Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel (6 page)

A grin split his face, and his spirits lifted. A sparring session with Paige Taylor was just what he needed. “I just saw your rental car,” he said. “Are you stalking me?”

“Trevor, it’s me, Nina. Do you really have girls stalking you?”

“Nina?”
Panicked, he looked around, as if one of the
Wachowski gang might be eavesdropping. He slammed the door shut and jabbed the button that closed the window he’d left partially open. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. This is a disposable phone, so relax.”

“
Relax?
You promised to call only for emergencies. Do you need money?”

“Trevor, that’s insulting. I don’t need your money. I want to come see you, that’s all. I miss you.”

“You can’t come here. It’s too risky. We’ll do our usual visit after the season’s over.” Every year, they met somewhere different, someplace nowhere near Detroit, Tucson, or wherever he was living.

“No.” His sister’s voice thickened. “I’m sorry, but that’s months away. There’s something I want to talk to you about. I’m going to come see you.”

“No!”
He punched his fist against the steering wheel. “Nina, listen to me. Don’t do anything crazy. Just stay where you are. Can’t we talk about it over the phone?”

“You said the phone’s only for emergencies.”

“Okay, then, can’t it wait until after September?”

“I don’t want to wait. Are you mad? You sound mad.”

Terrified was more like it. “I’m not mad. I promise. But we should hang up now. What if someone heard you?”

“You’re so paranoid, Trevor.”

If Nina knew what had happened three years ago, she wouldn’t say that. A Wachowski underling had spotted him at a nightclub in Syracuse. That’s when he’d acquired the scar on his cheek, along with two broken ribs. The bright side was that those injuries had kept him off the field for a week, and he was traded to the Friars after that. He didn’t think the Wachowskis had yet realized that Trevor Stark, baseball player, was
Trevor Leonov from Detroit. But he didn’t want to take any chances.

“Better safe than sorry, that’s my motto. At least when it comes to you.”

“What about lonely. Where does lonely fit in?”

“You have Mrs. Shimon.” The woman he paid as a bodyguard slash housekeeper.

“She’s not you,” Nina said simply. “She won’t hit fungoes with me.”

He couldn’t help laughing at the image of the stern Israeli, a former paratrooper, goofing around with a ball and glove. “There are more important things than baseball.”

“I want to see you play. Please.”

The determination in her voice gave him chills. If she came to see him play, and let something slip, and it got back to the wrong people, they’d both be in danger. He didn’t care about himself, but Nina was
not
going to get hurt.

But what if she took things into her own hands, the way it sounded like she might?

“I’ll think about it,” he finally said. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Are you happy I called?”

“I’m furious, and I’d fire Mrs. Shimon if she didn’t have so much special weapons training.”

“You can’t blame her. She’s a very good prison warden.” The bitterness in Nina’s voice made him feel like a total shit. He hated that it had to be this way. Even the wistful sound of her voice made him ache with missing her. She was the only family he had left.

“Yes, Nina, of course I’m happy you called. Just be careful, okay?”

“I will. And you start making plans for that game. Please?”

“I’ll try, sweetheart.”

He hung up before she could press him further. Plans? No. Not happening. If only Nina was right, and the Wachowskis had filed him under Ancient History.

But they hadn’t. At least they hadn’t three years ago, and what would have changed since then? An attack on a member of the top echelon had to be avenged.
Would
be avenged. A three-year stint in juvie wasn’t enough. The scars on his back and the one on his cheek were a constant reminder. The Wachowskis would demand more if they found him. And if they learned the whole truth . . . if they learned about Nina . . . He shuddered.

Now
that
was never going to fucking happen.

C
RUSH TOLD
P
AIGE
to start her “internship” in the marketing and promotions department, since his battle against the Wades required extra ammunition.

“We need to get the town on our side. Part one will be to win the championship,” he told her as they headed through the management wing to Marcia Burke’s office. “But we need more than that. We need to recreate ourselves. Perception is everything.”

“Are you saying we need to put the Catfish on the map?”

“I wish it was that simple. The Catfish are already on the map, but not in the way we want. They have a reputation. A bunch of wild and rowdy partiers who like to have a little too much fun.”

“Hm. I wonder who that reminds me of?” Paige scrunched up her face, squinting into the distance as if searching her memory. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me, along with every time I got sent off the ranch for All-Star weekend.”

“Funny.” He chucked her under the chin, a gesture left over from her childhood. “You know those parties were no place for a child.”

“I wouldn’t know. I never got to attend one. Maybe now that I’m grown up I’ll finally get a chance.”

Crush snarled like some sort of bossy lion. “Absolutely not. I don’t want you hanging out with the players.”

“Dad, that’s ridiculous. How am I supposed to help market the team without hanging out with the players?”

He scratched at his chin. “Good point. Okay, maybe a few ground rules, then. Don’t smile at them. Don’t bring them food. Feed them and they’ll be like puppies following you everywhere you go. Never, ever, buy them a beer.”

“No food, beer, or smiles. You drive a hard bargain. Any wiggle room on the smiles? Because I didn’t smile for the last three months I was with Hudson.”

Sympathy flashed in her father’s hazel eyes as he held the door to the marketing department open for her. “Smiles, but no laughs. Don’t get a big head, but your laugh is irresistible.”

“Aw, Daddy. That’s such a nice thing to say.” She beamed at him, and he groaned.

“Damn it, I might have to change my mind about the smiling.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crush. Have you seen the girls who hang around the ballplayers? I think they can withstand an ancient, jaded old divorcée.”

Marcia Burke, who headed the Catfish marketing and promotions department, had retired from a high-powered New York advertising job but still wore nothing but black. She wore square black eyeglasses and kept her silver hair in a bob that bisected her ears.

She rose to her feet and put her hands on her hips, scanning Paige from head to toe. Literally, she was about half Paige’s height. “So. You ready to work hard?” Her raspy voice reminded Paige that she’d come back to Kilby to battle throat cancer.

“Yes ma’am.”

“I need ideas, brilliant ones, and I need them yesterday. We need to make Catfish synonymous with . . .” She cocked her head at the baseball field. “. . . impact. Glamour.”

Crush muttered something under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like “bullshit.” He told them, “I’ll leave you to it, then,” and hauled ass out of the room.

As soon as he was gone, Marcia plopped back down at her laptop and started jabbing at the keys. “Impact,” she muttered. “Glamour. Social media, we need something on social media, something that’ll really make a national splash. Viral, we want viral. Grab a chair, brainstorm with me.”

Paige scanned the office for an extra chair but didn’t see one. There were plenty of Catfish posters and piles of T-shirts and little key chains and pens, all in bright Catfish blue. The infamous poster of Trevor Stark hung next to the window that looked out on the field.

She stared at it. Trevor Stark, man of mystery. The last person she’d expected to see when she’d stopped by the Boys and Girls Club to see if they needed any volunteer assistance from a well-intentioned student who had yet to finish her degree. They’d assigned her to a summer tutoring program, but the real revelation had been the sight of the enigmatic Catfish slugger putting on some kind of presentation for a group of at-risk youth. They’d been completely enraptured by whatever he was saying, but she was too far away to make out any of his words.

But the impact he made still reverberated through her. He’d worn gray trousers and a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The size and power of him was amplified in comparison to the kids surrounding him. Every so often he turned his head so she saw his
profile. The fluorescent lights made caves under his cheekbones and turned his hair platinum. He was just so good-looking it was almost scary.

But then there was that scar on his cheek, that thin white line that took him from angel to badass.

In the poster, he had no scar. Pulling her gaze away from it, she looked out at the field, where the game was in full swing.

“Just wondering,” she said to Marcia, “if watching the game wouldn’t help us get ideas.”

“The game? Why?”

“Well, I’ve never been a fan of the game myself, so maybe we could talk to the real fans, see what they love about the Catfish and baseball. It might help to get some inspiration, that’s all.”

“You want inspiration? Two words: baseball pants.”

Though it was strange to hear that from a seventy-year-old, Paige had to admit that the players on the field wore the uniform well. Particularly Trevor Stark, who stood like a colossus in left field. For the first time, she actually got to see him in baseball pants, since he hadn’t worn them in Crush’s office. The memory of his long, bulging thigh muscles and light covering of golden hair would stay with her for a long time.

Then again, the addition of baseball pants worked too.

“Um, is that appropriate, really, talking about baseball pants like that? We’re supposed to be marketing, not pimping.”

“It’s a thin line sometimes,” Marcia said. “Sex sells, girlie. Always has, always will. Keep that in mind. There’s a reason they changed the design of the pants back in 1972. Got me and my girlfriends to the games.”

“I see your point.” She wrenched her gaze away from left field to the pitcher going into his windup. He deliv
ered a fastball, a little outside. The batter fought it off, sending a high fly ball to right field. The runner on first dashed toward second, the infielders scurried to cover their bases, and the right fielder leisurely tracked the ball. She’d never seen him before, but from her quickie research she knew his name was Shizuko and that he was half Japanese, half Brazilian, and had a worldwide following on his Tumblr page. He caught the ball easily.

With a graceful motion, Shizuko gunned it into first base; the runner had to dive to make it back in time. The center fielder yelled some encouragement and punched his glove. As she focused on the captain of the outfield, Paige’s eyes widened. The center fielder was pretty amazing looking as well. African-American, with absolutely chiseled forearms exposed by the warm weather uniform. Radiating charisma, he grinned at the crowd, making the “two out” sign, then prowled back to his position.

From the center fielder—Dwight Conner, she suddenly remembered—her gaze traveled to left field, where Trevor Stark, a blond Viking god, staked out his territory. He said something to Dwight, and they both laughed. Jesus Christ, the amount of sheer good looks in that outfield would make a modeling agency faint. “That’s got to be the sexiest outfield in baseball,” she murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh nothing. Just appreciating the view from up here.”

“No, you said something. Something that caught my radar, but I wasn’t listening. Say it again.”

Paige tried to reconstruct it. “I think I said that’s got to be the sexiest outfield in baseball. But don’t listen to me. I just got divorced and I’m not completely myself yet. I’ve been doing and saying some strange things lately.”

Marcia jumped to her feet, sending her rolling desk chair spinning across the room. “That’s it. Baseball’s Sexiest—no . . . something with Texas—Outfields are Hotter in Texas . . . no . . . Outfields are Hotter than Your Fields.”

Paige sidestepped away from the runaway chair. “What the heck are you talking about?”

“The campaign that’s going to get everyone talking about the Catfish.”

“Baseball’s Sexiest Outfield? That’s how you want to market the team? I don’t think the players would like that.”

“You’re right. Baseball’s
Hottest
Outfield. First, it’s Texas and it’s always hot. Second, I’d have to check the stats, but off the top of my head, those three combined have a pretty remarkable OBP. Third, look at them.”

By now Marcia was next to her, pressing her face against the glass. “Those three are hot, and that’s with my seventy-year-old hormones. Not only that, they’re multiracial. This is goddamn genius. Your father is going to love me. I gotta write this up, girlie. Take a bathroom break. Cry your little heart out. Sorry about the divorce. Go on now.” Marcia gave her a friendly shove toward the door.

Paige resisted the tiny whirlwind. “But I don’t need to cry right now. And it was my idea.”

“No it wasn’t. You didn’t even know what I was talking about. All you did was lust after some ballplayers. We’ll present this to Crush tomorrow, so I have a lot of work to do. Don’t say a word to him before then. Top secret. We have to present it just right. Think visuals. Get inspired. Bye-bye.”

The door closed behind her. Paige shrugged. She couldn’t bring herself to care very much. Would Baseball’s Hottest Outfield really inspire the right kind of
media attention? Hudson would have hated a campaign like that. He was actually a shy person, which was something she’d found endearing. He didn’t like to promote himself or trash-talk or anything like that. The problem, he’d once told her, was that he’d shot up to his full height so early in life that people were scared of him. A tall black dude, no matter how nice a guy, made people nervous. He’d learned to hide behind a smile and minimize his height.

Paige wasn’t even close to shy. She was insatiably curious about people and loved nothing more than to coax their stories out of them. At parties, Hudson used to hang next to her as much as she’d let him, relaxing in her flow of conversation and only speaking when necessary or when he spotted a basketball buddy. Off the court, he always kept a set of large, very obvious headphones handy in case he needed to ward off strangers who might want to converse with him. His roommates at college used to call Hudson and Paige “Big Black and the Chatterbox.”

Oh, snap out of it,
she commanded herself. It was a screwed-up relationship anyway, as she’d discovered in her counseling sessions. She was Hudson’s crutch in so many ways. In return, he’d given her a temporary purpose in life. As Hudson’s wife, she was no longer torn between two homes, two entirely different families. She’d acquired a firm place in the universe, even if it was a little strange, since the people around her spoke Italian and pounded up and down a basketball court. She’d latched onto Hudson just as much as he’d latched onto her.

The really pathetic thing was that when he fell in love with Nessa, Paige had wanted to stay friends. Splitting up with Hudson had felt like losing a brother, someone very familiar and safe. But Nessa hadn’t been interested
in anything like that. No friends, no checking in with the occasional text message, even a passing encounter in the Via del Corso made her hackles rise.

Enough. Hudson was history. Time to live in the here and now. Baseball pants and a hot summer day. Things could be worse.

She texted her father.
Up for some Cracker Jack and cotton candy?

Is that code for Daddy time or are you starting to enjoy America’s pastime?

Actually, I’m just hungry.

We’ll hook you. Just wait.

T
hat night, the Catfish made one of their legendary appearances at the Kilby Roadhouse. An eager crowd swelled the club well past its fire-safe capacity. The bass line blasting from the sound system vibrated the sawdust-scattered floor. Bursts of laughter rose like bright balloons toward the raftered ceiling. Trevor watched the action from the safety of a bar stool, his elbow throbbing from his first game since the BB gun incident.

Dwight Conner slid onto the stool next to him and squinted at the dance floor. “What the fuck is Bieberman doing out there?”

Trevor glanced over his shoulder. The shortstop was twitching his way across the dance floor at the head of a chain of girls. Every once in a while he kicked up a leg like a dog taking a leak.

“Having a lot more fun than we are.” Trevor snorted. “You should get to it, man. Show ’em how it’s done.”

“What are you saying, I’m black so I can dance?”

Trevor blinked at him. “You’re black? Dude, you’re supposed to be my friend. You gotta tell me these things. You can’t be keeping secrets like that.”

They both laughed. Somehow, mysteriously, he and Dwight had achieved the kind of friendship in which they could say any old shit and neither one minded. “You sure you’re okay? You seem a little off.”

Trevor took a swallow of his Lone Star by way of answer. The call from Nina had really rattled him. No matter how well he got along with Dwight, he couldn’t talk about that.

“Playing it strong and silent,” Dwight said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Good call. I’m going in. If you need any help with the hottie on your left, just give me a sign.”

Trevor glanced to the side. A gorgeous brunette was sliding him a flirtatious look, elbows propped behind her on the bar, legs crossed, one black stiletto dangling from her toe. She smiled as he caught her eye, and that smile told him everything he needed to know. If he wanted to forget his troubles by burying his cock in a warm, willing body, done and done.

He gave her an apologetic smile and turned back to his beer. Not interested. Her eyes weren’t sapphire blue, and she probably didn’t say things like “pact of denial.” She wasn’t the adorable and off-limits Paige Taylor. Apparently he wasn’t interested in any girl unless she had a fluffy one-eyed cat and an attitude.

He finished his beer and pushed away from the bar. The smart move right now would be to go home and think about how to distract Nina from her determination to come to Kilby. He signaled the bartender, Todd, for his tab.