You Are Mine (Bad Boy 9 Novel Collection)

by Amy Faye

  "Exactly."

  "Good. The answer's still no."

  Lana's face pinched together. "So will you answer my questions or not?"

  "I'll decide after I hear them. That seems like the smartest option."

  "Okay," Lana growled. Her increasing frustration was everything that Cathy had wanted and more.

  "What did you want to know?"

  "That's you?"

  "Sure, I guess."

  "How do you know Jeff Hess?"

  "I met him a few months ago."

  "Are you his, what, girlfriend?"

  Cathy had been preparing for that question since she realized what the conversation was going to be about, and she almost felt confident that she knew what answer to give.

  Almost.

  "No, just a friend."

  The reporter leaned in, her expression trying to work in concert with her voice to lend an air of sympathy to her words. "You look real close. Is there some sort of Romeo and Juliet, secret romance thing going on? Off the record."

  "Off the record?"

  "Sure."

  "Hard to say. Maybe. The people in that picture look pretty close."

  "Is that a confirmation?"

  "Well, I'm just speculating, same as you."

  The woman's lip twitched. "Sure, just speculating."

  "If you're asking me if I know of any relationship? No. I don't know anything about that."

  "Right," the woman said. She had a look on her face like she'd just stepped in something unpleasant, and Cathy was more than a little bit pleased to know that the thing she'd stepped in was a frustrating interview. "Can I just say—you look very familiar."

  "Well, I'm not anyone in particular, so…"

  "Were you at the press conference, after he got signed?"

  "Why?"

  "I just feel like maybe you were."

  She had been, a memory she'd hoped desperately to block out for the rest of her life. A long, long day, made longer by the constant flashes of cameras firing, and her not doing anything but sitting in folding chairs and not needing to answer questions, which was how she preferred it anyways.

  "I don't recall being there."

  "Alright. Just thought maybe—"

  "You know, I'm kind of tired? Do you think that you could just. Get your questions over with, so I can go take a nap?"

  Cathy made no effort to make herself look tired. It wasn't worth the effort to tell this woman a believable lie. Just get her out of there.

  "Cut to the chase, then, is that it?"

  "I'm just so tired, you see. I'd really like the conversation to be over as soon as possible, so I can nap."

  "Yeah, I heard you the first time. Just. Okay. So if someone were to approach you with speculation that you were his step-sister—"

  "Then I'd deny that, obviously."

  "Okay. And you'd deny being in a sexual or romantic relationship, as well?"

  "I have denied it so far, haven't I?"

  "You have."

  "Then there's your answer."

  "Thank you for your time, miss—"

  Cathy closed the door. Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that it hurt. What the fuck had just happened?

  No, that was the wrong question. She knew what had just happened. It was obvious, and she'd been waiting for it to happen for going on three months now.

  What had happened was that someone had put two and two together, and now they were trying to get proof of it before they went to press.

  She'd lied her way out of it for now, but how long would she be able to keep lying? No doubt the next person would be coming along with photos from the press conference, with more damning pictures of the times they were out in public—

  Cathy's chest pounded so hard that it hurt. She had to figure out a way to stop this from coming back on Jeff, and she had to do it now.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  When she didn't answer his texts, well… That could have been nothing. But he didn't think so. When she didn't take his call, well… maybe she was in the shower. It's possible, right? And there's no reason to jump to conclusions.

  After all, she had been acting like this for, what, a week? And then they'd dealt with it. They were past that. The fact that she was here in Florida, all by itself, proved that.

  But did it, though? Did it really? Well, no. Obviously not. But he couldn't afford to let that get to him. He had to deal with life as it came to him. Not getting ahead of himself. Trust coach, trust your catcher, and just take the calls.

  Other people worried about some potential future scenario. Other people who would handle it for him, who would make sure that he didn't step in anything that could hurt his career, didn't throw any meatballs that didn't go right by as sweet as cherry pie.

  She still wasn't answering him, though, by the time he slid into the parking spot outside in the compact rental car, and that was about the point where it went from being something he could deal with to something that had him worried.

  He shouldn't worry. Shouldn't jump to conclusions at all, really. But then again, as easy as it was to say the words, 'don't jump to conclusions,' nobody can avoid it completely.

  Maybe she was asleep. Maybe any number of things were happening. Things that would all make perfect sense when he was in the room and talking to her. As long as he could figure those things out, then it was fine.

  He shook off the bad feeling that he was getting like a call he disagreed with. Just like he was used to, it came back again. Much like the call he disagreed with.

  So he just stuck with it, cooling his head and trying not to think about how wrong things could go. He'd just go up to her room and talk to her.

  The light flipped from red to green and he turned the knob, the door opening slow. It was heavy, which lent a sense of gravity to the room, as if the weight of the door was the only thing that made a hotel room really good.

  "Cath?"

  No answer, which had him worried. For a moment he felt a shock of nervousness run through him, one that he forced out of his mind in an instant.

  "Cathy?" A little louder this time. He stepped inside and let the door shut behind him. He turned automatically into the bathroom. She could have been laying down for a bath, headphones in.

  It wouldn't explain why she hadn't taken his calls, but it would explain why she didn't answer him when he came inside. But the bath was empty, a pair of wet footprints walking into the main part of the room that looked recent. Still wet.

  "Cath? You there?"

  He nearly felt his knees give way when he heard her response. "I'm here."

  He rushed into the room, adrenaline pumping harder than he knew it should have. She was wet and naked, and for an instant he was almost enticed by it, but the expression on her face overrode his baser instincts.

  "Baby, what's wrong?"

  She looked up at him from the corner of the room that she'd pressed herself into, her hair still wrapped up in a towel.

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  He took a deep breath.

  "You have to talk to me at some point."

  "No, I don't. Leave me alone."

  "Don't act like that," he said, a little bit of annoyance creeping into his voice before he could squelch it. He forced himself to calm down before he continued. "You're all wet. Come on, let's get you dried off."

  "Leave me alone, Jeff. I don't need your stupid help."

  "Don't talk like that. You're scaring me."

  "Well, good. You should be scared."

  "What's this about?" Something was up, and as usual she'd decided that she wasn't going to come to him with it, for reasons that were likely beyond human comprehension.

  "Someone saw us."

  "What?"

  "She was asking all kinds of questions."

  "Who are you talking about? Who was asking questions?"

  "I didn't tell her anything, but I just got to thinking, and—"

  "Cathy, look at me."

  She stoppe
d talking and looked up, but her expression wasn't one of belief that he was going to help. She just stopped talking because he told her to stop talking, and no other reason. Then, another moment later she looked back down.

  "Cath, what happened? Slowly."

  "Some woman from the news. A reporter. Rey-something."

  "What about her?"

  "She came up and she was asking me all these questions about how I knew you."

  "Okay, you could have just told her that you were my sister. Or my girlfriend. Either way."

  "How long is it going to take, if we start responding to these folks? How long before they figure it out?"

  "You don't have to worry about that."

  "Don't you lie to me, you sack of—" He could see the anger flare for an instant, and then it was snuffed out an instant later. "Don't tell me I don't have to worry, Jeff. I'm already worried. I want you to tell me how we're going to fix this, or—"

  "Or what?"

  "Or I don't know how we're going to keep going like this." She let her head fall forward, onto her knees, and that was the last thing she'd say about it.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  It wasn't going to be alright. Why couldn't he see that? What was wrong with him, with his head, that he couldn't understand how this could all blow up in his face?

  It wasn't even her own skin that she was worried for. If it was just a risk of her running into trouble, then there wouldn't be a problem.

  It was the effect that their discovery would have on his career that had her worried. It was all for him, and it always had been.

  So it was just absurd, absolutely absurd, that he seemed to think, in spite of all the evidence, that they were going to be fine. That there was nothing to worry about.

  They had everything to worry about. They had to worry about bad publicity. They had to worry about his career. About the tabloid press finding out and plastering their pictures all over everything until she couldn't even get a job waiting tables.

  They had to worry about the effect that their discovery would have on Mom and Jeff's Dad. What if it messed up their entire marriage plan?

  What if they had to get a divorce, all because of shit that their kids were up to?

  They'd be furious that neither had mentioned it sooner. Of course they would be. And they would have every right. But somehow none of that had seemed all that important, when they'd started. It had all seemed like it would be completely fine.

  Now they'd gotten themselves into some big mess, and nobody even knew what to tell the reporters when things started to go sideways. Can't tell them the truth, that was for damn sure.

  If they're dating, then why the secrecy up to now? If they're not dating, then they're pretty close for step-siblings who only met a few months ago. That's pretty weird.

  So what was the story? Why the secrecy? Why hiding it? Why acting weird?

  They didn't have a good answer, and they'd never have a good answer. Because in the end, no matter what answer it was that they gave, they'd have to lie. Telling the truth was pretty much out of hand. They'd told too many lies already.

  Which meant that there was only one answer that they could give. Only one honest answer, anyways. If they were going to be brother and sister, and brothers and sisters didn't fuck each other without serious repercussions…

  And they weren't willing to accept those serious repercussions…

  Then the answer was obvious and she'd been putting the realization off for weeks. Because she'd already known, for a long time, what the right thing to do was. If she was strong enough to do the right thing in the first place, they wouldn't even be in this mess.

  She stood up from the corner. Just standing up took just about every ounce of effort that she had, but she did it. She had to. There was no other choice, not any more. Not if there were people coming to the room and trying to get interviews with her, trying to get her to confess to some sort of hinky relationship.

  Her hands were shaking, but she ignored that. She ignored that because she had to, just like she had to ignore how hard it was to get out of the corner. Just like she ignored how hard it was going to be for Jeff to accept.

  They both were going to have to do things that were hard, and unpleasant. And that was just how it was.

  Her hands were still shaking when she started typing the text. She sent it without reading it back, because she knew what it said, and if she read it back to herself, she might not have the strength to send it.

  But even still, she knew exactly what it said. She knew there weren't any typos. She knew that Jeff was going to get it and there wasn't going to be any miscommunication. She couldn't say it twice, so she said it clearly the first time.

  'I think we should break up.'

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  It almost surprised Jeff how easily he was able to ignore it, once he'd learned how. Once he'd thought it through and realized that he had to forget about it for a while, that was easy.

  He just forgot about it, turned his brain off and pitched. Same as he always had with every other thing that could go wrong. It seemed wrong on some level, like a breakup should have effected him more deeply. So deep that he couldn't crawl out of it.

  But he was surprised to find that as long as he didn't think about it, it didn't hurt. Only when he breathed, and he could ignore that long enough to throw. Long enough to let the rest do itself.

  The crack of bat on ball isn't unexpected. He'd thrown into contact. It lined hard out to 3rd base. Out.

  There was something exhilarating, something he couldn't begin to explain, about striking a guy out. Knowing that you were better than him, at that moment on that day.

  But there was nothing efficient about it. You throw three pitches, minimum, for one out. If you're lucky, you can get off the mound twenty-seven pitches later with a perfect game, if they don't take any balls, if they don't foul anything away. If you're lucky.

  More likely, by the 5th inning, you've thrown a hundred pitches and your arm feels like it's going to fall the hell off by the sixth.

  That was his experience anyways. Which wasn't exactly hard to believe was the experience everyone else had. What was hard to believe was how unpleasant it was to pitch to contact. To throw a pitch hoping to hear it crack and have a ball whip by you at a million miles an hour, faster than it ever came out of your hand, and heading for the stands.

  Except you can just reach your hand up and—

  The ball sailed over his glove, missing by inches. Jeff turned to watch it, watched center field charge in and get it off the first bounce and throw a rocket towards first.

  If they'd wanted a good performance out of him, well, they were most certainly getting that right now. He couldn't ask anything better from himself, and as he started to cool down and let himself start thinking again, he felt terrible for it.

  Was there something wrong with him? The minute that he stepped off the mound, as soon as the play was finished, Jeff could feel himself deflating. It wasn't as if he just didn't care. That would have been understandable. Fine. He wouldn't have worried about anything then.

  But instead, he could just turn it off. Like a switch. Was that healthy? Was that normal? Or was there something wrong with him? Like he was some kind of monster? If he was—what did that even mean?

  All he knew for sure was, he had to keep using that. Keep turning it off for the space of a few seconds at a time, in the space between when he started the wind-up and when the runner was either safe or out.

  The coach called a guy out to first base. Simulated game—they weren't going to have him throw nine innings. They were just going to put him in situations where things could be happening.

  He drew up tall, took a breath. The depression burned in his throat like an unpleasant drink, clawed at his skin. He waited for the call. Took a breath, eased himself into the shell of not-feeling-anything.

  A voice broke through the shell. Someone was shouting. Jeff turned and fired the ball in his hand at second wi
thout thinking. He should have been watching the runner. He should have been watching.

  The man was nearly back on his feet by the time the ball smacked home in the second baseman's glove. So he wasn't getting off completely without consequences, was that it? He was able to pitch just fine—if he was careful.

  The minute that he had more than just one thing on his plate, though, he couldn't juggle it any more. Because he could only turn it off for seconds at a time.

  Nobody started shouting at him to pay the fuck attention. For all Jeff knew, they hadn't even noticed that he'd messed up as bad as he had. He had to be thankful for that, at least.

  If they had, he wasn't sure what they'd do to try to fix his mood, but the one thing they wouldn't do would be to let him into the majors out of fucking pity. If he couldn't keep an eye on runners, not even a little…

  Well, they could still let him go to the Majors. Everyone has their weaknesses. And if he was doing his job, there wouldn't be that many opportunities to steal.

  It would fade with time. He'd blossom into the ability to play god damn baseball again, eventually. But the question was, was he prepared to deal with that kind of risk?

  And was he really willing to walk away from Cathy to do it?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  It wasn't going to be very long now. He'd answer her, or he wouldn't, but at least she'd know which way things were going to fall. She didn't have to sit there and worry nonstop. Right?

  That was going to go away. That would have to go away at some point. She'd have to figure out what the heck was going on in her life and get it all sorted back out.

  Simple questions. One at a time. That was how she was going to get everything straightened out in her head.

  Barring everything else, had her goals changed? Did she want to be a dancer?

  Yes. That was easy.

  Did she want to be with Jeff? She didn't like the ease with which 'yes' came to mind. She should have been able to at least feel bad about it. To have difficulty putting aside her concerns.

  When it was dance, she knew that she had to accept things. It was hard to accept that she had to give up her best mothering years, had to give up her friendships, had to give up everything.