Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel (26 page)

As he sank into his accustomed spot in the dugout, he caught sight of a black cowboy hat across the stadium.
Aw fuck.
It was Dean Wade, right there in Werner Park, Omaha, Nebraska. He was staring grimly at the field.

All of Trevor’s joy evaporated. Ice surrounded him like a shield. The Wades were here to keep an eye on him. To fuck with him, control him. They held all the cards and they knew it.

Be smart,
he told himself.
The Wades plus the Wachowskis, you don’t want that combination. Keep your head down. Lay low, the way you have been. You’re used to it.

But no, he wasn’t used to holding himself back on the field. That was different. That was disrespecting the game of baseball. Could he do it?

His inner struggle lasted until his next at bat. The Storm Chasers were a feisty team and by then had squeezed in a few runs, though the Catfish were still up by one. If Trevor struck out, he’d still be batting .500 for the game. He’d get the Wades off his back with no cost to him.

Work the count this time,
he told himself.
Be smart. Don’t do anything crazy.

When the count was 2-2 and the pitcher was shaking off signs from the catcher, his glance strayed to the box where Paige sat. She perched on the edge of her chair, hands clasped under her chin, as if sending waves of encouragement in his direction.

He tore his gaze away and planted it back where it belonged, on the pitcher. A moment later the ball was hurtling through the air in a tight, perfect spin, the blur of seams coalescing into a clear red dot.

He swung. Made contact with a sound like the ringing of a bell, so clear and pure it echoed through the stadium. The ball ripped off his bat in a straight line toward the farthest reaches of left field. He put his head down and ran for first base, caught the signal from the coach to keep going, and charged toward second. The third base coach was giving him the stop signal, so he cruised into second with a stand-up double. Exhilarated, panting, electricity pouring through him.

He was a baseball player to his core. For a moment, nothing else mattered.

Baseball had saved him in every possible way. How in the hell could he lay off a sinking fastball that forgot to sink? He was Trevor Stark, baseball player.

He looked over at Paige, grinned and held up two
fingers. Brimming with laughter, she covered her face with her hands. Damn, he was looking forward to that seventh inning stretch.

In the meantime, back to business. The base runner on second, with his vantage point behind the pitcher’s mound, had the job of trying to steal signs that the catcher flashed to the pitcher, which happened to be one of Trevor’s specialties. When you were on second, you were essentially behind enemy battle lines. Your job was to gather intel that would help your team. On top of that, you had the opportunity to disrupt, to distract. Trevor saw it as his job to mess with the pitcher’s concentration, make him wonder what the big slugger was up to behind his back. Even a tiny lapse in the pitcher’s focus could give an edge to Dwight, who was at the plate now.

And then there was his other job. With dread, he looked over at the section where Dean Wade had been sitting. This time, he saw no black cowboy hat. Had Dean left to place that phone call to the Wachowskis? Or would Dean remember what he’d said about letting things play out? This was only the first game. Next game, he’d do what needed to be done.

Suddenly, alone on second base, Trevor felt more exposed than he ever had before.

T
HE
C
ATFISH WON
Game One with the emphatic score of 10-5. Although Trevor wasn’t the only standout, Paige couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. After the game, he took her to dinner to celebrate. They took a cab on an oddly roundabout route to a quiet, upscale part of town, where they walked along streets steaming from a late evening rain shower. Charcoal clouds paraded overhead, a half-moon playing peekaboo behind them. Trevor seemed lost in thought as he held her hand in his, big and warm as a bear’s paw.

When they passed a darkened side street, he tugged her into it, found a spot sheltered by a parked SUV, and backed her against the outer wall of an antique store. Shielding her with his body, he inched her dress up her thighs. The silky fabric combined with the rough surface of his fingers sent shivers along her nerve endings.

“I was thinking about your bare pussy the entire last two innings,” he murmured against her neck. “Distracted the hell out of me. Did you see me hit into that double play? Good thing the game was already in the bag.”

She spread her hands across the hard muscles of his back. “Hmm, I think that Omaha shortstop robbed
you. If that’s your version of distracted, maybe I should never wear underwear to a game again.”

“Now you’re just torturing me.” He bit the tendon of her shoulder lightly. Her nipples hardened into hot little pebbles. His hand reached the crease between her thighs and he dragged a finger along her sex.

She moaned. “Are you trying to return the favor?”

“I just can’t keep my hands off you.” He touched her tenderly, reverently. “Sometimes I step back and think this is all like some kind of dream. Meeting you. Being able to fondle you whenever I want.”

“It must be a dream we’re both having. I never thought I’d feel like this, like I’d die if you didn’t want me.”

“I want you. Never,
ever
doubt that.” He claimed her entire mound with a firm, possessive grip. Her insides went liquid, heat radiating from each point of contact. “I want to make you come right here in my hand. Right here against this wall.”

Oblivious to anything except how he made her feel, she wrapped one leg around the back of his thigh and pressed her groin against his hand. “Can we?” she whispered. “Could we do that? Because I’ve been turned on ever since you hit that first home run.”

He glanced over his shoulder and adjusted his position. “Watch the street, okay?”

“Okay.” She was already breathless, already close to the edge from the gentle friction he’d been applying in slow, steady strokes. Now he intensified things. A fast, hard rhythm struck sparks that arced through her system. One of his long, knowing fingers went inside and searched out a spot she hadn’t known existed. He pressed against it. Spots danced before her eyes. She kept her gaze fastened on the end of the little side street.

Trevor enveloped her with his heat and his strength,
from inside and out. She pushed back, wanting more friction, more contact, more pressure. With a growl, he gave her what she wanted and more, taking command of her body and its myriad sensations.

A car drove past, music blasting. A cat jumped onto the hood of a nearby Honda and began cleaning its paws.

Paige gasped and panted. “I don’t know if I . . .”
can come,
she was going to say. Too public, too risky. But then Trevor curled his index finger deep inside her, bore down on her clit with his wrist and she was gone.

Sobbing, she climaxed against his hand, the end of the street nothing but a vague blur seen through a haze of ecstasy. She chased that orgasm with something like greed, her mound and his hand in a kind of grinding, push-and-pull dance. Maybe Trevor was driving that orgasm, or maybe she was. It was hard to tell.

With Hudson, she’d always been a little embarrassed by her sexual side—maybe because they’d begun as friends and he was so shy. She never felt that way with Trevor. With him, she could be as nasty as she wanted. She could come all over his hand in a random side street in Omaha and he’d grin and say,
Now that was hot.

“What about you?” She asked, still trying to catch her breath, holding tight to his shoulders while he put her dress back to rights.

“Obviously, you owe me.” His wolfish grin made her stomach tighten. “And you will pay up. At the time and place of my choosing. And you won’t be able to say no because you owe me. Deal?”

Oh yes, that was a deal she could definitely sign on for. “Nothing that would ruin my good-girl reputation, right?”

“Honey, if you’re going to be with me, you might have to let that reputation go.”

“Oh no, I don’t. Everyone knows you’re the bad boy and I’m the do-gooder.” She flashed him a mischievous grin. “No one needs to know the truth, do they?”

“What’s the truth?” He adjusted his pants over his erection.

“That you’re a good guy, and I’m a lot naughtier than I look.”

“Yeah you are.” He gave her a little spank on the ass, and even that felt good, his big hand burning through her thin dress. God, was there anything she wouldn’t enjoy with this man? Could she possibly be any happier than right at this moment, hand in hand with this intense and magnificent ballplayer?

He drew her close to his side as they strolled back onto the main street. He scanned both directions thoroughly before guiding her to the right. The way he held her felt more than possessive; it felt protective, as if he was shielding her from some danger.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Actually, there is something. Paige, I want you to be careful. With all this media attention, I’m a little nervous. I—” He broke off. “Just be careful. And please keep an eye on Nina. It means a lot to see you both in the stands when we’re playing. I know you’re safe when I can look over and see for myself.”

She swung his hand between them. “You’re so silly. Where else would we be? Of course we’ll be at the games. I’ll be staring at you the entire time, and Nina . . . well, she might be looking Leiberman’s way now and then.”

A cloud gathered on the finely molded planes of his face, moonlight glittering in his narrowed eyes.
“Bieberman.”

“Oh stop. She’s been pretty lonely. And she’s afraid you’re still angry with her.”

“I’m not angry. I understand why she came to you and Crush. I even understand why she didn’t warn me first.”

“She knew you’d stop her.”

“I’m starting to think there’s no way to stop her from anything. Leiberman better watch out.” A wry smile twisted one corner of his mouth. “I won’t get in her way, though. She’s a big girl. When I was her age, I was playing in Mexico, living on rice and beans. I knew two words of Spanish, ‘safe’ and ‘out.’ Nina deserves to have more of a life than she’s had so far. I won’t hold her back anymore. It might be even harder than going to juvie, but I’ll support her, whatever she chooses.”

She lifted their clasped hands to her lips and kissed his middle knuckle. Trevor was such a strong, caring person. And no one else had any clue about his true nature—except Nina. And maybe Crush, now that Nina had revealed the truth. A lot of Kilby kids knew too. Everyone else bought into the legend of Trevor Stark.

Well, she wasn’t going to tell anyone. She’d tuck it into her heart and savor her secret knowledge.

She gave his knuckle a gentle nibble. “By the way, I have a surprise for you.”

“You got rid of all your underwear, for good?” His hopeful tone made her burst out laughing.

“You want all of it to go? Even my red lace teddy?”

“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“No, you need to stay alive until tomorrow’s game. That’s when you’ll get your surprise.” She refused to say anything more, no matter how much he nuzzled her neck and whispered hot threats about bending her over his knee.

G
ame Two was advertised as a pitcher’s duel, with the two best ERAs from each team facing off. Trevor
got dressed for the game without a fixed plan, but in the back of his mind a ticker tape of warnings ran on repeat.
Be smart. Remember what’s most important. We’re only up one game, it would be reasonable for them to win the next one. Let’s do this thing. It’s not too late.

But then came time for the ceremonial first pitch, something Trevor rarely paid attention to.

“Here to throw out the first pitch of Game Two of the Pacific League championships, please welcome the legendary Grizz Walker!”

Trevor’s head shot up, and there was Grizz, making his way onto the field with the assistance of a cane.

The announcer went on. “Former catcher in the Negro Leagues, one of the great scouts of all time, and longtime volunteer baseball coach, he’s one of the legends of the sport. Give him a big hand!”

A full-bodied roar followed, as if every person in Werner Park recognized true greatness even in the form of a frail eighty-nine-year-old man with grizzled white hair.

Trevor walked to the edge of the dugout and applauded along with the rest of the players. He hadn’t talked to Grizz in about a year. It had never occurred to him to invite his favorite coach to Omaha. This was Paige’s doing—the big surprise. He looked over at the visiting owner’s box, where Paige waved, grinning from ear to ear. And then he got another surprise. She was wearing an enormous T-shirt that hung off her body and had something scrawled on the front in black Sharpie. Squinting, he realized it was the Catfish T-shirt he’d given to her the first night they met, in her rental car.

He burst out laughing and blew her a kiss, though it was the barest fraction of the love churning in his heart.

Grizz.
Nina. Paige. Could he ask for anything more?

He managed to intercept Grizz for a gentle hug before the man climbed into his prime front-row seat. As he strode to the plate, it occurred to him that he’d rather gouge out his eyes than play anything less than his best with Grizz Walker in attendance.

But his nerves got the best of him. In his first at-bat, he hit into a double play. In his second, he popped up to the pitcher. In his third, after banging his head against the back of the dugout wall for about ten minutes, he finally managed to rip a triple. Grizz cheered as if he were Mickey Mantle.

He’d played his worst game in weeks, but it hadn’t been on purpose. In fact, that one taste of near-failure was enough to drive home the truth. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—throw a game. But maybe the Wades would think that he had.

Unfortunately, the Catfish did just fine without him at his best. They won by one run.

The Catfish went back to Kilby two games up, needing only one to reach the final championship game. Trevor wondered if he should return himself to incarceration. Because unless he was behind bars or incapacitated, how was he going to bring himself to do what the Wades wanted?

H
e lectured himself during the long bus ride through America’s heartland to Kilby. No more showing off. This wasn’t about him and his pride. He’d just have to find a way to torpedo the team. Crush’s team.
Paige’s father’s team
. How could he do that and still live with himself? His thoughts were still going in sleepless circles when he trudged down the hall to his room at the Days Inn and saw that someone had beaten him there.

A giant red W marked his door. Bloodred, the color the Wachowskis always chose.

He spun around, half expecting to see a group of enforcers converging on him. But the hallway was empty. He was alone with his ominous thoughts. No way was he going inside his hotel room. Who knew what awaited him there? He should go out to Bullpen Ranch, grab Nina, and the two of them could disappear to Mexico or something.

But then he’d never see Paige again. Or Dwight. Or anyone else in the baseball world. He’d be running and hiding forever. Most importantly, Paige would think he’d run off on her, that he didn’t love her.

But what else could he do?

There was only one choice, really. Quickly he turned and headed for the exit. Twenty minutes and he’d be at the ranch.

P
aige couldn’t believe she’d ever thought baseball wasn’t exciting. The anticipation before Game Three had the entire town of Kilby on the edge of celebration.
Sweep, sweep,
was the rallying cry.

Then came the shocking news. Trevor Stark was out of the lineup for Game Three. He wasn’t even in the stadium, which was extremely strange. No one explained why. Crush refused to answer when Paige asked him. He disappeared halfway through Game Three and spent the rest of it talking to someone in his office. Even the players seemed confused. On the field, they looked lost.

The Storm Chasers took advantage and rampaged to a 7-2 win. The series was now 2-1, the Catfish with the edge. An atmosphere of nervous stress swept through Kilby. No one talked about a sweep anymore. They talked about “hanging on” and “fending off the Chasers.”

But Paige’s biggest concern was Trevor. Where was he? He didn’t answer any of her messages. He’d checked
out of the Days Inn. Dwight didn’t know where he was.
Nina
didn’t even know. When she asked Crush, he told her not to worry about Trevor. He also said that security was being doubled throughout the stadium, and to be alert for anything unusual.

The whole thing was unusual.

Then, mysteriously, came word that Trevor would be batting fourth in Game Four. The news electrified Kilby. With Trevor back, the talk changed to “clinching in four” and “resting before the championship game.”

Paige had no idea what was going on, but whatever it was, she was going to strangle Trevor the next time she saw him. Even if she had to run onto the field to do it.

On the evening of Game Four, Paige and Nina reached the stadium about half an hour before game time. Paige dropped Nina off at the staff entrance, then parked Crush’s Range Rover in the owner’s parking area. It was going to be a beautiful night for baseball. Streaks of gaudy persimmon glowed on the horizon. In a sky the color of lilacs, the first pinprick star flickered into view. The scent of sun-heated asphalt pricked her nose. The stadium was sold out. Long lines of vehicles snaked all the way out to the road, their metal catching the sunset like mirrors. Paige had to shield her eyes from the flashes of light.