Rundown (Curveball Book 2)

  “Talk to me,” Drew pleads.

  I shake my head as we round another turn and dip down a small hill. The sensation does more than create butterflies; it threatens to unload the knots in my stomach.

  “I’m going to be sick. Pull over.”

  Drew pulls off the side of the road and slams on the breaks. He’s out of the car in seconds, helping me get a few feet from the car just in time. He swiftly pulls my hair to the side and rubs my back until I’m done.

  “Tell me how to help you.”

  “You can’t,” I exclaim, collapsing on my knees.

  “Are you going to get sick again?”

  “I don’t know…I…I want to hit something,” I proclaim.

  Drew rubs my back for several minutes before vanishing. I hear the slamming of a car door and wonder if he’s had enough. If that were the case, I wouldn’t blame him. My life is a complete and utter mess. I turn in time to see Drew pull onto the road and feel more defeated than I thought possible.

  I didn’t think he’d really go.

  Ignoring the shifting headlights, I fall back to a sitting position on the snow. I gather up the snow at my feet and make a pile of snowballs. Once I have a decent arsenal, I stand and riffle them into the darkness. If only Mark were in front of me.

  “Here, take these,” Drew says.

  When I turn around, Drew’s holding a bucket of baseballs and a bat.

  “What’s this?”

  “You wanted to hit something.” He hands me the bat and walks deeper into the field, which is completely illuminated.

  He wasn’t leaving, he just moved the car.

  “Come on. I’ll go easy on you,” he says, stretching his arm. “This is what I do sometimes when I’m pissed. I’ll find a random place and toss balls to myself. It’s a good way to get your frustrations out.”

  Willing to give it a try, I position the bat over my shoulder and take a few practice swings. Drew throws the first ball and I miss by a long shot. Of course, this fuels my fire.

  “Again.”

  The next ball sails toward me and I swing with everything I have. Crack. The sensation of making contact with the ball vibrates up my arms and slightly stings my hands. It feels good.

  “What are you thinking about?” Drew asks as he releases another ball.

  “That I am so sick of everyone telling me what to do,” I yell, surprising myself. “Calm down, Breanne. Talk to me, Breanne. Don’t correct the media about what happened in California. Let them think your fiancé’s two-timing you. Don’t talk to anyone about the investigation. Don’t tell anyone I’m not dead.”

  My head is whirling from all the demands. I swing at the next ball and miss. The relief from shouting is just as good.

  “All the lies. Why does the truth have to be so fucking difficult, huh? I’m not a child...I’m just stupid...too naive. Mark couldn’t trust me with the truth to the point of faking his own death.”

  Crack.

  “Who knows what Vivian’s after but it’s so important that she’s willing to kill me and the people I love. I’m like a pawn in some twisted game that I didn’t even know I was playing.”

  Crack.

  “No one else should decide what information I deserve to have or what I can handle. I make those choices. Not Mark. Not Vivian. Not the damn FBI or CIA.”

  Crack.

  “And not you.”

  “I’m not him,” Drew insists.

  “Mark didn’t just lie to me. He kept things from me too. I know it might not be on the same scale, but you’re keeping something from me. Whatever you found in the barn…I see it’s weighing on you. It probably impacts us both and you’ve chosen to keep me in the dark. Tell me how what you’ve done is any different.”

  Drew throws another ball and I ignore it, letting it whiz by as I watch him intently. Minutes pass without a response and I’ve had it. I’ve reached my breaking point. If I can’t trust Drew, who can I trust?

  “Am I wrong?”

  Silence.

  He can’t deny it because it’s true. He’s not ready to explain and I’m tired of waiting.

  Well, screw this.

  I toss the bat to the ground and walk to Spencer’s car.

  SIXTEEN

  Leave Your Mark

  The minute Everett brought me to the guest room—that’s right, the fucking guest room of my own house—I went ape shit. Spencer ignored my tantrum as he read Everett the riot act, spewing bullshit about alliances between the agencies, protocol and other nonsense I blocked out. My focus was on the fact that Breanne was downstairs in our house with her husband. I grilled Everett about what he knew, which was essentially nothing. That should have made me feel better since he wasn’t keeping things from me, yet all it did was fuel my fire.

  I punched a wall. I nearly punched him. A shit storm was brewing in my mind. The last few months have been perfect. Maddie calls me Dad. With Mark back will Breanne just pick up where she left off with him? Am I out of the picture? I just fucking proposed and she said yes without hesitation. What the fuck does this mean?

  Had I calmed down long enough to breathe, I could have answered my own questions by listening to the conversation that was taking place downstairs. Too bad that’s not what I did. Instead, I paced the damn room relentlessly until I heard her footsteps racing into the master bedroom. Pushing past Everett, I fled the guest room…I needed to see her, to touch her…anything. But having her in my arms did nothing to dispel my fears. The look of uncertainty on her face scared the shit out of me.

  Just like Breanne needed a reprieve, so did I. I had to hit something. What I really wanted to do was use Mark’s face as a punching bag. Well, his or Spencer’s. Doubting that’d go over well with either the CIA or Breanne, I settled for my bat and baseballs. Hitting balls in the open field for an hour or so after Breanne took off with Spencer was exactly the outlet I needed. While it felt good at the time, the release it gave me didn’t last too long. The only difference is that I no longer feel angry. I feel hopeless.

  Sitting in a chair in the middle of the guest room at my place, I watch Breanne sleep and replay conversations we’ve had about Mark from when we first met.

  “So you haven’t dated at all since your husband died?” I asked.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Have you wanted to?”

  “No, I meant forever when I said ‘I do.’ Just because forever for him was far too short it doesn’t change anything.”

  It was obvious then that she was a loyal and loving person.

  “I can’t just push Mark’s memory out and replace it with new ones of you.”

  After we slept together for the first time she was overcome with guilt, so much so that she fled.

  “I'm not moving on from Mark. I don't want this. I don’t love you.”

  Even though she loved me, she didn’t want to let go of the past. And now it’s not the past any more.

  I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Leaning forward and resting my elbows on my knees, I bury my head in my hands and wonder what I’m doing. Then, and now, it keeps coming back to him. She might be pissed that he kept his career a secret, but she loves him. How could she not when they were married for almost ten years? Correction, they still are married. The only reason she ever gave me a chance was because she thought he was gone. Well, he’s not…he’s here, and I’m going to lose her all over again.

  Part of me rationalizes that I don’t really know what she’s thinking; the other part is convinced that I already know. She’s not sleeping in my bed, nor did she want to stay in our house. Her husband is still alive and she has a chance at getting her family back together. I’m the odd man out in this scenario and it’s killing me. We have a life together, complete with routines and traditions, except I’m not delusional enough to believe that our months of building these things compare in any measure to the near decade she had with Mark.

  If her past were the only issue here, I’d try to convince myself into believing
that I have a fighting chance. Add that I’ve been withholding information from her and I’m screwed. Trust is never easily given. Once it’s broken it’s even harder to get back.

  Watching Breanne drive off with Spencer was like a kick to the gut. I stood in the field hitting balls for a long time, thinking about what I should have done differently. I fucked up. Big time. I’ve spent months trying to figure out Alexis’s note on my own and it got me nowhere. I have no idea why I thought it was a good idea to keep it from Breanne. If I was worried that sharing it would have a negative impact on our relationship, I should have known hiding it would be worse. I’ve gone through all the possible scenarios of how I could explain to her why I kept it from her. The simple answer is I didn’t want to lose her. Would it change anything about our situation if I had shared it? The conclusion I keep coming to is no.

  Pure reactions reveal a lot about the heart. Based on what I saw tonight, it’s clear Mark still has a hold on her. She was so genuinely excited to see him. The moment she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek I began seeing them as a couple and it sliced right through me.

  Breanne is without a doubt the most important person in my life. She’s changed the way I look at the world and I want things now that I never did before. Her happiness means more to me than my own. Stated differently, I won’t get in the way of her happiness, no matter what it means for me. Convinced that I don’t have any other options, I decide to make it easier for her. I won’t make her choose.

  I stand and quietly walk over to where she sleeps, desperately wishing the situation was different. Cocooned like a baby in the center of the bed and still wearing my t-shirt, she’s my ideal of perfection. He had to show up the night I proposed. I gently lift her left hand, kiss it once and then slip her engagement ring from her finger, hoping this makes it easier on her.

  Unsure of where to go from here, I head to my bedroom and place Breanne’s ring back inside the box it came in. I then set the box in a storage case right next to the smashed watch Alexis got me, and put both back on the top shelf in my closet. It’s become a resting place for ‘what ifs’. Checking the time, I’m amazed that it’s already 7am. Today’s my day off at the gym, but since sleep isn’t in the cards for me, I change to go work out anyway.

  Sweaty and sore, I make my way to the kitchen a mere two and a half hours later. I grab a glass of water and notice a brown paper bag on the counter as Everett walks in.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Spencer said Breanne needed comfort food on the way back from the field last night.”

  Curious, I peek inside. Four jars of peach cobbler flavored baby food and frozen pizza that’s thawed to room temperature. “She didn’t touch it.”

  “Guess she changed her mind.”

  “Has she gotten up?”

  “Not yet. Want to talk about what happened?” Everett asks.

  “Not really.” Checking on her crosses my mind but ultimately I decide that if she were ready to talk she’d let me know.

  “Patterson called me back while you were working out,” Everett says. “The case has officially been handed over to the CIA. I’ll continue to provide protection for you until the situation’s resolved; however, my orders now come from Mark.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m told we’ll find out this afternoon. If I had to guess I’d bet the CIA is responsible for what happened at your sister’s house. They’d have access to the type of drug we were injected with and it makes sense that they’d patch me up. They wanted information, not to harm us. Anyway, we need to meet with Mark and Spencer at 2:30 this afternoon.”

  “Count me out,” I say, taking a swig of water. I unintentionally slam the glass on the counter and head upstairs. Screw the CIA. They’ll have to drug my ass again if they want my cooperation…especially if it means spending more time with Mark Sullivan.

  “You don’t have a choice. Neither of us does.”

  “I’ll be in the shower.”

  I ignore Everett and go upstairs, bypassing the guest room and heading straight for my bathroom. Twenty uninterrupted minutes of zoning out is all I want. Once my head’s clear I’ll be able to figure out how to deal with not having Breanne in my life.

  Hot water pours over my head, cascading down my back. With my forearms resting against the shower wall, I’m so relaxed I hardly notice a muffled thud, that if I had to guess, I’d say was the bathroom door ricocheting off the wall.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Slamming on the glass wall of the shower begs for my attention, but I don’t move.

  “Where is it?” Breanne shouts.

  My body tenses, but I don’t physically respond.

  Let her go.

  “Damn it, Drew. Where’s my ring?”

  Bang. Bang.

  Keeping my head down, I put my head directly into the stream of water to block out all sounds.

  I’m not ready for this. I don’t have it in me to fight.

  “Answer me!”

  I remain unaffected, at least on the outside. Inside I’m a mess. Stillness falls over the bathroom and I try to remain composed until I can be positive she’s left the bathroom.

  You should have known better, I scold myself as the shower door creeks open.

  Slam!

  Wide-eyed, I turn 180 degrees and come face-to-face with a fully clothed and pissed off Breanne.

  Correction.

  She’s seething.

  “Good, I’ve gotten your attention. Now answer me. Where. Is. My. Ring?”

  “I can’t do this, Breanne.”

  “Do what?” Her expression falls and I have to look away. Anything other than an expression of happiness or pleasure on that face rips me apart.

  “Talk,” I reply.

  “You can’t talk, yet you can take my engagement ring? In what world does that not warrant a conversation?”

  “Not now.”

  I turn my back on her and grab the soap, lathering my hands repeatedly to distract myself.

  “What is going on with you? Did you change your mind? Talk to me, damn it!”

  “You weren’t too concerned about the conversation I needed last night.”

  “Pfft. So…so you’re getting back at me?”

  “I’m letting you go.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re married and I’m not a home wrecker.”

  Breanne digs her nails into my bicep she’s squeezing me so hard.

  “Stop being a coward.”

  “You’re right, I am a coward. I’ve already lost you and I can’t hear you say it. Maybe not ever, but definitely not now.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “My sanity is hanging by a very thin string, Breanne.”

  “Drew, I—”

  “You shouldn’t feel obligated to choose. Mark’s back and I broke your trust.”

  “You think I’m leaving you?”

  I once again hang my head under the water. Feeling her hand on my back, her concern is evident, only I don’t want her pity.

  “So that’s it? You’ve figured it out and believe I’m leaving you, and you’re giving up? Not only have you come to this conclusion without speaking to me, you’re also going to let one mistake ruin what we have?”

  I can’t think of anything to say. What does she expect?

  “I didn’t take you as a quitter.”

  My competitive nature gets the best of me. “I’m not quitting. Your husband’s back. Why would you stay?”

  “For the same reasons I have every other day. Because I love you.”

  “I know how badly you’ve wanted your family back together.”

  “You’re my family!” she retorts.

  “For now, maybe.”

  “Do you think I only said ‘yes’ to your proposal because Mark wasn’t here?”

  “Maybe…yes. Listen, I don’t have it in me to hang back and watch you reconnect with him, while struggling to tell me you’re leaving. I can’t go through t
hat.”

  “Drew—”

  “What am I supposed to do? “

  “Man up and fight for us, that’s what you’re supposed to do. The only thing you’ll get by feeling sorry for yourself is misery; I should know. We’re in this together and I need you to snap out if. I am all yours, do you hear me? All. Yours.”

  I shake my head.

  “You were married to him for a long time. You grieved for him. There’s no way you can deny that you should be with him.”

  “That’s not the life I want. I want ours.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “All of a sudden you’re a mind reader? Aaaahh,” she groans. “Look at me.”

  “I need to be alone.”

  “Yeah, well as soon as you stop being ridiculous, I’ll let you be. Are you going to tell me where my ring is, or do I need to go find it myself?”

  “Stop,” I nearly beg.

  “I. Love. You.” She enunciates each word as if I’m incapable of understanding.

  “Hey,” she says, shoving my shoulder. “Are you even listening to me?”

  “Just go.”

  The shower door slams behind me. I can hear her rummaging through something, but I keep my head down. In a matter of seconds I sense her standing behind me before the shower door slams again.

  “Since you’re too stubborn to listen, I’ll literally spell it out for you.”

  Breanne shoves me to the side and whips off the cap to her lipstick. “See that?” she asks stepping aside. All I see is darkness. Irritated by my clenched eyes, Breanne cups the back of my neck and pushes my head forward. My forehead bumps against the glass wall and my eyes flash open. In huge brick red letters she’s written the words ‘ALL YOURS’ across the glass, underlined twice with three exclamation points.

  I turn my gaze to her and find her writing the same phrase across my oversized, drenched t-shirt that she’s wearing. Next, she takes the towel that’s hanging inside the shower and dries off my chest. She slams her right hand over my heart, traces it and writes furiously.

  “How’s that for clarity?” she asks, picking up the cap to her lipstick and snapping it back into place. “I want my ring back.”