Strike Out (Barlow Sisters Book 2)

by Jordan Ford

  “So, Bess was looking particularly hot this morning.” Austin wiggles his eyebrows at me.

  I groan. “Don’t, man. When is that chick going to get it?”

  “Give her a break. She’s just vying for the girlfriend card now that you’re back on the market.”

  “Gross, Tifa. You make me sound like a piece of meat.”

  She laughs and sits up straight, her black boots thumping on the floor.

  “She’s right, man.” Roman takes a seat in our circle, opening a can of soda and offering some to each of us before taking a swig.

  We all decline and he chugs it back before burping loudly.

  Latifa rolls her dark brown eyes at me before getting down to the business of my love life. “So, what are you going to do? Now that Toni’s moved to Australia, you’re a free agent. I know how much you hate that.”

  I wrinkle my nose at her. She’s making me sound like I’m incapable of being single. It’s not even like that.

  Sure, I like having a girlfriend, but not for the reasons everyone thinks.

  I clear my throat and change the subject. “So, girls playing on the baseball team, huh? Why the hell are we talking about me when we should be discussing the school’s latest phenomenon?”

  “Ugh. Who cares?” Latifa flicks her wiry black hair off her face.

  Roman snickers and leans in. “I think it’s cool they’re playing. Why not? You know, girl power and all that shit.”

  “You just want to get in their pants.” Austin leans back and gives him a pointed look.

  “Like Rome would even have a chance.” Latifa snickers. “Have you seen those betties? They’re intimidatingly pretty. A guy like Roman would turn to mush in their presence.”

  An empty soda can flies through the air towards us. Latifa bats it away with the drumstick, her laughter loud and contagious.

  “I am a sexy drummer, Miss Latifa, and I have a better shot than you do.”

  “Yeah, only because I’m not a lesbian.”

  “You’re not?” Roman feigns surprise, scoring himself a volley of drumsticks. He catches them both and kisses the tips. “Thank you, my dark angel.”

  “You’re a shit.” Latifa grins at him.

  Man, when are those two going to get together already? They’ve been flirting like this since the start of the school year. At first Latifa wouldn’t give him the time of day because Roman was fresh off the drug train. She was pissed that I let him join Velocity, but we needed a drummer and he was good. So we let him in on the condition he didn’t deal anymore. It was the motivation he needed to stay clean and as far as I know, he’s been sweet so far. He joined us just before the summer kicked in, and we hung out a lot. He and Latifa have kind of ended up becoming friends to the point where lovers might be off the table.

  I hope not, though.

  They’d be good together.

  Austin runs a hand through his bleached hair and asks, “Do you think they’re into Chinese-Americans? I might have a shot.”

  “Oh yeah?” I grin at him. “And which one would you go for?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “They all look pretty good to me. Kingston says Chloe’s the sweet one, but Holden’s already putting on the charm with her, which only leaves the twins, and I don’t know if they’re into younger guys.”

  “Austin, you’re a junior, hardly a younger guy.” Latifa rolls her eyes. “I don’t know why you’re even interested. They’re all sporty and shit. They probably don’t even care about music, and would you seriously want to date someone who doesn’t share the same passions as you? What a waste of time. There’s no point falling for someone you have nothing in common with.”

  I glance at Roman and notice his lips twitch.

  I strum a C chord, then shift into D before moving up to F. I repeat the pattern, softly messing around as my mind wanders to Bomber Jacket Girl. I’ve found out her name is Max, short for Maxine.

  We have one class together—World History. She was late so I didn’t exactly get to interact with her, but I tried to smile when she walked into the room yesterday.

  She just rounded her eyes and took the farthest seat away from me. She was so focused on the teacher that she didn’t look around once.

  So I guess she’s studious, then.

  And sporty.

  But she didn’t seem just interested in sports.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget the way she was looking at that guitar.

  It’s got me thinking…

  The bell rings, pulling us to our feet. I say goodbye to the guys, agreeing to meet up with them after school so we can keep perfecting the set we want to play for our next performance.

  Roman has some great connections with different clubs in nearby towns and is able to set us up with regular gigs. It works pretty well, as long as we avoid the ones occupied by his past dealer. The guy’s in jail now—got busted on assault charges after nearly killing his wife. He beat Roman a few times too, and as soon as he was put away, Roman had a chance to break free.

  Thank God. He hasn’t looked back since.

  My parents let him stay with us for like three months while he got his shit together. It was a summer of restoration. As soon as senior year kicked in, he moved back home with his grandparents, mother, and half-sisters. He’s doing okay, but I still worry about him sometimes.

  Placing the guitar back on the stand, I grab my bag and hold the door for Latifa. She grins at me. “Catch you later, Cai.”

  “See ya.” I watch her walk away, glad we’ve remained friends even after dating for a few months.

  We kind of just fell into it at the end of our sophomore year. She played bass, I played lead guitar. It was an easy match. We’d hang out all the time and one thing led to another. But after a while, we realized we were more friends than anything. We enjoyed hanging out more than making out. Austin came along and joined the crew, and we just stopped being a couple.

  I double-check the studio is locked before heading for my next class. Latifa’s comments about me always needing a girlfriend grate a bit. I don’t want to be that guy. It’s just easier somehow. I know that sounds weird. Having a girlfriend is easier? But…

  A flash of blonde catches my eye and I glance up in time to see Max heading for the stairs. At least I think it’s her. She and her twin are identical.

  I pick up my pace to catch up with her.

  “Hey, Max!” I call out, hoping for the best.

  She keeps walking like she hasn’t heard me, so I race up the stairs and call her name again. “Maxine.”

  She jolts and spins around with a confused glare. “People only call me that when they want a tooth knocked out.”

  I grin and keep walking up until I’m in line with her. I stop one step below hers so we can look each other in the eye. I like how tall she is.

  “So, what do people call you, then?”

  Her confusion isn’t going anywhere. She looks behind me like she’s waiting for some prank to unfold, then glances over her shoulder. “Um, I’m Max. Just Max, unless you’re my uncle Conrad and then you’ll call me and my sis Mad Max. Or if you’re my dad, you’ll refer to me as Maximus.” She blinks and looks to the ceiling, her cheeks tinging red as she holds her breath for a second. “You’re neither of those, so just Max is good. I’m going to stop talking now.” She gives me a jittery smile and adjusts the floppy beanie on her head.

  I laugh and stick out my hand. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Max. I’m Cairo…or Cai…or Cairo Aarav Winston Hale if you’re my mom about to lecture me.”

  A stunning smile spreads across her face, changing the shape of it, before she quickly pulls it into line and gives my hand a super-fast shake.

  She tucks her hand into her pocket and purses her lips.

  Time is running out. We need to be in class soon—the hallways are nearly drained of students.

  But I’m not missing this opportunity.

  “So, anyway, I saw you checking out the guitar yesterday
. You said you didn’t play, but you kind of looked like you really wanted to.” I grin. “I’m happy to teach you some basics, if you want.”

  Her lips part, her blue eyes touching mine as she pulls in a faint breath.

  She looks like I’ve just offered her the moon.

  But then she blinks like she’s been hit by a bolt of realization. “Uh, I can’t.”

  “Why not?” I watch her carefully, intrigued by the sudden switch up.

  “I-I…um, I can’t pay you, so…”

  “Oh, you don’t have to, I was just gonna teach you a few chords. You know, the basics just to get you started.”

  She swallows and starts bobbing her head, looking around like her gaze is trying to find a spot to rest. Any spot but my face.

  “I, um, I don’t have a guitar.”

  I try not to let her lame excuses put me off. Leaning forward, I whisper, “We can loan you a guitar. My dad’s a music freak, so we have a lot of instruments at home. He won’t mind sharing. It’s seriously not a problem.”

  She looks to the floor with a breathy laugh, but still shakes her head. “That’s really nice and everything. It’s great that you have a rebuttal for every one of my excuses, but I can’t. I don’t have time. I’m very busy with baseball and studying and…”

  “But you want to. I can tell that you do. I saw you looking at my guitar like it was—”

  She cuts me off by clearing her throat, her face flashing with agony before she clenches her jaw and glances down the now empty hallway.

  “You sure you can’t carve out some time?”

  “I’m…” She shakes her head more vigorously. “Thanks anyway, Cairo.” She whispers my name and then spins and takes off.

  I really hate how she keeps doing that.

  I’m not used to girls running away from me.

  Scratching the edge of my mouth, I watch her disappear. She has a really nice running style. She’s obviously a natural athlete. Sounds like baseball kind of rules her world. I wonder if she wants it to, though.

  With a sigh, I turn in the opposite direction and head to class. I’m going to get in trouble because I don’t have a late pass, but that doesn’t make me move any faster.

  Why did she say no when it was so obvious that she wanted to say yes?

  Girls are confusing.

  Or maybe it’s just this one.

  Complicated.

  I should stay well clear.

  But I’m not going to.

  Because she is a puzzle, and I want to work her out.

  As I pull open the door to Comparative Lit, I spot Maddie Barlow in the front row. She meets my gaze and then turns away, focusing on what the teacher is already saying.

  I get a glare for my lateness. “See me after class, please, Cairo.”

  I nod and give Miss Kettle a closed-mouth grin before taking a seat near the window. I’m not worried. She and my dad are good friends. She goes easy on me. Yes, it’s unfair, but there’s got to be some perks to being a teacher’s kid.

  Confusion is giving way to disappointment as I replay my brief conversation with Max. I really wanted her to say yes, but after that list of lame excuses, I’m not sure if I’ll ever get the answer I was looking for.

  5

  Max

  MAX

  He offered me free lessons.

  Cairo Hale offered to teach me how to play the guitar!

  For free!

  Aw, man. How amazing would that be?

  One-on-one time with him while he teaches me something I’ve wanted to learn for years—a musical instrument.

  That would be so cool.

  I slip into Economics, taking a seat in my designated chair and pulling out my binder. The teacher has just started taking attendance. I say, “Here,” when he calls my name, then go straight back to thinking about Cairo.

  His voice has this soft huskiness to it. I bet he sounds amazing when he sings.

  He offered to teach me guitar!

  And I said no.

  My shoulders slump.

  I’m such an idiot.

  But what was I supposed to say?

  Me in a room with him…the guy who makes my tongue swell and my heart beat out of the time. It’d be Humiliation Central. Not to mention Dad would kill me.

  His schedule is insane, and he’s trusting me to stick to it. He expects one hundred percent commitment, which means I have to spend my meager free time at the batting cage or fitting in a game of pro baseball on TV so I can study the players and learn from them.

  Man, I’m tired.

  Learning is so overrated.

  Unless it’s something new, like learning guitar.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, wincing against the idea.

  I can’t!

  I’ve got less than six months of high school. I have to stay focused. I can’t be messing around with some good-looking stranger while my baseball career goes down the toilet.

  Subtly sliding out my baseball stats sheet, I open it in my lap and gaze at the numbers.

  I was supposed to meet with Coach Keenan yesterday to show him this, but I never got around to it. I’ll have to give it to him at practice today instead.

  Unless I don’t get around to it.

  A thought hits me from left field.

  It’s guilt-inducing, and I so can’t do it, but man, it’s tempting.

  I wonder what it’d be like…to not play ball.

  I mean, I can’t do that. It’d break Dad’s heart, not to mention kill my chances of a college education. It’s all been mapped out. I’ll get a scholarship to play ball while also studying for a business degree that will give me something to fall back on. Mom’s all over it, excited that I’m mildly interested in product management. That was her job back in Columbus and she loved it.

  It looks okay to me. I mean, it kept her busy and entertained, so why not, right?

  My insides fizzle and I sigh as I picture my future either on the field or trapped in a lecture theater learning about risk management and the fundamentals of economics.

  Shit.

  Part of the problem is that I don’t even know what I want to do!

  It’s always been decided for me or suggested so strongly that I’ve just gone along with it. I’ve never had to think about what I really want.

  But what if I did? What if I got to choose for me?

  I snatch a pen from the top of my bag and chew the end while picturing a slightly different future. I don’t know exactly what it looks like. All I can see floating through my mind is the word FREEDOM in big bold letters.

  No graphs, equations, or killer expectations.

  No bats, baseballs, or sweaty mitts.

  No one sitting in the stands cheering me on in a way that screams, “Do well, Max! Make us proud! Don’t disappoint us!”

  I bite down hard on my pen, no doubt leaving teeth marks behind.

  I’ve never told anyone that I’m over baseball. Not even my sisters. Everyone thinks I still love it, because that’s what they want to believe. But it’s been building in the background for a while now. Ever since the pressure of scouts and college started.

  Getting out of Columbus and away from that baseball-crazy girls’ league made me realize that maybe I’m not as passionate as I should be.

  I mean, I’m good at it, so…I should love it, right?

  It should still be my number one priority.

  The teacher calls our attention and starts the lesson. I fold my stats sheet away and slip it into my pocket.

  Guitar chords.

  A few basics.

  I imagine my fingers on the strings, a beat throbbing through me as I strum and sing. Or just strum. Or just sing.

  No, strumming; I definitely want to strum.

  Joy bubbles in my chest as the song that’s been in my head all day zings through me. Instead of just humming along, I see myself holding a guitar—playing and singing “Chemicals React” by Aly & AJ.

  Instead of a baseball uniform, I’m wearing some
thing kick-ass and cool—black leather pants, a tank top, and maybe one of those thick leather bracelets, kind of like Cairo’s watch. Whatever, I look like a rock star. My hair’s down, maybe it’s blue or the tips are dyed red, and I’m leaning into a microphone, singing my heart out while I strum, lost in a musical euphoria.

  The teacher claps his hands, pulling me out of my daze, and tells us to get on with it.

  Oh crap, I have no idea what we’re supposed to be doing.

  I glance around me and manage to somehow bluff my way through the lesson.

  As soon as the bell rings, I shoot from my chair, hoping last period will be a little easier.

  It’s not. I’m chased by this dream-like cloud of desire that has nothing to do with study or baseball.

  I comfort myself that once I hit the field this afternoon, I’ll end up focusing. It’s my second home, and I’m more comfortable there than any place else.

  Adjusting my cap, I shove on my glove and follow the guys out to the field.

  Coach Keenan sets us up with the standard warm-up drills—sprints, rotations, knee lifts, squats. As soon as our blood is pumping we move onto the skill-based drills. I’m assigned to the outfield with three guys and we start up a game of catch, practicing our grounders and fly balls.

  I squint into the sunlight and prepare to catch whatever the Asian guy throws at me. I think his name’s Kingston.

  Whatever.

  Tracking the ball, I follow its arc, ready for the catch. “Chemicals React” is still dancing through my brain and I mumble the words as I step forward to retrieve the ball. It’s a catch I’ve made a thousand times. I shouldn’t even have to think about it. Which is why it’s so surprising when I drop it.

  It bounces off the edge of my mitt and lands on the ground with a soft thud before rolling away from me.

  “Perfect,” I hear one guy mumble as I’m grounded by confusion.

  What the hell?

  Did I just drop that ball?

  The mumbler runs forward and collects the ball, flicking it back to me. I shoot out to grab it and nearly fumble the ball again.

  The guy snickers and shakes his head. “There’s no way you’re making it off the bench, princess. Give up before you embarrass yourself.”