She put her computer to sleep and went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. The staircase led to the living room, which she would normally walk through to reach the kitchen, but Crush and Wendy were eating at the small dining area by the hearth. Instead, she circled around the long way, past the downstairs bathroom and the lower level bedrooms to reach the kitchen by the back entrance.
No use . . . she could still hear their murmuring voices when she reached the kitchen. Humming to herself in order to tune them out, she put the teakettle on a burner and turned on the flame.
Just as the water was coming to a boil, the name “Stark,” spoken in Crush’s rough tones, caught her attention. She turned off the flame and tiptoed toward the living room. As she’d explained to Crush when she was twelve, she didn’t believe in eavesdropping except when it was very important. In that case, she’d listened in on a phone conversation between her parents about the big baseball road trip.
This was even more important.
“I’m between a rock and a hard place,” Crush was saying. “The Friars are ready to wash their hands of Stark. But I need him if I want to keep the team.”
“Why don’t the Friars just leave him here in Kilby, then? This championship talk is getting the town all revved up. It’s good for the local economy. As mayor, I approve of that. Would it help if I wrote a letter to the Friars?”
Crush laughed at that. “That would be a first. ‘Dear Friars, would you consider leaving your obscenely overpaid left fielder here in Kilby so we can improve the local economy? Oh, and please continue paying his ridiculous salary while you’re at it.’ Good thought, and I do appreciate it. But I don’t think it would do much more than entertain the front office for a few minutes.”
“Right.” Wendy didn’t sound offended. Paige got the feeling she was used to Crush’s caustic style. “Are you sure you need Trevor to win?”
“Yes. We aren’t guaranteed to win with him, but we’re guaranteed to lose without him.”
A pause, a clink of glassware against a plate. Paige winced, hoping her father wasn’t about to knock something else off the table.
“What are you going to do?” the mayor finally asked.
“It’s not really up to me. If they call him up, they call him up. Bye-bye championship. But with this revelation about his juvenile record, they’re getting antsy. They want me to give them my recommendation. Duke has already said that Trevor’s ready and they should take their chances with a call-up. Now they want me to weigh in.”
“So if you agree with Duke, you lose Trevor, the championship, and the team.”
“Correct.”
“And if you don’t agree, what happens? Will they drop Trevor Stark?”
“Probably. He has a morals clause in his contract. It won’t be hard to find a reason to dump him. They probably could have already if they wanted to. But he can hit like an all-star, so they keep hoping he’ll straighten out.”
Don’t drop him, Paige wanted to scream. He deserves better. He’s screwing up on purpose, just for his sister. She fought with her conscience for a long moment, standing there in the kitchen, with the teakettle starting to whistle.
Crush was in an impossible situation. So was Trevor. And so was she. If she told Crush what was really going on, Trevor would be furious.
“What do you think, personally?” Wendy asked. “You must have an opinion on the most controversial Catfish of all.”
“You came to a game the other day. You saw him hit. What do you think?”
The mayor got a teasing note in her voice. “Well, he’s a baseball player, so . . .”
“So he’s superior in every way,” Crush said, finishing her sentence.
“Arrogant and cocky, was more where I was going.”
“All a matter of perspective. If you can back it up, it ain’t arrogant. So who was that man you were with at the Italian place?”
Paige took that as her cue to get out before the pair interrupted their flirting long enough to notice someone was in the kitchen making tea. She tiptoed out the back door, snagged her flip-flops, and ran to the Range Rover her father had told her to use during her stay.
The least she could do was warn Trevor about what the Friars were considering.
Stomach growling with hunger, Trevor swung by the Smoke Pit BBQ on his way back to his hotel. During his time in Texas, the local obsession with charred and sauce-drenched meat had grown on him. As a city kid, when he first arrived in Kilby he’d seen nothing more than a slowpoke town with a shortage of tall buildings. But now he actually cared about the place. The people were friendly—at least the ones not chasing him with a BB gun. Or the ones writing petitions to send the Catfish to another town.
He loved the way people brought signs to the games, the way they really got into the ridiculous promotions. Kilby was a fun town where people watched out for each other. And best of all, he’d met Paige Taylor here.
How she’d managed to sneak under his extremely well-constructed defenses, he had no idea. Somehow, she was just there, as inevitable and glorious as the sun. What was he going to do about Paige? She’d changed things inside him, and he no longer knew what end was up. For so long, his guiding purpose had been to keep Nina safe. That need still existed, but others clamored for attention too.
Especially the one with wild hair, endless legs, and dazzling blue eyes.
At the Smoke Pit, he talked a little baseball with the owner, Bud, and ordered baby back ribs, a side of corn bread, and a bottle of Snapple to go. With his white to-go bag in hand, he headed for the exit.
A hand on his arm made him pause just outside the door. “You gotta minute?” The low voice with a Texas drawl didn’t make it sound like a question. Three big beefy men in cowboy hats muscled him behind the Smoke Pit, where a Dumpster squatted against the back wall. The stench of meat and smoke and grease hung heavy in the air.
He didn’t struggle, figuring three huge men in a dark alley probably had the advantage over him, but every muscle in his body went on full alert. He clung to the fact that these guys were wearing cowboy hats and worn jeans. They weren’t from Detroit.
“What do you want?” he asked, pulling his arm from the man’s grasp.
“Let him go.” Someone stepped from behind the Dumpster, avoiding the hazy light cast by the rear window of the Smoke Pit. His build, stocky and imposing, with the stance of someone who’d spent plenty of time in a saddle, looked familiar. The last time he saw the man, he’d gotten a shot of vodka out of the deal.
“Dean Wade?”
“That’s right.” Wade came forward to shake his hand. Trevor had no desire to make friends with the guy, but considering the three huge men still hovering around them, he decided to comply.
“How y’all doin’, Trevor Stark?”
“Well, aside from the fact my barbecue’s getting cold and I’m hanging out next to a Dumpster, not too bad.”
Dean Wade chuckled. With his bolo tie and black leather jacket, he didn’t look like a power-hungry millionaire, but Trevor knew that’s what he was. He’d seen the kind of clout the Wades wielded in Kilby. But what did the most powerful family in town want with him? “Sorry about that. I saw the opportunity and seized it. You’re not the easiest guy to reach.”
That’s because he wasn’t listed anywhere and didn’t give out his e-mail address. “You must have a real good reason to come between a man and his baby back ribs.”
“Got a proposal for you. I’ve been watching you, and I see someone I can work with.”
A cold snake of suspicion slithered into his gut. “How do you mean?”
“You’re all business on the baseball field. Cold as ice, they say. You’re all about domination. Intimidation. I look at you and I see . . . myself with a helluva lot faster swing.” He chuckled, as did his entourage of beefcake.
Trevor didn’t smile. He put his game face on, the one that revealed absolutely nothing of his thoughts. “You want my spot on the Catfish?”
“N
ah, I’m a bull-riding fan. Don’t care much for baseball.”
“I thought you all wanted to buy the Catfish from Crush Taylor.”
Wade pushed his cowboy hat back on his head. “We do. That’s where you come in. Crush made that stupid-ass vow to win the championship or sell the team. I sent him an entire side of prime Grade A Wade beef when he did that. Made it easy on us. The Catfish ain’t had a playoff season in twenty years.”
“We’re at the top of the standings right now.”
Wade made a signal with his index finger, and suddenly Trevor’s right arm—his power arm—was yanked behind his back. Pain lanced through his shoulder.
“Don’t remind me.” Wade smiled grimly. “Y’all started to win, thanks to ‘top prospect’ and slugging sensation Trevor Stark. Even that wasn’t so bad, because you were gonna get called up before long, and then the Catfish would go back to losin’. Then your juvenile crimes came to light and the way I hear it from my inside sources, you ain’t goin’ anywhere unless Crush gives the okay. I don’t like him holding all the cards.”
Trevor was sweating from the pain. “What are you going to do, break my arm?”
“That’s always an option. But my brother, he pulled the reins on that one. He says he’s a fan.” Dean sounded disgusted by that. “But he agreed to do things my way if you don’t line up.”
Trevor could feel the tendons in his shoulder straining. A few more moments and the arm-breaking would be a done deal. He stomped on the arm-twister’s instep and swung around, plowing an elbow into his throat. The other two closed in on him, but he slammed his bag of barbecue against the edge of the Dumpster and smashed his Snapple bottle. He brandished the bag at the guys. A jagged edge of glass jutted through a mess of barbecue sauce.
“If you have a simple business proposition, why’d you bring these guys along?” Crouching, he pointed the broken bottle at the closest thug. “Is that how you do business in Kilby?”
Dean stuck his thumbs in his front pockets, a laugh shaking his stocky form. “I shoulda known you could scrap, growin’ up as you did. Fair point, though. Back off, boys.”
Trevor kept his weaponized Snapple bottle aimed at the men even as they backed away. “What do you want from me, Wade? Spit it out.”
“I want you to throw the championship. Or make sure the Catfish don’t even get that far. I want Crush to hand me the team on a silver platter.”
Throw a baseball game? Trevor scowled. The infamous Black Sox had been paid to throw games, but that was back in 1919. And it had taken a few players, not just one. “I’m just the left fielder. Baseball has nine guys on that field.”
“You’re worth all nine put together, according to Roy,” said Dean. “And that part ain’t my problem. How you do it, it’s up to you. Hell, break your own arm for all I care. Just make sure the Catfish lose. Should be easy. They always lost in the past.”
“That’s unethic—” He stopped before he could finish the word, since there was no way Dean cared about ethics in baseball.
“This is the minor leagues, Trevor Stark. No one cares what goes on down here. From what I hear, you sure don’t. It’s a paycheck, ain’t that right? Well, think of this as the price you gotta pay.”
“Pay for what? What’s in this for me? You said it was a business proposition. Right now, it’s a little one-sided.”
“Well, interesting question, that. We got ourselves a carrot and we got a stick. Carrot is, once you do your part and we own the team, we’ll get you some kinda bonus.”
From the vague nature of the “carrot,” Trevor guessed the true enticement was in the stick. “And if I don’t go along with this?”
“Then we get hold of those Wachowskis and tell them who we found here in Kilby, walkin’ around like he didn’t nearly kill one of their top guys.”
It had been so long since Trevor had heard that name spoken aloud. The hand holding the broken Snapple started to shake; he clamped down on it with all the accumulated experience of hiding his emotions behind a mask. “They’re not exactly easy to contact.”
“We already have a phone number. Handy to have, in case any other business interests line up.”
Trevor flinched. He could imagine many things the Wachowskis and the Wades could collaborate on, once they got past their cultural differences.
“Is that a ‘yes’ I see?” Wade asked, the smugness in his tone making Trevor want to hurl the bottle at his face. “I thought so.”
A gruff voice called from within the Smoke Pit. “Takin’ a smoke break. Be back in five.” Footsteps sounded, coming toward the door, and Dean Wade gave a signal to the guys. They stepped into the shadows.
Dean kept talking, adopting the friendly, casual tone of an old buddy. “Nice running into you again. You know we’re rootin’ for you guys. I got a steak dinner riding on tomorrow’s game, so don’t let me down.”
Trevor took that warning literally, since it was clearly meant that way. “We’ll do our best, Mr. Wade. A real treat running into you.” He backed out of the alley, keeping his broken glass at the ready. But no one bothered to follow him. The message had been delivered.
Delivered and understood. The ball was now firmly in his court, his choices crystal clear. Sabotage the Catfish or get outed to the Wachowskis. Some fucking choice.
Chapter 20
AFTER FAILING TO find Trevor at his hotel room the night before, Paige swung by again the next morning. The team was scheduled to leave on a road trip as soon as the afternoon game was over, so her best chance of catching him was early on.
Outside the Days Inn, the sprinklers cast lazy swirls of water over the lawn, creating a mist above the tidy hedges that lined the exterior. A delivery truck was parked at the entrance while two men with dollies unloaded boxes of packaged coffee.
A busy day lay ahead, with a coffee date with Shizuko kicking things off. The international heartthrob had asked Paige to meet him at the stadium. A record label was interested in signing his band, and he really needed to decide which career path appealed to him most. Everyone in his life—family, friends, agent—had very strong opinions on the matter. According to him, only Paige was able to listen without inserting her own bias. He’d begged her to meet him first thing, and how could she turn down that sweet smile and soulful eyes?
But first she had to talk to Trevor.
He answered the door in drawstring cotton sweatpants that rode low on his hips. Even with sleepy eyes and mussed hair, he exuded coiled power and strength. He reached for her hand and tugged her through the door so she collapsed against his warm chest.
“I’m not here for sex,” she said quickly.
“Are you at least willing to keep an open mind?” He nuzzled kisses into the crease of her neck. She squirmed from the tickling sensation, already feeling her resolve melt. How much could she want this man? There seemed to be no limit.
She wriggled out of his grasp before they ended up in bed and she missed her session with Shizuko. “I have to talk to you. It’s serious.”
“Am I late for BP? What time is it?” He was adorable, so sleepy and confused. A new growth of bronze stubble covered his jaw and gave his handsomeness a rougher edge.
“No, you’re fine. It’s still early. I have a packed day and wanted to make sure I caught you.”
He rubbed a hand across his face. “All right, then. Shoot. What’s up?”
She braced herself for the news she had to deliver. “I happened to overhear something I thought you should know. And you can skip the lecture on eavesdropping. Extenuating circumstances.”
“I’m not in the habit of lecturing anyone except troubled kids trying to stay in school.” Fully alert now, he scratched his stomach. “Should I put on a shirt for this?”
“Please don’t.” She offered him a shadow of a smile, just to lighten things up. “I heard Crush talking about the Friars. Apparently they’re trying to decide whether or not to invoke a morals clause in order to release you. They don’t want to keep paying your s
alary if you’re never going to get to the majors.”
He nodded once, twice, showing no other expression—classic, impassive Trevor Stark. “That’s understandable.”
“No, it’s not. It’s not fair. Juvenile records are supposed to be sealed.”
A muscle in his jaw tensed, but other than that he didn’t react. “That’s just the last straw for the Friars. I’ve been riding that bubble for a while. It’s all right. I made enough money to sock away and get Nina set up. That’s all I wanted.” As nonchalant as if he was talking about what movie to watch, he shrugged and crossed to the kitchenette, where he grabbed two bottles of water. He offered her one, but she shook her head.
He shrugged, as if nothing she said or did mattered to him, and unscrewed the top. “Suit yourself.”
As he tilted the bottle to his lips, she thought back to her college psychology course, which had touched on body language. The tightness of his shoulders, the way he turned away from her, as if to shield himself, the way he wouldn’t entirely meet her eyes . . . he might pretend to be unaffected, but his body told a different story.
“So . . . you’re okay just walking away from the Friars.”
He let a stream of liquid slide down his throat. He looked like an ad for special vitamin-loaded water. It was unfair that he looked so good while acting like such an ass. “Won’t have much choice if they release me.”
“But that’s just it. It’s not decided yet. You should talk to Crush. Tell him everything. If he advocates for you, they might change their minds.”
“No.”
“Why not? What’s the harm? Your juvenile record already came out in the newspaper. What’s wrong with explaining to Crush what really happened? He needs to know that you’re still in potential danger from those people in Detroit.”
Something flashed in his eyes, something fierce and vengeful, but also despairing. As if it didn’t matter who knew or who did what. As if Trevor knew his fate was sealed.
“I’m not going to go crying to your father about my hard-luck life. No fucking way.”
Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel Page 20
