Single (Stockton Beavers #1)

by Collette West

  Until it started happening in the off-season. And when I refused to put up with it anymore, that's when the beatings began.

  He didn't want to get married so young. I was eighteen. He was twenty-one. But when he found out I was carrying his child, things changed. I threatened to go back home and beg my parents to forgive me if he didn't stop hitting me, and he knew he was in danger of losing his most coveted possession—me. I don't think the concept of being a father to an actual child ever really hit home for him. It had more to do with ownership than anything else. In his mind, it wasn't the marriage vows we exchanged that bound us together. It had more to do with the fact that something that belonged to him was growing inside me. And if he could give life, he could also take it away. I think he was jealous of our unborn child because he was supposed to be the most important person in my life, not some baby.

  Luke props himself up on his elbow and stares at me before speaking, "When you talked to the cops about him…what did they say?"

  "Since I didn't report the abuse from the beginning, they said I didn't have much of a case," I reply into the darkness. "After they made me get undressed so they could photograph my stomach… I swore I'd never put myself through that again."

  His hold on me tightens. "Why would they wanna do that?"

  I bite my lip, cursing my loose tongue.

  "Roberta, did he…?" He can't even say it.

  "Yes," I respond, my voice devoid of emotion. "When I was pregnant, he kicked me in the stomach when I told him I was leaving him. And it took a long time for the bruises to go away."

  Luke buries his face in the crook of my neck, exhaling loudly. He can't take what he just heard, but at the same time, he doesn't want to see me any more upset than I already am. He's trying valiantly to stifle his anger, putting me first like he always does.

  But there's a sensitive subject that's been looming in the air between us for quite a while, and it's one he can't resist bringing up now. "What you went through…I can't even imagine how terrible it must've been for you. But don't believe for one moment that you're not gonna be a great mother someday because I know you are. I can feel it."

  I love Luke. I treasure what we have beyond measure. But what I say next could upend the life we've been building together. There's a natural progression in any relationship—attraction, dating, marriage, kids. And it kills me that I won't be able to give him everything he's dreaming of.

  "It's not that simple, Luke," I hedge, pushing his hand away.

  "Don't do this," he begs. "Don't hide away inside yourself—not when I'm right here."

  I struggle to draw air into my lungs. "Luke, please. You don't understand."

  "Just like I thought no one would understand about Mom," he whispers softly. "Until I met you."

  I sniffle back a sob and clutch his arm. "It's not that I want to give David so much power over me."

  "Then, Roberta, why do you?"

  I take a deep breath. "Because of him, I had to have a—"

  WAH! WAH! WAH!

  The sound of the security alarm cuts me off midsentence. For a moment, we're both too stunned to move until he bolts out of bed and reaches for his pants. Scrubbing his hands through his hair, his eyes take in my startled expression. "Stay here. I'll go see what's up."

  I slide my feet into my bedroom slippers. "No, I'm coming with you. Your mom could be halfway down the block by now."

  "Roberta, it's not Mom," he says, his tone firm.

  "What do you mean? Of course it is! We're both up here, and the alarm—"

  "I reconfigured it to go off in case someone tried to get in, not out. So until I know what's going on, I want you to wait upstairs. Don't follow me."

  A chill runs down my spine as he pulls a baseball bat out of the hall closet. I run up to him and lay a hand on his arm. "Luke, don't."

  He hurries by me. "There's no time."

  "Why do you need a bat?" I demand, standing in front of him.

  We exchange a look as he says, "You know why," before hustling past me.

  "Luke!" I cry out.

  But he doesn't stop. He just keeps going.

  It's David. I know it is. And now's he's going to hurt Luke again and…

  But first, I need to make sure his mom is okay. Hastily, I whip one of Luke's plain white tees over my head—the soft one that smells like him, the one I'd stolen out of his drawer weeks ago, the one I've been sleeping in whenever he's on the road to make me feel safe. I'm already halfway out the door as I shrug into my robe, scared to death of the danger he may be putting himself in for me at this very moment. With the alarm blaring and my nerves on edge, I rush into his mom's room, only to find her bashing her head against the wall.

  "Mrs. S.! Stop!"

  The high-pitched wail has thrown her into a frenzy, and I don't even think she can hear me at this point. I grab the back of her nightgown, but to no avail. When Alzheimer's patients work themselves up into such a state, their strength can be superhuman at times. With no other option, I wrap my arms around her waist and forcibly pull her away from the wall, the backward momentum causing us to fall in a heap on her bed—and that's when I feel something warm drip onto my fingers. Blood. Her blood. Oh, no, she's busted her head open. Struggling to sit up, I hurriedly remove the robe I just put on and hold it against her forehead. But she's not having any of it. She wants out.

  "You can't leave, Mrs. S.," I groan, holding her back. "Lukey wants you to stay right where you are."

  The alarm is still going off. Is Luke okay? What if David is down there beating him senseless? I need to check on him, but how can I leave his mom? Not knowing what to do, I'm thankful when the alarm finally stops.

  Now that the source of her distress has ended, she goes limp in my arms and issues a soft moan. "Lukey?"

  I reapply the pressure to her wound. "Yeah, Lukey. He'll be right up, okay?"

  "Okay."

  At least, I hope he will because I don't even want to consider the alternative.

  My nerves are about at their breaking point when someone comes in and flicks on the light. Momentarily blinded, I raise a hand to my eyes and squint against the glare, my heart in my throat. Please don't let it be…

  "The back door was wide open. Someone kicked it in."

  My hand flies to my chest.

  "I didn't see anyone." Luke smacks the bat against his palm before propping it up against the wall. "I only found a big, muddy footprint on the door, nothing in the kitchen. The alarm must've scared them off."

  "But he'll be back…"

  "We don't even know that it was him."

  "I do."

  Luke throws me a startled glance. "Why do you say that?"

  "Because he's done it before."

  "Roberta, I—"

  "Don't you see, Luke? That's why I shouldn't have stayed. He always comes back."

  He sits down beside me, taking the bloodied robe out of my hand to examine his mom's face. She gazes at him in adoration as he dabs at her forehead.

  I duck underneath his outstretched arm, too keyed up to remain seated any longer. "I'll go get the first aid kit."

  "Just so you know, I called the security company," he says once my back is turned. "I told them it was just a false alarm."

  I pause halfway to the door. "Having the police come wouldn't do any good anyway. It never does."

  "But if it was him, he has a record now. He just served time… Why would he risk going back to jail by breaking and entering?"

  "Because he's obsessed with me."

  Luke sighs, the kind of sigh that makes me want to turn around and do nothing but curl up in his arms. But he has his mom to worry about, and she needs to be tended to. I can't collapse on him now. I need to be strong. But what he says next makes me grip the doorframe for support.

  "Roberta, I swear I'll never let him get anywhere near you. He'll have to kill me first."

  All these horrible scenarios flash through my mind, each one worse than the other.

  "Luk
e, please," I moan. "Please don't say things like that."

  "I mean it. He's taken enough from you. He's not going to take any more."

  I glance back at him. "But you'll let him take you away from me?"

  He clenches his jaw and turns back toward his mom.

  "Luke, promise me now that you won't do anything stupid. That…" I start choking up. "That you'll never leave me."

  When he finally looks up at me, his usually hypnotic eyes appear tortured, his mouth forming a thin line. "I promise," he whispers. "No matter what, I'll never leave you."

  I nod before walking out of the room, not feeling the least bit better.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Luke

  When Hoff catches strike three to end the top of the seventh, I remain at second base, waiting for the PA announcement I know is coming.

  "Now pitching for the Clash, number nineteen, David Nichols."

  As if on cue, everything goes black around me. But I don't panic. I'm able to recognize it for what it is. I've experienced this kind of crippling fear before, and my survival instincts have burned the memory into the farthest recesses of my brain. I only think that I'm trapped at the bottom of a deep, dark well—but I'm not really. Now I know there's a pinprick of light to guide me out. I just have to look for it in the form of those shining blue eyes.

  I'm due up first. I shouldn't still be out here. I close my eyes and breathe as the sinking sensation that's been plaguing me all night long engulfs me. I've been trying to be strong for her, but my fear is hitting me full on. I can't run from it anymore. But this isn't how my nightmares started. It's not like the last time. I'm not caught off guard. I know what's coming. I'm the one in control, not him.

  Blinking, my vision starts to clear and I zone in on the familiar row of seats above the dugout—my haven, my sanctuary. Roberta is standing, clutching Mom's hand, and my heart starts beating again. I may not have the guts to step into the batter's box for myself. But for her, I'll find the courage to do anything.

  Hoff thumps me on the back, still in his catcher's gear. "C'mon, Single," he says, taking my glove off my hand and squeezing my fingers around my bat. "Time to hit."

  For a moment, it's like I'm right back where I started, sprawled on the ground, fighting for my life. I can't feel my arm. I can't talk. I can't breathe.

  "He'd be an idiot to try anything," Hoff mutters. "Look at all your teammates over there. They're ready to charge the mound if he even so much as thinks of coming inside on you."

  My legs start to function again as he leads me toward home plate, firmly planting his hand between the two nines on my back. And for the first time, I notice that Roberta and Mom aren't the only ones who are on their feet. The entire stadium is giving me a standing ovation, and I haven't even done anything yet. That's Stockton for you. They always turn out to support one of their own.

  "Hoff," I croak, finding my tongue. "He's not gonna change how he pitches me one bit."

  Hoff shoots me a puzzled glance. "Single, he may be crazy, but nobody's that stupid."

  "He is."

  I grip the bat, taking comfort in the weight of the smooth, solid wood in my hand, and the damage I can do with it.

  A thunderous chorus of boos rains down from the stands, signaling Nichols's arrival, and Hoff has to practically scream in my ear, "Single, what do you know that you're not telling me?"

  But the umpire clearly wants to move things along when he shouts at the batboy to bring out my helmet. However, there's something I have to do before I dig in. Quickly, I find Roberta in the stands again. If I'm scared, she has to be absolutely terrified. But as I let my gaze come to rest on her, she's not even looking at him—she's looking at me. That's my fearless girl. I didn't want her and Mom staying behind, not after what happened last night. I insisted on them coming to the game. So Roberta bravely put her fears aside for me, and I'm determined to do the same for her as I tip my cap at her.

  "Single," Hoff grunts, grasping my shoulder, ready to offer me one last piece of advice. "Just take three pitches and get outta there. No one's asking you to play the hero."

  I hand the batboy my cap and plunk my helmet down on top of my head, adjusting the extended chin protector. The Beavers' equipment manager added it, thinking it'd make me feel more secure. I didn't have the heart to tell him, "Thanks, but my neck's still exposed." All night, everyone's been trying to pick me up. Even Rex, my manager, offered to send in a pinch hitter for me if Nichols came into the game, but I said no. This is something I have to do.

  Tapping the toe of each cleat with the head of my bat, I take a few practice swings before offering Hoff a shaky grin. "Enough chitchat, old man. You're up after me."

  Hoff glares at me. "You're so close to making it to the majors, kid, so don't let this asshole take it all away from you." His eyes soften inexplicably. "What you've been able to achieve this season? Your father would be proud of you. I know I am."

  He heads slowly toward the dugout with a hitch in his step. This is probably the end of the line for Hoff. His body's giving out on him. He doesn't have much left in the tank. His wisdom's sound because it's backed by some pretty hard-won experience. But making the Kings isn't my focus anymore. Something else is driving me now.

  "Now batting, second baseman, number ninety-nine, Luke Singleton."

  The crowd erupts, and I nod at the umpire as I draw a line in the dirt with my bat, marking how far off the plate I plan on setting up. Blood rushes to my head, and I can hear my heart thudding in my ears. I square myself even with the plate. If he hits me, he hits me. Let him throw as hard as he can. I survived it before. I'll survive it again.

  Taking one last breath, I extend my bat like a samurai sword toward the pitcher's mound and will myself to look at the thug who thought he could knock me down so hard I'd never get back up again, at the coward who thought he could barge into my home uninvited and hurt the woman I love.

  I can't even see his eyes, the brim of his cap is down so low. He's a shadow, a phantasm of my imagination. Although, he's bigger than I remember, probably having bulked up while in prison. But I'm not intimidated. According to the advance scouting reports, he doesn't throw over a hundred miles per hour anymore. He's lost velocity on his fastball, only handicapping himself by adding all that extra muscle. While I've worked on streamlining my swing, getting the bat head through the zone quicker than ever before. I smile at him. I may be smaller, but I'm faster. A mouse will always be able to outrun an elephant.

  The Clash catcher peers up at me. "Watch out, man. It's August and he still hasn't memorized the signs. I've had more passed balls this year thanks to this idiot than I've had my whole career."

  I spit into the dirt. "But for as long as you've been catching him, he hasn't hit anybody, right?"

  "Not yet," he replies glumly.

  I don't have time to digest his warning when the umpire calls, "Play ball."

  Immediately, Nichols winds, sets, and delivers. And I almost can't believe it when the ball breaks in on me in a hurry, and my body acts of its own accord. Before I know it, my backside is smacking against the ground so hard, my teeth rattle inside my head and a sharp burst of pain shoots up my spine.

  "You were warned, Nichols!" the umpire yells above my head. He's seconds away from ejecting him from the game, but I can't let him do that.

  I force myself to stagger to my feet. "Stupid reflexes. It wasn't even close."

  The umpire shoots me a skeptical look. He knows it was way inside, and so do I. But Nichols isn't bullying his way out of this. It's going to take a lot more than one pitch to settle the score.

  Tipping up his mask, the ump says to me, "Take as much time as you need," before leisurely strolling toward the backstop.

  Using the moment to my advantage, I sneak a glance at section 110. Mom's on her feet, mimicking the actions of the people around her, booing Nichols along with everyone else. If I were in a laughing mood, I'd be cracking up at her wagging her finger in the air. Unsure of what s
he's supposed to be shouting at the pitcher who nearly hit her son a second time, she gazes at the man next to her who's screaming his head off, trying to figure it out.

  Roberta, meanwhile, is back in her seat with her hands covering her mouth. She's depending on me to keep her safe. If I go down, Nichols will have a clear path to her, and that's just not going to happen.

  Motioning to the umpire, I dig back in. This time when I stare out at the mound, I detect a hint of a smirk on Nichols's face. He clearly enjoyed knocking me on my ass again. My blood boils as I lift my bat over my shoulder. He's not going to get away with it, not this time.

  He rears back, putting a little extra on his delivery, and the ball flies so quickly out of his hand, I'm unable to pick up his release point. I can barely make out the whirling red-and-white blur as it comes hurtling toward me. I force myself to stay back on it, waiting until the last possible moment to follow through on my swing. And lo and behold, I make contact. The ball shoots off my bat like a bullet, reversing trajectory and heading straight back to where it came from.

  The resulting crack isn't from the shards of my bat breaking. It's Nichols's pitching hand as he writhes in agony on the mound, the ball at his feet.

  A collective gasp goes up from the crowd, but his teammates stay right where they are. They don't make a move toward him, or the ball.

  The umpire sighs behind me, "Go on. Take your base."

  "But…"

  "I said, take your base," he barks. "And if they don't wanna defend, take another. It's still a live ball."

  Reluctantly, I drop what's left of my bat and jog toward first.

  "How could you do this to me?" Nichols cries with tears rolling down his cheeks as I hustle by him. "Oh God, it hurts…it hurts! Look at it!" He holds up his hand and his fingers are hanging at an awkward angle while a giant, circular bruise is swelling across the front of it.

  "Wow, um, I didn't mean—"

  "Oh, yes, you did! You wanted me to look pathetic in her eyes."

  "You don't need me to do that. You did it all by yourself."

  I keep striding forward, and when my foot touches first base, the catcher dutifully strides to the mound and scoops up the ball. The trainer sprints toward Nichols, and when he bawls like a baby that he'll never be able to grip a baseball again, that sinking sensation finally starts to leave my stomach. If he can't grip a baseball, then he can't make a fist, which means he won't be able to hurt Roberta, not anymore. Whether he knows it or not, it's over. And based on the way Roberta's back on her feet, her head slowly turning from him to me, it's clear that she doesn't realize it. Because knowing her as well as I do, it's obvious she's still afraid.