by Mindy Klasky
His heart seized like he’d caught a fastball in the center of his chest.
She laughed, though, a sound he hadn’t realized he needed to hear, and she said, “I’m starving.”
“Let me guess. A fruit plate. With yogurt. And a gallon of coffee, extra hot.”
“Exactly.” She collapsed back on her pillow. If she had any idea what she looked like there—her lips still swollen from the night before, that love bite purple on her throat… She stretched again, and the sheet slipped away from her chest.
If he didn’t get out of bed now, they wouldn’t eat till noon. And as gorgeous as she was, he was damn hungry himself. Room service would take too long. He could raid the breakfast bar and bring them plates before either of them collapsed from starvation.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled himself to his feet. He was still getting his balance when he heard her shocked gasp.
Damn. Damn, shit, fuck.
Despite everything they’d done—out at the beach house, here, last night—she hadn’t seen his back before. For the weeks they’d lived together, he’d made sure he stayed covered—it had been easy enough to wear a T-shirt to bed, and he’d carried his clothes into the bathroom to shower and change. It had been easier that way. Simpler.
He heard her sit up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the sheets snake around; she was covering herself in shock. In disgust.
“Drew,” she said.
But that didn’t sound like disgust. Worse. It sounded like pity.
He should be used to this by now. The trainers all had some idea; they worked him over with professional hands that didn’t seem to feel the scars. The guys in the locker room knew better than to say anything. Hell, some of them had their own marks; he wasn’t the only guy with an asshole of a father.
Women were the worst. They asked questions. They wanted to know if it hurt—hell, yeah, it did at the time, but not any more. They wanted to know how it happened. Most of the time, he shrugged it off—you should see the other guy, it’s tough playing ball, it was an accident that happened a long time ago, when I was just a kid.
He never stayed with anyone long enough to bother telling the truth. They never really cared.
But this time he couldn’t make a joke. He couldn’t tell a lie. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window because it was easier to talk to the palm trees than to turn around toward Jessica.
“There was a reason we moved around so much.” If he hadn’t been sawing the words out of his own chest, he wouldn’t have recognized his voice. The words stuck on his tongue like pine tar. But if he stopped now, if he didn’t tell her everything, he’d never be able to start again. “Bobby beat the crap out of me. The first time, when he used his fists, he left bruises anyone could see. But a belt and a buckle stayed hidden.”
He was lost. He didn’t know what else to say. I took it. I let him do it. I let him pound me till I cried.
“My God,” Jessica breathed. And then he felt her pull herself upright; the mattress shifted, and the sheets moved around again. “But I read through all those files. There isn’t anything—no doctor’s report, no school counselor.”
The sound that came out of him was halfway between a bark and a laugh. “That’s the way Susan wanted it. Why stop the bastard, when you can just move to a new town? A new school. A place where no one knew.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
I was a fucking coward.
He shrugged. “It was all fucked up. Bobby said I deserved it. Susan said the government would take me away forever, that she’d never see me again. I wanted to leave them, I wanted to get away, but I knew I deserved it. Bobby wouldn’t get so angry if I didn’t break the rules. It was all my fault.”
“Jesus,” she breathed, and then a thread of anger stiffened up her voice. “It wasn’t your fault. You know that now, don’t you?”
He didn’t say anything.
“Drew, you were just a kid. They were criminals. They were animals.”
“It was just the three of us.” He knew his words were stupid, but he couldn’t explain it any other way. He’d watched TV when he was a kid; he saw movies. He knew mothers and fathers were supposed to be different. They were supposed to love their kids. But he didn’t have a mother and father. He had Susan and Bobby.
“You should talk to someone now,” she said, like that was reasonable, like it would be the easiest thing in the world.
My father beat me with his belt until I blacked out, and my mother didn’t stop him. I didn’t fight back because I didn’t want to be like him. I left my mother with him for years after I finally walked away myself. I’m a selfish bastard who deserved everything I got.
“That’s not going to happen,” he said to the palm trees.
“Drew,” she said, but he didn’t turn around. She repeated his name: “Drew!”
He had to turn then, because he didn’t want her to be like the others. He didn’t want her to look at him like he was crazy, or like he was a puppy with a wounded paw. He didn’t want her to thank him for a great night, to walk away, to be done with him forever.
She was kneeling on the bed, with the sheet tucked under her arms, like she was one of those Greek goddesses in a temple or something. Her eyes flashed as she leaned toward him, and she said, “You were the victim. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
That’s what she was supposed to say. But that’s not what it felt like.
Then he realized something. This was Jessica he was talking to. Jessica Barnes from Image Masters LLC. Jessica Barnes whose job was to fix him, to make the world accept him, to smooth everything over and make everything all right.
“You can’t fix this,” he warned her.
“We can—”
“No. You’re not putting this into your spreadsheets. You’re not making it part of my Sympathy Index or my Charisma Index or whatever the hell you do. I don’t want to be spun.”
“I wouldn’t—”
But she stopped herself. She knew it was a lie, and he did too.
“If you tell everyone, Jessica, then you take away everything I went through. It’s all shit, then, the moving and the new schools and the lies. I did what I had to do—so did Bobby, so did Susan. If you make it part of your message, then none of it mattered, none of it had a reason.”
He wasn’t making sense. He didn’t have the words—not like she did. But he couldn’t let her take away his past, couldn’t let her turn it into something brave and heroic and noble, when it hadn’t been anything like that.
“Promise me, Jessica. Tell me you won’t give this to the press.”
She shook her head. She didn’t want to promise. But he didn’t look away, didn’t give her a chance to pretend that this was just another conversation, just another day at the office. Finally, she swallowed. She sighed, long and low. She shook her head again. But she said, “Fine. I promise.”
But that wasn’t the end.
Because she leaned forward. She bent toward him until she could touch her lips to his. Her kiss was quiet, sweet, different from any other they’d exchanged.
She raised her hand, and he thought she was going to touch his jaw, to rub her palm against his beard. She didn’t, though. She reached around and flattened her palm against his back.
He flinched.
She didn’t drop her hand, though, disgusted by the damaged skin beneath her fingers. Instead, she stroked the line of his spine, from his neck down to his ass. Her fingers were firm, certain, and she didn’t pull away.
When she’d finished, she pressed her palm flat, as if she could absorb everything that had happened, all the damage Bobby had ever done. And then she leaned in for another kiss, letting her sheet fall away. She pressed her body against his chest and her hands against his back, and he realized they weren’t going to eat breakfast any time soon.
~~~
Jessica sat in the stands, craning her neck to get a better view of the plate. She’d been listen
ing to the women around her—wives and girlfriends of other Rockets players—and she knew the New York hitter was real trouble. He took a couple of swings before he stepped into the box, where he pointed his bat toward the low fence at the center of the field.
When the pitch came, the bat connected with a splintering sound. The barrel shattered into three large pieces, one of which flew directly toward the pitcher like a javelin. The guy got his glove up, protecting his face from the shrapnel, but he only managed to deflect the ball that was also streaking toward him. It bounced off the back of the mound and took a crazy angle toward the outfield.
But it never got there. Drew took a running leap sideways, extending both arms and snagging the ball in the web of his glove. He landed hard on his side, but he was already scrambling up, planting his feet, throwing a missile to first and securing the third out of the inning.
The crowd cheered.
Everything was different about this game. The sullen mood of the fans had been washed away by yesterday’s torrential rains. The team was playing better; they were more aware of each other, better able to predict where their opponents were going to hit balls.
Drew had made another spectacular play earlier, catching a ball on a high bounce and whipping it to second in plenty of time for Nick Durban to throw the ball to Tyler Brock. Two outs, in less time than it had taken for her to jump to her feet, to cheer Drew’s name with the rest of the crowd.
For the first time in days, Jessica was certain that Drew’s Competence Index would be soaring. And she might be a little biased, but his Charisma Index would be off the charts as well.
She understood the mechanics of reputation management. She knew Chip’s team back in the office was working the social media, planting stories, spreading the good ones, trying to tamp down the bad ones.
They still had three days before the release of Ross Parker’s feature.
She’d done all she could to counter the story. She’d reviewed every document that afternoon, before she’d come to the ballpark. She’d sorted through the details, drafted a through-line, shifted the pieces over and over and over again. Sure, Drew had made mistakes. But lots of people weren’t proud of what they’d done when they were kids. In fact, the Rockets had a bit of a reputation as a turn-around place; Jessica had come across dozens of stories about the team’s popular first baseman, about how he’d rehabilitated his reputation as a hothead.
She’d used those facts in her own story. She’d compared Drew to Tyler Brock. She’d explained that he’d been on his own at the age of eighteen, technically an adult, but still learning to function in the complex grown-up world. On his own, he’d chosen an agent. On his own, he’d built a career.
And if he’d spent too much time in bars, invited too many women back to his hotel rooms, taken too many chances for too little advantage, what young ballplayer hadn’t? Drew had learned from his mistakes. He was ready to throw himself on the mercy of the crowd. He was ready to set aside his past and become a new man.
And she’d written all of that without telling the truth he wanted hidden. Without giving a hint of the abuse he’d suffered—just like she’d promised. Knowing where the proverbial bodies were buried, she’d been able to plot a path that would keep them all safe.
Drew was the first batter up at the start of the next inning. As Jessica cheered, she couldn’t help overhearing the chatter between the two women next to her—Ashley Harris and Jamie Martin. The best friends were visiting from Raleigh; they’d come down for a long weekend to cheer their fiancés to victory. Ashley, in particular, had taken Jessica under her wing, entertaining her with stories about the restaurant she was in the midst of launching, filling her in about Jamie’s thriving photography business.
Jessica had reciprocated as best she could, offering a few Image Masters tips about ways the other women could build their businesses. It sounded as if Ashley’s Charisma Index was at an all-time high after her appearance on a reality TV show, and Jamie’s Competence Index was unmatched when it came to portrait photography. It was fun to share the tools Ashley usually applied in a conference room, tossing out ideas in the relaxed atmosphere of the baseball stadium—especially when her new friends were so appreciative.
“Wow,” Ashley said, after Jessica explained how the SCC Index system could help launch a new restaurant. “It’s great having you around! You really get what it’s like, trying to run a business and keep up with these guys at the same time!” She nodded toward the baseball diamond, where Drew was just stepping into the batter’s box.
Jessica smiled ruefully. “But you all know so much about the game.”
Jamie laughed. “Whirlwind romance will do that to a girl. Stick around for a few months, and you’ll know a lot about baseball too. That’s all the guys talk about—who made what play when.” She rolled her eyes, but she laughed as she said it. Jessica got the distinct impression that Jamie didn’t mind hearing about spectacular plays from Nick Durban.
Back at the plate, the umpire shouted, “Strike one!” Drew hadn’t even swung his bat. He kicked at the dirt and lowered his head. Jessica thought she saw his lips move, but she couldn’t hear what he said.
“Strike two!”
Ashley elbowed Jessica in disgust. “If they’re going to give Nakamura the high strike and the low one, Drew doesn’t stand a chance.”
Jessica held her breath as the slender pitcher wound up his arm again. Drew swung his bat in a perfect arc; the sound belonged in an orchestra. Ashley shouted, “That one’s out of here!” and she was right—the ball looked like it was still rising when it flew over the fence. Drew trotted around the bases, raising his arms at the end to take the high-five congratulations of the next guy to bat.
He paused, though, before he headed back to the dugout. He scanned the stands quickly, until he found Jessica. He tipped his cap toward her, and she felt her cheeks flame as every single person in the tiny stadium turned to stare at her.
So she did what any good fiancée would do. She blew him a kiss.
And she wondered if his body ached the way hers did, if he’d discovered muscles he hadn’t used in far too long, if he was feeling giddy and jumpy and just a little bit drunk from lack of sleep the night before.
She hoped so. Because it would be a crime for him not to share how happy she was.
~~~
Drew could get used to this.
He could get used to waking up beneath crisp hotel sheets. He could get used to the glow of sunrise outside the arched window. He could get used to propping himself up on the pillows, to studying the woman beside him, to watching the way the morning light caught the red streaks deep in her dark brown hair.
Forget about her hair. It was her body he was staring at. He wanted to run his hand over her hip, to dip his fingers into the warmth between her thighs. He wanted to fold his arm over her side and cup one of her tits in his palm, to feel her nipple stiffen before she even woke up. He wanted to lick the hollow behind her knee, to trace his lips up the back of her thigh, to graze his teeth across the curve of her ass.
Shit. He was hard again. It felt like he’d regressed to seventh grade, like he’d been hard every waking moment—and half his sleeping ones—since Wednesday night.
He marched one stiff finger down her spine, grinning like a fool when she moved in her sleep, rising to meet his touch. He spread his hand over her ass, rubbing each cheek, pulling close enough that he could touch her with his throbbing cock.
Her eyes opened. “What time is it?”
He leaned down and kissed the twin Vs at the base of her spine. “Good morning to you too.”
She rolled away from him. “No, really. What time is it?”
He couldn’t help but glance at her bare wrist before he turned to the clock on the nightstand. “A couple of minutes to six.”
“Dammit! I should have set an alarm.” She scrambled out of bed before he could stop her. She didn’t bother finding a robe, or covering herself with a sheet the way she had o
n Thursday. Instead, she fished around on the floor until she came up with the white dress shirt he’d worn the night before. She pulled it on and fastened a few strategic buttons. He wasn’t about to tell her she was every bit as sexy barely covering up her assets as she’d been when she was stark naked. He wasn’t an idiot. But he sure as hell enjoyed the view as she sat on the edge of the desk chair.
“Come on…” she muttered as she waited for her computer to connect up.
He leaned back on his pillows and shifted the sheets to cover the hard-on that wasn’t giving any signs of letting up. Then he laced his fingers behind his head and asked, “What’s more interesting than Sunday morning nookie with a gen-u-ine major league baseball player?”
She barely glanced at him. “Sunday morning news stories about a gen-u-ine major league baseball player.”
Her computer must have loaded whatever page she’d been waiting for. She pounced on it like a lion bringing down a gazelle. She read with a fierce intensity, scrolling through paragraphs more rapidly than anyone he’d ever seen before. Her lips pursed and she nodded, tight little acknowledgments like she was counting items on a checklist. When she got to the end, she typed in a series of quick commands, her fingers flashing faster than a catcher giving signs.
She swore when the first page came up. He watched her eyes dart from top to bottom, watched her wrist flick as she scrolled down. Then it was time for more typing, more secret messages jumping between her hands and the computer.
This time, she was happier with what she found. The tension in her shoulders eased; she sat back just a little in the chair. She read more of the page before she typed another command.
He watched her for half an hour, fascinated by her intensity, by her sheer determination as she leaped from page to page. Somewhere along the way, his cock accepted it wasn’t getting any. Instead, he marveled at the way she buried herself in her work, the way she tuned out everything—and everyone—around her.
She didn’t even notice when he climbed out of bed. She didn’t see when he reached into the pocket of her jeans, when he plucked out her phone and turned off its power. For good measure, he pulled his own off its charger. He turned it off, too, and then he padded into the bathroom to hide both of them behind his shaving cream.