"I didn't see anything," she snickers. "Besides, my being there helped distract them. They ended up looking at me, not at you." She raises an eyebrow at me. "But I have to say I do admire how you can slip in and out of any environment and make it your own. No one even knew you were there today."
"I have a knack for blending in when I have to," I reply absently, thinking about how many drug deals I used to conduct in plain sight.
"Well, I've felt like a fish out of water ever since we left New York." She smiles, chuckling to herself. "I guess you can take a girl out of Brooklyn, but you can't take the Brooklyn out of the girl."
I watch her get lost in her thoughts, too, and all I want to do is pull her out of her head. I know what a dangerous place it can be.
"You should travel more. Get out of the city," I reply, getting her to look at me again.
"I work too much." She shrugs, her smile turning sad. "I have no time for myself, which is probably why I never travel. I'm too obsessed with helping every person I can. I guess I'm not that much different from an addict in my own right."
"Don't say that," I mumble.
I don't know what to say to her. I'm not good with emotions, and here she is, pouring her heart out to me, sharing intimate, personal details about herself. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, on some level, she does trust me, and that makes me feel good inside, a kind of contentment I haven't experienced before.
"It's the savior complex in me, thinking I can save you by following you into every men's room from here to New York." She rests her back against the wall and looks up at the dingy ceiling. "You're not making it easy for me. That's for sure."
I move to stand in front of her. "Why do you say that?"
"Because you're not like my usual clients." She tilts her head to the side. "You have too much mobility, too much opportunity. You're good at running under the law. You're slick, smooth, with the money and connections to turn your lies into the truth. How am I ever going to get someone like you to change?"
"By sticking by my side," I argue, not liking to hear her talk negatively about herself. "Just keep doing what you're doing. When someone tells you something's impossible, use it to motivate you to prove them wrong."
"Even when I can't say no to you. How am I supposed to do my job when 'saying no' is exactly what I'm supposed to be teaching you?" she asks sarcastically, making me angry about how much she questions herself when it comes to me.
"You say no to me all the time," I state solemnly, trying not to think of all the times she's resisted my advances. "You're the strongest person I know."
I reach out to gently stroke her face with the back of my hand. It's only when my fingers touch her skin that I'm fully aware of what I'm doing. This isn't me. I use my fists to beat guys to a pulp, not to be soft and tender with a girl. But I can't seem to pull my hand away from her.
"If my dad could see us now." She shakes her head, pushing herself away from the wall, away from me. "He'd never go to another Kings game with me again."
My ears perk up at that. "Is he the guy you'd always be sitting next to above the dugout?"
"Yeah. You noticed us?" she asks, her eyes widening in surprise.
"I notice everything," I reply with a cocky smirk, not wanting her to read too much into it.
I like seeing how the different pieces of her personality fit together, how life has cut some pretty jagged lines through them. I hear the respect and devotion she has for her father in her voice, and I can't help but want her to talk about me like that someday. Not that I'll ever deserve it.
She keeps going. "Dad is such a good person. He raised me with so much love."
A twinge of jealousy grips me. She was lucky enough to find a home in a good family. She grew up in a stable environment, having a parent who cared deeply about her. He watched over her, giving her every imaginable opportunity to succeed in life the right way. She was removed from the negative influences that could have corrupted her.
Too bad I wasn't.
"Dad taught me how to have my feet in both worlds. He raised me to challenge myself academically, but also to spend my days helping people, most of whom don't even have a high school diploma."
That makes me cringe. With my spotty attendance record, I never officially graduated from high school, either. After San Diego drafted me, Terry made sure I received my GED, but it sure pales in comparison to the Ph.D. she's striving for.
"So, education's important to your family?" I ask.
"I know Dad looks like he's the studious type with his tweed jackets and wire-rimmed glasses, but he's the most approachable, mild-mannered guy on the planet. He's so good at what he does."
"What does he think about you working with me?"
"Honestly? He'd rather work with you himself." Her smile returns. "Too bad he's tied up running the clinic."
"So that's how you got stuck with me," I grumble.
"I didn't get stuck with you," she protests, running her hand up and down my arm. She can never seem to stop touching me, and it's maddening and exhilarating all at the same time. "I just hope I'm able to give you what you need."
"You are," I whisper back, getting lost in the moment.
The look we exchange stirs something deep within me. A feeling so foreign I almost don't recognize it for what it is…
Hope.
She clears her throat while leaning back to open the door for me. "Come on. I'm going to need you to buy me something with a lot of sugar in it if you expect me to keep going until we reach Kentucky."
I reenter the store portion of the gas station and head straight for the drink counter. "Get it out of your head. We're not going to Kentucky."
"Oh, yes, we are." She sidles by me, reaching for a large, plastic cup.
"No, we're not," I reply louder than I intended over the piped-in music.
The kid behind the counter glances over at us, a teenager with a pierced lip and arms covered in tattoos. Why not stare at the couple who's having a fight? And we're not even a couple.
"Shhh," she urges, pouring some red, slushy liquid into her cup. "Keep your voice down."
"Let him get a good look at me. I dare him to whip out his phone," I bluster, fed up with always having to hide.
"You'll blow our cover, but you won't go to Kentucky with me? Now that makes a lot of sense," she grumbles.
"I'll go to Kentucky with you!" the young punk calls over. "You don't have to ask me twice."
I glare at him from beneath the rim of my cap, and he smirks back.
Eva takes a sip of her drink, peering up at me. "So, we're going to Kentucky, then?"
I grab the cup out of her hands and march with it toward the counter, ready to get out of here.
"Hey! I was drinking that!" she calls out behind me.
I slam it down in front of the attendant and wait for him to ring it up.
"And how are you doing today, sir? On your way to Kentucky?" he asks, laughing at me with his eyes. "We have some maps over on that rack there, if you need them."
I want to slug him one, but instead, I hand him a crisp ten-dollar bill and wait for my change.
"Dude, you look so familiar," he drawls, holding the coins over my outstretched palm, refusing to hand them over until I look up at him. "Didn't you play ball in that American Legion league with me last year? What was your name again? Schwartz? Schwab? Schwinn?"
Now, he's toying with me. He knows exactly who I am, and he's probably going to tweet that I was in here the moment we walk out the door.
And Mama will know exactly where we are…
I lean forward to examine his name tag. "Listen…Mark. Why don't we pretend like this never happened."
"Dude, I don't think so," he replies. "Not unless there's something in it for me."
"How about an autographed copy of that Sports Illustrated over there—the one with him on the cover?" Eva responds, thinking quickly.
I groan, seeing what the editors did to my face, knocking out some of my front teeth and givin
g me a hell of a shiner in Photoshop, the headline lamenting how I gave baseball a black eye.
"But there's only one problem…" He's not done bargaining as he drums his fingers on the counter. "How's anyone going to believe this autograph is legit?"
"I'll take a picture of the two of you with my phone," Eva answers. "Just give me your number, Mark, and I'll text it to you once we're back in New York. This way, we'll know if you uphold your end of the deal. But for now, you can't tell anyone where we are."
"I'm not taking a picture with him!" I spit out.
"Drake," Eva mutters under her breath. "It's a price worth paying. Don't you think?"
Mark comes out from behind the counter. "Where do you want me to stand?"
But he doesn't wait for a response. Instead, he comes over to me and puts an arm around my shoulders, mugging for the camera. Eva tries to hide her grimace and takes a quick shot before shoving a copy of the magazine in front of me. I scrawl my signature across the unflattering image while Mark punches his number into her phone.
"Thanks for your discretion, Mark," Eva says.
But I'm already halfway out the door.
"Have a nice time in Kentucky," Mark replies sarcastically as Eva races after me, the door slamming behind her.
"So, is that where we're going? Kentucky?" she asks, tugging at my sleeve. "Please tell me it is."
"I haven't decided yet," I say gruffly, just wanting to get out of here.
Mark can still talk, but hopefully, we'll be long gone by then.
"I know you'll do the right thing," is Eva's only response.
I don't want to let her down after she just helped me out of yet another jam. But after that shakedown in there, the last place I feel like going is…home.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Eva
I spy a neon vacancy sign looming up ahead, and I tighten my hold on Drake. He starts to slow down, and my heart sinks when I realize that this is where we're going to be spending the night. And something tells me that the accommodations aren't going to improve much the farther we venture into the backwoods of Appalachia.
Because that's where we're headed.
Drake made the decision when he bypassed the last connecting road to New York and instead headed straight for the state of Kentucky. By staying on course, he proved without a shadow of a doubt that he's serious about coming to grips with his past. He's aware of how important it is, even if he doesn't want to go anywhere near his mother. I don't care if he's only doing it because I asked him to. It doesn't make me any less proud of him for having the guts to swallow his fears and own up to his mistakes about his involvement with their PED-smuggling ring. The only reason he doesn't report them is a twisted sense of loyalty he has to his blood. Otherwise, from what he's told me, he's pretty much cut himself off from his drug-running family.
But in the meantime, a cheap, roadside motel is not the place I want to take a recovering drug addict.
I let my gaze wander over the parking lot, and it doesn't take long to spot the signs. I watch a grizzled biker stick his hand in his leather vest before giving some guy a closed-grip handshake, dealing right out in the open. And he's not the only customer about to get high. Several tractor-trailer drivers are already lighting up, their cab doors flung open, wisps of smoke curling out of them. A woman jumps out of one of the rigs, yanking her miniskirt down in the process. She's the next one to stroll over to the biker, shoving a wad of bills in his hand. Apparently, after having serviced the needs of some lowlife, she finally has enough cash to satisfy her craving for whatever the guy's selling.
After turning the engine off, Drake pats my hands, which are still clasped snugly around him, and I realize we've come to a stop. I release my iron grip on him and sit back on the seat, reluctant to take my helmet off. He gets off the bike, moving stiffly, and I know that, even if I protest about the choice of lodgings, there's no way he can drive any more tonight to search for something else. Because it looks like his hip is killing him.
"It's only for one night, Eva," he says, quickly swapping his helmet for his faded baseball cap, hiding his face beneath the brim.
I stretch my aching leg over the seat, and he slides his arm around my waist to help me off. I hold on to him until I'm standing next to him, and I don't know if it's the softness of his shirt or the unexpectedness of his touch, but I pull him in for a hug. The breath leaves his lungs when he's caught off guard by my gesture. But then he chuckles and enfolds me in his arms.
"What's that for?" he whispers in my ear.
"For being brave and making the right decision to go back home."
He leans back to study my face. "I'm still not convinced it is the right decision."
"I know it is."
"You haven't met my mama."
I feel his muscles tense beneath my fingertips. "I'll be right there with you."
"That's what worries me. I don't like the idea of taking you with me." He takes a deep breath, peering over my head.
"What could possibly happen? She doesn't even know me," I argue, propping my hip against the side of the bike.
"I don't want to bring you into that whole scene. I don't want her to know you exist," he mutters, his face turning fierce.
I tug on his arm until he glances down at me. "I'm not afraid of her. I know you'll keep me safe."
"That's just it. What if I can't protect you?" His eyes flash in anger. "I'll be outnumbered, outgunned. What if I can't get you out of there?"
My stomach churns at the thought. No one knows where we are. We could very well be walking into a trap. Drake and I cut off Mama's pipeline by emptying all of those HGH vials. She's not going to be too happy when she finds out what we've done.
"Maybe I should call Dad…or Diane."
"No, that'd only make things worse. It they go to the authorities, all hell will break loose. She might do something rash to silence us." He rubs his brow. "Now do you understand why I didn't want to do this?"
I watch him as he starts to pace in front of me. "Even though you haven't spoken to her in years, you were still moving her product for her. Seeing her face-to-face is the only way to put an end to your involvement and sever all ties once and for all." I push my misgivings aside, needing to do what's best for him. "Don't worry about me. I'll be all right. I've been in dangerous situations before. I'm trained in self-defense. I can protect myself if I have to."
He stares at me, and it's like he wants to get me out of here and never look back. But I can't let him do that. We've come too far to let his concerns about my safety get in the way of his recovery.
"Stay put. I won't be long." He shifts back on his heels like he was going to approach me, but doesn't. Instead, he strides toward the motel office.
I keep my eyes trained on the ground, trying not to draw attention to myself, even though Drake's Harley is probably the most expensive ride in the lot. Out of habit, my gaze automatically veers in Drake's direction. I watch him through the window, his hand twitching as he reaches for his wallet. He must be dying for a taste of what's finally within his reach, the temptation waiting right outside the door.
When he marches out, dangling two keys from his fingers, warning bells start going off in my head.
"We're staying in rooms one and two. I don't even have to move the bike." He hands me my key and starts unloading our things.
But I'm not liking this one bit. "Isn't there a connecting door?"
"I'm not sure. I forgot to ask," he mumbles distractedly, his eyes scanning the parking lot before settling on the biker and giving him a nod.
"Drake." I step in front of him, forcing him to focus on me. "Please tell me you don't know that guy."
He fidgets with the collar of his shirt, clearly ill at ease. All he's thinking about is taking a line off the seat of his bike. I can see it in his eyes. This is a major test—one I'm not going to let him fail.
He charges ahead, and all I can do is chase after him. The stress, the fatigue, the worry—it's all bearin
g down on him at once, only adding to the pressure. It'd be so easy for him to give in. I know he's trying to travel off the radar, but I don't like it, especially not if he's going to be subjected to this kind of environment.
He uses the sleeve of his jacket to twist the doorknob of room number two, clearly not impressed with the cleanliness of the place. He takes one look inside and hesitates. The sound of arguing is coming through the wall. A crash is followed by even more screaming. He grits his teeth, examining the flimsy chain and broken dead bolt on the back of the door.
"You can't stay in here by yourself." He scratches that sensitive place on the nape of his neck like he's trying to calm himself down. "We'll have to share."
"Drake, the whole point of going to see your mother is to move forward. If you go out there and buy whatever that guy's selling, you'll be putting yourself back where you started. You can't cheat a little and think everything will be okay."
He has a desperate sort of look in his eyes that I don't like, so I move in front of the door to block his way out.
"It feels like you're right on top of me all the time. I need some space," he groans. "Is that too much to ask?"
"Space?" I shake my head at him, fighting to keep a lid on my anger. "That's not what this is about, and you know it."
"Always so smart, always a step ahead of me," he mutters, pacing the floor.
I clench my jaw. "Because I have to be. That's my job, and you're not making it any easier at the moment. You're better than this, Drake, and I'm not going to stand back and watch you destroy yourself again."
"But I need it, Eva," he says, his voice deep with certainty.
"No." I stand before him. "You don't."
"You said you wanted me to be honest with you," he pleads with me. "So I'm telling you, I can't go and face my demons without a little help. I need this, Eva. Just this once."
I struggle to maintain my composure. "And I appreciate your honesty, but it's not going to happen. I get it. You're scared about tomorrow, and you have every right to be. But I didn't watch you go through the excruciating hell of detox just to see you throw it all away when things get tough. What's going to happen when you start playing again, huh? Are you just going to succumb to your anxieties again? I don't think so."
Inside Game Page 15