“But they’re . . . slugs. They’re slimy.”
“So are catfish. It makes sense that we’d try to help other slimy creatures.”
She giggled.
“You’re not taking this seriously. We’ll call it ‘Sluggers for Slugs.’ ”
“Sluggers for Slugs. Actually, that’s kind of cute.” He heard her scrawl something on a piece of paper. “It looks good written out too.”
“Anyone can do a campaign with cute puppies or abandoned kittens. It’s about time the slugs got some support.”
“Now I know you’re joking.”
“Well, maybe. But maybe people would love it. It’s funny and unique. Goofy, like all the other promotions in the minors. A major league team wouldn’t touch it, but it’s perfect for a team like the Kilby Catfish. We can do some events at the ballpark, like . . . um . . . Dress Like a Slug Day. Or . . . everytime a slugger hits a home run, the team donates money to the campaign. Maybe we can even add another mascot. Slimy the Slug. Or Doug the Slug. Whatever. Kids would go crazy for it.”
“Do you think the team would go along with it?” From her serious tone, he could tell he’d gotten her attention. Good, because he intended to keep it.
“Word is that Crush Taylor wants to get on the mayor’s good side. And believe me, the team is always looking for new promotional ideas. It’s got to be better than the mooing competition they held in Albuquerque. Slugs don’t make any sounds, do they?”
“No.”
“Good. Because that mooing contest just about killed me.”
“I guess I can run it by Mayor Trent. Any chance you big macho ballplayers would dress like slugs for a promotional photo op?”
He chuckled. “Get enough beer in us, we’ll do just about anything.”
“The costumes will be skintight, you know.”
Flirty Voice was back. He was getting to her, slowly but surely. He wondered what it would be like to see her again after all these phone conversations. Strange? A little awkward? Or would he get his wish and they’d fall right into bed together? “Whatever brings in the crowds.”
“Sluggers for Slugs. You know what, I think this is a great idea!” He imagined her dancing a happy little end-zone dance in her bedroom. Then realized that imagining her bedroom was risky. “I’ll talk to the mayor first thing tomorrow. I’ll try to come up with some more promotional ideas too, and maybe write a press release. This is brilliant, Caleb! Totally brilliant! Give yourself a big kiss from me.”
“You know what, I’ll take a rain check on that. I’ll collect when we get back to Kilby.”
“We’ll see about that, Catfish.”
After they hung up, he tossed the phone to the end of the bed and took his cock back into his hand. Give himself a kiss . . . hell, he could do better than that. He closed his eyes, the effect of her voice still sending ripples up and down his spine.
Sluggers for Slugs. He’d done it—found an idea that would keep Sadie close. Give him an excuse to call her. To see her.
Moving his hand loosely up and down his cock, he let a satisfied smile spread across his face. Things weren’t so bad. He might not be able to hit the inside corner, but he was going to get Sadie Merritt into bed if it killed him.
Chapter 6
CALEB DREAMED ABOUT the Game that night. The game that had been worse than any nightmare he’d ever had, including those after Bingo had gone to prison. First inning, no problem. Second inning, no problem. And that was maybe the worst part, the way disaster sucker-punched him in the third. Facing the bottom of the Orioles lineup.
The first batter singled. So did the second. The first runner stole third. Caleb overthrew his pickoff attempt, the ball zipped into the dugout, and both runners scored. The next batter hit a double. The manager came out to talk to him, give him a chance to settle down. Caleb knew the manager was trying to calm him, but instead of helping, it filled him with rage. What was he, a child to be talked down from a tantrum?
In the dream, unlike in real life, he pushed the manager out of the way, violently, so he crumpled to the ground and incinerated into a wisp of smoke. With the manager gone, he focused on the next batter, who was huge. A terrifying giant with arms the size of tree trunks. He had to get the ball under those arms, somehow, but there was no room. He squinted and peered, trying to find a spot of open air to aim for, but it was impossible, and when he finally threw the ball anyway, it shattered into a million pieces, which the giant started eating with great snaps of his jaws. Then he swung the bat in circles over his head, around and around. Caleb watched, hypnotized and helpless, as the giant released the bat and it went winging across the infield right toward his head.
Caleb woke up in a hot sweat. He rolled out of bed and shook himself like a dog, trying to get rid of the feeling of the dream. When the sense of failure and helplessness still clung to him, he headed for the bathroom. Dwight, his roommate for the road trip, hadn’t returned last night, so there was no one to chase him out of his hot shower before he was done.
He took a long time in there, letting steam fill the shower stall and scalding water sluice across his skin.
What if the Game had spooked him? What if that one outing had been so traumatic that he would never fully recover?
He shook his head. That was bullshit. He was a baseball player. A flamethrowing fastballer who enjoyed the mental aspect of the game even more than the physical. He was mentally tough, everyone always said so. He’d pitched out of hundreds of jams. Thousands. He was an intimidator. An elite prospect. He’d get past this little bump in the road.
On impulse, he fired up his laptop and went to the Sports Illustrated site. He typed in his own name. Right away the latest article popped up. “Hart of Darkness. What’s wrong with Caleb Hart?” Written by John Firestone.
Oh for Chrissake. He shouldn’t read this. It would mess with his head even more. Don’t read it. Don’t read it.
But now that he had it open, he couldn’t stop himself.
Ask any knowledgeable baseball fanatic about major league baseball’s most intriguing pitching prospects, and Caleb Hart will be one of the first names mentioned. He’s known as a ferociously intelligent, intensely competitive, wildly talented young fastballer whose changeup, when it’s working, can make a batter’s eyes cross. His fastball has been clocked at 97 miles per hour. His ERA coming out of Triple A was 1.23, and he averaged six strikeouts per game. That’s an average. So why is this phenom now in Kilby, Texas, dodging the tumbleweeds and playing for the always-quirky Catfish?
The process of figuring out “What’s wrong with Caleb Hart?” started as an academic exercise, but soon became more like a journey into the heart of darkness.
Struck with sudden horror, Caleb scanned quickly through the rest of the article, looking for the name “Bingo” or any mention of his father. But no, the writer had stuck to interviewing coaches, managers, other pitchers, and even one of the batboys who’d been at Target Field for that epic game. Phrases like “loss of confidence,” “weirdest thing I ever saw,” and “psychological Apocalypse Now” screamed past his eyeballs. He logged off his laptop, slammed it closed, and threw himself out of the chair. Strode to the window and looked down on the grim little parking lot of the Econolodge.
Breakfast. He needed coffee, some fried eggs and bacon, and maybe some toast. And he needed the ball. More workouts, that was the answer. He’d work out his legs, that might help him pushing off the mound. He’d build up his core strength too.
He checked his watch. No time for a run. He barely had time for breakfast. Quickly, he packed his bag, shoved his laptop in its case, then texted Tessa.
Kids get to school okay?
Just dropped them off. Text you later. Guess what? I got into med school. Got the news last night too late to call you.
Awesome, Tess! Knew you’d do it. Dr. Hart. Nice.
It’s expensive.
Good thing you have a million-dollar ballplayer for a brother.
He could practica
lly hear her snort all the way from Plano.
Medical school. Hundreds of thousands of dollars in tuition fees. Endless hours away from the twins. Taking classes at the local college was one thing, but med school was different. It would take all her time. They’d have to figure something else out for the kids. Aunt Mary had offered to live with them, but the boys paid no attention to her. The house might get burned down if she was in charge.
Whenever Bingo mentioned seeing the twins, Caleb hit the roof. As far as he was concerned, Bingo had lost his rights as a parent when he went to prison. No way did he want the kids around him. He’d quit baseball before he let that happen.
Out in the hallway, he ran into Mike Solo, and they headed downstairs, catching glances from the other guests.
“You missed a hellacious party, dude,” Mike said, jamming sunglasses over his bloodshot eyes.
“I’m not worried about it. There’s always another party.”
“What did you do? Snuggle up with your ERA? Stick pins in a voodoo doll of your pitching arm?”
“Get off my back.” They clattered down the steps, their steps echoing in the stairwell. “Why can’t everyone talk about something else for a while?”
“I want to, but when my good buddy gets profiled by Sports Illustrated, I gotta read that shit.”
Caleb stopped dead and pinned Mike against the wall with one hand. “Don’t mention that piece of crap story around me. I’m serious.”
“Okay.” Mike nodded, but as soon as he was a few steps away, he started whistling. Caleb wasn’t a hundred percent sure, since he hadn’t seen the movie in years, but he was pretty sure it was the theme of Apocalypse Now.
Brett Carlisle loved the Sluggers for Slugs idea; Mayor Trent had some doubts.
“I don’t want any controversy. This is the Catfish we’re talking about.”
“But they’re trying to improve their image. And they’d help us get more press attention,” Sadie pointed out.
“I don’t trust the Catfish not to make a joke out of it. I want to make sure the positive coverage is worth the risk. Feel out the local press on the topic. But discreetly, in case I nix the whole plan.”
So a few days later Sadie caught up with Burwell Brown, reporter for the Kilby Press-Herald, outside the newspaper’s downtown offices. A year ago the Wade family had tried to use him to plant a libelous story about Sadie. He’d refused, and ever since then Burwell had been her favorite reporter. Now that she worked for the mayor, she fed him tidbits of news, like a wild bird she was trying to tame.
“Please tell me you have a tip about a big exposé that will get me a Pulitzer,” Burwell said to her. “Or at least the front page.”
“Sorry.” Sadie shook her head regretfully. “I don’t have anything reportable right now. I liked your last scoop, though.”
“Riiiiight. Another ‘Goofy Antics of the Minor Leagues’ story. In this town, they’re my bread and butter. Did you hear what the Catfish did on their last road trip?”
She shook her head, wondering what he would think if he knew she’d talked to a certain Catfish pitcher every night for the past week.
“They kidnapped a cow and got it into the home clubhouse of the Isotopes. Dressed it in an Isotopes uniform and a tiara. Ellington nearly blew a valve.”
She shook her head, thinking about how fun it would be to tease Caleb about his rambunctious team.
“But what can I do for you, Sadie? I know you’re not here about baseball.”
“Actually, I am. Partly. Have you heard of the horn-toed slug?”
“The fate of the poor doomed horn-toed slug keeps me up at night,” he said dryly, adjusting the horn-rimmed glasses on his dark cocoa face. “Why?”
“It’s not a sure thing yet, but I wanted to gauge the media’s interest. What would you say if a new and very prominent member of the Catfish became the spokesperson for the Save Our Slugs campaign? What would you think if they called it Sluggers for Slugs? Do you think readers would be interested? And do you think the Catfish could get some positive coverage for a change?”
“Is the player Caleb Hart?”
She gave a start. “You’ve heard of him?”
“Kid, everyone in Kilby’s heard of Hart. Most fascinating new player we’ve ever had here. And he won’t talk to the media, not since he got sent down.”
Now that part, Caleb hadn’t mentioned. This was even better than she’d hoped. “I might be able to convince Caleb Hart to talk.” He certainly hadn’t mentioned anything about not talking. “About the slugs, anyway. Theoretically, would you be interested in that story? I can keep some elements exclusive to the Press-Herald, of course.”
Burwell Brown looked like a kid at his first birthday party. She’d never seen him so excited; so that’s what he looked like when you weren’t pestering him to cover school lunches. “That’s a big ol’ Texas hell yes, Sadie. You aren’t just teasing me, are you? Because that would be cruel, after everything your boss has put me through lately.”
She brushed off that little dig. “I’m not teasing, but like I said, nothing’s for sure yet. I’m testing the waters.”
“The waters say come on in.”
“Great.”
He gave her a fist bump. “You take care now, Sadie. If you need anything, regarding those Wades . . .”
“I’m good. I’m moving on,” she said, her face turning the temperature of a brick oven. “Don’t people in this town have anything else to talk about?”
“When Kilby’s founding family throws dirt around, people tend to pay attention. Call me when you have this nailed down, you hear?” And he hurried off, a bounce in his step she’d never seen before.
Her feet, on the other hand, felt like lead. Every time she thought she’d moved past the Hamilton Disaster, someone mentioned the Wades and it all came rushing back. The Wades were . . . She didn’t want to call them evil, but they protected their own, no questions asked. One of Hamilton’s uncles was the police chief of Kilby, and his father owned the biggest ranch in the county. When oil was discovered in their backyard, they’d become instant millionaires. Apparently all that money had gone into spoiling their blond, blue-eyed, football-hero oldest son.
Actually, all the Wade cousins liked to get their way. And they liked to party. And they did not like to be broken up with. Sadie was the first, in fact.
The breakup itself wasn’t difficult. Half stoned, Ham went through an entire bag of sour cream and onion Ruffles while she presented her carefully rehearsed speech about going in different directions and not wanting to hold him back. Of course, she didn’t mention the real reasons—his growing drug habit, regular cheating, and general incompatibility.
When she finally finished, he held up one hand, fingers splayed apart, and peered through the gap between thumb and forefinger, framing her face between them. Then he snapped them together, making her jump. “Hasta la vista, babe. See ya, wouldn’t want to be ya.”
That was it? She left his bachelor pad condo, practically running past the members of his entourage lolling around the pool, so relieved to put the breakup behind her that she didn’t analyze Hamilton’s last words.
But they came back to her with a vengeance the first time she stopped in at Starbucks to grab a coffee. Everyone looked up when she walked in, and the barista could barely take her order for laughing. While she waited for her iced mocha latte, the whispers echoed around her like the hissing of snakes. “Sadie . . . did you see . . . Facebook . . . slutty . . . Sadie . . .”
And then the barista called out her name, not just “Sadie,” but “Slutty” buried inside a cough. Smothered laughter spread across the room, but no one would meet her eyes as she walked out, face burning. With the bile of fear tightening her throat, she tossed the mocha latte in the trash outside. As soon as she got home, she went on Facebook and tracked down a new page called S****y Sadie. It already had five hundred likes. Revoltingly sexy photos, some of her, some of other people, populated the page. Her full name was neve
r mentioned, but anyone who knew her and Hamilton couldn’t possibly mistake her.
Horrified, she scanned the photos, which just skirted the line between sexy and likely to be banned. When had Hamilton taken that blurry picture of her in the shower? She didn’t remember that. When had he snapped a shot of her in bra and panties, standing in front of an open refrigerator door? And then a zoom-in on her butt as she bent over to reach inside? Judging by these photos, she spent most of her time half naked. Some of the shots must have been taken by someone else—like the one of her sitting on his lap at a party, putting her hand on his zipper . . . she didn’t remember doing that, but she remembered that party. She’d had a few too many margaritas. There had been body shots . . . Yup, there was a photo Hamilton squeezing lime juice on her navel.
Oh God. Maybe the photos wouldn’t look so bad, so “Girls Gone Wild,” if he hadn’t added gross captions, like “Slutty S***e likes a licking.”
Sickened, she’d shut down the computer. All her embarrassing moments caught on camera and posted in one place. With sleazy captions.
What should she do? she’d agonized. What could she do?
Ignore it, she decided. He’s mad right now, but he’ll stop soon. He’ll forget about me.
The problem was, he hadn’t forgotten. Hamilton and his entourage made it into a game. A mean, vicious game. They’d treated her reputation like a fumbled football up for grabs, tearing at it like dogs. She’d broken the cardinal rule of the Wade family: they always had the upper hand. And she’d paid. Oh, how she’d paid. So had her mother, who’d been so traumatized that she still avoided the Internet, not to mention large swaths of the gossip-loving population of Kilby.
And then someone forwarded the “sex tape” to her, and all her recent job rejections made sense. At least Caleb would never see that horrible tape, because it wasn’t posted anywhere public. No—Ham held onto it for special occasions. Like when she went for job interviews.
Something brushed against her cheek. Surprised, she realized it was a tear. Oh fireballs. She wasn’t about to cry over this again. She wasn’t going back to that hell. Those days were over. Her life was in her own hands now. The slugs. Focus on the slugs.
All of Me Page 7
