The guard is getting pelted in the face with rain. And it's clear he doesn't intend to stand around and argue with me. As long as I'm happy, he's happy.
"Well, if that'll be it, then, I'll leave you to it." He nods at us. "Have a safe ride home."
He begins marching back toward the stadium, probably eager to clock out and call it a day. Only then do I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Luke, can you ever forgive me?" Mrs. Jenkins asks the minute we get inside my Subaru.
I run my hands over my face and pull down my hood. Mrs. Jenkins is an old lady herself, and I know just how fast Mom can disappear in a crowd. I can't blame her for this. It's not her fault.
"Yes, of course. I forgive you, Mrs. Jenkins." I give her a sad smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
She beams back at me gratefully, but everything's spiraling out of control faster than I can keep it together. I can't do this on my own anymore—or put so much responsibility for Mom's safety on Mrs. Jenkins. I need help.
And I'm hoping Roberta will be willing to give it to me.
Chapter Eight
Roberta
I lean back into the steady stream of hot water, finally feeling some warmth seep into my bones.
Luke's mom is resting comfortably in her room after I bathed her and got her ready for bed. Luke was underfoot the whole time I was tucking her in, but I guess it's understandable. She gave him quite a fright today, and he didn't want to let her out of his sight. Still, I insisted that he hop in the shower ahead of me, needing some time away from him in order to think. Is this a job I'd be willing to take on on a more permanent basis? Dipping my head back in the shower, I sigh as the numbness leaves my body. I've never been so cold for that long before, and I don't even want to think about what would've happened to Luke's mom if nobody had found her in time…
The pipes start to clang, and I cry out when a frigid blast hits me. What the…? I hurriedly rotate the taps beneath the spout, forgetting which one's which, yet somehow managing to turn the water off. I step out and bury my face in a towel. It's an older home; things happen. But I don't think running out of hot water has anything to do with the sorry state of their kitchen. I pat myself dry. All the signs are there; I just don't want to see them.
Wiping the condensation from the mirror, I know I need to have a good talk with myself before I come to a decision. Luke's mom is slowly fading away, and his heart's only going to break more and more with each passing day. So I'd better make damn sure I'm up for this before I go making him any promises. I stare at my reflection. God, who am I kidding? My mind was made up the minute she called him little Lukey.
Knock, knock, knock. "Roberta, are you all right in there?"
Christ, it's Luke…and I can't remember if I locked the door or not. My cheeks start to burn as I hastily reach for the silky robe he lent me until my clothes are dry. His mom's so petite, and this is probably the only thing of hers that'd fit me. I keep my eyes trained on the doorknob until my body's completely covered.
"Uh, yeah. I'll be right out."
"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," he groans. "It's just been so long since I had to listen for anyone in the shower before turning the washing machine on."
I smile. "Well, since you did wipe down the shower for me when you were done, why don't we call it even?"
I rest my forehead against the door and listen to him laugh on the other side. So many guys aren't considerate, not like he is. My ex-husband certainly wasn't. I cram my feet into his mom's fuzzy bedroom slippers and sigh. I can either leave Stockton like I was planning on doing or I can keep lying to Luke's face. But if I go out there and tell him the truth about me, there's a very real possibility that he'll tell me to leave and never come back. And after today, there's no way I can put his mother's care back in the hands of their elderly neighbor, not when I can step up and do something about it.
Slowly, I open the door, and I'm taken aback to find him standing there, holding a tray with a china tea set on it.
"What's all this?"
He crinkles his brow at me. "An apology."
"An apology? For what?"
"For last night, for today, for everything." He gestures toward the two large throw pillows he has propped up against the wall. "Please, take a seat."
I wrap my arms around myself. "You want me to sit on the floor?"
He juts his chin toward the end of the hallway. "Just so I'll be able to hear Mom, in case she gets up again."
"Luke," I protest. "She's fine. She's sound asleep. You don't have to—"
"I know. But it'd just make me feel better," he says, handing me a saucer with a beautifully painted cup on top. "Do you mind?"
I step out of the steam-filled bathroom, feeling very self-conscious. "Playing tea party, are we? Looks like someone's trying to butter me up for something."
He shrugs. "Mom always did things right. And I know this is how she'd like to thank you…if she could."
I'll be the first to admit I've never been attracted to shorter guys. But there's something intensely intimate about being able to look directly into Luke's eyes like I am now. It's disconcerting because there's nowhere to hide. They're clear and open and honest, the eyes of someone who, despite all his problems, is at peace with himself. And for a moment, I can't bring myself to look at him.
Sensing my discomfort, he lowers the tray onto the floor and eases himself onto one of the pillows. "Your tea awaits, milady."
I smile awkwardly, having no choice but to join him. He crosses his legs, and his shorts, which before were hitting him almost at mid-calf, have now ridden up to his knees where they belong—which is about where this tiny robe is on me. As demurely as I can, I bend down next to him, first with one knee and then the other, before quickly bringing my legs back together again.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you look pretty in pink?" He winks at me.
"Yeah, well." I glance down at the loud floral pattern on his Mom's robe while filling my cup. "In case you haven't noticed, black's more my color. It makes me feel strong and powerful, not like a wilting flower floating atop a fruity drink."
"So you're a girl who never liked pink?" he teases, taking the teapot from me.
I deliberately take a sip before responding, "I swore I'd never wear pink again." I stare at him over the rim of my cup. "And look at me now."
Just like I told Landry I was done with hot, young baseball players…and here I am.
Before coming to Stockton, I got rid of everything that was tying me to my past—including my favorite pale-pink sweater a certain someone gave me for Christmas one year. But he wasn't the man who broke me. He was just one of my many reckless rebounds in my vain attempt to forget the one who did.
Luke gives me an appraising glance. "Well, you don't need to wear black in order to impress me. I'm already impressed by you."
And my guard immediately goes up. Please don't tell me he's coming on to me. But there's no heavy-lidded trace of lust or hint of flirtation in his eyes. Instead, they seem to be glowing with genuine admiration for me, reinforcing the sincerity of his compliment. And that vexes me more because I don't deserve his kindness.
"You're impressed by someone who wipes wrinkled asses for a living?"
And there it is, my inner tough girl, ready to reassert herself whenever I get the least bit scared. I don't know what comes over me, but whenever I feel cornered, my snarky side emerges, striking out full force at whatever target's in front of me. Even when it's a nice, unassuming guy like Luke Singleton.
But his eyes crinkle with merriment. "I'll have you know I work out, so my ass isn't saggy or wrinkled, but this isn't about me. It's about my mom—and her saggy ass."
I will my hand to stop shaking as I put my cup down. I've been dealt a lot of tough breaks in life, and I survived with a sharp enough tongue to prove it—but that doesn't give me the right to go around insulting people.
"Luke, I didn't mean—"
"I know you didn't." He smiles at me, pl
acing his cup next to mine. "But now that you mention it, today was a major wake-up call for me, in more ways than one. And there's something I need to ask you."
"Okay…"
Here we go. You knew this was coming. So just breathe… breathe…
"Roberta, do you think I can hire you to move in here and take care of Mom?"
Breathe…
If I don't tell him who I am now, there'll be no going back to fix it later. If he ever finds out, he'll never forgive me for deceiving him. But he'll never find out, right?
I stall. "Is it so you can play? Because I don't think—"
My eyes unconsciously travel to the side of his neck, while his gaze remains fixed on me, not wavering in the slightest.
"I'm not afraid of getting hit again, Roberta, if that's what you're thinking." I stare at him, letting him know that I know he's bluffing, even if he wants to believe what he's saying is true. "It's just a reflex, my brain trying to protect my body, that's all. But the more at-bats I get, the quicker I'll adjust. You'll see."
"Luke, with the type of injury you sustained, no one would blame you for—"
"For what? For giving up?" His eyes darken considerably. "Well, you're too late. Your boyfriend already talked me out of it."
I run my hands through my hair, agitated. "If you mean Landry, then you can relax. I'm not going to tell him about your mom."
"So he is your boyfriend?"
"God, what does it matter?"
He gets to his knees and rests his hands on both sides of the pillow I'm sitting on, caging me in with his arms, arms that are strong, sinewy limbs of corded muscle. I know; I felt them yesterday.
Meeting my eyes, he states, "It matters because I need to know if I can trust you."
I raise my chin at him. "Well, if you already believe every single rumor there is flying around about me, then how do you expect me to trust you?"
He sighs, "Roberta, he's my boss. So if we're going to be living together, I feel I have the right to know if you're dating him or not."
"Well, I'm not," I retort. "So does that answer your question?"
He sits back on his heels. "You're not?"
"No, I'm not."
"Wow, that's great!" he blurts out, nodding his head. "I mean, it's good…that there's no conflict of interest when it comes to hiring you."
"And I guess I don't have to ask you about having a girlfriend." I smooth the robe down over my thighs. "Since you already answered that one for me yesterday. They don't call you Single for nothing, huh?"
He blushes. "Point taken. No more personal questions, I promise," he responds, placing his hand over his heart.
"So you consider yourself married to the game, is that it?" I ask, lifting my eyes to his.
"I do. And with your help, I intend to get back to where I was." He removes his hand from his heart and offers it to me, and something about that simple, yet meaningful, gesture touches me deep down inside. "What do you say? Do we have a deal?"
I press my palm to his and hope to God he can't feel it trembling. "Deal."
Little does he know that once upon a time I was married to the game too. My name just wasn't Roberta Bennett. Oh, no, back when I was young and trusting and foolish, it was Bobbie Jo Nichols. Making David—the guy who almost ended his career, the guy who almost killed him—my ex-husband.
Chapter Nine
Luke
It's happening again.
I'm falling, and I can't see a thing. I flail through the air, but there's nothing to grab on to, nothing to slow my descent. The wind whips by my face as I pick up speed, and I think to myself, this is it. This is how I'm going to die. However, my downward plunge suddenly stops, and it's like I was never falling at all. Instead, I'm standing upright in a shallow pool of water.
It's dark down here, cold and wet. Scared, I run my hands over the brick wall, turning around in a complete circle, realizing I'm boxed in. I splash around, desperate to find a way out, but there isn't one. Sloshing through the ankle-deep water, I look up, only to see a lone star, shining down on me. I smile up at it. It's the only source of light I have to dispel the thick curtain of darkness that's surrounding me. Until little by little, someone starts covering the opening above my head.
"No! Please don't!" I yell up. "I'm still down here!"
Whoever it is pays no heed to my cry. Instead, all I hear in response is, "Lukey! Where are you? Lukey?"
My heart starts pounding even harder inside my chest. "Ma? Ma, is that you?"
"Lukey…help!"
Mom needs me. I need to get out of here. I need to get to her.
"It's him!" Mom calls down, absolutely terrified. "He's going to take you away from me."
"Who, Ma? Who is it? Who's up there with you?"
"It's him," she whimpers back. "The pitcher who hit you."
Nichols?
But her voice gets drowned out once he slams the lid down on top of the well, the echo of finality reverberating all around me.
Nichols has Mom, and I can't protect her. I start to panic when all I sense is a steady drip of water falling on me from above. I move to avoid it, but no matter where I go, it just keeps hitting me smack dab on the side of the neck.
"No…no…NO!" I scream, clawing the walls. "NO!"
"Luke, shhhh. It's okay."
My eyes fly open and I find Roberta hovering over me, shaking me awake. For a moment, I just stare into her pretty blue eyes that hold the same shade of light as the star as I try to grasp what she's doing in here.
"You were having a nightmare," she whispers, kneeling down beside my bed. "I hope you don't mind that I barged into your room like this, but when I heard you yelling through the wall, I was worried."
I sit up, kicking the covers aside, agitated that she had to see me like this. "Sorry," I mumble. "I didn't mean to disturb you."
She sighs, sitting back. "It's okay."
The night-light in the hall is extending a diagonal beam of light from the door across my bed. Though now that she's outside its reach, I can't really see her, but I can feel her eyes on me. I run my hands over my face, needing to reassure her somehow. I don't want her to be scared of me. I don't want her to leave.
"Living here…" I start, unsure of where to begin. "You may hear me call out in my sleep sometimes, and if you do, please…just ignore it."
It was kind of her to check on me, but she really has to be regretting her decision to move in with us right about now. Getting up with Mom in the middle of the night is going to be hard enough on her, and I'm not about to have her lose any more sleep on account of me.
"So tonight isn't the first time this has happened?" she asks.
Resting my head in my hands, I let out a low groan. "No."
But she keeps questioning me, seemingly undeterred. "When did they start?"
I lift my head to answer her. "Right after I got hit. Can you believe it's the same thing I saw when I blacked out?" I pause, not sure how she's going to handle that much truthfulness. And when she remains silent, I get nervous and chuckle halfheartedly. "I guess having a near-death experience at home plate will do that to a guy."
I wait for her to bolt, make some hasty excuse to get up and leave, but instead, she asks gently, "What is it that you see?"
I run a hand over my jaw. I've never really talked about this to anyone before, and I'm not sure how to put it into words. Usually, I don't remember much after I wake up, just the main points, mostly the fear. "Well," I begin slowly, talking faster as I go along. "I fall into a deep, dark well. Someone covers it up and I'm trapped inside. That's about it."
I'm convinced she thinks I'm crazy, until she says, "I used to have nightmares too. I know what it's like."
I hone in on that. "Oh, yeah? About what?"
"Well, I didn't find myself buried alive inside a scary, abandoned well. The place I dreamed of didn't feel dangerous or frightening. It felt more like an escape," she replies thoughtfully. "I was actually more afraid to wake up."
P
erplexed, I sputter, "You're telling me you didn't want it to be over?"
The honesty in her voice tugs at my heart as it reaches me through the darkness. "No. I'd have to say the moment when I knew I was leaving that nice, safe place was always the worst part."
I ponder what she said for a moment. "So your nightmare was basically the complete opposite of mine?"
She stands, her body skimming the light. "A nightmare is a nightmare. They're certainly not any fun."
She's going back to her room. She doesn't want to talk about it anymore because I let things get too personal. She was okay when we were talking about me, but once I started questioning her, it's like she can't get out of here fast enough. I need to make a mental note never to bring this up again. I understand. Reliving your worst nightmare isn't something I particularly want to talk about either. But there's something I need to know, something that maybe she can help me with.
"Hey, wait," I whisper and she pauses in the doorway, keeping her back to me. "How did you…?" I cough to clear my throat, my voice strained from all the yelling I was doing in my sleep. "How did you get them to stop?"
She looks back at me, her face in silhouette as the glow from the night-light spills over her shoulder. "I found a safe place for myself outside the nightmare." She shrugs. "But it's a temporary fix. It's not to say they won't come back."
I stare at her. "Are you afraid they will?"
She nods. "All the time, but I don't let it stop me from moving forward with my life. I've just learned how to be smart about it." She taps a finger to the side of her head. "Mind over matter."
Single (Stockton Beavers #1) Page 6