Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel

by Jennifer Bernard

  “These things always happen to me, haven’t you noticed that yet?” Her laughing voice warmed the darkness.

  Trevor wrapped his arms around her and curled her body against his chest. God, she felt so good and smelled so sweet. “Um . . . where were we?”

  “You were trying to find a condom, remember?”

  “Right. Fuck.”

  “Forget that. Stay right where you are, big boy.”

  Her soft form slid down his front and her wet mouth claimed him again. It took no time, a few deep suckles and he was coming. He bucked his hips and yelled something at the ceiling. No light in the room, but as she pulled the orgasm from him, the whole world flashed bright.

  Magic Paige, source of light.

  For a few precious days nothing happened. Well, things happened, of course. He played baseball, made his weekly visit to the Boys and Girls Club, even signed up to help with Paige’s fund-raiser. Normal things. Precious, normal, wonderful things. But he knew it couldn’t last.

  In his experience, disaster liked to sandbag you out of nowhere. While you weren’t looking, your dad could get hooked on meth. Then one day everything could blow and you’d be sentenced to Wayne County Juvenile Detention, your entire future a question mark.

  But this time disaster had sounded a warning bell. He couldn’t forget what the stalker—Tom MacPhail, he learned—had yelled. Get off me or I’ll tell the cops everything I know about you. About Wayne County.

  Was there a way MacPhail could have learned about his sealed juvenile records? Did he mean something more innocent, that he knew Trevor’s place of birth? That his last name was Leonov, not Stark? Each day that passed with no public bombshell, Trevor relaxed a little more, back to his normal, unheightened state of alertness.

  Which freed him to plunge fully into his affair with Paige Mattingly Austin Taylor. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other. At the stadium, they ignored each other completely, because if they didn’t, they’d be on each other like animals. But after hours, in his hotel room, the leash was off.

  Sometimes they didn’t even make it to his room. He’d taken her in the hotel stairwell, late one night, when they couldn’t wait a second longer. Just opened his jeans, pushed up her skirt, and made her bury a scream in his shoulder. During one epic morning before batting practice, he tongued her up one side and down the other. He bent her over the bed, piled pillows under her ass, and stimulated her with hands and mouth until the sheets were drenched and her throat raw with her moans.

  When she couldn’t bear another second, she’d rolled over and punched him. “Make me come or you die! I’m serious.”

  Laughing, he wrapped her legs around his waist and walked her into the shower. Made her hang onto the shower head while he soaped her, nipples to toes, her moans lost in the cascading water. When she finally came into his hand, and he felt her liquid heat against his palm, he was so turned on he had only to grip his own cock and he came all over the shower tiles.

  The amount of sexual chemistry they generated was off the charts. He’d fucked her on the carpet, the desk, the kitchenette counter, the bathroom floor, and, very nearly, the hallway floor just outside his room.

  After a few days of this they were completely in tune with each other. Once, at the ballpark, he ran into her in an empty hallway. One look from under her lashes and he craved her. His cock went hard as stone, and when he brushed past her, he slid a hand across her mound, and by the way her breath caught, he knew she was just as wet as he was hard.

  Then his hand fell away and they continued in their opposite directions. Already he hungered for the next time he’d have her in his bed.

  When he was with her, nothing else in the world mattered. Not the past, not her future. All that mattered was the way she looked at him and the light in her eyes.

  It wasn’t just sex either. Paige had a way of breaking down his barriers and making him talk. She asked a million questions about his experiences in juvenile hall. He told her about Grizz, the old baseball coach who volunteered there. Grizz had believed in him from the first. He’d taken Trevor under his wing and kept him on track. He talked about how baseball was the only thing he’d ever wanted to do but that he’d decided it wasn’t safe, until Nina had insisted he go for it. He hadn’t had the money for college, so instead he read constantly—a passion Paige shared. That’s how she’d passed the time in all those Italian hotel rooms.

  Paige had plenty to share too. She told him how she’d adopted Jerome in Milan to help her deal with the loneliness of living in a foreign country. She talked about her split childhood and her ambitious parents. How she’d never felt that she measured up, because she didn’t have their drive. What she had instead was a deep desire to help people, to be of use to people. Hudson had benefited from that, and his betrayal decimated her self-confidence.

  He had to wonder how Hudson could walk away from someone like Paige. The only clue she dropped was when she told him that they’d hung out in college and had more of a “pal” relationship before they got romantic. Maybe they just didn’t have the sizzle he and Paige shared.

  It was the same on his end. None of his involvements—he wouldn’t call them relationships—had come close to this thing with Paige.

  They didn’t discuss what sort of “thing” it was. The intensity of their connection blocked out everything else. All he knew was that he wanted her all the time, in every possible way. Sexually and otherwise. But the parameters of his life hadn’t changed. At any moment he might have to drop out of sight. At any moment he might get dragged back to Detroit to face more retribution. At any moment he might have to come to Nina’s rescue in some way. How could he ask another person—especially one who meant as much as Paige—to share that with him?

  No. He’d give her what he could for now. Lots of hot sex. The return of her feminine confidence. The knowledge that he found her to be the most beautiful and desirable woman he’d ever known. More than that? Not possible.

  And then the hammer dropped.

  Crush stormed into Paige’s cubicle in the accounting department, where she was trying to work on spreadsheets but was actually doodling dreamy patterns on pieces of scrap paper. He held a copy of the Kilby Press-Herald in one fist. “Have you seen this article about Stark?”

  She jumped up and snatched the paper from him. It was open to the sports section, and the headline read: CATFISH STAR REVEALED TO BE JUVENILE DELINQUENT.

  “Juvenile delinquent? Do people even say that anymore?” Wasn’t it like calling someone retarded? It sounded so insulting and wrong.

  “He did time in Wayne County Juvenile Detention. Seems pretty accurate to me.”

  As she scanned the article, her stomach cratered. Assault and battery . . . third degree felony . . . fifteen years old . . .

  Trevor had warned her this might be coming, but a week of nonstop, heavenly lovemaking had lulled her into complacency. Even though he’d described the incident, seeing it in black and white was shocking.

  Crush was still raging, stamping back and forth across her cubicle. “And he dares to go near my daughter. He probably didn’t even tell you—that kind of person never does. They just take what they want.”

  “Dad,” she said sharply. “I knew. He told me.”

  “You knew?”

  “Yes. He wanted me to know before we . . . did anything.”

  A slow wave of red inched up Crush’s neck. “I’ll bury him.”

  “Would you cut it out? You don’t know the whole story. He was protecting his father. A gang member was trying to kill his father and he defended him.”

  Crush shook his head. “I’m not buying it. That’s self-defense and wouldn’t have gotten him incarcerated. You can’t believe what he tells you. He can’t be trusted. He’s a juvenile delinquent.”

  She shoved the newspaper back into his hands. “You should talk to him yourself. It’s his story to tell. But you have to give him a chance, Dad. Keep an open mind and listen to him.”

 
; “If he wants to come to me and explain, he’s welcome to.”

  Would Trevor do that? He’d refused to talk to Crush earlier. But now the secret was out, and maybe he’d feel differently. “If he does, will you promise to keep an open mind?”

  “Oh, I’ll keep an open mind.” He grimaced. “Right next to my cocked and loaded rifle.”

  “Dad! Why do you automatically think the worst of him? You should really get to know him before you make all these judgments.”

  “I know all I need to.” He shook the sports page, now crumpled in his fist. “And so do you. Are you going to end it, or do you want me to do the dirty work? It’ll be my pleasure.”

  “I’m not ending it.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “And it’s not your business.”

  “The hell it isn’t.” He shook the newspaper again, as if wishing it was Trevor himself. “How can this not be my business? You’re my daughter and he’s on my team. For now, anyway.”

  Her chest tightened. “What does that mean?”

  “It means Major League Baseball teams want players the kids can look up to.”

  “They’re . . . the Friars are . . . they won’t release him, will they?” Paige flinched as she said it. Even though Trevor claimed he didn’t want a call-up, she knew that wasn’t really true. He knew, she knew, everyone who saw him play knew, that he belonged in the major leagues. He was incredibly gifted and had a passion for the game. If the Friars released him, he’d be back in the independent leagues, or the Mexican leagues, somewhere where he’d never get to show the world how great he was. It would be a tragedy.

  “Who the hell knows?” Crush dug in his back pocket for his silver flask and took a long pull from it. “Don’t worry, it’s root beer,” he growled when he was done. “I don’t know what the fallout will be. A lot depends on public reaction, media, all that bullshit. I don’t care about any of that, Paige. I care about you. Are you going to keep seeing him?”

  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms and tried to imagine not seeing Trevor anymore. Or seeing him only on the ball field, or maybe not even there, if he ended up in a cactus-studded outfield in Mexico. “Why should he be punished again? It happened when he was barely a teenager. He’s already done his time. And with all this publicity, he’s going to need support.”

  “Support?”

  “Yes,” she said stubbornly. “I’m not going to just walk away when he needs me. Would you walk off the mound just because batters are starting to hit your curveball?”

  He stared at her hard for several long moments. Was this going to be a repeat of the scenes they’d had over Hudson? she wondered. When he’d threatened to cut her off—then had cut her off?

  But no. “It’s your decision,” Crush said. “But I’ll be watching him like a hawk.”

  She startled, thinking of Trevor’s hawk tattoo. Watchfulness was a way of life for Trevor. What was he going through right now, knowing that his past was public information? She needed to call him right away.

  On his way out of her cubicle, Crush tossed a wry smile at her. “And honey, I can’t believe you used a baseball analogy on me. We’re winning you over, aren’t we?”

  Chapter 17

  SEEING HIS NAME in the paper next to the damning words “assault” and “incarceration” was a special kind of hell for Trevor. He called Nina right away and warned her to be extra alert and cautious. But the danger to her right now was probably minimal. If the gang knew where he was, they’d have no interest in Nina.

  He thought long and hard about disappearing before word spread to Detroit. But small town Kilby was a different world. The Wachowskis might never see the obscure sports news item about a minor league player. This time, he had too much to lose, so he decided to wait and see what developed.

  In some ways, walking into the clubhouse after the article came out required more guts than it took to face the Wachowskis. Knowing that the guys on his team would look at him differently—as a criminal—cut right to his core.

  Brazening it out, he strode in as if nothing was different. As he walked through the clubhouse, the back of his neck prickled with heat and a buzzing sound rang in his ears. Were people looking his way? Fuck, some badass he was. What was he, in third grade? What did he care what the team thought?

  So what if he’d come to care about his fellow Catfish? A guy like him couldn’t afford that crap.

  As he opened his locker, the ordinary sounds of the clubhouse, the joking and the taunting, the cleat-tying and towel-snapping, quieted. He looked neither right nor left, but kept his focus on his gear. This was a job, nothing more. He was here to play baseball. Hit home runs. Win a championship for Crush Taylor.

  He felt an eager presence at his elbow and shot a glance sideways. “Bieberman.”

  “What was it like? Juvie? Did you call it juvie? Or is that outdated? I looked it up in Urban Dictionary and it says ‘juvie’ is also a haircut. Or a fictional character who appears when you experience misfortune.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Ramirez strolled over and put a hand on Leiberman’s shoulder. “Easy, boy. You ought to know not to mess around with a guy who did hard time.” He winked at Trevor.

  Trevor snorted. Judging by Ramirez’s tattoos, he had an interesting past as well.

  “Were you on a chain gang? Did you have to pick up trash by the side of the road? Make license plates?” Bieberman’s ridiculous questions kept on flowing. “What about baseball?”

  Now there was a question he could answer. “We had a team. A pretty good coach too. Grizz, an old Negro League player, he was about eighty. I think he had one stint on the Tigers before his career ended.”

  “Grizz Walker?” T.J. Gates, who was half African-American, had done extensive research into the Negro Leagues. “Great player. Nearly got elected to the Hall of Fame.”

  “Yeah, he got robbed.” Trevor shut his locker door. “He was a great scout too, and he volunteered with our team up until his arthritis got too bad. Taught me how to work the count. I owe my whole career to him.”

  A couple more players had gathered around. Dan Farrio, Manny Becker, Sonny Barnes. He nodded to them. “What’s up?”

  “Just want you to know we got your back,” said Sonny, the gentle giant of the team.

  “Also, if you want to scare the living fuck out of the Express, we got some ideas.” Dan Farrio grinned. “Especially their pitcher, Jon Golden. Get inside his head, rattle him up good. I could use a victory, man.”

  Trevor snorted. “What do you want me to do, wear a jumpsuit?”

  “Orange is the new black,” Leiberman pointed out.

  “We were thinking we’d all wear orange, mix things up.” Ramirez gestured toward his locker. “I got a box full of orange jerseys. Goes great with Catfish blue.”

  “You fucking guys. You’re not serious.”

  “Nah, Crush would have our asses. But maybe during BP?” Ramirez looked around the group hopefully. “The Express would get the message.”

  “What message?” Trevor still wasn’t quite getting it.

  “Intimidation, dude. We have Trevor Stark on our team, and we ain’t messing around. It’s about assault with a deadly weapon, on the field only, baby.” He high-fived T.J. Gates. “Make ’em think. Make ’em afraid every time one of us comes up to bat. Except Leiberman.”

  “Stealing’s a crime,” he piped up. “I’m the top base-stealer on this team.”

  “True that, my man.”

  Trevor was laughing by now. “I’d like to see Duke’s face if we all walked out wearing orange. Might be worth it just for that.”

  “Right?”

  With his back to his locker, he stripped off his shirt so he could put his jersey on. Then he hesitated. He never showed his back if he could help it. None of the guys had seen his scars in detail. But maybe the time for secrecy was done.

  Deliberately, he turned his back and thrust his arms through the sleeves of his jersey. A short silence fell over his tea
m members. The fluorescent lights of the clubhouse probably made the hard ridges of scar tissue even uglier. Good—maybe they’d start taking this shit more seriously.

  “That brand don’t look like something you chose.” Ramirez, who was almost entirely tattooed, would know.

  “No. But the tat is.” He let his jersey drop over his back like a curtain.

  “Nice ink.” Fist bump from Ramirez, another from T.J., then he sat on the bench to put on his cleats. His heart was pumping harder than it did when he was at the plate. It felt good not to hide his scars . . . or juvie . . . or Grizz. He’d loved that man. Grizz had probably saved his life. He used to give him extra time, solo batting practice. He told stories from the old days barnstorming with the Homestead Grays. Playing on dusty old fields at the end of country roads, when the games would take place on Sunday after church, so the crowds wore their best hats and the scent of barbecue filled the air. When barely a teenager, Grizz had played with Satchel Paige, Josh Gibson, all the great black players.

  And Grizz would tell him over and over how much potential he had in baseball. He drilled it into his head that self-pity would get him nowhere. Even when he’d been dumped back at the juvenile hall, half dead, his back on fire, infection setting in to his burn wounds, Grizz hadn’t let up. As soon as his fever was under control, he’d gotten Trevor back on the field. Even though every swing tore at his healing skin, Grizz insisted on practice.

  “Gotta keep the skin stretched out. Don’t let it affect your swing. This is how you’ll get your revenge, boy. On a baseball field, under the lights, with everyone screaming your name. That’s how we do it. That’s pride, that’s respect. That’s the game of baseball.”

  A pair of cleats entered Trevor’s field of vision, interrupting the memory. He looked up to see Dwight looming over him. His gut tightened all over again. He couldn’t read Dwight’s expression at all. “My brother died in a DUI,” he said.