Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel

by Jennifer Bernard

  “You’re right. Baseball’s Hottest Outfield. First, it’s Texas and it’s always hot. Second, I’d have to check the stats, but off the top of my head, those three combined have a pretty remarkable OBP. Third, look at them.”

  By now Marcia was next to her, pressing her face against the glass. “Those three are hot, and that’s with my seventy-year-old hormones. Not only that, they’re multiracial. This is goddamn genius. Your father is going to love me. I gotta write this up, girlie. Take a bathroom break. Cry your little heart out. Sorry about the divorce. Go on now.” Marcia gave her a friendly shove toward the door.

  Paige resisted the tiny whirlwind. “But I don’t need to cry right now. And it was my idea.”

  “No it wasn’t. You didn’t even know what I was talking about. All you did was lust after some ballplayers. We’ll present this to Crush tomorrow, so I have a lot of work to do. Don’t say a word to him before then. Top secret. We have to present it just right. Think visuals. Get inspired. Bye-bye.”

  The door closed behind her. Paige shrugged. She couldn’t bring herself to care very much. Would Baseball’s Hottest Outfield really inspire the right kind of media attention? Hudson would have hated a campaign like that. He was actually a shy person, which was something she’d found endearing. He didn’t like to promote himself or trash-talk or anything like that. The problem, he’d once told her, was that he’d shot up to his full height so early in life that people were scared of him. A tall black dude, no matter how nice a guy, made people nervous. He’d learned to hide behind a smile and minimize his height.

  Paige wasn’t even close to shy. She was insatiably curious about people and loved nothing more than to coax their stories out of them. At parties, Hudson used to hang next to her as much as she’d let him, relaxing in her flow of conversation and only speaking when necessary or when he spotted a basketball buddy. Off the court, he always kept a set of large, very obvious headphones handy in case he needed to ward off strangers who might want to converse with him. His roommates at college used to call Hudson and Paige “Big Black and the Chatterbox.”

  Oh, snap out of it, she commanded herself. It was a screwed-up relationship anyway, as she’d discovered in her counseling sessions. She was Hudson’s crutch in so many ways. In return, he’d given her a temporary purpose in life. As Hudson’s wife, she was no longer torn between two homes, two entirely different families. She’d acquired a firm place in the universe, even if it was a little strange, since the people around her spoke Italian and pounded up and down a basketball court. She’d latched onto Hudson just as much as he’d latched onto her.

  The really pathetic thing was that when he fell in love with Nessa, Paige had wanted to stay friends. Splitting up with Hudson had felt like losing a brother, someone very familiar and safe. But Nessa hadn’t been interested in anything like that. No friends, no checking in with the occasional text message, even a passing encounter in the Via del Corso made her hackles rise.

  Enough. Hudson was history. Time to live in the here and now. Baseball pants and a hot summer day. Things could be worse.

  She texted her father. Up for some Cracker Jack and cotton candy?

  Is that code for Daddy time or are you starting to enjoy America’s pastime?

  Actually, I’m just hungry.

  We’ll hook you. Just wait.

  That night, the Catfish made one of their legendary appearances at the Kilby Roadhouse. An eager crowd swelled the club well past its fire-safe capacity. The bass line blasting from the sound system vibrated the sawdust-scattered floor. Bursts of laughter rose like bright balloons toward the raftered ceiling. Trevor watched the action from the safety of a bar stool, his elbow throbbing from his first game since the BB gun incident.

  Dwight Conner slid onto the stool next to him and squinted at the dance floor. “What the fuck is Bieberman doing out there?”

  Trevor glanced over his shoulder. The shortstop was twitching his way across the dance floor at the head of a chain of girls. Every once in a while he kicked up a leg like a dog taking a leak.

  “Having a lot more fun than we are.” Trevor snorted. “You should get to it, man. Show ’em how it’s done.”

  “What are you saying, I’m black so I can dance?”

  Trevor blinked at him. “You’re black? Dude, you’re supposed to be my friend. You gotta tell me these things. You can’t be keeping secrets like that.”

  They both laughed. Somehow, mysteriously, he and Dwight had achieved the kind of friendship in which they could say any old shit and neither one minded. “You sure you’re okay? You seem a little off.”

  Trevor took a swallow of his Lone Star by way of answer. The call from Nina had really rattled him. No matter how well he got along with Dwight, he couldn’t talk about that.

  “Playing it strong and silent,” Dwight said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good call. I’m going in. If you need any help with the hottie on your left, just give me a sign.”

  Trevor glanced to the side. A gorgeous brunette was sliding him a flirtatious look, elbows propped behind her on the bar, legs crossed, one black stiletto dangling from her toe. She smiled as he caught her eye, and that smile told him everything he needed to know. If he wanted to forget his troubles by burying his cock in a warm, willing body, done and done.

  He gave her an apologetic smile and turned back to his beer. Not interested. Her eyes weren’t sapphire blue, and she probably didn’t say things like “pact of denial.” She wasn’t the adorable and off-limits Paige Taylor. Apparently he wasn’t interested in any girl unless she had a fluffy one-eyed cat and an attitude.

  He finished his beer and pushed away from the bar. The smart move right now would be to go home and think about how to distract Nina from her determination to come to Kilby. He signaled the bartender, Todd, for his tab.

  Instead, Todd brought him a shot of Grey Goose. “Courtesy of Dean Wade with best wishes for speedy healing.”

  Across the bar, a towering man in a snap-up shirt and cowboy hat gave him a salute. He had the jawline of an ox and looked just as stubborn. Trevor had heard a lot about the Wade family, all bad. He knew Crush was feuding with them.

  Just to prove Crush didn’t own him, despite being the team owner, he nodded back to Dean Wade and downed the vodka. The man looked pleased.

  The vodka settled into his system, making things warm and blurry. He swiveled around to scan the dance floor, and blinked twice. Was that Paige Taylor, in a slinky black top and purple leggings clinging to those long, long legs?

  “Who is that?” The soft, awed voice of Shizuko Ruiz interrupted his lustful thoughts. The right fielder leaned on the bar next to him, watching Paige walk their way.

  “That is foul ball territory. Owner’s daughter.”

  “Crush is a big fan of mine,” Shizuko said smugly. “He wants to party with me in Rio for Carneval.”

  “Well, stay away from Paige. She’s having a hard time. Just got divorced.”

  “Paige . . .” He mused over the name. “Like Satchel Paige?”

  Trevor blanked for a moment, since Paige had reached them and her light scent had gone to his head. Her pretty lips were upturned in a wry, sexy curve.

  “Yes, I’m named after Satchel Paige,” she answered. “My father’s favorite player.”

  Trevor cocked his head. “He always says Don Mattingly was his favorite.”

  Laughter flashed in her eyes. “Don Mattingly was his favorite hitter. Satchel was his favorite pitcher.”

  Shizuko said, “So your name is . . .”

  “Paige Mattingly Austin Taylor.”

  “Why Austin?” Shizuko leaned in to hear her answer. A little too close, in Trevor’s opinion.

  “It’s where Crush pitched his perfect game, asshole,” he explained, irritated.

  Paige’s gaze swept to meet his, and he caught surprise and a satisfying amount of respect.

  “Exactly. Whenever I complain, he tells me to be glad he didn’t pitch his perfect game in Pittsbur
gh. Hi, Trevor. And you must be Shizuko.”

  The right fielder lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Murder filled Trevor’s heart. “Drop it,” he muttered so fiercely that Shizuko instantly obeyed. Paige shot an annoyed glance at Trevor. She’d added smoky eyeliner or something. Her eyes sparkled and glowed, sexy as hell, and her hair flowed loose over her shoulders. A long purple feather earring dangled from one ear. She shouldn’t be in this bar, with that slinky top baring her skin and that name that would make any baseball fan salivate.

  “Is Dwight Conner here too?” she asked.

  “Sure. Out there somewhere.” He beckoned to the dance floor, where Sonny Barnes, the first baseman, was now doing the “worm” across the entire floor.

  “Conner,” Trevor called into the mob on the dance floor. “Outfield meeting at the bar.”

  It took a few minutes, but finally Dwight fought his way out of the laughing mob. “What’s up?” He spotted Paige and plastered on his “lady boner” grin, as he called it. “Paige Taylor . . . I heard Crush’s cute daughter was in town, but I didn’t believe it until I saw for myself.”

  She shook his hand, then pulled out her iPhone. “I was hoping I would find you all here. There’s something the Catfish management would like to discuss with you. Would you mind if I took a quick photo of the three of you? Sort of a selfie-style, casual shot?”

  Trevor snorted. “Don’t trust her, guys. Next thing you know you’ll be duct-taping your sideview mirror back on your car.”

  She made a face at him. “I told you I’d take care of that. This is perfectly harmless, it’ll just be easier to explain things this way.”

  “Why so mysterious?” He leaned close to her ear, delivering his question through the fragrant waves of her hair. She shivered, almost imperceptibly.

  “You’re calling me mysterious? This is perfectly innocent. Just pretend I’m a groupie asking for your autograph. If you want to take your shirt off, be my guest.” Her saucy smile was nearly too much for him. He wanted to scoop her into his lap and lose himself in her adorableness.

  Maybe that vodka had been a bad idea.

  As the three outfielders posed together, arms around each other’s shoulders, a wide smile spread across Paige’s face. “There’s a lot of testosterone in this picture. And some really great DNA. I think Marcia might be on to something after all.”

  She finished snapping pictures and stuck her phone back in the little leather backpack that hung from one shoulder.

  “Don’t mean to be rude to the owner’s daughter, but what are you talking about?” Dwight asked.

  “Are you guys up for saving the Catfish?”

  Trevor exchanged confused looks with Dwight and Shizuko. “Again, what are you talking about?”

  “Nine o’clock tomorrow morning, marketing department. I’ll bring donuts.” Throwing up one hand, she added, “But don’t fall in love with me just because I’m going to feed you.”

  She put some cash on the bar and signaled to Todd. “Please bring these guys a round of Lone Stars on me.” With a grimace, she turned back to the three of them. “And don’t fall in love with me just because I’m buying you beer. I’ve been warned about both of those things, but this is strictly business.”

  With that, she disappeared into the crowd, nearly getting mowed down by Bieberman’s conga line. They all watched her go, and Shizuko let out a long sigh. “Pretty girl.”

  “Donuts,” said Dwight, with his own sigh. “And beer.”

  Trevor ground his teeth, wondering if he could get rid of the other two guys and cover the entire outfield by himself. Where that possessiveness came from, he didn’t even want to know.

  Chapter 7

  THE MAN IN the black leather blazer has Pop up against the wall. A fist at his neck. A flash of light on steel. Knife. A line of dark red seeping from the edge. Don’t, don’t. Threats spilling from the man’s maw like bats. Panic, paralysis. What to do? Phone 911. But the numbers don’t dial, the 1 keeps disappearing. Jabbing at the keys. Help, help.

  Too late. The phone is gone. The man is on the ground. Someone is shouting. Screaming. Running. But it isn’t the man. He’s a silent crumpled lump. As if he’ll never speak again.

  Trevor woke up clawing for air, his heart jackhammering. He threw the hotel sheets off his body. Heaved deep breaths into his lungs. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he dropped his head into his hands. The familiar feeling of his own hair, his own skull, grounded him. He was in Kilby, Texas. A baseball player. A grown man. Here. Now. Alone.

  When he’d gotten a grip on his heart rate, he got up and double-checked the door of the hotel room. Locked, of course, not only with the standard latch, but an extra dead bolt he’d added himself. He’d had to pay the Days Inn management for the privilege of an extra sense of security, but it was well worth it. The dead bolt didn’t keep the nightmares away, but it helped him recover more quickly.

  He checked the alarm clock on the bedside table: 5:30 am. Walked to the window and drew aside the drapes. It was just getting light outside, long fingers of pink reaching across the lower horizon. Fuck, he’d never get back to sleep now. He didn’t want to, not if it meant reliving that night again.

  In the little kitchenette, he poured himself a tall glass of water and downed it, then started the coffeemaker. Watching the drip, drip, he released the horrible aftereffects of the dream, moment by moment.

  Dream . . . no, it wasn’t just a dream. Those memories were burned into his brain forever. They would never leave him. He just had to live with it. And he’d learned how. Empty his mind. Let all emotion seep out of him. Focus his rage somewhere it couldn’t hurt anyone.

  Oh, and read. He picked up a novel from the pile on his bedside table. It didn’t matter what kind of book it was. Mysteries, thrillers, romance, science fiction . . . anything to send his mind somewhere else. Song of Ice and Fire . . . that would do the job. A thousand pages of death and destruction—exactly what he needed.

  With his coffee and his book, he lay back on his bed and escaped into a fictional world that seemed only a little over the top to him. The Iron Kingdom had nothing on Detroit.

  The next morning at nine-fifteen—he didn’t want to seem too curious—Trevor strolled into the promotions department. A tiny woman with aggressively silver hair clapped when he walked in. “This couldn’t be more perfect,” she exclaimed. “Why did I never think of this before?”

  Wary, Trevor scanned the rest of the room, spotting Crush Taylor, Shizuko, Dwight, and, nearly dwarfed by all the big ballplayers, Paige. Her hair was in a high ponytail and she wore cowboy boots and a striped dress that ended somewhere above her knees. She looked fresh and sassy and made his mouth water.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “They wouldn’t tell us anything until you got here, dude.” Dwight’s usual high-voltage smile was missing. “Twenty minutes late, you missed the donuts.”

  Paige stepped forward and whipped something out from behind her back. A paper towel wrapped around three Krispy Kremes. “I got your back, Stark.” She winked at him, while a low growl sounded from Crush’s direction.

  Trevor propped himself against the wall and, eyes narrowed at Crush, took a slow, deliberate bite of the sugary donut. He knew that Paige was hands off, but he didn’t need Crush reminding him of it.

  “Now that everyone’s here, let’s get started.” The silver-haired woman whipped out an iPad and punched a button. Every movement seemed to happen in double-time.

  “For those who don’t know me, I’m the head of the marketing team here. To support Crush’s mission to bring fame and fortune to the Kilby Catfish, we came up with a fabulous new campaign that’s going to take Kilby by storm. Not just Kilby, but the entire country.”

  The shot that Paige had taken of the three outfielders at the Roadhouse filled the screen. Trevor, looking stone-faced as always, the Viking warrior badass. Dwight, who’d modeled for a sunglass manufacturer in college. And Shizuko, whose genetic mix
of Brazilian and Japanese made him almost freakishly good-looking. Objectively, Trevor had to say, they were breathtaking.

  “Paige, you posted this on the team Instagram account, right? Can you tell us what kind of response you got?”

  Paige cleared her throat and checked her iPhone. “Two thousand and thirty-two likes so far. Eighty-two comments.”

  “What do the comments say?”

  Amusement flashed into those sparkly blue eyes. “Really? You want me to read them? Okay. Here’s one. ‘Bring that triple-decker man sandwich over here, baby!’ Then there’s ‘Hot, hotter, and hottest.’ And, of course, ‘Too many clothes.’ Should I go on?”

  “We get the point,” said Crush dryly. “The ladies are on board.”

  “On board with what?” Trevor still didn’t get it, and he wasn’t too crazy about being on Instagram. What if the Detroit guys monitored social media for some reason?

  “Viral marketing. It’s also global, thanks to Shizuko here. We have a global viral thing happening, and that’s gold. You can’t buy that. All we’re going to do is jump on board and ride it for all its worth.”

  “Ma’am, you better explain what the hell you’re talking about.” Dwight leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I ain’t Jay Z, I’m a baseball player. And though I don’t like to think of it this way, we’re minor league here.”

  Marcia marched toward him and poked him in the chest. “Oh no, Dwight Conner. You’re not just a minor league outfielder. You’re part of Baseball’s Hottest Outfield, and you’re going to be famous.”

  Dwight’s jaw dropped, and Shizuko yanked his earbuds out of his ears. “Could you repeat, please?” He spoke excellent English but sometimes liked to pretend he didn’t.

  “You heard me. Viral marketing. Sex sells. Hot guys sell. You’re going to become a sensation and it’s only going to help your careers. Good for Crush, good for you, good all around.”

  Cold fear wrapped a fist around Trevor’s gut. Publicity wasn’t his friend, at least not national publicity. Yeah, he had a different name now. And he’d bulked up by about seventy pounds since the age of fifteen. But he could still be recognized.