Stealing Home

by Harlow Cole

  She was wrong. I saw myself clearly. I didn’t have time for glamour or the money for high fashion. Brayden Ross hung out with women who never wore the same thousand-dollar outfit twice. They woke up, prepped for a blow job, a blowout, and a French mani-pedi. I woke up, wondering how to cover the mortgage and pay for groceries. Life had cracked me into busted up pieces that I held together with Scotch tape and sheer will.

  “He’s back out of guilt. You’re right about that. But it has nothing to do with me. Getting hurt forced him to stop and look beyond the sixty feet between him and home plate. He didn’t want Jack to sell the house and toss all of Grams’s old things. He’ll be gone in a week, and we won’t ever hear from him again.”

  Tying up loose ends.

  That was his only purpose.

  He’d pack all of Grams’s stuff up in neat cardboard boxes and tuck them away in a storage room. Stacked somewhere on top all his boxed up memories of me.

  “I’m not saying you have to forgive him. I just think you should sit down and talk.” Her voice had that soft edge again.

  They must’ve handed that out at his fan club induction.

  “It’s not like spending time with him would be a hardship. I mean, sweet Jesus, he’s smokin’ hot,” Riley added. “I thought I was gonna pass out when he walked in. He’s even better-looking in person. All those muscles and those sultry eyes. I almost had an orgasm while I washed his hair.” She fanned her hand in front of her face. “Maybe you shouldn’t talk to him. But you should definitely fuck him before he up and leaves.”

  “Riles, you’re helping again.” Joey smirked along with her admonishment. “We need to find you a man soon, sweetie. We have rules about spontaneous orgasms around the customers.” She directed her gaze back at me. “I honestly think Brayden might be the only one who can help dig you out of the mess you’re in. And, good grief, we all know he owes you.”

  “No one could ever repay what we’ve lost. And, besides, he’s not the only one with an unpaid tab,” I murmured the last part under my breath.

  “Talking is still free, you know.” Her perfectly sculpted brow pointed straight up.

  “How are you, of all people, suddenly sitting front row in the Brayden Ross bandwagon?”

  “I know. It’s weird.” She shuddered and fluttered one hand in the air. “Trust me, it’s totally skeeving me out, too.”

  “When did you even start using his real name?” I shook my head in disbelief and started picking at my thumbnail. “I’ll never take anything from him, Joey. My father wouldn’t take Jack’s blood money four years ago, and I won’t take any of it now. I might fail at saving everything else, but I won’t hock the last of my family’s pride.”

  * * *

  Fire spread through my lungs. Everything inside me wanted the pain to stop. The lack of air, the stitch in my side, and the damn pebble rolling beneath my left instep, all worked to remind me why I hated this so much.

  I didn’t run because I liked it.

  Running fucking sucks.

  But gasping for my next breath gave me a respite from every other worry. I liked the last stride across the finish line. I just bitched inside my head every other step along the way.

  Picking different routes kept me from obsessing about how far I had left to go. I’d never allowed myself to wander near the old path by the water, but with angry P!nk shouting in my ears, my feet just took me in that direction.

  The breeze coming off the water dampened some of my misery and distracted me as I approached the old building.

  Twenty feet away, I heard a noise that didn’t belong. A staccato thumping so loud, it punctured through the bass of my music. I slowed until I came to a stop, staring toward the memorial I’d planned to ignore.

  As I pulled the earbuds free, the thumping stopped, replaced instead by a string of muttered curses.

  I couldn’t stop myself.

  The old barn door sat wide open.

  Brayden stood three rungs up the ladder, holding a nail between his lips the same way he used to hold a cigarette. A hammer hung loosely in his left hand. His jeans sat low enough, I could see the top waistband of black briefs. A wadded up white T-shirt spilled out of his back pocket, leaving the overly defined muscles spread across his chest on full display. They glistened with a sheen of sweat. His new haircut hid beneath a baseball cap, turned backward on his head. It wasn’t crisp navy blue anymore.

  This one, I recognized.

  Worn and red and perfect.

  “Motherfucking stupid thing,” he grumbled out of the corner of his mouth, letting the nail wobble back and forth, as he studied the board above his head. “This is never gonna work like this.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” The words popped out of my mouth before I could apply a filter. The question Joey had planted in my head. The one I’d been trying to torture myself into forgetting.

  He turned, clearly startled. Blue eyes swept down the length of me. The black sports bra and bright purple running shorts, which had seemed like a good choice to match the humid air, suddenly felt indecent. Using both hands, I tugged my ponytail tighter, pretending that small improvement would transform me into looking more Lululemon model than standard hot mess.

  The action just made my boobs bunch together and unintentionally poke toward him. His attention paused there a fraction too long before his eyes met mine again. He stepped down off the ladder and pulled the nail from his mouth. A half-naked Brayden Ross wasn’t the kind of torture I needed. Muscles I didn’t intend to work on suddenly woke up and flexed.

  I struggled to keep my own gaze above his neck.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I repeated, motioning around us.

  I avoided looking into his eyes by staring instead at the tattoo I’d seen peeking out from his shirtsleeve at the bar. He took two steps forward.

  I inhaled a deep breath, turning my head to put more space between my eyes and his body. Soaking in our surroundings didn’t make anything better. I hadn’t been inside in years. Not since the last time we’d stolen away from the world and come here to get our fill of one another.

  Forgotten laughter echoed off the walls around us. I could hear his voice whispering dirty things in my ear until I cried out his name. I could see the way his eyes always darkened when he told me he loved me.

  Staying away from here had been a very smart decision.

  I surveyed the room, cataloging things that didn’t belong. A pile of new lumber, some kind of plastic sheeting, a can of paint, and a box of nails.

  “I told you I was fixing some things.”

  He held out the hammer in demonstration and followed my gaze around the room. A patch of light shone down from the window up in the loft, creating a sundial against the weathered boards near my feet.

  “I’m surprised it’s still standing. This place should’ve rotted into the water long ago.”

  “Nah. This place will last a couple more lifetimes. Strong foundation. Just needs a little TLC.” He smirked and took one more long stride in my direction, tucking the end of the hammer in his other back pocket and the nail behind his ear. “You run by here a lot?”

  “No. Never. I never come here.”

  His eyes darted to my lips, half-hooded with something I knew all too well.

  One corner of his mouth turned up as he mumbled under his breath, “That’s not how I remember it.”

  Everything in my lower half stirred against my will. It was too much—being this close to him, surrounded by ghosts, weathered happiness and guilt.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here now,” he added.

  The arrogance in his voice grated on me.

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “You know what.”

  One brow quirked up along with a cocky half-smile.

  “Stop that, too.” I waved a finger at him. “Don’t play games with me, Brayden.”

  His eyes met mine again, more serious, but the playful smirk remained.
He slowly ran a hand down his chest and over his abs, pretending to wipe away the sweat. Knowing full well my eyes would trail down along with his fingers.

  Driven by reflex, I ogled my way to the button on his jeans, past the small patch of thicker hair and sinfully carved hip bones. My eyes snapped back up to his sly look.

  “I’m fixing things that should’ve never been left to fall into disrepair. Things should never have gone unattended this long.” His eyes grew darker as he stressed each word. He paused and then held out both arms, gesturing around to the rotting wood. “I mean, look at this place. Someone has to fix it. Can’t be left like this.”

  “Leaving shouldn’t be a problem for you. You’re good at it.”

  The playful expression died on his face. Resentment, and its close friend bitterness, quickly took up residence.

  “Now, who’s playing games? There’s a difference between leaving and being exiled.”

  I groaned angrily. “I knew nothing good could come from us trying to talk to one another.”

  I couldn’t handle another word. Flight won out over the fighting words I was ready to hurl at him. I turned on my heel and started back for the door.

  His hand grasped my arm before I could escape.

  “Soot.”

  My eyes squeezed shut.

  One word. Searing pain.

  “Will you just answer one question?”

  I rounded slowly back toward him. His grip on my arm slackened but didn’t fall away.

  “Have you spent all these years hating me?”

  “Hate is a strong word. I don’t hate you,” I replied, clenching my jaw. I watched as his shoulders sagged by a fraction. Bubbling fury made me want to soak up that relief and toss it right back in his face. “I feel nothing for you at all.”

  He stared at me intently, forcing my poker face under a spotlight. His blank assessment provided no response. Our chests both rose and fell in counterbalance. Too many beats passed before he gave a brief nod and let his hand gently fall away.

  He bowed his head.

  “I’m sorry. About your mom. So sorry.” Sad eyes looked back up into mine. “If I could’ve been here . . .”

  “Joey told you, huh? I heard you two are besties now.”

  He didn’t respond, just bit down on his lower lip.

  “Thanks,” I finally said, swallowing down my own emotion. “It was fast. Once they found the tumor, we only had six months.” My voice faltered. “She asked for you. Toward the end. I didn’t know how to find you.”

  My mother’s ghost sat on my shoulder, a murmuring angel fussing at me for using her to inflict pain. But instinct forced me to lash out. I used those words to turn the knife just a little bit, to break off and share a piece of the heartache I’d been served up in spades. I wanted to see his perfection marred. Wanted to leave him with some scars to match my own.

  He was right. I sent him away. But, for too long, my foolish heart clung to some naïve hope that he would eventually turn back around and fight for us.

  He never did.

  He walked away and started a brand-new life. He gave up on me, the exact way his mother had so easily given up on him.

  He’d repeated more than just the sins of his father. He’d turned me into a carbon copy of his former self. Broken by drugs, spilled fidelity, and the sadness of being too easy to leave. The same resentment I’d witnessed in his eyes all those years now resided in my own.

  I didn’t hate him. I couldn’t.

  I’d spent the time since he left too numb to hate.

  But seeing him broke through that haze. Too many feelings were bubbling up now. Those prickles that burn a sleeping limb were breaking out all over my body. The sooner he left, the sooner I could return to an anesthetic existence.

  “How long do you think this is gonna take you?” I impatiently motioned to the pile of new wood. “Is this even good for your arm? How are you gonna nail all those down with your left hand?”

  “I can do it. I just have to take it real slow. Chip away at it a little at a time.” Something about the hoarse tone of his voice made me question whether he was talking about a hammer and nails.

  “I thought you said you’d only be here for—”

  “Yeah. So, that might have been a small white lie.” He held up his thumb and index finger, pinching them close together.

  “Brayden,” I replied, admonishing with only his name.

  “I can’t do my rehab in the city. There are too many eyes watching. Too many opinions. My father and my coaches all telling me what to do. I needed a way to lay low for a while.” He held his arms out. “This was always my favorite hideout. I can’t think of any better place.”

  “You can’t be serious. I told you, my brother can’t—”

  “I’ll be careful,” he interrupted. “I’ll avoid Nathan if you don’t think he should see me. But I’m not leaving here anytime soon.”

  I exhaled sharply, giving too much away. He closed in on me again, reaching out to brush the pad of his thumb across my bottom lip. I shuddered against the sudden tenderness.

  “You feel nothing at all, huh?”

  I turned my cheek away from him and his cockiness, but his index finger quickly curled under my chin, forcing my eyes back toward his.

  “Ash, I could fix other things, too. Let me help—”

  “No. We’ve managed without you just fine for all these years. We don’t need any help from you now. Do whatever it is you came here to do, Brayden. Get it over with. Then go back home to your big city life. Just make sure you stay the hell away from Nathan.” I huffed out a loud breath, punctuating my angry words.

  He studied me without flinching, in that old, all-knowing way that punctured too deep.

  It stole secrets I couldn’t afford to give him.

  “I promise to stay away from your brother, but I won’t promise to steer clear of you. We both know I couldn’t if I tried.” His hold loosened. The side of his finger whispered over my cheek. “You were never good at lying to me. And I was never good at keeping my hands off you for very long.”

  3

  Confessional

  Brayden

  The strong hand that clamped down on my shoulder startled me.

  I’d been flying low. I’d slipped in the back door at Foxy’s and found a spot at a high top toward the side of the bar. It was more crowded than last time, so I’d pulled my hat down low enough I could watch without being seen.

  I’d long mastered handling the hard approach—fans who come up at unexpected times with big voices and small demands.

  Things had exploded near the end of my second month in the majors. I threw a no-hitter against the Sox, helping to clinch the American League East. After that, the press stopped labeling me a genetically gifted flash in the pan.

  And I devised a faster signature.

  These days, I couldn’t go many places in New York where someone didn’t stop me to sign something, to smile at their camera phone, or occasionally, to offer armchair coaching advice about what the organization kept doing all wrong.

  I expected it there.

  Knew how to prepare for it.

  Here? I had no freaking clue what to expect. I’d half-feared I would come back the town pariah. The jerk who gutted his girl and broke his best friend and was never heard from again.

  But, while there weren’t any red carpets or banners on Talbot Street, no one had spit in my face yet either. Maybe time really could shorten memories. Or maybe I’d just reached the point of celebrity where an automatic free pass licked away the skid marks left by fucked-up choices and bad behavior.

  Over the last week, I’d garnered some curious stares and soft smiles as I walked through town. The girl behind the counter at the coffee shop found the courage to ask for a selfie. The old guys at Lucky’s Diner still weren’t pleased with my curveball. And Marty at the hardware store wanted to know why the hell Eddinger had traded away Coniski—a move I’d never understood myself.

  I enjoyed
each of those conversations. I stopped and took time with all of them, dropping the need to stay on message and contain my words into publicist-vetted sound bites. In this town, I could trust again. Could talk openly. Without worrying someone would turn around and sell me out in the press by the following day. Plus, talking baseball filled in some of the emptiness of missing the game.

  But, other than those fairly benign interactions, everyone else had stayed in orbit around me. No one had gone for a hard approach.

  Until now.

  The hand on my shoulder squeezed again. I mentally prepared myself to be on—to be Brayden Ross the ball player instead of Brayden Ross the human being.

  “Well, look what the tide dragged in. I heard a rumor The Great One was back in town.”

  I smirked, relieved by the familiar voice, as I rounded on a face I hadn’t seen in far too long.

  “Fuck. Hey, man.” Slipping off the stool, I greeted Dillan with a one-armed man hug and a slap on the back. I held my hand out to the empty seat opposite me. “God, you are a sight for sore eyes. Been way too long.”

  The last time I saw him I was apologizing for half-smashing in his nose.

  I studied him as he scraped the stool out from beneath the table and settled into it. It was sort of like looking at a weird time-lapse photo. He had his hair cut military short, and his biceps looked pretty fucking badass, but otherwise, same old Dillan.

  “Well, whose fucking fault is that? You’ve been busy up there, lighting the world on fire, and busting up your arm real good.” He smiled and good-naturedly tipped his chin toward my elbow. “You healing up?”

  I cleared my throat.

  “Rehab is going great. Should be able to start throwing some by the end of summer.”

  The canned response sounded just as hollow now as it had the hundred times I’d repeated it to reporters before I fled the city.

  “Must feel weird as hell not to have a ball permanently attached to your hand,” Dillan replied.

  “Yeah. Never been away from the game this long. It’s making me a little stir-crazy. You still play at all?”

  “Hung up my cleats for a clipboard. Just took over coaching the junior varsity team at the high school. You oughta come out to one of our summer practices sometime. Those kids’ll shit themselves if they get to meet you.”