Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel (20 page)

That’s because he wasn’t listed anywhere and didn’t give out his e-mail address. “You must have a real good reason to come between a man and his baby back ribs.”

“Got a proposal for you. I’ve been watching you, and I see someone I can work with.”

A cold snake of suspicion slithered into his gut. “How do you mean?”

“You’re all business on the baseball field. Cold as ice, they say. You’re all about domination. Intimidation. I look at you and I see . . . myself with a helluva lot faster swing.” He chuckled, as did his entourage of beefcake.

Trevor didn’t smile. He put his game face on, the one that revealed absolutely nothing of his thoughts. “You want my spot on the Catfish?”

“Nah, I’m a bull-riding fan. Don’t care much for baseball.”

“I thought you all wanted to buy the Catfish from Crush Taylor.”

Wade pushed his cowboy hat back on his head. “We do. That’s where you come in. Crush made that stupid-ass vow to win the championship or sell the team. I sent him an entire side of prime Grade A Wade beef when he did that. Made it easy on us. The Catfish ain’t had a playoff season in twenty years.”

“We’re at the top of the standings right now.”

Wade made a signal with his index finger, and suddenly Trevor’s right arm—his power arm—was yanked behind his back. Pain lanced through his shoulder.

“Don’t remind me.” Wade smiled grimly. “Y’all started to win, thanks to ‘top prospect’ and slugging sensation Trevor Stark. Even that wasn’t so bad, because you were gonna get called up before long, and then the Catfish would go back to losin’. Then your juvenile crimes came to light and the way I hear it from my inside sources, you ain’t goin’ anywhere unless Crush gives the okay. I don’t like him holding all the cards.”

Trevor was sweating from the pain. “What are you going to do, break my arm?”

“That’s always an option. But my brother, he pulled the reins on that one. He says he’s a fan.” Dean sounded disgusted by that. “But he agreed to do things my way if you don’t line up.”

Trevor could feel the tendons in his shoulder straining. A few more moments and the arm-breaking would be a done deal. He stomped on the arm-twister’s instep and swung around, plowing an elbow into his throat. The other two closed in on him, but he slammed his bag of barbecue against the edge of the Dumpster and smashed his Snapple bottle. He brandished the bag at the guys. A jagged edge of glass jutted through a mess of barbecue sauce.

“If you have a simple business proposition, why’d you bring these guys along?” Crouching, he pointed the broken bottle at the closest thug. “Is that how you do business in Kilby?”

Dean stuck his thumbs in his front pockets, a laugh shaking his stocky form. “I shoulda known you could scrap, growin’ up as you did. Fair point, though. Back off, boys.”

Trevor kept his weaponized Snapple bottle aimed at the men even as they backed away. “What do you want from me, Wade? Spit it out.”

“I want you to throw the championship. Or make sure the Catfish don’t even get that far. I want Crush to hand me the team on a silver platter.”

Throw a baseball game? Trevor scowled. The infamous Black Sox had been paid to throw games, but that was back in 1919. And it had taken a few players, not just one. “I’m just the left fielder. Baseball has nine guys on that field.”

“You’re worth all nine put together, according to Roy,” said Dean. “And that part ain’t my problem. How you do it, it’s up to you. Hell, break your own arm
for all I care. Just make sure the Catfish lose. Should be easy. They always lost in the past.”

“That’s unethic—” He stopped before he could finish the word, since there was no way Dean cared about ethics in baseball.

“This is the minor leagues, Trevor Stark. No one cares what goes on down here. From what I hear, you sure don’t. It’s a paycheck, ain’t that right? Well, think of this as the price you gotta pay.”

“Pay for what? What’s in this for me? You said it was a business proposition. Right now, it’s a little one-sided.”

“Well, interesting question, that. We got ourselves a carrot and we got a stick. Carrot is, once you do your part and we own the team, we’ll get you some kinda bonus.”

From the vague nature of the “carrot,” Trevor guessed the true enticement was in the stick. “And if I don’t go along with this?”

“Then we get hold of those Wachowskis and tell them who we found here in Kilby, walkin’ around like he didn’t nearly kill one of their top guys.”

It had been so long since Trevor had heard that name spoken aloud. The hand holding the broken Snapple started to shake; he clamped down on it with all the accumulated experience of hiding his emotions behind a mask. “They’re not exactly easy to contact.”

“We already have a phone number. Handy to have, in case any other business interests line up.”

Trevor flinched. He could imagine many things the Wachowskis and the Wades could collaborate on, once they got past their cultural differences.

“Is that a ‘yes’ I see?” Wade asked, the smugness in his tone making Trevor want to hurl the bottle at his face. “I thought so.”

A gruff voice called from within the Smoke Pit. “Takin’ a smoke break. Be back in five.” Footsteps sounded, coming toward the door, and Dean Wade gave a signal to the guys. They stepped into the shadows.

Dean kept talking, adopting the friendly, casual tone of an old buddy. “Nice running into you again. You know we’re rootin’ for you guys. I got a steak dinner riding on tomorrow’s game, so don’t let me down.”

Trevor took that warning literally, since it was clearly meant that way. “We’ll do our best, Mr. Wade. A real treat running into you.” He backed out of the alley, keeping his broken glass at the ready. But no one bothered to follow him. The message had been delivered.

Delivered and understood. The ball was now firmly in his court, his choices crystal clear. Sabotage the Catfish or get outed to the Wachowskis. Some fucking choice.

A
FTER FAILING TO
find Trevor at his hotel room the night before, Paige swung by again the next morning. The team was scheduled to leave on a road trip as soon as the afternoon game was over, so her best chance of catching him was early on.

Outside the Days Inn, the sprinklers cast lazy swirls of water over the lawn, creating a mist above the tidy hedges that lined the exterior. A delivery truck was parked at the entrance while two men with dollies unloaded boxes of packaged coffee.

A busy day lay ahead, with a coffee date with Shizuko kicking things off. The international heartthrob had asked Paige to meet him at the stadium. A record label was interested in signing his band, and he really needed to decide which career path appealed to him most. Everyone in his life—family, friends, agent—had very strong opinions on the matter. According to him, only Paige was able to listen without inserting her own bias. He’d begged her to meet him first thing, and how could she turn down that sweet smile and soulful eyes?

But first she had to talk to Trevor.

He answered the door in drawstring cotton sweatpants that rode low on his hips. Even with sleepy eyes
and mussed hair, he exuded coiled power and strength. He reached for her hand and tugged her through the door so she collapsed against his warm chest.

“I’m not here for sex,” she said quickly.

“Are you at least willing to keep an open mind?” He nuzzled kisses into the crease of her neck. She squirmed from the tickling sensation, already feeling her resolve melt. How much could she want this man? There seemed to be no limit.

She wriggled out of his grasp before they ended up in bed and she missed her session with Shizuko. “I have to talk to you. It’s serious.”

“Am I late for BP? What time is it?” He was adorable, so sleepy and confused. A new growth of bronze stubble covered his jaw and gave his handsomeness a rougher edge.

“No, you’re fine. It’s still early. I have a packed day and wanted to make sure I caught you.”

He rubbed a hand across his face. “All right, then. Shoot. What’s up?”

She braced herself for the news she had to deliver. “I happened to overhear something I thought you should know. And you can skip the lecture on eavesdropping. Extenuating circumstances.”

“I’m not in the habit of lecturing anyone except troubled kids trying to stay in school.” Fully alert now, he scratched his stomach. “Should I put on a shirt for this?”

“Please don’t.” She offered him a shadow of a smile, just to lighten things up. “I heard Crush talking about the Friars. Apparently they’re trying to decide whether or not to invoke a morals clause in order to release you. They don’t want to keep paying your salary if you’re never going to get to the majors.”

He nodded once, twice, showing no other expression—classic, impassive Trevor Stark. “That’s understandable.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not fair. Juvenile records are supposed to be sealed.”

A muscle in his jaw tensed, but other than that he didn’t react. “That’s just the last straw for the Friars. I’ve been riding that bubble for a while. It’s all right. I made enough money to sock away and get Nina set up. That’s all I wanted.” As nonchalant as if he was talking about what movie to watch, he shrugged and crossed to the kitchenette, where he grabbed two bottles of water. He offered her one, but she shook her head.

He shrugged, as if nothing she said or did mattered to him, and unscrewed the top. “Suit yourself.”

As he tilted the bottle to his lips, she thought back to her college psychology course, which had touched on body language. The tightness of his shoulders, the way he turned away from her, as if to shield himself, the way he wouldn’t entirely meet her eyes . . . he might pretend to be unaffected, but his body told a different story.

“So . . . you’re okay just walking away from the Friars.”

He let a stream of liquid slide down his throat. He looked like an ad for special vitamin-loaded water. It was unfair that he looked so good while acting like such an ass. “Won’t have much choice if they release me.”

“But that’s just it. It’s not decided yet. You should talk to Crush. Tell him everything. If he advocates for you, they might change their minds.”

“No.”

“Why not? What’s the harm? Your juvenile record already came out in the newspaper. What’s wrong with explaining to Crush what really happened? He needs to know that you’re still in potential danger from those people in Detroit.”

Something flashed in his eyes, something fierce and vengeful, but also despairing. As if it didn’t matter who
knew or who did what. As if Trevor knew his fate was sealed.

“I’m not going to go crying to your father about my hard-luck life. No fucking way.”

“My
father
? The fact that he’s my father is totally irrelevant. He’s the owner of the Catfish. The Friars listen to him.”

“When they’re not trying to get rid of him.”

“That’s a low blow. They respect his baseball knowledge. He’s on the phone with the GM all the time. They play golf together. If you want to stay in the Friars organization, Crush can help you. But you need to tell him why he should. It won’t mean anything unless it comes from you personally.”

He put down the bottle of water and paced toward her, danger riding on his every step. “You didn’t say anything, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t. That’s why I’m here.
You
have to tell him. And you have to tell him now, before it’s too late and they drop you.”

“And if I don’t tell him? What then, since you seem to know so much about it?” He was less than a step away from her, an overwhelming presence. But she was Paige Mattingly Austin Taylor; she knew how to stand up to dominating men. She matched him stare for stare, jutting her chin up and daring him to take one more step.

“If you don’t tell him, you lose everything. No more baseball contract, no more salary, no more Triple A, no more anything related to Major League Baseball. Is that what you want?”

His flinty composure didn’t falter. “That’s what I want.”

“Liar. You’re a baseball player. How can you say you don’t want to play?”

He turned his back on her, so she faced his inked hawk with its talons and hooked beak. “I’ll find a way to play. I’ll even get paid for it. I don’t need MLB. Don’t need the Friars.”

“You don’t need anyone, is that it?”

Back muscles flexing, he disappeared into the bathroom. Paige took a few deep breaths for calm. What was she missing here? Why wasn’t Trevor more upset at the idea of getting dropped? It was almost as if he
wanted
to get released. But that made no sense. The worst had happened, his past had been unearthed. What benefit was there in leaving the Catfish now?

She heard running water, some splashing, and when he came out, drops of water clung to his hair and a small rivulet traveled down the hard planes of his chest. He gave her an almost insolent look. “If you’re waiting around to tell me what an ass I’m being, save yourself the time.”

“I could tell Crush myself,” she burst out.

“Wouldn’t do any good.” He snagged a towel and swiped it over his hair. “For all you know, everything I told you was a lie. It’s secondhand information. It won’t mean a damn thing to anyone.”

“There’s proof. I looked it up online. There was an article about Dinar Wachowski and how a minor was suspected in the attack.” She trailed off, remembering all the details the story left out. The fact that he’d been protecting his father, that it was self-defense. None of those mitigating circumstances had made it into the article.

“Spying on me?” The ice in his voice made her shiver. So this was the side of Trevor that intimidated pitchers so much they lost five miles off their fastball. “Or were you checking up to see if I told you the truth? Maybe I didn’t. Who knows? You’ll never be sure.”

Paige took a tiny step back, her conviction faltering.
She didn’t know this cold, hard man who looked like Trevor Stark. It was impossible to believe that only a few hours ago he’d been licking her naked body in a tack room. “I wasn’t spying, I was trying to find out what that man is up to now. Maybe he’s dead and you don’t have to worry anymore.”

“Playing girl detective? That’s adorable. Did you crack the case yet?”

“Don’t be like this, Trevor,” she whispered. “Why are you so angry?”

“Do I seem angry?” He shrugged, tossing aside the towel, then prowled toward his clothes drawers. “Maybe I should call up Hudson Notswego and see if I can get him to divorce Nessa Brindisi. That would solve all your problems, right?”

She recoiled, feeling as if he’d slapped her in the face. “What’s your point? Why bring Hudson into this?” She couldn’t understand what was going on. Her mind was moving so sluggishly. It felt as if she was missing big chunks of the situation, as if Trevor was operating at light speed while she chugged along in a dune buggy. She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he roamed the room in search of clothes. Maybe this was how mice felt while a cat batted them around.

Maybe this was what Trevor did to pitchers—he drove them mad, in slow, deliberate steps.

“The point is, don’t you have your own life to fix? Maybe you should stop messing around in mine. What does it matter to you if I play baseball or don’t play baseball?” He snapped his fingers, as if it all made sense now. “I got it. You’re here working for Crush. He wants me to stick around so I can help win that fucking championship. And you . . . you’re in Kilby because you want a pat on the back from your daddy. It’s all falling into place like a chain of dominoes.”

The blood rushed from her face. “I’m not here working for Crush. I’m here because I—” She was about to say something crazy. Something about what she felt for him. That she . . . God, that she loved him. Yes, that ache in her heart, the magic she felt only with him, that was love.

Where was the Trevor who’d captured her heart? Was he still in there somewhere, buried under this horrible icy behavior?

She needed to reach him, desperately needed to get back the Trevor she loved.

“I’m here,” she said with all the dignity she could muster, “because I love you and I want you to be happy. I don’t believe you’ll be happy if you torpedo your baseball career. You never will be.”

“I’ll be happy if Nina is safe.” His voice rasped like a dry razor over stubble. Had he even heard what she’d said? The part about loving him? He showed no reaction to it.

Walk away, Paige. He doesn’t want you here. He doesn’t care about your feelings. He doesn’t love you, or he wouldn’t talk to you this way.

But her foolish, reckless heart wouldn’t let her walk away. “I don’t think so. And what about Nina? What does she want? Does she want to stay hidden forever?”

His icy facade finally broke. He closed the distance between them in one long step. “Nina is none of your business. You don’t talk to Nina, you don’t try to find Nina, you stay away from Nina. You hear me?”

Fury flooded her in a hot rush that made her ears ring. How dare he treat her like this? She was trying to
help
him. She’d just told him she
loved
him.

He loomed over her, all heat and bare chest and impossible good looks. “My life is not your worry. Don’t turn me into another Hudson Notswego.”

All on its own, her hand flew up and whipped a slap across his cheek.

“
Now
you’re being an ass,” she choked out. “But I guess you like it that way.”

Showing no expression—of course—he brought a hand to his left cheek, where the white scar slashed below his cheekbone. It stood out against the surrounding skin, now pink from the blood she’d brought to the surface.

“I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.” She cradled her hand against her chest. The palm tingled, as if her body was just as shocked as she was.

He stared at her stonily, as if he couldn’t care less what she did. As if he didn’t even understand why she was still there. All her fury came flooding back—double.

“I’m on to you, Big Bad Trevor Stark. I know what you’re doing right now. You’re trying to drive me away so I won’t rock the boat for you.”

Awareness flashed across his face like heat lightning on a muggy day, gone before you knew it was there.

She shouldered her little backpack, which had slipped to the floor, and marched toward the door. He watched her go, white-faced save for the rosy hand print darkening his cheek.

“I stand by my slap,” she told him as she walked out the door. “And I stand by everything else I said too.”

B
atting practice in Sacramento. Trevor at home plate. About fifty feet away, Lou the batting coach swung his arm in circles to prepare. A few hundred miles to the south, the Friars were debating Trevor’s future. Another few hundred miles to the southeast, Crush Taylor was going to, any minute, pick up his phone and make his recommendation. They’d either drop him or keep him in Kilby, but a call-up was out of the question now.

Trevor felt like a fucking chess piece. His life was officially out of his control. Up until now, he’d been torn between the risks of a call-up and staying low-profile in Kilby. Fuck it, he should have let himself get called up and taken his chances with the exposure. That option was gone now. If the Friars kept him on the payroll, he had two choices. He could play normally and let the Wades rat him out to the Wachowskis, in which case there wouldn’t be a
chance
of exposure; it would be 100%
guaranteed
. Or he could sell his soul. Betray baseball. Betray his team. Betray Crush.

Betray Paige.

But that was where he slammed the door on his thoughts. He couldn’t bear to think about Paige. Even the sight of a fluffy white cat outside a gas station off the I-5 felt like a flaming arrow straight to his heart.

Trevor told himself it was for the best. One way or another he was going down, and he didn’t want to take Paige with him. He was either going to get booted out of baseball or hunted down by the Wachowskis. Neither option offered much of a future for a bright, kind, beautiful girl like Paige. She deserved so much better in every possible way.

A low strike came at him. Following his usual routine, he sent the ball into left field. Every guy did something different during batting practice. Some liked to hit home runs, but not Trevor. He liked to hit everything to the opposite field and save the homers for the game. He hit ten pitches, max, then let the next guy go.