Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  Scout

  “How stupid could you be?”

  All this work—months of healing, hours of strengthening—and Easton risks all of it by fighting Santiago.

  “You should have seen the other guy,” he jokes, then hisses when I push his hand with the ice pack back up to his cheek.

  “It’s not funny.”

  I slam stuff around the training room. The door is shut so no one can hear us, or the drawers I shove open then close, or the cart of the ultrasound machine as I bang it against the table where Easton’s sitting. I hate that I’m pulling out the shit I used when I first started his rehab, because who knows what he just did to his shoulder other than just telling me it hurts.

  “It’s a little funny.”

  “Don’t. Just don’t!” I smack my hands down on the counter and brace them there as I let my emotions roil through me.

  The confusion when I first heard the shout of “I’m gonna kill him.”

  The shock of seeing Tino and Drew physically restraining Easton from running back onto the field.

  The bewilderment when they shoved Easton toward where I stood in the training room, when I saw his knuckles on one hand were bloody, his T-shirt was torn, and his cheek had an angry red mark on it.

  And then the fury, the goddamn fury, when I saw him wince as he moved his shoulder.

  “Scout.” He sighs my name, and the resigned defiance mixed with apology only infuriates me further.

  “What? What could possibly be your excuse?” I shout as I throw my hands up and turn to face him. “You couldn’t control yourself? You couldn’t be the bigger man and walk away? At least for a few more days?”

  “Ah. Now it all makes sense. You don’t give a fuck about my arm right now. All you care about is the meeting. The goddamn contract and what’s in it for you.”

  His words punch out into the small space and slam into me harder than his fists probably did into Santiago’s face. Because if he is aiming to lash out at me, he just got a direct hit.

  Why am I fighting him? Why? Santiago deserved to get punched weeks ago. Better yet, he deserved it months ago, when he hurt Easton and was only fined and given a four-day suspension.

  So why are you so pissed at Easton for actually doing it?

  Why are you fighting him so hard?

  Because I’m scared.

  Over what this means for him and his position here. What this means for me and working with the team in the future. What this means for the two of us as a couple. And most definitely what it means to my dad’s final wish.

  It’s so much more than the contract. Doesn’t he see that? And yet, that’s how highly he thinks of me right now—that I value the contract over him?

  Add some more hurt to the anger, Scout.

  “Excuse me?” My body trembles with restless fury. The kind you can feel deep down in your bones and have no clue how to get rid of.

  “You heard me.” Easton stands and squares his shoulders. His rage toward Santiago is still there, still raw, but right now it is directed at me.

  Well, bring it, Hot Shot, because I’m primed for a fight, especially when you say bullshit like that.

  “Glad to know that your precious fucking contract is your number one concern right now. Doesn’t anything else matter?”

  “Yes. Of course other things matter.”

  “Betcha can’t name one.” He stares at me, eyes searching and a muscle pulsing in his jaw. For the life of me, put on the spot like this and with his anger misplaced on me, I can’t think of one when I know there are tons.

  “Are you kidding me?” I screech, hating that I can’t answer him, and lashing out in return. “You’re going to turn this on me? Was it that hard to keep your testosterone in check? To walk the fuck away from him? Did you even think once that maybe when they reinstated you, it would cement his fate? You’d step back into your position, they’d see you side by side and know your talent blows his out of the damn water, and—”

  “And you’d be awarded the contract.” His voice is quiet and even now, and I hate the tinge to its edges—disappointment, sadness, hurt . . . I’m not sure what, but it digs deep down in me and makes my stomach churn.

  “It’s not about the goddamn contract! Don’t you get it?” I walk from one side of the room to the other. I’m so angry, so confused, I can’t seem to say the words I need to get out. It’s like I have so many I’m suffocating on them, and yet at the same time, I don’t have any. “It’s about the time you put in. It’s about getting you back on the damn field. Back to the game you love.” My voice hitches. The tears well. “What’s more important to you than that?”

  He glares at me, the tendons in his neck taut, his mouth pulled tight, his body like a rubber band about to snap. “You just don’t get it, do you?” He shakes his head, his voice vibrating with resigned frustration.

  “Get what? That you couldn’t control your temper. That you just risked everything we’ve worked for?”

  “There you go again.” He blows out a sigh.

  “Whatever, Easton.” I’m done. He wants to act like the asshole, then I don’t want any part of it. I turn my back to try and hide the hurt, the confusion, the unsettled feeling that things just changed majorly between us, even though it had nothing to do with us.

  “Whatever?” he shouts, grabbing my arm and spins me around so we’re face to face, body to body, temper against temper. “Whatever? There are more important things than getting the goddamn contract,” he growls, his finger poking against my chest.

  “Like what?” I challenge.

  “Like doing what’s right.”

  “What’s right is keeping your nose clean and getting reinstated. There’s nothing more important than that right now.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re frustrating.” He steps back from me, shoves a hand through his hair, blows out an audible breath, and then steps back up to me. “What’s right, Scout, is defending what you care about.”

  “And what’s that?” Our eyes are locked, tempers bouncing off each other’s in the space between us.

  “Not what, but who.” He pauses, squeezes his eyes shut for a beat, and when he opens them back up, the anger is still there, but there’s something else, too.

  “Who? What in the fuck are you talking about?” Did something happen with one of the guys? With his dad? What?

  “You. I care about you. And I’d fucking punch him and fuck up my shoulder a thousand times over than ever let him talk shit about you again. You got it?”

  “Oh.” I stand there, stunned. Never in a million years did I think that Easton and Santiago would get in a brawl, on the field, with the fans there to watch batting practice, over me.

  How could I have been so stupid when he was saying it all along?

  We stand a foot apart, and all I want to do is put my hands on his cheeks and kiss him senseless. Reassure him. Reassure me. Anything to make a connection with him and thank him and tell him in the only way I know how that I care.

  But I can’t. There’s a room full of teammates at our backs, who I’m sure were watching our fight unfold from the room’s window. I’m certain assumptions have been made over why we’re fighting. I know Easton’s had his hands on me one too many times to come off like trainer and player.

  And, right now, I don’t really care, because he’s upset and I want to soothe him. I can’t touch and I can’t kiss. I can’t wrap my arms around him or press my lips to his hurt cheek—the punch he took for me—and kiss it better.

  I step forward out of instinct, and he steps back.

  “No, Scout.” There is so much emotion in my name, I know he’s feeling the same way I do, but the look in his eyes tells me his control has been snapped once, and it’s best not to test it again.

  He’s so amped up on adrenaline and need that one touch and he won’t be able to stop.

  So, I use the only thing I can to reach him: my words.

  “There will always be men talking shit about me, Easton. I
t’s part of my job. I know it comes along with the career I chose. There will always be a guy who thinks I’m a Kitty or a Trixie.” He sighs, and my heart does, too, right along with him. “Thank you for standing up for me, but you can’t slay every dragon I face. It’s a full-time job these days, but I’m strong and can handle it.”

  He cracks a smile. One full of regret, apology, but more than anything, filled with love. It’s the first time I recognize it, and I stand there, so overwhelmed with emotions, I don’t know what to do about it.

  “You may be able to handle it, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to stand by and put up with it.”

  I nod my head, acknowledge it, and know it’s a battle I’ll have to fight another day, but right now, I need to look at his shoulder.

  “Come on, let me see if you did any damage.” I direct him to the table and start checking out his shoulder. I can’t see his face any longer, but the look that was in his eyes is all I think about.

  About how it’s ingrained in me to want to run.

  But one thought keeps repeating over and over in my mind.

  He tried to slay dragons for me.

  Scout

  The condo is quiet.

  There’s traffic in the distance, and the windshields glint from the early morning sun.

  The stadium is empty. The grass is groomed in its crazy crisscross pattern that mesmerizes the eyes from this distance, and the dirt of the infield is dragged to perfection.

  The coffee is warm in my hands, and the chair I’m sitting on is sink-into-it-and-never-want-to-get-out-of-it comfortable.

  Easton, too amped up about getting to hit that groomed dirt later today, for what feels like the first time in forever, is somewhere in this city, jogging mile after mile to ease some of his restlessness.

  Everything seems storybook perfect.

  But inside I’m a nervous wreck.

  Three hours.

  That’s all the time I have left before I willingly turn our world upside down. Our quiet nights at home. Our seeing each other every night. The day-to-day routine we’ve somehow established in this relationship that we haven’t admitted is a relationship.

  Or maybe we have, and I’m just choosing not to see it for fear of cursing it.

  But in three hours, all of that will change.

  Easton

  “Should I be worried about what I’m interrupting?”

  Fucking Finn.

  “I’m running, you jackass,” I pant.

  “Oh,” he laughs. “I was going to say, she must not be that important if you’re stopping to pick up the phone mid-stroke.”

  “I love you, man, but there’s no way I’m stopping mid-stroke if my phone rings.” I lean over and brace one hand on the streetlight to try and catch my breath.

  “Smart man. It’s D-day . . . how you doing? You good?”

  “Dude.” I chuckle as I look around and judge; I’m about five miles from the house. “I’m so amped up, even crossing paths with Santiago couldn’t fuck it up.”

  “Well, that says it all.” He laughs, then gets a little more serious. “I know you’re ready, but how’s your arm feeling? Is it still sore from your stunt the other day?”

  I roll it out of habit, wait for pain to come, but know it’s not going to. Scout was right when she said I’d be at one hundred percent. Even after throwing a few punches. “I’m ready, Finn. It feels like it’s been for-fucking-ever since I had the crowd at my back. Just get me on the field.”

  “That’s Scout’s job to decide for them. Not mine. Are you confident she’s going to tell them you’re good to go? That your arm is able to withstand the pressure?”

  Images flash through my mind. The shower. Scout’s soapy hands sliding over my skin, down to my dick. Being tested and taunted. Picking her up and holding her against the wall as I fucked her.

  Can it withstand the pressure?

  I believe it did about six hours ago.

  “Easton,” he groans, mistaking my silence for uncertainty, and causing my smile to widen. “Please tell me you thought to ask her.”

  I laugh—can’t help it. Torturing him is part of my job as his client.

  “I’m not feeling as confident about this as I was when I picked up the phone to call you. I thought you two were close. Why the hell would you not flat-out ask her?”

  His torture has gone on long enough. I can hear his anxiety ratcheting up. “Relax. There’s no need to worry. It’s just fun listening to you carry on like a little old woman.”

  “So your arm’s good, then?”

  “I love how you just completely ignore me.” I laugh, needing the comic relief this phone call has brought with it.

  “Easton,” he warns as I laugh again.

  “We had one . . . uh . . . final workout last night. It felt great.”

  If he only knew what I was talking about.

  “No side effects or anything?”

  Not the kind you can quantify. “Nope. I slept like a baby.”

  “Good. Good.” I can hear his agent’s mind start to turn now that he knows I’m ready. “Just promise me from here on out you won’t do anything stupid like sign a document that says you’ll agree to be back on the field by a set date.”

  “Are we back to this again? I was in pain. They pushed papers in front of me, and I signed. Does it matter? It all worked out, and I’m back with one week to spare on their deadline.”

  “We dodged a bullet is what we did.”

  “Quit being a worrywart. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine.”

  “You’re going to kill me one of these days, Wylder.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m your most favorite client.”

  His silence makes me smile.

  “Just make sure you’re in the locker room getting ready to help catch bullpen like you’ve been doing. That way, when I get the call you’ve been taken off the DL and reinstated, you’re at the field.”

  “Already planned on it.”

  Scout

  “Wow.”

  Easton’s voice startles me. I’ve been so lost in my own mind, so busy rehearsing what I’m going to say, what my dad advised me to say, that I didn’t hear Easton come back.

  “What?” I turn to face him, watch him pull his sweat-soaked Under Armour shirt over his head and toss it in the hamper.

  “Work-out-clothes Scout is hot. Cowboy-boots-and-skirt Scout is sexy. But dress-up-for-a-business-meeting Scout is gorgeous.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be in a room full of men. Work-out-clothes Scout makes them think I’m a college intern getting my hours in. Cowboy-boots-and-skirt Scout makes them think I’m there to giggle and flirt and maybe date a baseball player,” I say as he lifts his eyebrows. “And dress-up-for-a-business-meeting Scout tells them I take my job seriously, and I’m a professional who wants what’s best for the team and the player.”

  “What if what’s best for the team, for you, and for the player are all different things?”

  “In this case they are the same, so it doesn’t matter,” I say, knowing he needs the reassurance that I technically can’t verbalize due to my contract but have told him in a hundred different ways anyway.

  “But what if they were, though?”

  I don’t like the feelings the question evokes, because they very well could have been when he punched Santiago the other day. But that was a different day, a stupid fight, and we’ve moved on, so I try to shift from this topic.

  “Well, since you said wow when you saw me, I’d use my wily feminine ways to woo them into what I thought was best.”

  “Ahh, there comes that manipulative side of you.”

  “Not manipulative.” I laugh as he takes a few steps toward me. “Just determined.”

  “You’re sexy when you’re all business,” he says as he slides his arms around me and goes straight for my ass.

  “Eww, you’re all sweaty.” I try to bat his hands away, but half-heartedly.

  “You didn’t say that last night when I was al
l sweaty.” He leans in, and all my doubts disappear with the brush of his lips and the taste of his kiss.

  “Well, that kind of sweaty is welcome,” I murmur and then physically remove his hands from my ass before they move to undo the zipper.

  He laughs and swats me on the ass as I turn to put my makeup, curling iron, and dirty clothes into my overnight bag. When I turn around, Easton’s smile is still there, but he’s just staring at me with that look in his eyes like he had at Pet Haven.

  My pulse speeds up.

  “What?”

  “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

  “Do what?” I glance around like I don’t understand, but the sudden echo of panic within me tells me I do.

  “Pack up your things.” He waits for a reaction, and when I don’t give one, other than not saying a word, he continues, “You can have a drawer here, Scout. You can have a whole side of the closet if you want. Better yet, why don’t you just stay with me. You’re in that temporary place with furniture that’s not even yours . . . when I have all this space.”

  I just stare at him, eyelids blinking and panic slowly clawing its way in to squeeze my heart. “I . . . we . . . it’s not . . . how can . . .”

  “Scout.” Easton says my name as he takes my hand in his and looks at me with those hazel eyes that are loaded with storm-cloud-gray today. “Don’t you get it?”

  “Get what?”

  “This is the next step for us. Some sort of permanence. We’re doing it anyway, so why not just admit to it?”

  My chest constricts. It hurts to draw in air. The fear I thought I’d chased away is the weight making it hurt. “Easton.”

  “No, uh-uh,” he says as he steps into me and frames my cheeks with his hands so that I’m forced to look up and into his eyes. “You don’t get to spook right now. You don’t get to hide from me.”

  “But things are going to change.” I finally find my voice. “You’re going to start travelling. You’re going to leave.”