Single (Stockton Beavers #1)

by Collette West

  "Was it him?" Luke asks.

  "No," I reply, attempting to hide my phone from him.

  But he's too quick for me. He takes it and studies it a moment before handing it back to me. "Rhode Island. Who do you know in Rhode Island?"

  "No one. It's probably a wrong number."

  He gives me a lopsided grin. "All right. Then why are you so freaked out about it?"

  "I'm not!" I argue, backing away from him. "It's just that…"

  He steps in front of me. "What?"

  I pull my hair away from my face and flip it over my shoulder. "Maybe now's not such a good time. It's late. I have to get your mom ready for bed. You need to—"

  He reaches for me. "What I need is—"

  I place my hand over his lips. "Please…don't say it." A shudder runs through me when I feel his warm breath on my fingers, but I do my best to contain it. "Luke, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I can't…We can't."

  I turn away from him, hating myself for it. But I'm not about to take the next step with him, not when I know very well who played in Rhode Island tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Roberta

  Seven years earlier

  I pull the lasagna out of the microwave and smile. I've been looking forward to this all day. After working through a double shift at the nursing home, all I want to do is unwind in my new apartment with a glass of wine and the delicious takeout I picked up from the little Italian deli down the street. I'm still learning all that the neighborhood has to offer, but even so, it already feels like home to me, more than living with David ever did.

  Placing my plate on the table, I sit down, ready to dig in. Tonight is all about celebrating being a single woman again since my attorney called today to tell me that David had been served with the divorce papers. It's official. I've taken the first step toward dissolving our marriage. Still, I'm a bit anxious, knowing that my current address had to be listed in order for the paperwork to be filed. I could've spoken up and raised concerns about my safety, but I was too embarrassed to explain to my attorney the real reason why I left my husband. No woman in her right mind would've stayed as long as I did, and I knew my attorney, along with the rest of the world, would probably judge me for losing our baby, thinking it was my fault.

  It's been hard. I'm not going to lie. Starting over in a new place, working sometimes sixteen-hour days in order to make ends meet, well, I haven't exactly been living the life of Riley. But it's my life—mine—and no one can take it away from me. I'm free. I can breathe again. And even though I'm alone, with no one to depend on, I'm doing it. I'm supporting myself. I'm beholden to no one. And boy, does that feel good.

  I raise the fork to my lips and blow, watching the steam curl away from the noodles. In the past, I would've burned my mouth in my haste to satisfy my rumbling stomach, but I know better now. I can wait. I've gotten quite good at being patient.

  Then I hear a strange little noise coming from the back door.

  I'm still getting used to the sounds of living in a new place, but I admit I've never heard anything like this before. It's a steady sort of tinkling sound, so faint I almost didn't hear it until the motor on the refrigerator kicked off. Lowering my fork, I stand up to investigate. Cautiously, I approach the door and stare through the curtain on the window, and for a moment, the noise stops. It's dark outside, and with the light on in here, it makes it quite easy to see in, yet almost impossible to see out.

  I step away. I was probably just imagining things. There's no one out there. I'm just about to resume my meal when the jangling picks up again, this time louder. Unnerved, I creep back toward the door on my hands and knees, staying well below the vantage point of the window. And as I get closer, I notice for the first time how the knob is moving ever so slightly, like someone's on the other side of the door, attempting to pick the lock. And a chill runs down my spine.

  Panicking, I stand up and rush toward the phone on the wall. And that's when the noise on the other side increases dramatically, going from a subtle jingling to a loud, heavy thud as something with force begins to strike against the base of the door. With my hand shaking, I punch the numbers on the keypad.

  "911, what is your emergency?"

  "I think someone is trying to break in to my apartment."

  The pounding halts, as if whoever's out there is straining to listen to what I'm saying.

  "Is your address…?" the operator begins.

  But I can no longer hear what's being said when the entire doorframe starts to rattle and shake like it's being pulled off its hinges. I cower on the floor, clinging to the phone.

  "They're getting in!" I scream.

  "I have a trace on the call. An officer will be there momentarily."

  "Oh, God…What do I do?" I wail.

  "Stay on the line with me, ma'am," the operator commands, before she starts robotically reading off a list of suggestions to me. "Do not engage your attacker. If your attacker has a weapon, do not try to take it from them."

  But at that point, I stop paying attention when a flash of red and blue lights reflects off the window, and the door goes still.

  "Ma'am, our officer is on site. He'll be knocking on your front door. Please let him in when he does."

  "Are you sure it's safe?" I whisper. "What if they're still out there? What if…?"

  "Backup is en route, ma'am. ETA within two minutes or less. Can you please answer the door?"

  I force myself up off the floor when the knock comes. "Okay."

  "Don't hang up. Please let me know when the officer's inside."

  I drop the phone and run toward the front of the apartment, disengaging the dead bolt and throwing open the door.

  Upon seeing my terrified expression, the gray-haired officer gives me a reassuring smile. "It's all right, ma'am. I already had my partner check around back. Whoever was out there is long gone."

  I take a shaky breath. "Are you sure?"

  "Positive," he affirms. "Let's walk through and he can show you what he found." He taps his walkie. "Front of the premises secure, victim unharmed, 10-4."

  I feel like I'm in a trance when he guides me through what I had already come to consider my sanctuary, the remainder of my dinner left on the table, the end of the phone hanging from its cord. The officer, knowing what to do, scoops it up and begins talking to the operator as he points at me to open the back door.

  It's all such a blur as I untwist the lock with my heart in my throat, only to be greeted by the full, round face of the officer's partner.

  "Good evening, ma'am. I already did an initial sweep." He scours the backyard with the beam of his flashlight before letting it come to rest on the base of the door. "And the only thing I found was this," he says, lighting up a series of muddy footprints, one overlapping the other. I gasp, and he gives me a sympathetic look. "Someone was determined to get in here. Do you have any idea of who it could be?"

  I clutch my throat, hearing David's voice inside my head. See, they already think it's your fault…your fault…your fault…

  When I start to tremble, the officer reaches out a hand to me. "It's okay, ma'am. You're safe now."

  I shake my head. "No, I'm not," I mutter, looking up at him sadly. "I'll never be safe again."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Luke

  "And would you look at this folks. Stockton's own Luke Singleton decided to shake things up in what turned out to be the Beavers' fifth rainout of the season. The weather hasn't been kind to Beaver fans this year, but Single sure put on a show for the hometown crowd last night. This woman even jumped out of the stands to get in on the action. Brenda, have you ever seen a tarp used like that before?"

  "No, Phil. I haven't. But it sure looks like fun!"

  "Well, folks if you thought about heading out to Beaver Field this weekend—don't. All three games against the Clearwater Clash are already sold out. How loud do you think the boo-birds are going to be when David Nichols jogs out of the bullpen?"

  "Deaf
ening, Phil. The amount of buzz surrounding these three games is pretty incredible. Here's hoping that Mr. Beaver's son can hit one out of the park off of Nichols. Phil, don't you agree? Winning is the best revenge."

  I turn off the TV and rub my eyes after getting little, if any, sleep. After Roberta went to bed, I pulled up the video of when I got hit, watching it for the very first time. And once I started, I just couldn't stop. I watched it again and again, reliving the slap of the ball smacking against my neck, and the blazing shot of pain that followed soon after, before everything went black. But no matter how many times I watched it, I still couldn't comprehend how Nichols could just stand on the mound as I lay on the ground, unconscious, unresponsive, unable to breathe. Is the guy even human?

  Roberta yawns her way into the kitchen and heads directly for the coffeepot. "What are you doing up so early?"

  "Watching you on the morning news."

  Her shoulders stiffen, while her hand remains motionless over the sink. "I was on the news?"

  "Yeah, we both were."

  She turns the water on. "Did they mention my name?"

  "Nah." I absently stroke my goatee. "You were just some anonymous woman who got in on all the fun."

  "But could you tell it was me?" she asks, still not turning around.

  "I guess. They did zoom in on us at the end."

  She moves over to the refrigerator and peers inside, hiding her face from me. "Yeah, but for how long?"

  "I don't know, a couple of seconds. Why?" I hold the door open for her. "Don't tell me you're camera shy."

  She looks up at me, her eyes flashing with anger. "Are they so hard up for news around here that they'll put anything on TV?"

  I chuckle. "It doesn't take much to make the news in Stockton. They need something to talk about besides the weather."

  "Yeah, because there's no better visual than a woman in a wet T-shirt, right?" she grumbles.

  I let go of the door as she backs away. "Hey, don't get mad at me. I had nothing to do with it."

  She shoves her hand into the bag of coffee, dumping at least three scoops too many into the filter. "You certainly did have something to do with it. I wouldn't have run out there, if not to save your butt."

  I take my phone out of my pocket and wiggle it at her. "Well, it didn't work because my manager already sent me a text that, although he's fining me $250 for the stunt I pulled, I'm still playing today."

  She whirls around. "What?"

  "My bright idea didn't work," I respond glumly. "I guess it all comes down to ticket sales. I'm what everybody's coming to see this weekend. If they don't put me out there, they'll never get the fans back."

  Forcefully punching the on button, she stands there, thoughtfully chewing her lip. The inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee begins to permeate the kitchen, but I move over to the counter and rummage a tea bag out of one of Mom's floral canisters, removing two mugs from the shelf in front of me.

  "Chamomile…really?" she asks.

  After filling my mug at the sink, I place it in the microwave, hit ninety seconds, and wait. "I'm in desperate need of a pregame nap."

  "You can't let it get to you. You're stronger than you think you are."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah." She reaches for my hand. "Don't let him win, Luke. You've been through so much for it not to count for something."

  I meet her eyes. "You really want me to step in there against him?"

  She releases a shuddering sigh. "No, of course not. But I don't wanna see you back down either. You're the better man, Luke. You're worth more than a hundred Davids."

  My lip quirks up. "You talk about him as if you know him."

  The microwave goes off and she drops my hand, turning back to her coffee. But not quick enough to hide the glimpse of pure terror that just washed over her face.

  "Not so fast." I tug on the back of her top.

  "C'mon, Luke," she sighs. "Let me go."

  I slide my hand down to her waist and pull her flush against me, nuzzling her hair. "What is it?"

  "Nothing," she says flatly.

  "It's funny how you know basically everything there is to know about me, and I still know hardly anything about you," I whisper. "It doesn't have to be that way. You can open up to me, Roberta."

  She shakes her head adamantly against my chest. "No, that's where you're wrong, Luke. I can't."

  "Why? I won't betray your confidence. I won't."

  "That's not it," she replies, her body tense.

  "Listen, if you're regretting what almost happened between us last night…" I manfully clear my throat. "It's okay. I just want you to know I'm here for you. As a friend, whatever. It doesn't matter."

  She turns in my arms. "I don't regret it, but…"

  I tremble when her hands come to rest on my chest, their warmth hitting me through my plain white tee. "But…?"

  She ducks her head, but I tilt her chin up, needing her to look at me.

  "Luke, years ago…" She hesitates. "I was m—"

  The house phone rings on the wall, interrupting her. Shaking, she backs out of my arms. "I'll—" she starts, combing her hands through her hair. "I'll get it." And before I can stop her, she moves across the room from me and picks up the phone.

  "Hello?" Her eyes nearly pop out of her head as she grips her stomach. "How did you…?"

  Whatever color that was left in her face vanishes, and realizing that I'm watching her, she turns her back to me.

  "I don't care. Don't you ever call here again."

  She slams the phone down, startling me, then reaches out and holds on to the wall.

  An awkward few seconds go by without either of us saying a word.

  I swallow, deciding to tease her, not knowing what else to do. "What? You're getting calls here now?"

  "Stupid telemarketer," she replies in a low voice. "I think…I think I'm gonna go wake your mom now."

  "Roberta," I murmur. "Wait… We're not done here."

  But she's already gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Roberta

  I get up and go to the door again. Peering through the curtain, I scan the street, searching for any cars that don't belong to the neighbors.

  Sit down, Bobbie Jo. He's not out there. He's at the game.

  Chewing on my thumbnail, I open the Beavers' Twitter feed.

  T7: The Clash go down in order. Clearwater leads 4-3. Hoffman, Singleton, Reardon due up for Stockton.

  The stage is set. According to every report I've read online, that rubber arm of his has been eating up the late innings whenever the Clash have the lead. He's going to come in to the game. I know it. And as if reading my mind, a new tweet rolls in.

  B7: Nichols takes the mound.

  I can't stay on the couch. I stalk around the living room, holding my hand against my forehead. I think I'm going to be sick. And I know it's not just the thought of pitching in front of a sold-out crowd that's pumping David up tonight. Right now, he's hurling his warm-up tosses at the catcher, adding an extra pop to his already intimidating fastball. It's personal now. Luke's not just random target practice to him anymore. He's the guy his ex-wife's shacked up with.

  If only I didn't take a turn on the slip 'n slide… If only I didn't end up on TV… If only he hadn't been in Stockton to see it and start asking questions…

  All the "if onlys" in the world aren't going to change anything. He found me. He knows I'm staying at Luke Singleton's house. The hows and whys of what I'm doing here don't matter to him. I'm with another man, a man who's not him. In his twisted mind, that's all that matters.

  Crash!

  My head darts toward the stairs.

  "Luuuuukey! Where are you?"

  Without another thought, I run up the steps. My heart starts pounding. Please don't tell me… I barge into the bedroom at the end of the hall, only to find Luke's mom leaning halfway out the window. I gasp, rushing toward her. "Mrs. S.! What are you doing?"

  "I wanna fly with your pretty butter
flies," she moans. "They said they'll take me to Lukey."

  "My butterflies? Mrs. S., there aren't any butterflies out there."

  "Yes, there are! I've seen them, the blue and green ones."

  My heart lurches. There are blue and green butterflies on the cover of my journal. I've written in it in front of her plenty of times, but up until now I never thought she noticed it. But then there was that offhand comment she made last night at Beaver Field, the one about David hitting Luke…and me. Oh God, has she read what I've written inside?

  "I'll get the butterflies for you." I bargain with her. "I know where they are, but you have to step away from the window."

  I expect her to thrash against me, resisting any attempt to pull her out of harm's way, but instead, she limply collapses into me, sobbing. I steal a glance over her head, and the screen's lying on the ground below. What if I was too late? What if she jumped before I could get up here? I hug her to me as she cries her heart out, trembling.

  In order to pacify her, I rock back and forth with her in my arms, humming gently. Of all times for her to do something like this…it's like she somehow knows her son's in danger and she's trying to get to him any way she can, all thanks to me. I clutch her tiny body to me and smooth her hair away from her face. "It's okay, Mrs. S. I've got you."

  She hiccups, trying to catch her breath. "But Lukey…"

  I lower us onto the foot of the bed and reluctantly reach for my phone. "Let's see how he's doing, okay?"

  She buries her face in my shoulder, almost like she's afraid to find out. Gathering my courage, I turn it on.

  B7: Hoffman K looking. *PITCHING CHANGE* Nichols out. Juarez in. Singleton due up next.

  Tossing my phone aside, I let out a yelp of joy and Luke's mom stares up at me. Covering my mouth, I rub her back, too overwhelmed to speak. David's not going to pitch to Luke. He's safe.

  "Is Lukey all right?" she asks, her eyes shining up at me.

  "Yes." I nod, smiling at her. "He's fine."

  She snuggles up against me. "Good. I knew your butterflies would get to him in time."

  Alzheimer's patients tend to grow more childlike in their behavior. Some family members find it incredibly hard to deal with, but right now I don't think I've ever witnessed such a genuine feeling of contentment in anyone before. Without rhyme or reason, she trusts me. Like somehow, someway, she knows I'd never lie to her about her son, that we both care about him, each in our own way.