by Grant, Pippa
I scrub a hand over my face. “I’ll call him. Don’t quit. I’ll give you my firstborn and a peanut butter factory.”
“You’re not having children, and the beauty of peanut butter is that I’m not stuck with one kind for eternity. Tell. Bruce. To. Knock. It. Off.”
She looks pointedly at my phone.
“Okay, okay. Right now. I’ll call him right now.”
It’s easier to chew his ass out about respecting everyone on the team—including Sarah—when I realize this guy could actually have reason to talk to her, or my mom, or my sister one day. He reminds me he’s done a shit-ton of work to help me launch and keep not just the RYDE line going strong, but also my loungewear and body care lines, and I remind him that that’s exactly what I pay him to do, and if he fucks up this foundation with Vaughn by trying to weasel more business out of him when I’ve specifically told him not to, I also have a crackpot legal team and I know he’s been cheating on his wife.
I don’t actually know that until he blusters that I’m full of shit and trips over his tongue daring me to prove it.
Call it a gut feeling.
When I hang up, I feel like shit, because I hate chewing people out.
I find Charlie in a small office across the hall. “Why didn’t you tell me a year ago he was this much of an ass?”
“He wasn’t until his last mistress dumped him. Now he’s seeing some twenty-three-year-old who thinks he’s richer than you, and the stress of going broke pretending is getting to him.”
I gape at her.
“But I’ve had Hank monitoring your bank accounts and any attempts to make unauthorized transactions, plus your legal team has combed through his employment agreement, so you’re fine.”
And now my eyes are going to fall out of my head.
“Beck. When we’re on the road, you’re going twenty hours a day. You don’t play the diva, you don’t tell the photographers to wrap it up, you don’t complain about living on watercress and four black beans a day, you make us stop so you can play soccer with random kids in public parks, and you give me raises every single month. My last boss slapped my ass regularly, would pitch a fit if his coffee wasn’t exactly 183 degrees, and ultimately quit paying my salary because he ran out of money after one of his mistresses discovered he was cheating on her and hacked his bank accounts. It’s in my best interest to make sure you can still pay me.”
I’ve been in this business a long time. Her story doesn’t surprise me, and that pisses me off. I hold out a fist. “You’re a total badass, and I hope you punched him in the nuts when you quit.”
She bumps me. “I got to quit. That was good enough. Plus, I don’t actually like to punch men when they’re down, and his second mistress put him in the hospital with a bleeding kidney. Don’t piss off a woman wearing stilettos. Also, you have a phone call with Vaughn at eleven—don’t piss him off either, because he’s letting his people keep working with our people to keep this going—and Tripp’s upstairs waiting for you. Apparently you’re his best chance for adult conversation. Poor man. Telecon with your Ryder Family Foundation manager in thirty. Don’t be late.”
He’s not Sarah, but I’m still smiling when I head up to my apartment. James is flying an airplane around my living room and Emma’s gnawing on a stuffed giraffe. “Hey, watch it, kid. Those things are endangered.” I boop her nose and dive out of the way of James’s airplane. “Aahh! Out of control airplane’s gonna get me!”
He chases me around the living room and kitchen, giggling and shrieking, until we collapse on the floor in front of the couches and he flops onto my belly to vroom the airplane into my nose.
“And up you go,” Tripp says, pulling him off me and turning him to stare at some cartoon on the TV. “Uncle Beck needs his pretty nose to stay pretty if he’s going to stay employed.”
“Are you kidding? Being injured while saving bunnies and children from runaway evil airplanes will only add to my mystique and improve my reputation.”
He shakes his head and runs a hand through his brown hair. “It’s like having a third kid,” he mutters.
I grin. “Just like being on the road, except now your actual kids are smaller.”
“And growing.”
“Do I need to wrap Emma in a plastic tarp, or is her butt better?”
“There’s nothing left in her until we feed her again. Your floors are safe for now.”
She glances at us, tosses her giraffe to the side, and then goes down on all fours to dart over to James’s abandoned plastic airplane, which also goes straight in her mouth.
“Huh. I should’ve thought of that,” I say. “That looks like it’s delicious.”
Tripp shakes his head. “You selling out?”
He’s lounging on my couch, and he’s pulling off relaxed—helps that he’s in a RYDE cotton shirt, because dude, those things are so soft they’d melt on hot toast—but I’ve known him since I could talk, and there’s something gnawing at him.
Also, why does he keep asking me that?
“You going stir-crazy?” I ask with a head tilt at the kids.
He props his elbows on his knees and steeples his hands. “Yes. No. I—yes.”
“No guilt, dude. Remember when our moms used to dump us all on the men and disappear for whole weekends away?”
His smile goes sad. “Yeah. Mine always felt guilty.”
“What? Why?”
“Because she had to dump us on somebody else’s dad.”
“Nobody cared.”
He opens his mouth, then shakes his head again. “Heard a reliable rumor the Fireballs are for sale.”
“Aw, snickerdoodles,” I mutter. Not that I’m surprised. “Mackenzie’s gonna die.”
“Sarah’s friend?”
“Yeah, she’s—” I stop myself, because thinking of Mackenzie’s superstitions makes me think about last night, and thinking about last night makes me think of Sarah, and thinking of Sarah is making me think of Sarah whispering about food porn, and thinking of Sarah and food porn makes me think of Sarah naked, with me, alone, and I’m reaching for my phone to text her again before I realize Tripp’s sitting there staring at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Got it bad, Beck,” he mutters. “Just…be careful.”
From a man who married a Hollywood darling.
Not that Sarah’s a Hollywood darling, but her parents are.
And now he knows what it’s like to lose the woman he loves. So his warnings are coming with layers.
James glances at his sister and an unholy shriek fills the entire penthouse floor. “STOP EATEE MY AYAPWANE!”
Emma bursts into tears and throws the toy to the ground.
And Tripp sighs and rubs his forehead.
“I have ice cream,” I tell him.
“Feed them sugar, and they’re yours for the next six hours.”
Wouldn’t be so bad.
I’m out of other playmates and it would be a great excuse to get out of some meetings, at least until Sarah’s home.
“You think the Fireballs can find new owners?” I ask Tripp while I hold out a magazine for Emma to chew on.
He gives me the don’t play the dumbass, dumbass look.
And now I get it.
He wants me to sell out.
Holy fuck.
He’s not looking for someone to hang with.
He’s looking for a business partner.
“Bro,” I mutter. “Seriously?”
He shakes his head, but I don’t think he’s telling me no. “You remember how many days we’d spend there before the band? Even before we could drive ourselves?” He tilts his head at his kids. “You know how many games I want to take them to? You ever think of taking your own kids someday?”
I swallow hard. I don’t know what a baseball team costs, but despite the millions we made in the band, and the tens of millions Cash, Levi, and I individually bring in every year—my empire is worth over a billion dollars, but that’s not hard cash, it’s assets and eq
uity—I doubt any of us have enough money to outright buy a team.
Even the losingest team in baseball.
Which means my buddy’s asking me if I can liquidate something.
Go into business with him. Probably all the guys. Reunite for a new cause.
And buy our hometown baseball team.
I gulp again, but in the midst of gulping, I can’t help a smile. “That would be so snickerdoodling awesome,” I mutter. My brain’s spinning in a way I don’t often make it spin, but shit. Owning our own baseball team?
Bringing the Fireballs back to glory?
He doesn’t smile back. “Snickerdoodling complicated and hard and risky.”
“You got numbers?”
He nods once while James darts over to shove the plane in my face. “Unka Beck! See it fwy?”
“Fly, little airplane,” I tell it. “Gaaahhh! Fly away from the meteorites!” I crinkle a page out of the magazine and toss it in the air, and James darts off, giggling.
Then I shoot a look at Tripp. “Email me.”
He snorts. “You mean email Charlie?”
I shake my head and toss James another meteorite to dodge. “Email me.”
“It’s a snickerdoodle-ton,” he says, so dead serious I have to wonder if he’s talking about even more than we’re all worth together.
“Yeah, and we’re five guys from a middle-class neighborhood in Virginia who ruled the snickerdoodling world for five or six years. Levi in?”
“I’m starting with the easy targets.”
That gets a laugh out of me, but it’s true.
I’m the easy target.
Davis might technically be the youngest of all of us, but I’m the kid. “This is nuts. Even I know that.”
But I’m not thinking about nuts.
I’m thinking about excuses to be home even more.
And the look on Sarah’s face if I told her I saved her best friend’s baseball team.
If I told her we’d be in the limelight less. Because who, outside of Copper Valley, really cares about the Fireballs?
And now I’m smiling again, adrenaline kicking in just like it did the night we all climbed onto a tour bus for the first leg of our very first tour.
“You have a crazy bone,” I say to Tripp, who was always the one watching our backs on tour, because yeah, he’s the dad of the group.
He thrusts his hands through his hair. “Sometimes, a guy needs a change.”
He just might be right.
Thirty-One
Sarah
Once in a blue moon, Mackenzie and I do paint night at a cute little art shop a few blocks from my house. When they announced one of their new painting options is a night scene of Duggan Field, she signed us up.
Pre-Beck, of course. Because we had to sync a paint night with a day game, because it wouldn’t do to be painting Duggan Field while missing a game.
But now it’s the two of us, plus my mom, Ellie, and Mrs. Ryder.
When the staff realized it was me coming, they asked Mackenzie if she’d rather reschedule or bring enough people to fill the shop ourselves, since they didn’t want me to be uncomfortable with being fawned over.
“I’m not a freaking celebrity,” I mutter to her while we start on our wine. I have two glasses—one red, one white—and a newly cleaned seat and brand-new brushes because apparently I’m still going to be the person of the hour tonight, which is ridiculous.
I’m just me.
“Yes, you are,” she mutters back. “And one day, when you take Beck up on his offer to let his video team help you set up a few vlogs about your favorite subjects, you’ll realize there are all kinds of stars, and you’re the kind you’re supposed to be.”
Ellie takes the seat on my other side with her wine and her paint tray. “If my mom asks how many babies you want, just tell her three, and she’ll be so overjoyed that she won’t ask you anything else the rest of the night,” she whispers.
“I heard that,” Mrs. Ryder says. “And I’d rather talk about your wedding, sweetheart.”
“I adore weddings,” Mom announces. “I’ve had seventeen of them.”
“Seventeen?” Mackenzie gasps.
“Sixteen were for roles,” I tell her.
“Oh. Right. Yeah. That makes sense.”
While Mackenzie asks Mom which was her favorite, I sneak a peek at my phone.
Beck texted, which gives me more of a thrill than I’m willing to admit out loud. Because I know what his unread text messages look like.
I just spun James so fast that he puked macaroni and cheese, and now Tripp says I’ve lost my babysitting privileges. This sucks. Flash me a picture of a cheeseburger to make me feel better? No, wait. Send me a picture of you EATING a cheeseburger to make me feel better.
I cast a quick glance around to make sure nobody’s paying attention, then snap a selfie of me lifting the glass of red wine to my lips.
Because my mother attacked me with eyeliner and that perfect shade of lipstick, I look a little like a surprised raccoon with purple lips, but if he’s still honestly attracted to me after this picture, then I’m definitely posting that blog I drafted this morning.
And I’m getting back on social media and diving in head first.
Once I send the text, his reply is almost instantaneous.
That’s not a burger, but I do love seeing those pretty eyes. Where are you? Do you need me to order fried cheese sticks for delivery? Or I could send naan. I sucked up bigtime at that place down the street between meetings this afternoon.
Alicia, the lady leading paint night, taps a brush on her easel to call us all to attention. “Good evening, ladies. We’re so thrilled to have you here. Who’s ready to get started?”
“Are you texting with him?” Mackenzie hisses. “Should’ve been doing that when the Fireballs were playing this afternoon.”
“I was at work this afternoon,” I hiss back.
She grins. “Okay, yeah, I wouldn’t have wanted you to get fired for being indecent.”
“Ew,” Ellie whispers on my other side.
“So, ladies, let’s begin with your big brush. This one here.” Alicia holds up a brush with thick bristles. “And dip it in your blue paint to get started on the background.”
We dutifully begin painting the deep purple-blue background above the penciled-out shape of the ballpark on our canvases.
I squint at my canvas.
Mackenzie sighs. “Just once, Sarah?”
“But it’s a Pikachu when you squint and look at it sideways.” I gesture to the rounded edges of the bleachers. “Or maybe a Pac-Man ghost, if you add some more legs. Or whatever those swishy things are that count as their legs.”
Ellie looks at me.
Mrs. Ryder looks at me.
Mackenzie sighs deeply again as she goes back to painting her background, and my mom raises her hand. “What I if I want to paint this as Dodger Stadium?”
“Oh, of course, Ms. Darling,” Alicia gushes. “We encourage freedom of expression here.”
“See?” I murmur to Mackenzie. “Freedom of expression.”
I grab a pencil and modify the shape on my canvas.
Ellie and Mrs. Ryder share a look.
Mackenzie reaches for her wine.
And when they’re all distracted, I pull my phone out, because it’s buzzed with at least three more messages from Beck.
I miss those pretty eyes.
How much longer are you going to be? Do you like pool? Or air hockey? I can whip up a trophy sundae and we can play for rights to lick it off each other’s bodies.
Sarah? Shit. We don’t have to lick anything if you don’t want to. And your dad is giving me a death glare again like he knows I’m trying to sext you, so if you could just ignore that last text until you can get here and save me from him and his rabid pig, that would be awesome. And then we can…you know. In person. If you’re free after you’re busy. I’ll be here all night.
“That’s a massive text,” Mackenzie s
ays, and I jump and drop my phone, then spill my rinse water when I dive for it before Ellie can see what all her brother’s text says.
Everyone leaps up to help me, but they’re all grinning.
Even my mom, who prefers to smile benevolently and graciously rather than grin, which isn’t at all what Hollywood producers are looking for in matronly roles these days.
“If you can handle how much Beck talks, then we’re never letting you go,” Ellie says.
“He is rather verbose for a male of the species, but charmingly so,” his mom concedes, as if I haven’t already decided I love her. “He just loves people.”
“Was that all a set-up?” Alicia asks. “That tweet to you? I mean, that apology video was utterly adorable. You had to have been planning it for weeks, right? This is just a Hollywood play because he’s about to announce a new fashion line or something, right?”
“Alicia,” Mrs. Ryder says, very calmly and with a smile that rivals some that my mom’s used while eviscerating a reporter or two over the years, “are you going to teach us to paint Duggan Field, or do we need to find another instructor?”
“Oh. Yes, ma’am. Although I’m still a proud card-carrying member of the Bro Code Sweethearts, and I was really glad when he apologized because I didn’t want to have to hate him. Let’s continue painting the background on our baseball park…”
“I haven’t been to a Fireballs game in ages,” Ellie says as I finish mopping up my mess with another of the staff’s help and everyone else gets back to the painting.
“We should go!” Mackenzie’s bouncing and in danger of spilling her rinse water and her wine now. “I have two season tickets,” she adds in a loud whisper, like if she doesn’t intentionally contain herself, the people four blocks over will hear too, because I know she’s been waiting for the right moment to shout it from the rooftops. “I mean, Sarah, you’re okay with me taking other people on occasion, right? Even if the Fireballs win while I’m taking someone else, that won’t mean you’re not good luck.”
I wave my brush. “By all means, spread the love.”
“You knew he was going to do that, didn’t you?” she whispers.
