Pushing Patrick: Fight Dirty (The Gilroy Clan Book 1)

by Megyn Ward

  “Where’s my woman?” Chris called out, delivering his question with another fastball.

  He’s talking about Cari. The kid’s had a crush on her since he joined the league, not that I can blame him. She comes to every game, somehow making jeans and a team T-shirt look downright sinful, to make sure the team stays hydrated and cheer them on.

  “She’s got other plans today,” I say evasively.

  “You guys fighting?” Chris says, concern spiking his tone. Like most of these kids, his home life isn’t the greatest. Fighting usually involves the cops and domestic battery charges.

  “No,” I say shaking my head, tossing the ball back before dropping onto my haunches. “She has a date.” I think I manage to say it without sounding like I want to hunt that Chase prick down and stomp his skull in.

  I must’ve pulled it off because Chris rolls his eyes, and throws me a slider. “Another douchebag?”

  I catch the ball and throw it back. “He’s an artist—seems nice enough.”

  “Seems nice enough,” Chris stops and laughs. “That’s what you said about that shit-face lawyer she was dating a few months back.”

  “I’m gonna start charging laps for language,” I tell him, but only because I know I’m supposed to be a responsible adult. Truth is, I’m sure developing a gutter-mouth is the least of this kid’s worries. His mom pops oxys like they’re breath mints and his dad is a barely functioning alcoholic.

  “Why don’t you just quit dicking around and ask her out already?” Chris says, completely ignoring my threats about his language.

  “Because we’re just friends.” I’m so used to saying it that it comes out automatically. Catching the ball, I don’t toss it back. Instead, I stand and start walking, closing the distance between us.

  “I don’t get it,” he says, pushing his hat up to scratch at his head. “According to Sean’s sister, you’re supposedly the hottest guy on the planet.” Sean is his best friend and starting shortstop. For his part, Chris looks skeptical. And a little jealous. Sean’s sister is seventeen and, besides Cari, his current object of infatuation.

  Even though it makes me uncomfortable, I shrug. “So?”

  “So, what’s the deal?” Chris widens his eyes at me and gestures broadly. “Apparently, you’re not a carnival freak and Cari’s a total smokeshow. It shouldn’t be that hard to bag—”

  “Don’t talk about her like that.” The tone of my voice, flat and heavy, is something he’s never heard from me before and it shuts him down completely. Fuck. I’ve worked for years to get these kids to trust me and here I am practically ripping the kid’s head off for stating the obvious.

  Even though I want to apologize—know I should—I don’t. “Declan’s lining everyone for batting practice.” I’m close enough to Chris to drop the ball into his gloved hand. “Why don’t you go get some swings in before the other team gets here.”

  Chris doesn’t answer, he just bobs his head once before turning to leave me behind at a moderate jog. He’s halfway up third before he turns back to me and grins. “I take it back—you are a total carnival freak.” His gaze drifts past me and the grin on his face goes from sheepish to shit-eating in less than a second. “Someone’s here to see you,” he says, jerking his chin in my direction before loping off to join Declan and the rest of the team.

  It’s not Cari. I know it’s not. If it were Cari, a stampede would’ve broken out, Declan losing total control of the team as they all ran toward her. That’s how much these kids love her. They saw her almost every Sunday without fail and they still swarm her every time they do, bombarding her with questions and telling her about their school week. She remembered every one of them—who has big tests coming up or who’d been having trouble in school—and she made sure she said something personal to each of them. So, no—it wasn’t Cari.

  Just like I knew who it wasn’t, knew who it was. I put a smile on my face and turned to jog my way to the dugout where Sara waited for me behind the fence.

  “Hey,” I say when I’m close enough to say something without shouting. “What are you doing here?”

  “Your team is playing my dad’s,” she said, pointing her at T-shirt. It’s bright orange with the letters LH&H scrolled across the front in a fancy script font. “And as much as it hurts to break it to you, we’re gonna whip your ass.”

  I laugh, feeling almost relieved. While we were dating, she’d asked her father, one of the founding partners of some huge law firm downtown, to sponsor a team. Even after we broke up, she insisted that her father keep up with the sponsorship but she’s handed coaching over to an associate at the firm. I knew taking her out for breakfast was a mistake. That it would encourage her into believing there was a chance of us getting back together. I need to set her straight but I don’t say anything about it. Not now. Instead I give her a friendly smile. “You care to place a friendly wager on that, Ms. Howard?”

  “Sure,” she says, grinning ear-to-ear. “Loser buys lunch.”

  I return her smile and hold out my hand. “You’re goin’ down, Howard.”

  Forty

  Cari

  I can’t help it. Even though Chase and I hung out all night and developed what I think of as a solid foundation to a lasting friendship, I’m freaking out.

  Everett Chase is in my apartment and he’s looking at my paintings.

  As soon as Patrick left (and I finally caught my breath) I did a quick tidy-up. The apartment itself is clean. Patrick is as close to a neat-freak as a twenty-five-year-old guy can get so the main rooms are good. It’s my bedroom that’s the issue. I’m kind of a slob.

  Clothes on the floor. Paint splattered on the walls. Dishes—mostly coffee cups and wine glasses—crowd the table next to my easel. I scoop it all up, shoving the clothes into my hamper with a promise to do laundry later and cart the dishes to the kitchen where I give them a quick rinse before loading them into the dishwasher. I even add soap and start the wash cycle.

  Shoving my overflowing hamper into my closet, I shut the door and turn to focus on making my bed. Comforter straight and pillows fluffed, I take a last look around. Chase’ll be here any minute and I want to at least look like—

  The painting Chase gave me is hanging on the wall, across from my side of the bed. How I missed it earlier, I don’t know, but I did. Lowering myself onto the edge of the bed, I can’t help but stare at it. The dark current of water. The way the moonlight is reflected off its dappled surface. Ripples and torrents. The soft flow and steady rush. Both exhilarating and peaceful. Tranquil and terrifying. Familiar and strange.

  It reminds me of Patrick.

  I know he’s the one who hung it for me. I can imagine him doing it. Choosing the perfect place. Setting the nail and hook at the right angle. Hanging it just so. Using his level to make sure it’s straight. Not wanting to, but doing it anyway. For me.

  There’s a knock on the front door and when I answer it, I find Chase standing on the other side. Today, he’s wearing jeans and a faded, paint-splattered T-shirt. “There’s a place down the street that makes the best breakfast burritos in Boston,” he says, holding up a white paper bag.

  I see Benny’s logo printed in red across the bag and can’t help by laugh. “You should try their pancakes.” I say, opening the door to let him in.

  He crosses the threshold and drops the bag on the coffee table while I get a roll of paper towels from the kitchen. Benny’s is good but can be a bit messy. When I get back to the living room, Chase is sitting on the couch, in Patrick’s spot, halfway through his breakfast. “You live over a bar,” he says between bites. “I’m jealous.”

  “It’s Patrick’s uncle’s place—his grandfather lived here,” I say, pulling a few paper towels from the roll.

  Chase nods while he chews. “This place is pretty amazing,” he says, taking in exposed brick and raised ceilings that dominate the space. “Your boyfriend’s handy work?” He focuses on me, giving me a friendly grin.

  “One—he’s not my boyfri
end.” I laugh and shake my head, unwrapping my burrito. “And two—yes.”

  “You put up my painting,” he says and I almost ask how he knew but then I realize where he’s sitting. From Patrick’s spot on the couch, he had a direct line of sight into my room, thanks to the mirror I hung.

  “Patrick did it for me.” I shove the end of my burrito in my mouth and take a bite big enough to choke a horse. I don’t want to talk about my roommate.

  Chase laughs, wadding up the paper that housed his recently devoured burrito. “Of course he did,” he says, tossing the paper ball into the bag.

  Giving up on the burrito, I manage to swallow what’s in my mouth without choking before dropping the rest on my paper towel. “You want to see my work or do you want to bust my chops?” I stand and jerk my head in the direction of the hall.

  He stands. “Both—duh.” Chase shakes his head at me while heading in the direction I’m pointing and I follow him. “Jesus.” He heads directly over to the alcove where my easel and paints are set up. Standing at the bank of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the harbor, he shakes his head. “How much is Mandy paying you, Cari?”

  The question makes me blush. After a few months of working for Miranda, I was financially stable enough to pay nearly ten times what Patrick originally asked for. I’d insisted he raise my rent, letting me pay half. He refused.

  “Enough,” I tell him, sitting on my bed. “Like I said, Patrick’s uncle owns the building so the rent is flexible.”

  “Where is Mr. Perfect?” He asks, taking a few steps away from the window. “Saving kids from a burning orphanage?”

  I laugh because really, Chase isn’t too far off from the truth. “He runs a non-profit baseball league for under-privileged kids. He started it in college—gets local businesses and corporations to sponsor teams in exchange for community service work.”

  “Boston Batters?”

  “Yup. That’s him.” I’m not surprised he’s heard of it, Patrick’s endeavor has been covered by a few local papers. “He and his business partner/cousin coach and sponsor a team. He has a game every Sunday morning.”

  “Jesus.” Chase laughs. “Why isn’t he your boyfriend?”

  The question digs in my chest, making it ache. I force a smile and shrug. “I’m not girlfriend material for a guy like Patrick.” While I can’t deny we’re sexually compatible, I can’t help but believe that’s where it ends between us. I’m good enough to fuck but not much else.

  Story of my life.

  Chase cocks his head and give me a look. “Who keeps lying to you, Cari?” Before I can respond, he sets the subject aside. “So,” he says, tipping his chin at a stack of canvases leaned against the wall to his left. “Are these the pieces?”

  I nod, suddenly nervous. “I still don’t know why you want to look at my work,” I say shaking her head. “They’re hardly more than doodles.”

  He made another sound, moving the canvases so he could look at each of them individually. I watch him pace and hunker, lean in close and move away, looking at each of them from different angles and perspectives. “They’re good,” he says without bothering to look at me. “You’ve got a great eye. Your use of color is impeccable. Steady hand. Details are impressive. They’re… good.”

  They’re good. He’s said it twice now. So why does he sound disappointed?

  I look at the paintings in front of me. The first is a landscape of the harbor outside my window. The other two are still-lifes. The first, a cheesy fruit bowl set-up I did years ago, the second, a bouquet of tulips I bought on a whim at a farmer’s market. This morning, I thought they were perfect. The best paintings I had that showcased my range and ability as an artist. Now, I see what Chase sees. They’re safe. Lifeless. Technically sound but lacking in soul.

  “What made you pick these pieces?” he says, turning to look at me over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I just thought—”

  “What are these?” Turning, he zeros in on a thick stack of canvases I keep covered.

  Panic squeezes my chest and pushes me to my feet. “No,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t want to—”

  He cuts me off again, this time by whipping the drop cloth off the stack of paintings I keep hidden. Sinking down, my ass hits the bed and I close my mouth. It’s too late now.

  These are the paintings I don’t show anyone. The paintings I wake up in the middle of the night to work on. The ones I do in secret. The paintings I work on with the door closed. The ones no one knows about. Watching Chase flip through the stack, I feel exposed. Like he’s seeing me naked.

  After several long minutes, he finally pulls one free of the stack and leans it against the wall, next to the fruit bowl still-life. They look like they were painted by two entirely different artists. I stare at it. Bold colors. Broad strokes. Vague and yet the image it portrays pulls at me. It’s of Patrick, the way he looked the night we met. His perfect profile caught in the glow of a red light while he drove me home.

  He puts it back and pulls out another. This one shows Patrick sitting on our couch, his image capture in the refection of the living room mirror. Another one. Patrick leaning against the kitchen counter, draining a bottle of water after one of his early morning runs. It didn’t matter which canvas Chase pulled from the stack. They’re all of Patrick. Painted in a dozen different ways, from a dozen different memories.

  Chase doesn’t ask me why I’ve hidden them away. He already knows. Anyone who looks at them would know. This is where my soul is. My heart. What I really want. Who I really am.

  I feel unbalanced. Obsessed. Like who I really am is someone I should be apologizing for.

  “I want them.” His back is to me and I’m not sure I hear him correctly.

  “Excuse me?”

  “For the charity show I’m putting together with Mandy,” he says, finally looking at me. “I want to show them.”

  Forty-one

  Patrick

  Declan calls a timeout before making his way toward where I’m standing on the first baseline. “What the fuck is he doing here?” he says as soon as he’s close enough to speak without being overheard. Things have been a bit stiff between us, which is understandable considering we’d been in each other’s faces last night. Seeing Cari’s ex-boyfriend in the bleachers at our junior league baseball game is as weird as it was aggravating. Weird and aggravating enough to make Declan forget he’s pissed off at me. At least for a minute or two.

  “Which one are you talking about?” I say, aiming a glare over Declan’s shoulder. The fact that he isn’t alone only adds to my irritation. “James or the guy sitting next to him?” James, the douchewad who cheated on her and then had the balls to put hands on her after she broke up with him over it is sitting at the top of the stack, drinking a beer and watching the game. Next to him is Travis, the other douchewad—the one she went out with a few nights ago. I wish I could say the fact that they seem to know each other is a surprise but it isn’t. They’re basically the same person for fuck’s sake. Both of them are wearing brand-new jeans they probably bought for the occasion and a bright orange T-shirt with the LH&H logo on it… “Oh, shit.”

  “What?” Declan says, shooting a quick look over his shoulder.

  “He’s a lawyer,” I remind him, pulling the bill of my hat down, shading my eyes. Behind the fence, James lifts his beer and tips it in my direction, toasting me. “He must work for Sara’s dad’s firm.”

  “Wow.” Declan’s gaze widens for a second. “And you didn’t know?”

  I shake my head. “Cari never mentioned which firm he was with and it’s not like I cared enough to ask.” I take a quick look at Sara. She’s watching Declan and me from her spot in the dugout. If she knows what’s going on, she deserves an Oscar for best actress because I can see the confusion on her face from here.

  “You think he’s looking for Cari?” Declan’s tone drops, low and dangerous. There are few things that can crack my cousin’s shell faster than
a guy who roughs up women.

  “Probably.” I keep watching them. They’re talking. Looking in my direction. Laughing. I get the feeling this isn’t about Cari. At least not directly.

  “They get back together?”

  The question is valid. Declan doesn’t know about me and Cari. The only reason Conner and Tess know is because those meddling assholes orchestrated the whole thing. Even though it’s an honest question, the thought of that douche nozzle anywhere near her makes me dizzy. “No.” I shake my head, that one word heavy enough to shut down my cousin’s assumption. “She’s not with him.”

  “Alright.” Dec rolls his neck and I hear it pop. Even though he and I were ready to beat the shit out of each other less that twelve hours ago, he’ll back me, whatever it takes. I don’t even have to ask. “What do you want to do?”

  “Fuck it,” I say, jerking my hat off my head to slap it against my thigh. “Let’s get this game over with so we can have a little chat .” I pull my hat over my head again and walk away.

  The game ends thirty minutes later in a tie. As soon as it does, James and Travis bounce, high-tailing it to the parking lot and into James’ douchemobile before I can wade through the sea of kids and parents I’m surrounded by. Before he pulls out of the parking lot, he gives his horn a brisk honk and sticks his hand out his open window to wave at me.

  “What was all that about?” Sara says, standing next to me while our teams walk past each other and slap hands in a show of good sportsmanship.

  “I don’t know, Sara—you tell me,” I say to her, shooting her a heavy dose of side eye. “Why didn’t tell me James Templeton works for your father?”

  She turns toward me and shakes her head. “Who?”