Back then, I was too much of a coward to make a move on her, even after my divorce. I could've written my number on a ball and had Pete the bat boy hand it back to her, but I didn't want to screw up whatever special connection I had with her. I liked watching her from a distance, projecting an image onto her of what I thought she was like. I figured she was one kick-ass chick based on her no-nonsense business attire. I was intimidated, assuming she was way smarter than I was. But what I loved the most was how she was always so into the game, attentive to whatever was happening out on the field. Her eyes were always where they should be—on the ball. But sometimes, they'd dart over to me, and when they did, it felt like I was capable of doing anything.
I smile at the memory, taking my rifle out of the back compartment of the boat and sliding the barrel open. "We're off to hunt some gators in the Everglades."
"So the down-home country boy in you is coming out full force today." She chuckles while attempting to step into the boat.
I offer her my hand to help her in. "Yes, ma'am," I respond politely, giving her an exaggerated bow. "I'm busting out my ragin' Cajun side just for you."
She tilts her head at me. "It's nice getting to hear your Southern accent."
"Too bad you weren't around me more often when I was high," I reply glumly. "You would've heard a lot more of it then."
"I didn't hear it that night at the stadium." She gives me a pointed look, one I can't ignore.
"That's because I didn't want you to," I admit when my back is turned, putting the gun back in its case.
"So, you can control yourself, even in that state?"
I hand her a life vest, and she takes it from me.
"Most of the time, I can. It's hard for me to ever completely let go. When I first started using again, I'd go out. Have a good time. But I didn't like the feeling of not knowing where my dick had been."
She glances down to fiddle with the buckle on her vest, but it's all twisted and she can't straighten it out.
"Here. Let me." I stoop down and gently brush her fingers away.
The only thing keeping me from touching the swells of her breasts is a piece of foam covered in cheap, orange nylon. The straps are tight, probably from when either Willa or Coco wore it last, and her chest pushes against the constraints. I work at extending the reach of the buckles, bumping up against where surely her nipples are peaked on the other side of the padding.
She slowly raises her lowered eyes to me, her gaze scorchingly hot. She doesn't give in to her impulses, but it doesn't take much to get her aroused. She's like a lit fuse any time I go near her. But she doesn't do anything about it, and that's what puzzles me. Is she just lusting over my body but really doesn't want me for who I am? Is that why she's resisting so much?
"There," I say, making quick work of the task and securing it more comfortably around her. "Does that feel better?"
I expect her to simply nod, and not acknowledge the electricity flowing between us, but instead, she shakes her head.
I lean in and tip her chin up with my finger. "What's wrong?"
"I can't do this." Her lip trembles as she stares up at me.
"Why not?" I take a chance and boldly cup her face in my palm.
"I can't get involved with you." She looks into my eyes so mournfully that I'd be willing to do just about anything to see her smile again.
"Yeah, you're on the Kings' payroll for now, but you won't be forever." I lower my hand when I feel her start to pull away from me. She takes a shaky breath, and I reach for her knee. "Are you telling me no because of that or because you really don't want to be with me?"
Her eyes lock on mine, the indecisiveness gone. "I'm telling you no because you're a dealer."
Her accusation slices right through me, and I rock back on my heels, shaking the boat. She reaches a hand out to steady me, but I don't take it, too angry by her response to accept any kind of assistance from her.
"I'm not a dealer anymore," I fire back. "You were with me. You helped me destroy it all."
"But what about your mother?" She grips the edge of the seat as the boat continues to bob in the water. "Are you ready to confront her? Tell her you're done running drugs for her, that you're out of the family business for good?"
I exhale and stare into her eyes. "Is that what it's going to take?"
"Yes," she replies, her gaze unwavering.
"But what if I don't want to do that? What if I swore to myself that I'd never step foot in Kentucky again?" I get behind the controls, jarring the boat once more as I roughly take my seat.
She has no idea the kind of viper's nest we'd be walking into.
"It's not going to go away. It's not something you can run from," she says in a rush, knowing that, once I turn the motor on, it's going to drown out any possibility of continuing this conversation of ours.
"I was doomed from day one having an addict for a father," I mutter, laying my hand on the ignition. "You had an addict for a mother." I pause, the bitterness seeping in. "So, why weren't you?"
"Because life isn't fair," she replies hotly. "And the sooner you come to realize that and quit feeling sorry for yourself, the sooner you'll be able to move on and put all of this behind you. Do you think I had it so easy growing up as a crack baby? Do you know what kind of stigma was placed on me for something I'd had no control over? Everyone told me that I'd grow up with a learning disability or attention deficit disorder. They always assumed I'd have some kind of flaw, that I couldn't possibly go through what I had gone through as a baby and grow up to live a normal, healthy life. But I did, and that's why I make it a point to stay away from all of that stuff, and I'm going to help you stay away from it too. But you can't do a half-assed job of it. Either you're going to commit to making a full recovery or you're going to end up right back at square one."
"Can't we just enjoy the rest of the day? Do I have to make these big, weighty decisions right now?" I bristle, feeling the urge to put this boat through its paces and get away from this damn island for a while.
She nods, and I turn the large, circular fan in the back on, blowing her ponytail all over the place. She tries to hold back the curls that are coming loose, but she can't when I fly toward the open water in the direction of the Florida coast.
All that can separate me from Eva is waiting back home on the mainland. If I don't want to lose her, I'm somehow going to have to find the courage to face the future by facing my past. I just don't know if, deep down, that's the kind of man I truly am or if I'll always be nothing more than a redneck coward who thinks he can solve all of life's problems with his fists.
That's not going to work when it comes to Mama. I'm her son, but more importantly, I'm her main source of income. She's not about to let me walk away when it comes to protecting her business investments. But Eva's right; I have to cut ties with her. I have to start making amends and fixing the defects in my character to stand any chance at all of making a full recovery. It's too important for me to fail just because I'm afraid to face the woman who stood back and let me become a drug addict at thirteen.
When backed into a corner, Mama's like a rattlesnake: poised to strike, ready to sink her teeth into whoever gets in her way. And if Mama comes to believe that Eva is the one taking me away from her, the last thing I want to do is bring Eva anywhere near her.
Chapter Eighteen
Eva
"Shouldn't we be turning back now? It's going to be dark soon!" I yell loud enough so he can hear me over the whir of the fan at my back.
It's not like I haven't been enjoying the wildlife. It's pretty spectacular getting to see an untouched habitat up close and personal like this, especially for a girl who's never seen a flamingo that wasn't a plastic, pink lawn ornament in Queens. It's just another one of the many unexpected gifts Drake has given me since I've become his sober companion. But so far, he's said nothing about the thing I want the most from him.
"We're not going back!" he shouts over to me.
I motion for h
im to cut the engine, and we come to a stop among a clump of reeds and rushes smack-dab in the middle of a marshy swampland.
"Just because you haven't shot any alligators or crocodiles or whatever reptile it is you're after, we can't stay out here all night. The sun's going to set in another hour or so, and I really don't want to be out here when it does." I rub my arms, the dampness of the environment lying heavily on my skin.
He consults the compass on the dash. "Don't worry. We won't be."
"And I don't feel like being out on the open ocean either." I hear a strange cry coming from a dense overhang up ahead, and my head immediately whips in that direction.
He laughs, seeing how ill at ease I am. "Well, that won't be happening…because we're not going back to the island."
I pierce him with my gaze. "What did you say?"
"We're spending the night at my place in Tampa, the house I stay in during spring training." He cracks his knuckles, stretching his arms above his head. "Then, tomorrow morning, we'll begin the next leg of our road trip."
"What road trip?" I snap, furious at him for having made travel plans without me.
"The one we're taking up the East Coast. I figure, if we start this week, we can make it back to New York by the Fourth of July, right when my suspension comes to an end." He splays his hands on his knees, watching me get angrier and angrier.
He bends his head, and I could swear he mutters, "Because we have to keep moving," but I'm too distracted to be sure because all I want to do is wring his neck.
"If you're so hell-bent on going back, your timetable makes absolutely no sense," I protest. "It should only take a day or so to reach New York if we drive straight through."
When his grin deepens, the knot in my stomach tightens. Dad was right. He has too much money at his disposal. He's used to getting his way. I was a fool to have let him take me out of a stable environment and into unknown territory, because now, I'm about to lose control of the situation. This is bad. I'm sitting on a giant inflatable raft somewhere in the friggin' Everglades. He has me right where he wants me—helpless and utterly dependent on him.
It's the role reversal he's been waiting for.
There's a wicked gleam in his eye when he smirks at me, and it's both thrilling and terrifying at the same time. "That's because we're not taking my Land Rover…or my Lexus…or my Lamborghini."
He excites me in a way no man ever has, and he knows it. He's unpredictable and daring—two qualities I'm not all that fond of as a substance abuse counselor, but as a hot-blooded woman, they really get my lady parts humming. My body is battling my brain, and my stupid body is winning by a landslide.
I glower at him. "So, what…we're going to hitchhike?"
He shakes his head, failing to suppress his grin. "You'll see."
"But you didn't even give me time to pack!" I exclaim. "What about my clothes, my books, my—"
"Already taken care of," he replies, quirking an eyebrow at me. "Why don't you let me take charge for a change? Who knows? You might actually enjoy it."
He turns the monstrosity of a fan back on, sending us scuttling across the murky water. I hold on tight, not liking this at all. I refuse to put his whole sobriety at risk for the sake of some joyride. But there's no use pumping him for more information when he can't even hear me. I'm just going to have to wait and see what he has in store for me once we get there.
***
The next morning, I wake to the rumbling sound of yet another engine.
I lift my head, unsure of where I am for a second. But when I see my muddy, crumpled shorts lying in a heap on the floor, it all comes flooding back.
I'm in one of the dozen guest rooms in Drake's Tampa mansion—the mansion I didn't have time to fully search last night. It's so big that it'll probably take me days to go through it. It's a multi-gazillion-dollar palace sitting right on the water. Apparently, Chase has one just like it across the bay. Drake pointed it out to me, but I was too worried about what hidden dangers might lie inside the Schultz residence that I didn't pay much attention as we passed Chase's dock.
When we finally reached dry land, Drake maneuvered the damn airboat onto the back lawn and parked it there. After he let me do an initial sweep of the ground floor, we were both so exhausted that we ended up nuking some Hot Pockets out of the freezer before heading upstairs to bed. He said that I could have any room I wanted, so I just stumbled into the first available.
The presence of his daughters is more apparent here than in his New York apartment. The kid-friendly food options proved that. But as I gaze around, I realize I must have crashed in one of the girls' rooms. There's a unicorn mural on the purple-painted wall along with a plethora of stuffed animals in the corner, so I'm guessing I must've invaded Coco's territory.
Drake didn't see which room I entered last night when he was climbing the stairs to the top floor, and I'm not sure he's going to like that I'm in here.
I glance down at the sweat-stained T-shirt I'm still in. I want nothing more than to get it off my body. I need to find something else to wear pronto. I hop out of bed and scamper toward the closet. Unfortunately, there's nothing in it but glitter-encrusted tutus and animal-print leggings.
I take a tiny lavender bathrobe off one of the hangers and throw it over my shoulders. Now I know what Drake must've felt like when I barged in on him that first morning at the Roosevelt Building. I guess it could be worse. At least I'm not naked.
I open the door, and as if on cue, I hear the roar of the engine get louder before it gradually starts to fade into the distance. Great. Drake just took off somewhere without me. It's the first time he's gone anywhere by himself, and I don't like it. He's already starting to take liberties with me and we've only been here a few hours. I have no idea where he went or how long he'll be gone, but I have a feeling he won't be back any time soon. The only upside is I now have the perfect opportunity to snoop around for any drugs he may have hidden away in this massive home of his.
I dart out of Coco's room and into what appears to be Willa's based on the One Direction poster hanging above the bed. I frown, tugging the robe down and wishing I weren't wandering around in nothing but a T-shirt and panties. I search room after room but keep coming up empty. There's nothing in them thanks to the sparse decorating style I've come to associate with Drake's many dwelling places.
I don't have a choice. I have to go upstairs to continue my search.
I peer out the window on the landing between floors, but all I see is a sweeping driveway surrounded by a perfectly tended landscape. Drake is probably never here during the season, except whenever the Kings play Tampa, but something tells me that the grass I'm staring at remains a golf course shade of green no matter how hot it gets in the summer.
I hurry up the steps, my bare feet sinking into the carpet. There's only one room up here, and its French doors are thrown wide open. This has to be the master bedroom. I hesitantly tiptoe inside, carefully shutting the double doors behind me. The bed hasn't been made, but I can tell by the way the pillows are piled up on the left side that that's where Drake slept. The sheets are white, crisp, inviting. They make me want to snuggle right in, but then I think about the dried swamp water splotches on my shirt and hold back. Everything in this room is white. The walls. The carpet. The furniture. Everything's gleaming and spotless.
Yet something's drawing me toward the bed when I should be scouting around for anything that could endanger Drake's recovery. Instead, I shrug out of Coco's robe and let my hand glide over the impression his head left on the pillow, imagining what it would feel like to have the weight of his body on top of mine while he slowly and tenderly…
I vigorously shake my head to rid myself of the image. A guy like Drake doesn't do slow and tender. He fucks hard, and he fucks often. He's not into romance. His flagrant betrayals of Karolina are proof enough of that.
I rest my knee on the bed, running my fingers across the white, fluffy mattress. He must've slept with Karolina in this bed at so
me point, and God knows who else. Why would I be any different to him?
My heart falters because I'm not ready to step out of my daydream—not yet. I want to believe that Drake could be the kind of guy I'm looking for, minus the drugs, minus all the women. I curl up on the bed and pull the covers over my head like it's the only way I'll ever be able to get this close to him. I bury my nose in the pillow, inhaling his scent. He must've showered before going to bed last night, because everything smells like Ivory soap along with a hint of something masculine, something undeniably him.
The doors creak on their hinges, and I hear, "Eva? Are you in here?"
My heart stops. What the heck is he doing up here? I thought he took off somewhere. I shut my eyes tight and curse myself for having given in to this crazy impulse of mine. God, what's he going to think of me all cuddled up in his bed?
It's too soon for this. He came on to me on the island, but he's not ready. He still has a lot of work left to do. He's barely at the halfway point of where I want him to be in his recovery. This could jeopardize everything because I was careless and let myself behave like a woman who wants him instead of the therapist who's here to help him.
I lie still, hoping he'll go away and forget that he tossed the bedding aside when he got up this morning. I strain to hear if his footsteps are getting closer, but the heavy carpeting is probably muffling his movements. I listen carefully, my heartbeat drumming in my ears, but I'm taken aback when he raises the covers on the right side of the bed and peeks his head in at me.
"Eva, what are you doing in my bed?"
I don't move. I don't say anything. What good would it do now?
He lifts the covers higher, allowing his eyes to feast up and down my body. My shirt is bunched up high over my hips, giving him a full view of my bare midriff all the way down my legs, with only a flimsy scrap of lace between them. He lets out a moan of appreciation, long and low in his throat. I writhe under his appraising gaze, squeezing my legs together when I feel myself begin to throb down below.
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