"But I'm not going to start using again," he counters. "I just need one hit, just for tonight. That's all."
"You know it doesn't work that way." I blink back the tears that are welling in my eyes, hating how quickly his insecurities are able to impair his judgment.
He bends down and removes one boot and then the other, hurling them at the wall. The yelling on the other side actually stops for a moment until someone pounds back even harder, rattling the TV mounted on the wall.
He keeps his socks on, and I know he won't walk on this grimy carpet in his bare feet. He reaches for his bag, and I think he's going to throw that too, but instead, he removes a can of Lysol disinfectant cleaner and starts vigorously shaking it.
"What? Are you going to spray me in the face to get by me?" I mutter, in no mood to humor him.
Instead, he stalks into the bathroom and begins aggressively cleaning the counter. He unrolls a huge wad of toilet paper and really goes at it. Despite the severity of the situation, I can't fight the grin that's spreading across my face. His temper is certainly explosive once it gets going. I'll just have to remember that his need to sanitize his surroundings trumps his need to get high.
I approach his bag and peer inside. On top is a brand-new pillow protector still in the plastic wrapper. I shake my head, taking it out. I pull one of the pillows from beneath the bedspread and open the package. He hears me rustling around and sticks his head out.
"Don't worry. There are two beds. I'm not invading your precious space." I fluff his pillow and set it back down. "Even though you liked it well enough this morning," I mutter under my breath while marching toward the other bed.
But he must've heard me, because he says, "No, what I like…is rough and dirty," like he's trying to convince himself. "I told you. I don't do soft and gentle."
"Uh huh. So you've said," I grumble, turning the sheets down, too tired to argue with him anymore.
He moves into the room, watching me. "Karolina wasn't a cuddler. She was always competing with me. She was up for anything."
Now he's comparing me to the ex-wife he can't stand. Great.
I kick my shoes off and climb into bed, leaving my clothes on. If he bolts during the night, I need to be ready.
He accidentally bumps into one of my bags, overturning the contents onto the floor.
I sigh. "Can you please put that stuff back for me so I don't have to get up again?"
"Fine…fine," he grumbles, but he freezes, picking up my Kings cap that fell out. He examines it carefully, turning the brim over and running his fingers across it.
My heart leaps. It's not the same cap he signed for me all those years ago…but does he remember?
"What are you doing?" I ask him, fighting to keep my voice steady.
He glances over at me, his eyes filled with disappointment, like he's upset that his autograph's not there.
"Nothing."
But my heart won't stop beating. He does remember. He wasn't kidding when he said that he'd noticed Dad in the stands with me. He's been watching me for a long time, and that sends a warm, fluttery feeling through my chest. If I weren't so angry with him, I'd tell him that the hat he thought he was holding is back in Brooklyn, hanging from my bedpost. But now that I know it's not just a one-sided thing on my part, I'd rather show him than tell him that I still have it once we get back to New York.
He throws his body on top of the other mattress, and the bed roars to life. He must've inadvertently activated the massage setting. He starts cursing up and down, and I burst out laughing. He struggles for a few minutes until he's finally able to turn it off.
"It's not funny," he bellows. "This piece of shit just jarred the hell out of my back."
But I keep laughing until my ribs hurt.
He stretches his spine out, narrowing his eyes at me. "And in case you've forgotten, I'm your only way out of here in the morning. So you better hope I can still ride."
He lies down again, and the massage setting turns on a second time, causing him to swear even louder than before.
I gasp to catch my breath, because he looks so ridiculous fiddling with the control knob while the mattress continues to shake underneath him. He gets to his knees, wiggling and jiggling like he's precariously perched atop a washing machine on spin cycle. He can barely keep his balance, and when he nearly falls down on his stomach, all I can do is hold my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing even harder.
When he finally gets it to stop, he looks over at me like a petulant child. "Well, are you going to invite me into your bed or not?"
"Is that the best you can do?" I giggle, watching his face turn even redder than it already is.
He lumbers across the room, holding his lower back until he's standing over me. "Move over." He nudges my side with his knee, but I don't move.
I stare up at him defiantly. "I thought I was crowding your space."
"Eva, don't even start with me. Move over." He yanks the covers down and scrunches in beside me until he's practically hanging off the side of the bed.
He reaches up to turn the bedside lamp off, and we lie rigidly side by side.
He sighs. "You can relax. I'm not going anywhere."
"I know you're not. That's why I'm letting you hog my bed," I reply, scooting over a little so he can get more comfortable.
He's silent for a moment as he mumbles into the darkness. "It's just hard… I want it so damn much."
"I know you do. That's why I'm here." I roll over on my side, keeping my back to him. "Now get some rest. We have a big day tomorrow."
In case he does try to leave, I have to stay alert. My greatest fear from the beginning was becoming too attached to him only to lose him to the lure of addiction, just like I did with Jared. But, for some reason, I'm able to fall asleep, my heart making the decision for me to take him at his word.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Drake
SANDERS WELL ON HIS WAY TO BEING NAMED ROOKIE OF THE YEAR
I didn't sleep at all last night, and my mood only worsens as I tiredly peruse the week-old copy of USA Today that's lying on the diner counter.
Bryce Sanders is currently leading American League rookies in hits, homers, and runs scored after filling in for Drake Schultz since early April. A source close to the New York Kings speculates that the team is not rushing the return of their All-Star third baseman, questioning his fitness level and whether or not he'll be ready to play once his suspension is over. Schultz has not been at Kings Stadium since he was pulled from a game in the opening series versus Baltimore after making back-to-back errors in the ninth inning. Yet baseball analysts predict the Kings will place Schultz back in the starting lineup regardless of how well Sanders continues to perform. Even with the monetary penalties for Schultz's suspension factored in for this season, the Kings still owe him twenty-five million dollars for each of the remaining two years left on his contract—and they're not about to pay him to sit on the bench.
I shove the newspaper aside and take another sip of coffee. Eva looks at me anxiously after scanning the headline, but she knows better than to say anything now that we're just inside the border of my hometown of Gander Hollow, Kentucky.
What Eva's not aware of is that I did know that biker in the motel parking lot. He's been following us a good part of the way, staying just far enough back to avoid detection. But last night, he wanted me to see him. I had known that it was coming. With a red bandana tied around his neck, he was delivering a direct summons from Mama. Because unlike what Eva thinks, I'm not going home of my own accord. The reality is I'm headed there because, if I don't go, we're both going to get killed.
That's why I wanted to enter Mama's neck of the woods as quietly as possible, but I see that one of her thugs has already spotted me from across the room. Good ol' Jerry Lee. I should've known he'd be at the Fork and Spoon, the gateway to Mama's Appalachian empire. He's usually stationed here to make sure anyone of interest caught entering her domain doesn't leave without first tell
ing her why they're here and then paying the determined fee for passing through.
"What is it?" Eva whispers, putting what's left of her turkey club down.
"Nothing," I grumble, shaking off the waitress who tries to top off my cup with the fresh pot she's holding.
I grab the stray toothpick that was poked into the top of my BLT and play with it in my mouth. I'm employing one of the more rudimentary tools in Eva's arsenal by stabbing the sharp point against my tongue—anything to divert my mind away from the intense cocaine craving that's like the flick of a whip repeatedly lashing against the inside of my skull.
Her eyes flit from booth to booth. "Something's up. You're not one to turn down a second cup of coffee when you can get it."
Even with the sunglasses I'm wearing as well as the beginnings of a respectable beard, I don't think anyone else has recognized me. Combine that with my dirty baseball cap and I look just like all the other backwoods hillbillies in here.
But that doesn't stop me from being aware of the amount of danger I'm putting her in.
"Why don't you hang back? Have some dessert or something. Miss Mabel makes the best pecan pie this side of the Mississippi." I give her a winning smile, but it only seems to irritate her more.
"Drake, for the last two days, I've ridden over seventeen hours on the back of your bike all the way from goddamned Florida, and now, you think you're going to leave me behind, right when you need me the most? I don't think so." She affixes me with her glare. "And it's the guy in the corner you're worried about, isn't it? The one in the flannel shirt."
"How did you know?" I ask, impressed.
"Despite the neck scruff and the tobacco-stained teeth, I haven't seen anyone with that particular shade of eyes besides you and the girls. So I figured either you two are related or there are a lot of blue-eyed people up in these hills." She pauses, watching Jerry Lee walk out the door. "So, what does that mean? Are you about to throw down with him outside or does he plan on knocking us over the head and dragging us before your mother himself?"
"I don't like what I'm leading you into." I lower my voice when the waitress comes back with the check.
"Hey, sweet thing. How are you doing?" she drawls.
"Fine," I reply, cutting her short.
"Are you sure?" she asks, bending down to peer underneath my cap. "We certainly don't get many blind fellers in here too often."
"Blind? I'm not blind!"
"You're not?" She puts her hand over her heart. "Honey, I thought with you eating with your sunglasses on and all…there must be something wrong with those poor eyes of yours."
"There's nothing wrong with my eyes," I growl.
She bows her head. "Sorry, sugar. I meant no disrespect."
Due to my outburst, she finally gets the hint, fleeing to the other side of the room with her coffee pot.
"Drake, you better leave her a good tip," Eva says, watching me reach for my wallet.
"She doesn't deserve one," I mumble. "The people around here are too damn nosy for their own good."
"She didn't mean any harm. Not every person in Gander Hollow is out to get you, Drake."
"If you only knew."
She starts to protest, but I stop her.
"I really wish I didn't have to close this particular door in person." I take a deep breath. "I consider it my duty to protect you from my family, just like your job means that you have to look out for me like you did last night. I'm begging you, Eva. Please let me do this alone."
"You're not going to talk me out of this. I'm going with you," she replies just as stubbornly as I thought she would.
"I don't want to get you involved in this."
"Too late." She wipes her hands on her napkin before tossing it on her plate. "I'm already involved."
I prop my elbows on the counter and tug on the brim of my cap. "It's not only about keeping you safe."
"Then what is it?" she demands, getting annoyed. "Drake, if there's something else you're not telling me—"
"Eva, I already told you, no more lies."
She looks at me expectantly as I rustle through the remaining cash in my wallet. The Fork and Spoon isn't the kind of hole-in-the-wall establishment that takes credit cards. The menu is still the same as it was when I was a kid, and the hunting lodge dècor hasn't changed much, either.
I slide the toothpick against the inside of my cheek and bite the bullet. "I'm embarrassed, all right?"
Her eyes go wide, but I carry on.
"I'm nothing but white trash, and now, you're going to see it firsthand."
She pauses for a moment, knowing that that wasn't easy for me to say, before softly touching my arm. "Drake…"
I shrug her off. "I don't want your pity, Eva."
"And you're not going to get it," she counters, getting up and swinging my stool around to face her.
I'm glad that my sunglasses are hiding the amount of pain I'm sure is visible in my eyes—pain I don't want her to see. I lower my head, muttering, "You say that now, but you haven't seen what I'm talking about yet. And if Jake's reaction is any indication—"
"Jake?" she questions, staring up at me as I rise to my feet. "Jake Woodbury, the Kings' center fielder? What does he have to do with any of this? Oh no. Please don't tell me he's on PEDs too."
I snicker. "Bible boy, Jake? Are you kidding?"
I gradually move us into the tiny alcove of an entranceway, where flyers for the next rattlesnake hunt and annual blueberry social are taped to the glass door.
She looks over her shoulder, and I hate seeing how being with me has made her so skittish. She's a tough, gritty New Yorker, unafraid to step into the most drug-infested areas of the city if it means she can help somebody, but in my goddamned hometown, she doesn't feel comfortable enough to keep her back turned, even in a public place.
I do a quick scan of the parking lot and spot Jerry Lee leaning against the side of his showroom-worthy pickup truck. Mama must be treating her boys right. I wonder just how many of my cousins she has working for her now. I certainly have enough of them who'd be willing to do her bidding for a shiny, new ride like that. I remember how Daddy and I used to have to drive around in a big, lumbering rig with a hole in the floorboard. Times have certainly changed.
But Eva refuses to be deterred, pulling on my sleeve and bringing me back to the present. "I didn't even think you were friends with Jake. Why would you bring him here?"
"I didn't," I mutter, knowing that it's no use trying to hide it from her. "He came with a church group for a high school charity project to restore our run-down, old baseball field."
"You're kidding me?" She shakes her head in amazement. "Who would've thought, years later, you'd end up on the same major league team? I'm surprised he never said anything about it."
"Because I told him not to," I growl, and she automatically takes a step back, already on edge. I regain control of my voice, not wanting to scare her any more than she already is. "He slapped me on the back when I first came over to the Kings like we were going to be all buddy-buddy with each other. I let him know in no uncertain terms to never mention it again. I couldn't stand for him to treat me like some charity case."
She bites her lip, pondering. "Is that what you think is going to happen if you take me along? That I'm going to think differently about you?"
"Eva, don't even kid yourself. It's like I grew up in a Third World country." I take the toothpick from between my lips and fling it into the ashtray near the door.
"And that only makes me respect you even more," she declares, grabbing my arms and forcing me to look at her. "The obstacles you've overcome to get to where you are—"
"Don't go making me into some kind of hero," I grumble. "When I had to pimp myself out to a major league scout and agree to be his drug mule in order for him to cover up my cocaine habit, it doesn't exactly make for a feel-good story."
"You were young and you had no choice but to associate with the wrong people. You never had a chance at stepping foot on th
e right path. Everyone was trying to get what they could get out of you—Terry, your mom. You were just a kid. There was no one watching out for you. I don't blame you for doing whatever you had to do to get out of here. I would've done the same thing!" she exclaims, throwing her hands up.
"Really? Because I don't think you would have." I peer down into her eyes, seeing a split second of hesitation in them, which tells me that I'm right. "You don't have it in you. You're not a bad person, Eva. You never could be—but I am."
"You're not!" she cries. "You don't have to be. Not anymore."
"Why? Because I'm not high on cocaine?" I smirk at her. "That doesn't make me a good man, Eva. You don't know all the things I've done, the kind of person I really am."
"All I know is the man you are now, and he's someone worth fighting for," she says ardently, latching on to my shirt. "That's why you're here today. To finally say goodbye to that person you once were and to let go of him forever. You're not defined by your past, Drake. Let the choices you make in the future show the world who you really are."
"Life is the sum of all choices, huh?" I quirk up the side of my mouth at her. "But I'm afraid it's a little more complicated than your Cracker Jack philosophy."
"It doesn't have to be," she challenges me. "You could commit to a new path—right here, right now. Tell your mother to go to hell. Be there for Willa and Coco when you get back to New York. Play the game the way it's meant to be played. Rely on your natural talent to carry you through."
"And what about you and me?" I ask.
She drops down off her tiptoes, easing her grip on my shirt. My heart constricts when she slowly backs away from me.
"Yeah, that's what I thought."
She pushes her hair away from her face, agitated. "Now is not the time to talk about that."
"And who gets to decide that? You?" I mock her, wishing she had the courage to deal with me the way she deals with everyone else. "You kissed me in my bed back in Tampa, but I guess that means nothing to you, right? You'll just do whatever it takes to get me to go along with you, another ploy that you pull out of your bag of tricks, sacrificing yourself for the greater good."
Inside Game Page 16