Wild Card

by Tara Wyatt

  He nodded. “I know. But I always figured it was more of a showmance than anything, since you told me about a thousand times that you didn’t do relationships.”

  “Yeah, it was a big news story when we got together—two of country’s most popular musicians, etcetera. But it was real. And there was a whole lot that never made it onto the news.” She rested her chin on her knees and he sat up, laying a hand on her lower back. She glanced at him. “He…he was abusive. I was in an abusive relationship.”

  Red tinged the edges of Hunter’s vision, but he forced himself to take a breath, tension radiating through him. “Fuck, Marlowe, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too. It’s why…none of this is easy for me, you know? Trusting, being open, letting go.” She reached over and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know you would never hurt me or treat me the way he did. I know that. It’s just…it’s hard. It kinda broke me.”

  “Will you tell me what happened? You don’t have to.” He both did and didn’t want to know the details.

  Silence hung in the room and then she started talking, staring off into the corner. “We met through the industry, and he was so charming at first. Funny and flirty and really engaging. And obviously interested. I was wanting to put myself out there, to shake off my mom’s baggage, so we started dating. And at first it was good. But then little things started happening. He’d get jealous for no reason, or he’d make comments about what I was wearing, or what I was eating. We’d have an argument about something, and then when I brought it up again, he’d gaslight me, making me think I had it all wrong. Making me question my own memories, and I started to wonder if he was right about stuff. And then the cycle started—he’d be horrible to me. He’d control me and make me feel stupid and worthless. He’d pick fights over small things, like what restaurant to go to, or me looking at our waiter the wrong way. And I…I just wanted to make him happy. I thought that if I only tried hard enough, things would be better. I also think, in hindsight, that I had absorbed my mom’s way of thinking, that I needed to hang onto him. As time passed though, it didn’t seem to matter how hard I tried to be good. I just always felt like shit about myself. And then, one night after he’d been drinking, he hit me.”

  Hunter’s jaw clenched. “Son of a bitch.”

  “He didn’t like the dress I’d worn to an event. It showed too much skin, and he called me a whore. I got upset and defended myself and he backhanded me across the face. The second he did it, though, I could tell he felt awful. Ashamed. He cried. He apologized. He swore he’d get help for his drinking. And for a while, things were good. Better than they’d been in a long time. But then, the nitpicking and the arguing started again. He was always so jealous, and he had no self-control when he was drinking. Things would come to a head and he’d take it out on me, physically. With each cycle, I sunk deeper and deeper, and I was terrified to leave.” She looked at Hunter. “I thought he’d kill me if I tried to leave him. And even worse, deep down, thanks to all of his shitty treatment, there was a part of me that wondered if I didn’t deserve it sometimes.”

  “But you know now that’s not true, right?”

  “I do. Yay therapy.”

  “And obviously you did finally leave.”

  She closed her eyes again. “Each time he got violent, it got worse and worse, and I knew I had to leave. It got to a point where I was scared to leave, but I was even more scared of staying. So, I made plans to get the hell out of there and go stay with a friend in LA. But he found out, and…that broken arm I had? It wasn’t from falling down the stairs. So, I…I’m not proud of this, but I drugged him. He passed out, and I left. He begged me to come back, promised he’d change, quit drinking, get help, but with an entire country between us, I felt braver, and I told him that if he ever contacted me again, I’d tell the world what he’d done. And that was the end.” She took a shuddering breath. “Or so I thought?”

  “What do you mean?” Hunter asked, suddenly on high alert.

  “He was on a talk show recently, talking about me, telling the world that he wanted me back. He’s just looking for attention, I’m sure, but it freaked me out. That night, I had a nightmare about him, and that’s when I woke you up, and…” Tears welled and then slid down her cheeks. Hunter pulled her into his arms, holding her tight.

  There was one thing Hunter knew for sure: Dirk Marshall had better hope and pray they never came face to face.

  Twelve

  “This…God, this feels weird,” said Marlowe, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress as she stared at herself in the mirror. She was ensconced in a suite in the Rittenhouse Hotel in Philadelphia, where Hunter’s mom had very kindly (and very quickly) thrown together a wedding reception for them. While Hunter had played an afternoon game against the Phillies, Marlowe had spent the time getting ready at the hotel—hair, makeup, nails, even a massage. The whole bridal shebang. And now, as her friends Cady and Parker bustled around the room, glasses of champagne in their hands, Marlowe stood in front of the floor-length mirror, studying her reflection.

  The stylist had pinned her hair up, leaving a few tendrils loose around her face. Her makeup was subtle, but pretty. And her dress…

  Well, it was white. Very, very white. It hadn’t looked quite so blindingly white when she’d ordered it online, but it was too late to find something else to wear now. She’d gone for something pretty and vintage, with short, lacy sleeves and a swishy tulle skirt that fell just past her knees. She’d paired it with strappy gold heels. It was all very…bridey. And yes, she was a bride, and she was happy and in love, but there was still a part of her not entirely comfortable with all of this.

  Her mother came up behind her, laying a hand on Marlowe’s shoulder. “You look so beautiful sweetheart. I’m so happy for you.”

  Marlowe smiled, determined not to let her mother get under her skin today. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “I’m so glad you’ll finally be settled and have someone to look after you.”

  Marlowe’s resolution lasted exactly two and a half seconds, and she grit her teeth. “Mmmhmm.”

  “Hunter seems like a wonderful man.”

  The muscles in Marlowe’s face softened and she smiled, ducking her head a little. “He is.”

  Her mother clasped her hands together in front of her, a look of pure elation on her face. “A professional athlete, so handsome, so wealthy, I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect man for you.”

  Marlowe’s eyebrow inched up her forehead. “I love Hunter, Mom, but he’s not perfect. No one is.”

  “Right, right, of course,” she said, but Marlowe could still see the stars in her mother’s eyes. It suddenly hit Marlowe that while her mother could be so frustrating sometimes, and that she had some messed up ideas about love, relationships and men, she also always tried so hard to see the good in people. It wasn’t necessarily the worst quality in the world. She pulled her mom in for a hug, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it! I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy, you know.”

  “I know, Mom.” She took a deep breath, settling deeper into her newfound appreciation for her mom’s outlook on life. “I know.”

  A knock sounded at the door and Parker moved to open it. In the mirror, she saw Hunter standing in the doorway, looking pretty damn near perfect in a simple gray suit and gold tie. Their eyes met in the mirror, and everything else around her dropped away. He mouthed the word “wow” and winked at her before stepping into the room and introducing himself to Cady, Parker, and her mother. Her mother practically swooned when Hunter pulled her in for a hug.

  “You mind if I have a moment alone with Marlowe?” he asked, flashing that charming grin that made him pretty much impossible to refuse. It was a grin Marlowe knew well. “I think the party’s just about ready to start.” Taking the hint, the other three women cleared out of the room, leaving the two of them alone together.

  They’d spent the past co
uple of weeks settling into a very normal, cozy routine in Dallas. Hunter spent a lot of time at the field, and she’d just put the finishing touches on her brand new song, “What Happens in Vegas,” but they also spent time together doing super normal things, like cooking, watching movies, going for hikes. She went to his games, and sometimes on his road trips. Oh, and the sex. Yeah, there was a lot of sex. Not that she was complaining. With each passing day, their lives became more and more entwined. It was…easy. Natural. But today felt like another big step—one that had her retreating within herself a bit again. Old defenses were hard to overcome, apparently.

  Hunter slipped his hands around her waist, his touch warm through the thin fabric of her dress. “You look incredible.”

  “Thank you. So do you,” she said, her cheeks warming at the heat shining out at her from his eyes.

  “I have something for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little dark blue box with the Harry Winston logo on it. “I thought since, you know, we’re really doing this, I owed you a ring.”

  “I have a ring,” she said softly, fingering the little moonstone she’d become attached to as her heart pounded away in her chest.

  “A real ring.” He flipped open the box, revealing an oval-shaped diamond surrounded by smaller diamonds. She sucked in a sharp breath as the jewel’s facets caught the light, sparkling at her. “Oh my God, Hunter. This is the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen.”

  With a grin, he took it out of the box. She hastily moved her moonstone to her right hand and let him slide the elegant diamond onto her left ring finger. “Can’t have a bride without a diamond ring, right?”

  She laughed and pulled him to her, kissing him. “I don’t need diamonds if I have you.”

  “Well, you can have both. One of the many perks of being Mrs. Blake.”

  Her stomach dipped and swooped at his words and she kissed him again, then laughed softly when she pulled back, wiping at the lipstick she’d smeared on his mouth. He kissed the tips of her fingers and she stilled her movements, biting her lip. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get you anything.”

  “Yeah, Marlowe. You did.” He smiled and pulled her close again, kissing her. “Come on, let’s head downstairs before all the pigs in a blanket are gone.”

  She laughed and slipped her hand into his. “That would be a travesty.”

  Several hours later, Marlowe laid with her head on Hunter’s bare chest, his heart beating against her still slightly flushed cheek. With each breath, she listened to his heartbeat slow, bit by bit, like a drum machine winding down. Her body still hummed with the orgasm he’d given her, and her limbs felt heavy, her body pleasantly sated. Completely relaxed. Heart full.

  The reception had gone well, and had actually been more fun than she’d anticipated. Her mother had behaved—thank God—and everyone had had a good time, eating, drinking, and dancing. It had all felt very official, and she kept waiting for the fear to creep in, but so far, it hadn’t shown up. Maybe it wouldn’t because she was finally done untangling the damaged threads of her heart that Dirk had left in his wake.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked, tracing her fingers over Hunter’s bare skin, following the inked lines on his ribs.

  “That I’m super fucking glad we did this because I don’t really remember our wedding ceremony.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. “But I’ll always remember this.”

  She tucked her face against him and grinned. “It’d be pretty hard to forget the sight of all of our aunts and uncles doing the conga to Gloria Estefan.”

  He lifted his head, a funny look on his face. “Did that happen? Because I couldn’t stop staring at you.”

  She pulled him down for a kiss. She wasn’t sure what she’d done to deserve Hunter and all of his sweetness, but it must’ve been something pretty great. As his tongue slid against hers, fresh arousal spiked through her, and she wound her tired legs around his hips. Then, with a quick movement, she rolled him under her, straddling him. His eyes shone up at her as his hands slid over her ribs and up to her breasts. The pads of his thumbs were rough on her sensitive nipples, and she arched into his touch. Her eyes traveled over his tattoos as they had so many times before, and she found there was something she wanted more than more orgasms. Which, honestly, had to be a first in her time with Hunter.

  “Will you tell me about these?” she asked, trailing her fingers over the thorny roses on his ribs. “The art is incredible.”

  “Thanks. The art’s mine, actually.”

  Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really? I didn’t know that you drew.” She slid off of him, sitting beside him in bed. “I guess there’s still a lot I don’t know about you.”

  He shrugged, looking almost bashful. “It’s just a hobby.” He pulled her back down onto him, winding his arms around her as she snuggled into his muscled warmth. “And we have the rest of our lives to get to know each other.”

  He was right, they did, and there was something both comforting and exhilarating in that. As she kissed his shoulder, basking in just being with him, her mind flew back to their home in Dallas—Hunter’s home—and the sketches she’d noticed on the mantel when she’d first arrived.

  “Are those drawings yours?” she asked, levering herself up onto her elbow. “The ones above the fireplace?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I switch them out sometimes. Like I said, it’s just a hobby.”

  It was totally and completely endearing that he was embarrassed about his less-than-macho hobby.

  “So what’s the story behind the ones you chose to have permanently inked onto you?” she asked, settling back down. She could feel him smile just by the way the air shifted around them.

  “The first one I got was the Yogi Berra one, the quote that says ‘it ain’t over til it’s over.’ I think I was eighteen or nineteen. Baseball was life. Is life, still, I guess, and it just felt like a good reminder. Never give up. Always keep fighting, you know? Then I got the waves when I was twenty. I’d just started playing in the minor leagues and it was…” He paused and she didn’t say anything, giving him the space to come up with the words he needed. “I knew there was more to come. I wasn’t on the shore yet. I also knew that when things got tough, you had to just ride it out.”

  “Like waves in the ocean, eventually pulling you to shore.”

  “Exactly. Life was…I mean, I fucked up a lot when I was younger. I still fuck up a lot now, but not on the same level. Usually, anyway. So I had a lot of waves to ride out.”

  “And what about the roses? The thorns?” She trailed her fingers over his ribs, savoring the goosebumps that rose on his skin. It was reassuring to know she could elicit that kind of reaction from him.

  “I got that one when I was drafted and signed my first big league contract. The past few years in the minors had been…turbulent, and I was all about new beginnings. I knew there’d be more obstacles to come, but everything up to that point had been worth it.”

  “You’d bloomed,” she said softly.

  “Yeah.” His voice was a husky whisper. She bit her lip, not saying anything as she tried to reconcile the Hunter the world saw—the cocky, at times hot-headed star athlete—with the Hunter lying in bed with her right here, right now. He had hidden depths she hadn’t expected to find. For a few moments, they let silence envelop them as she processed this new side of him.

  “You know, it’s interesting,” she finally said after a while.

  “What is?”

  “Well, in the minors, in the majors, it doesn’t matter—you’ve been your own biggest obstacle, and I can’t help but wonder if a part of you knew that, given that you chose to have those thorns—your obstacles—tattooed right on you. Like you’re owning them.”

  At that, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. “You know, I’d never thought of it that way.” He rested his arms on his bent knees, staring toward the darkened window. “But you’re right. Maybe it’s something I’ve known deep down for
a long time.” He turned his gaze toward her, a smile quirking up the corner of his mouth. “Would you ever get a tattoo?”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Probably not. I’ve never really wanted one, mainly because there’s nothing that means so much to me that I want it to be a permanent part of my body.”

  “Really? Nothing?”

  It was her turn to get quiet and thoughtful. Was it sad that there was nothing she loved enough, nothing she trusted enough, to say yes, this is who I am, what I want, what I believe? Had she protected herself so much that she’d missed out on the big, life-affirming things?

  “Hang on,” he said with a grin, tossing back the rumpled sheets. Completely naked, he crossed the room and started rummaging in his bag. After a moment, he pulled out a small sketchbook. Her eyes roved over his body, so gloriously masculine, so perfectly made, as he crossed back to her, bringing the sketchbook in bed, along with a small, plain black pencil case. He held the book out to her, letting her into his private, hidden world. Welcoming her.

  With a small smile, she took it and flipped it open. The creamy pages were filled with sketches, all done with simple yet intricate strokes of black ink. Animals, city skylines, a mountain range. Her mind hummed as her heart battered against her ribs, her fingers moving reverently over the pages, turning them slowly, carefully. A detailed close up of an eye, flowers, a marina. With each flip of the page, she fell a little bit more in love with him. Not because of the drawings themselves, although it was sexy as hell that he could draw like this, but because of the way he saw the world. He saw so much beauty in the ordinary, and his appreciation for it was obvious with each graceful stroke on the page.

  She turned another page and she stopped, her breath whooshing out of her. It was a gorgeous sketch of a crane soaring over gently rippling water. “This is so beautiful. I’ve always loved cranes.”

  “Me too.” He nodded, peering down at the sketch she’d fallen in love with. Then he reached for the black pencil case, unzipped it, and pulled out a fine-tipped black marker. “Turn around,” he whispered, and she did, sitting with her back facing him. She sucked in a sharp breath as she felt the first trace of the marker over the bare skin of her shoulder blade. He gathered her hair and pushed it over her other shoulder, exposing the entire naked swath of her back. As he worked, drawing on her with quick, efficient, gentle strokes, she wished she could see him, to see what his face looked like when he did this.