or it’s a weird day because you’re tired?” he asked when she was uncharacteristically quiet about his first few swings.
“Huh?” Her head swung up, but her eyes immediately darted back down to her phone screen. It started vibrating in her hand, and he could’ve sworn he saw the word “Jake” flash across the screen before she accepted the call.
“Sorry, gotta take this,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared back into the clubhouse.
Yep. Definitely a weird day.
Marlowe adjusted herself on the tall, wooden stool, then lifted her acoustic guitar from its stand, looping the strap over her head and sliding her fingers over the strings. The studio crew had already tuned it, but she gave it a few testing strums out of habit. The studio space Chip had arranged for her while she rehearsed in Dallas had become a second home, and she’d rediscovered the joy of losing herself in simply playing and creating. It was a feeling she hadn’t had in a long time, and one she’d missed.
Around her, the studio musicians, also hired by Chip, picked up their instruments, ready to begin their rehearsal in preparation for her upcoming surprise appearance at the House of Blues. She’d come to really enjoy playing with them, liking the company and camaraderie of rehearsing with the same group day in and day out, so much so that she was thinking of taking them on tour with her instead of whoever the label had pre-selected for her.
Liz, the lead guitarist, strode into the studio, wireless earbuds in her ears, her head bopping in time with whatever she was listening to. Liz looked a lot more rock and roll with her short red hair and penchant for leather pants and spiky heels, but she was one hell of a country guitarist. She pulled her earbuds out and picked up her guitar, fiddling with the strap.
“What were you listening to?” asked Marlowe. She and Liz had similar taste and often sent each other new music by under the radar musicians.
“The new Dirk Marshall song. Have you heard it?”
At the mention of Dirk’s name, Marlowe’s blood ran cold, but she schooled her face into what she hoped was a neutral expression. Liz wasn’t the type to keep up with celebrity gossip; she probably didn’t know he was Marlowe’s ex. “No, can’t say I have.”
“You should listen to it. It’s so hot. Whoever he wrote it for, he’s not over her. It’s so sexy, so determined.”
Marlowe’s stomach gave a sick little lurch. The last thing she wanted to do was listen to Dirk’s song, but she knew she had to. Burying her head in the sand and pretending he wasn’t playing games wouldn’t help her in the long run. If he was up to something, she needed to know. And that was even assuming the song was about her, which it probably wasn’t. Yeah, he’d mentioned her in that interview, but he’d just been looking for a little attention and capitalizing on her publicity. At least, that’s what she wanted to believe.
“Let’s hear it,” she said, tipping her head in the direction of Liz’s phone. With a smile, she pulled it up and let it start playing.
It was a sparse, plaintive song, the yearning almost palpable. Marlowe’s jaw tightened as she listened to the lyrics.
Baby doll
Wish I could talk to you
Said you needed space
But I can’t stop loving you
And I never will
* * *
Baby doll
You know I didn’t mean to hurt you
Would’ve done anything to make you stay
Is it too late for second chances?
Can’t sleep thinking about what we used to have
* * *
Don’t you know
You belong to me
You’re the only one
Don’t you know
Nothing changes that
Wish I could say to you now
That I’ll never let you go
A wave of nausea, sharp and hot, roiled in Marlowe’s stomach. Dirk had always called her baby doll, right from the beginning, and always when he was tearfully apologizing for whatever horrible thing he’d just done. What the hell was he playing at with this? Was this just another of his mind games?
She listened to the rest of the song, made some very non-committal comments about the melody being pretty, and then stood from her stool, setting her guitar back in its stand. “I just remembered that I have to make a quick phone call. Be back in a few minutes.” Stepping out of the studio, she hurried into the little office just off of the main rehearsal space and pulled her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans, her hands trembling a little as she pulled up Chip’s number.
But her hands weren’t shaking because she was scared. They were shaking because she was absolutely furious. She was so angry that she felt like she could vibrate out of her skin with it. How dare he play with her like this? Who did he think he was? A small part of her, deep down inside, was relieved at her reaction, happy, even, to discover that she wasn’t scared of Dirk anymore. There was no fear—only contempt. Disgust. Revulsion. But mostly, there was fury, and a lot of it.
“Marlowe, what can I do for ya?” said Chip in his typical laid back twang.
“The Dirk Marshall song, have you heard it?” she asked, cutting right to the chase.
“Oh, that. Yeah.”
“I know it’s about me. I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing, talking about me in interviews, writing songs about me. We broke up a long time ago, and I’m married to someone else.”
“Guess he’s not over you,” said Chip hesitantly.
“I don’t care. I don’t want anything to do with him. I want him to leave me alone. Can you get legal on this? Send him a cease and desist or whatever? I don’t have time for whatever games he’s trying to play.”
“Sure, yeah, I can talk to the lawyers and see what they can do. Didn’t realize this bothered you so much. I know you guys have a history, but…”
“We do, and it’s an ugly one. You tell him that if he doesn’t fuck off, I’m going to tell everyone everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’ll know.”
There was a pause and then a sigh. “Okay, girlie. Whatever you want.”
“What I want is for Dirk Marshall to drop off the face of the earth, but since that’s not gonna happen, I’ll settle for him forgetting my name. Cool?” She’d never spoken to Chip this way, and she could tell he was startled, but she didn’t care. In this messed up equation, Chip’s feelings were the least of her concerns.
“Yep, I’ll get right on it.”
“Great, thanks.” And with that, she disconnected the call and returned to her rehearsal, feeling a little bit lighter.
It was nearly midnight when Hunter entered the house thro
ugh the garage, and he was surprised when he saw lights still on in the family room off of the kitchen. He’d expected Marlowe to be in bed. In fact, he was maybe even a little disappointed that she was still up, as he’d been fantasizing on his drive home from the stadium about all the fun ways he could wake her up. She hadn’t come to tonight’s game—she’d been busy prepping for her upcoming performance, so she’d given her ticket to Maggie so she could bring a friend. He’d missed her, even though he couldn’t really see her from the field when she was there. He just liked knowing she was there, wearing his jersey, cheering him and the team on. It made him feel like every hit, every catch, every win was shared with her, making it all the sweeter.
She sat on the couch wearing a tank top and leggings, her long hair piled up in a messy bun, a book in her hands. He loved seeing her like this, casual and so completely at home. The Marlowe that the world didn’t get to see. The everyday, real life Marlowe. Sometimes it still felt surreal that she was here, sharing his house, his bed, his life.
She glanced up from her book. “Hey. I heard you won.”
He nodded and dropped down onto the couch beside her, leaning in for a quick kiss. “Yep, five to two. Dylan hit a massive home run into the upper deck.”
She smiled. “Good for him. And what about you?”
“Me? Oh, nothing too exciting. I did get nailed with a pitch though.”