I feel her gaze all through me, and my pulse starts to race. But she continues to smile at me before dropping her hand and heading toward the house, no doubt to pack the aforementioned soft, lacy bottoms like the ones she had on this morning.
She's so in control all the time, and I can barely contain myself.
I stomp toward the bike we were just making out on and grip the handlebars with all of my might, bending my head and trying to remember how to breathe.
Chapter Twenty
Eva
"Well, I didn't think this would be our first stop." I glance over at Drake from the cheap seats inside the giant dome the Tampa baseball franchise calls home. "Are you finally going to tell me what we're doing here? It's almost the eighth inning and you've barely said two words to me."
He just grunts in response, too busy watching the Kings play out on the field, glaring down at the number three on the back of Chase Whitfield's uniform.
"Is that why you wanted to take this road trip? To spy on the team all the way up the East Coast?" I sigh when all he does is give me an obstinate shrug.
I have a pretty good idea that it has something to do with the interview Chase gave the Queen of Diamonds recently. It's a sports site Chase's wife, Grey, has a hand in and she certainly used the piece to cast her husband in a flattering light. Not that Chase is a bad guy or anything, but he always manages to come off as Mr. Perfect, talking about how he wants Drake to make a full recovery and how much he means to the team. But when I heard Drake start to mutter to himself while he was reading it, I knew he saw it as a big bullshit slap in the face—not the show of support it was meant to be.
And now, he's taking such an unnecessary risk. We shouldn't even be here. He could be spotted by just about anyone—a crazy fan, a member of the Kings' staff, someone in the media. If he gets caught skulking around the team like this, the humiliation will be hard to live down. Not to mention the penalties that are sure to ensue for violating the terms of his agreement with Major League Baseball.
"Drake, you're not supposed to be anywhere near the team while serving out your suspension. I don't think this is what Diane had in mind in terms of your recovery." I try to keep my voice down even though we're sitting in the nosebleed section and there's no one anywhere near us.
"I just wondered how it'd feel," he mutters, shoving that scuffed-up, old baseball cap down over his eyes.
"And?" I ask, observing him carefully.
"It really feels like I'm out of the game." He turns toward me, unable to hide the pain swirling in his eyes. "I've never been away from baseball this long before."
"It's only temporary. You have to stay positive. You'll be back soon." I squeeze his arm, his rock-hard bicep nothing but solid muscle beneath my fingertips.
"Will I?" he asks, letting his question hang in the air.
"What's gotten into you, huh? Why are you torturing yourself by coming here?" My voice cracks when I feel him start to tremble beside me.
"It's too much, all right? No coke. No baseball. I have nothing to make me feel good, except for you. And you won't even let me touch you." He gives me a stricken glance, and I remove my hand from his arm. "I'm an addict, Eva. Whenever I find something I like, something that makes me feel good, I can never get enough of it. I keep wanting more and more, even if it's a bad idea. The last thing I want to do is turn you into my new drug of choice."
Things got pretty intense between us this morning. It was probably a lot for him to handle on top of everything else. So he ran to the only place that feels normal—a ballpark—and now, even that seems strange and unfamiliar to him. He's looking for something, anything from his past life, to ground him when he's facing a whole host of emotions he doesn't understand or has possibly never even felt before.
I scoot closer to him until our knees are touching. "Is that what you think? That you're just trying to fill some gaping hole in your life?"
"I saw the fear in my daughters' eyes, how they don't even know me," he says, roughly raking a hand along his jaw. "Trust me. After the hell I went through in detox, I think I finally learned my lesson."
I reach for the bag of popcorn next to my feet and place it on my lap, tossing a few pieces into my mouth, eating to fend off my anxiety. He watches me munch away while I grab another handful. He sticks his hand into the bag too, letting it brush up against mine. That tingling sensation runs right through me at even the slightest bit of contact. My body is humming for him, wanting more. That warm, pleasant ache in my heart increases, and all I can do is wait until he removes his hand and starts to eat before I can even say anything.
"We've been sharing an awful lot lately, haven't we?" I move the bag closer to him so he doesn't have to keep reaching for it—and so his arm won't accidentally keep skimming the side of my breast.
"It's like I'm open book to you or something." He gives me a wry grin before turning somber again. "I can't remember ever being this close to someone."
"Not ever?" I question, watching his face for clues.
"I'd have to go back to when I used to dig coal in the summers with my cousin, Dwight." He pinches his eyebrows together. "We'd be in these close, dark quarters for hours on end, down in some ramshackle mine, throwing crumbs to the rats."
He was mining coal during his summer vacations? What kind of parents let their kid do that? I glance at him, realizing how tough he must have had it growing up in one of the poorest regions in the country.
"I've pushed those memories to the back of my mind, trying to forget them," he admits, his gaze clouding over. "But contemplating actually going back there? It's only dredging it all up again."
I train my eyes on the players down below, wanting more than anything for Drake to be one of them again. "You need to face your fears so you can let go of the pain. I know it's not easy, but it's something you have to do. There's no way around it."
At that, he gets up, knocking the popcorn over and spilling it everywhere. "Come on. We're leaving."
He doesn't wait. He just keeps going. I stand up quickly and experience a bit of a head rush being that we're up so high. I gingerly move down the steps, doing my best to keep up with him.
It's like he's running away from someone even though no one even throws us a backward glance as we descend toward the lower rows, where other fans are actually sitting. I guess nobody'd ever suspect that Drake Schultz would be watching the game in the stands with them, especially since the last media report on his whereabouts claimed he was serving out his suspension in New York.
But I know there's nothing ordinary about him as I follow his broad shoulders through the throng of clueless fans. Even dressed down and hiding behind that God-awful cap, he still cuts an imposing figure. Luckily, most are too distracted to give him a second look, bumping his arm as they rush to get wherever they're going—the restroom, the exit, the gift shop—not even realizing who they're rubbing elbows with.
We make it to the parking lot without blowing our cover, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He's not in the right frame of mind to have to deal with a horde of curious fans right now. I'm glad we're able to escape without drawing a crowd. It was a risky move, going in there like that, totally unprepared. I could kick myself for having let him talk me into it.
Because I'm starting to realize that it's getting harder and harder to refuse him anything, and that doesn't bode well for my job as his sober companion.
We reach his bike, and he slows down, awkwardly shuffling his feet, waiting for me to catch up to him. I jog the last few paces, closing the gap. He stares down at me, the churning waves of panic finally settling in those gorgeous, aquamarine eyes of his.
"Thank you," he says, clearing his throat like he's not used to saying those words to anyone.
"For what?" I ask, holding my side, trying to catch my breath.
"For being patient with me. For showing me the way." He rubs the back of his neck, crinkling his eyes at me. "You know when to talk and when not to. You know how to read me. Not many
people do."
"Well, I've never met anyone as observant as you are." I return the compliment, jutting my chin at him. "Your eyes are always moving. It must be from all those years of guarding the hot corner over at third."
"Yeah, but it's like you're cataloguing everything about me in that mind of yours. You find out what I like and what I don't like, and you retain it." He nods at me. "It's nice and—I'm not going to lie—a little terrifying to be around such a smart chick."
"Oh, please." I roll my eyes at him. "You're just trying to get on my good side."
"No, I'm serious. I took a look at some of the articles you were reading back on the island and I couldn't make heads or tails of them," he admits, surprising me. "They went right over my head."
"What if I told you that they help me understand you better?"
"Then I'd say I'm pretty fucked up." He laughs, but I can hear the nervousness behind it.
"You could help a lot of people by sharing your story with them," I urge gently. "You could change so many lives for the better just by opening up."
"And how would I do that? By incriminating myself in Mama's drug ring?" he scoffs.
"Well, for starters, maybe you could participate in one of the clinical trials I'm doing for my thesis. I could record your responses to some of the behavioral theories I'm testing."
There's a dangerous glint I've never seen before in his eyes, and I know I went too far.
"Or…maybe someday you can talk to other addicts about your experience and how you were able to battle through it." I improvise, anything to get him to stop looking at me like that.
"Are you crazy? I'm nowhere even close to preaching to other cokeheads like I'm some kind of role model," he says, his voice deadly. "Because you know what, Eva? I'd do anything for a hit right now."
But before I can say anything, he curses under his breath, removing his faded baseball cap and tucking the brim in the back of his jeans. The game must be over, because the crowd is filing out of the stadium.
He tosses me my helmet before shoving his atop his head. He's in a hurry to get out of here, and he wastes no time revving the engine. I rush to hop on behind him, clasping my arms tightly around his chest. He doesn't waste a minute, pulling away and tearing out of the parking lot. A rush of wind hits my skin, but all I can feel is his heart pounding against my wrists.
He changes lanes and overtakes a truck, cutting in front of it, and I'm really, really scared. He's upset, and he shouldn't be on the road right now. He needs time to cool down, get his head together. I'm the one who set him off, but it's my job to get him back on track. I need to guide him along the steps toward making a full recovery, but I can't drag him along behind me, forcing him to comply, which is exactly what he's doing to me now. I don't like not being the one in control, and obviously, neither does he.
I dig my hands into his stomach while yelling against the roar of the wind, "Pull over!"
He proceeds to ignore me—until I slide my hands under his rippling shirt, sharply pinching his side. He jerks, the bike wobbling a little. I hold my breath, hoping I don't cause us to crash. But he quickly steadies our course, flicking his turn signal on and skidding to a stop on the side of the road.
I yank my helmet off and shove myself away from him, thankful when my feet touch solid ground. I gulp down as much air into my lungs as I can, trying to steady my heart. But he doesn't get off. He stays right where he is, watching my distress, looking as calm and cool as can be.
"What the hell was that?" I scream over at him as traffic continues to stream by us, some cars beeping their horns.
He eyes me through his helmet. "I don't mean to disappoint you, but you're going to have to find another lab rat to conduct your research on."
My heart drops at that, but I try not to let it show on my face.
"That's not what I meant," I argue. "That's not what this is."
"Oh yeah? Because that's exactly what it feels like," he snarls back.
I stare at him, and he stares at me, and the moment seems to go on forever, the air around us crackling with tension.
He lifts the visor, taking a shaky breath, the fight going out of him. "I don't think I'll ever get to where you need me to be."
The look in his eyes kills me. I don't want to see him defeated like this, lashing out. He's come too far to start reverting back to his old ways. He needs to think before he acts. He can't keep letting his emotions get the better of him.
I stride toward him, the fear slowly draining out of my body. "You'll get there," I reply, reaching out and placing my hands on his shoulders. "You're making progress every day."
"Yeah, well, the best thing you can do for me right now is get back on this bike, because I'm going to keep riding until I can't feel another goddamned thing." He snaps the visor back down, turning away from me.
I hide the tears that are threatening to fall behind my helmet and slide back on behind him, feeling his muscles flinch at my touch as he guides us back onto the road.
The last thing I want to do is break the bond we've established. I got him to trust me by not pressuring him. Now, I'm moving too fast, jumping ahead before he's ready.
I just have to keep telling myself—baby steps.
Chapter Twenty-One
Drake
"You're really going to follow me in there?" I glare down at her, holding the key to the men's room in my hand.
She leans against the gas station wall, waiting for me to open the door. "No locks, remember? That's the deal."
"And what? You think I'm going to go in there and magically snort a line of cocaine out of my ass?" I mock her, hating that she still doesn't trust me by now.
"You have a cute butt, Schultz. God knows what you're hiding up there." She smirks at me, and I know there's no way she's letting me back out of our…arrangement.
I shouldn't have gone off on her back there. Now, she's all worried about me again. It's a fine line we're walking here, and I took a nosedive off it when I blew up at her like that. But I wasn't about to let her talk me into something I'm not ready to do. She has to respect my boundaries more, but maybe I was a little too forceful with her than I should've been. No wonder she's coming down so hard on me now.
I scowl, turning the light on and holding the door open for her. But my stomach drops when I see that it's a one-at-a-time joint. It's bad enough, having her listen to me take a piss inside a stall, but thanks to this setup, I'm going to have absolutely no privacy whatsoever. The damn mirror is even lined up right in front of the urinal.
Her expression softens when she senses my discomfort. "Don't worry. I'll keep my eyes closed."
But maybe it's better that I keep her in here with me, especially if my hunch is right and we're being followed by one of Mama's gang. I didn't say anything to her because I didn't want to alarm her, but I saw tracks on the beach outside my house this morning, and I could've sworn I saw one of them at the dome. Mama knows I'm back on the mainland, and she's out for revenge because she must've found out we destroyed Terry's HGH supply.
And all Eva keeps harping on is going back to Kentucky. Well, it's not going to happen.
She turns her back, and her hair, usually the color of a raven's wing, looks almost auburn under the cheap, fluorescent lights. It's tucked behind her ears, lacking its usual bounce after having been crammed in a helmet for the last few hours. I catch a glimpse of her face in the mirror, and she looks dead tired. I rode hard after we left Tampa, getting us all the way to the Florida-Georgia border. I probably covered more ground than I should have in one day, and we still don't have anywhere to stay tonight. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision to go to the game today. I couldn't deny the urge to be around the team again, knowing they were in town. But I don't have any sort of plan for the rest of the journey. I should've looked into making some arrangements before we left the house this morning. It's a dumb move, traveling blind, especially when I have her to look out for and not just myself.
"Will you just go
already, or are you going to make me stand here all night?" she groans, swaying back and forth in front of me.
I clench my jaw at having to use the facilities in some dive off the highway. "Keep 'em shut, Sloane," I warn her, tugging sharply at my zipper.
"Don't think that I want to be in here either," she retorts.
But I'm glad when she starts humming to herself, blocking her ears with her fingers.
"Are you done yet?" she asks a little too loudly, her voice careening off the walls.
"No!"
I hurry up and finish, hastily flushing the urinal. I nudge her aside to get near the sink, and she finally stops humming. She actually joins me, squirting some soap out of the dispenser. As she slides her hands next to mine, I pause for a minute noticing just how tiny they are compared to mine, and my heart starts to race when I think about how they were resting mere inches above my belt the whole way here.
"Yikes!" she exclaims, yanking her hands away. "Why's the water so hot?"
"Sorry. Old habits die hard." I chuckle, turning on the tap for the cold water and running my fingers under it. "There. It's not so bad now."
She moves back in, her hands bumping against mine. "Much better," she sighs.
I glance at her in the mirror. "I think I'm starting to rub off on you."
"Your OCD tendencies are pretty contagious." She sees me staring at her in the glass, and the gleam in her eyes is unmistakable.
"How many men's rooms do you plan on following me into?" I shake the excess water off my hands, using my elbow to crank out a wad of paper towel.
"As many as it takes."
I rip off a piece and give it to her.
She continues. "I've never been in another stadium besides Kings Stadium, and I've never been in a public men's room until today either, so I guess it's a day of firsts for me."
"No matter who's watching," I mumble, remembering how the dudes using the facilities in the Tampa dome weren't exactly thrilled to have her in there with me.
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