by Devney Perry
But just as quick as the relief is the reality that slams into me like a wrecking ball. That Santiago is here. Across from me.
This is trouble.
But Easton’s eyes hold mine, search my face, and when he notices the lone tear sliding down my cheek, he shoots an accusatory glare to Penski and then Cameron. But when his gaze shifts, when he comes to the person cloaked in the shadows of the bar, his expression morphs from curiosity to rage.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” His voice is a growl of unrestrained fury as he pushes his way to the table, testosterone raging and temper raw.
“It’s not what you think.” The words blurt out of my mouth as Penski shoves up from the table, sensing chaos is about to unravel, and steps between Easton and Santiago just as Tino and Drew arrive.
“Not what he thinks?” Santiago chuckles in a low, baiting tone that makes me realize what exactly I’d just implied.
“Leave her the fuck out of this.” Easton tries to push Penski out of the way, his fists clenched and body vibrating with a rage so palpable it rolls off him and slams into me.
“Easy now, Easton.” Penski pushes against Easton’s chest as Drew pulls back on his good shoulder. They can try all they want to prevent the fight, but it’s been brewing for so long I’m not sure anything can stop it now.
“You fucking the trainer now, Wylder?” Santiago baits Easton, his name a marred sneer loaded with disdain. “A little locker room lovin’?”
Easton lunges at Santiago, the empty glasses on the table crashing to the ground as Penski uses all his strength to keep them separated. “You fucking bastard!” Easton grits out.
“You got that right, pretty boy,” Santiago taunts, his chuckle grating over my nerves.
“Are cheap shots the only thing you’re good for?”
“You’d know, wouldn’t you? Too bad your lady was planning on going home with me.”
“Bullshit!” I shout in the confusion that’s now causing a crowd to form.
“Shut him the fuck up!” Penski barks to Cameron as he lifts his chin to Tino and Drew, silently asking them to get Easton the hell out of here, because it seems Santiago is going to keep provoking until he gets just what he wants.
In seconds, Drew and Tino have flanked Easton and are forcibly pushing him toward the door. There’s a mass of chaos and confusion swirling around me, but it’s the look on Easton’s face when he meets my gaze before he’s shoved out the door—the look that says, “What the fuck, Scout?”—that sticks with me more than anything.
“We’ll get him home,” J.P. says before looking at me and shaking his head in disapproval. “Not the brightest of moves, Scout.”
With that reprimand, J.P. walks away, leaving me standing in the middle of Sluggers with the man I want more than anyone being escorted out one side of the bar, and the man I despise for his nasty demeanor and the stunt he just pulled being shoved out the other door.
I sink back down into my chair, the remaining shots of tequila looking damn tempting. But they’re not the answer.
“I’m sorry.” Cameron’s voice is behind me, resigned and apologetic as he scoots into the seat next to me. “Not exactly how we’d planned to remember Ford tonight.”
I glance his way, at my brother’s best friend and college teammate, and know he misses Ford just as much as I do. That this annual ritual means as much to him as it does me. And that neither of us will go back on the promise we’ve made my dad to always celebrate Ford’s birthday to ensure his memory stays alive.
But how would we ever forget the boy with the goofy grin, obnoxious laugh, and heart as big as the ocean?
“I know,” I sigh. “The timing was perfect though. How the three of us were in the same city, the same time, on his birthday. Besides, Ford always liked a good fight so . . .”
“We should have made Santiago leave. I wasn’t thinking. Not with you working with Wylder or us coming to Sluggers . . . it’s my fault.”
I toy with an empty shot glass, wonder how Easton’s doing, and worry that one of the guys may have wrenched his bad shoulder.
But more than anything I just want to see him. Need to see him.
“You want me to walk you back?” Cameron asks, and I’m so grateful that he knows me so well.
I nod.
Scout
“Scout?”
I look at Cameron. “It’s fine. Thanks for walking me back.”
“You sure?” His eyes dart over my shoulder and then back to mine.
I nod and welcome the huge bear hug he pulls me into. “It was good to see you again, even if the night went to shit.”
I laugh, the tears threatening, as I squeeze him back. “It was. And it did.”
“Fuck you, Ford,” he murmurs and causes me to hiccup out a laughing sob.
“Thank you for never forgetting.”
“Never,” he says as he gives me a peck on my cheek, squeezes my hand, and glances one more time over my shoulder before walking away.
I draw in a deep breath before I turn to face the dark silhouette highlighted by the lone light still on in the parking lot. He’s leaning against the side of my car, his arms folded, his body tense. We stand there with distance between us and discord roiling around us.
“You want to tell me what the fuck that was all about?”
And the funny thing is, as much as I wanted to see him, as much as I feel like I need him tonight, he just pushed every wrong button possible by coming at me with anger when I did nothing wrong.
“Excuse me?” My voice is a quiet steel as I take another step toward him and his irrational temper.
“You heard me, Scout. What the fuck were you doing with Santiago?”
“First of all, I wasn’t with Santiago. And second, did I miss a point in time where you laid claim to me?”
“Not. At. All.” He rolls his shoulders. He shifts his feet. But between the dark night and the brim of his ball cap, I can’t see his eyes when I desperately wish I could.
“Great. Then you can move out of the way. I can leave. And tomorrow, when we meet up for your training, we can forget all about this whole getting to know you shtick and move on.”
His laugh fills the night, but falls flat. “It’s just that easy for you, huh? Run. Dodge. Avoid. Nice try, Scout, but I’m not letting you use that on me.”
“You don’t get a say in what I do or don’t do, Hot Shot.” I take a step closer to him, partly hurt, partly relieved that whatever he’s pissed about isn’t deterring him from whatever is happening between us.
“Nice skirt,” he says, completely throwing me for a loop with his change in conversation. There’s an underlying edge to his voice, though.
“Your point?”
“Can’t a man tell a woman who got dressed up she looks nice? I mean, I sure as shit know you weren’t dressing up for me. I get Nikes and sports bras, but Penski or Cameron or fucking Santiago gets a short skirt, long legs, boots, and fixed hair. ‘Dress to impress’ must have been the motto for the night, huh?”
My temper snaps.
“I don’t have fucking time for this. Or you.” I storm over to my car, hands on my hips. “Move.”
He doesn’t budge, just stands there with a clenched jaw and murder in his eyes that reflects how I feel. “You talk to Santiago with that mouth, too?”
“Fuck you!” I shout. He’s pushing for a fight, and you know what? I’m so game for one right now. I have a tornado of emotions whipping around inside of me—grief, loneliness, desire, need, uncertainty, fear—and it’s so much easier to be angry than to face any of them.
Or to admit that I’m hurt he could think I’d want Santiago when the only person I want is him.
I want him.
It’s a fleeting thought, one my temper overrides, but it’s loud enough to add fuel to the fight. Because if I fight, then I don’t have to acknowledge that, though I’m used to shutting everyone out, he might be the first I want to let in.
“Come on, Scout. Are you pl
aying me?” I can hear the hurt in his tone, know he’s had a few drinks, like I have, and know that nothing intensifies bravado like alcohol. “Are you using the contract as an excuse to keep this your little secret? Do you keep pushing me away, holding me at arms’ length because you’re really dating one of them and you don’t want either of us to find out?”
What? My temper’s too far gone for me to think rationally, and so I do what comes next in line—lash out at him.
“Playing you? Glad to know you think so highly of me.” I step into him, our bodies inches away from each other.
“Well, you sitting there with Santiago tells me exactly what you think of me.” His words are guarded armor when he grits them out, quiet but loaded with vitriol.
“The way you’re acting, I shouldn’t think of you at all.”
We glare at each other. Hurt waging against hurt. Anger swirling in the cool night air. And neither of us attempt to back down.
“You know what? Fuck this,” he mutters, looks at me one last time through eyes laden with sadness, shakes his head, and strides out of the parking lot.
It takes me a second to process what’s happening. To realize he’s walking away from me. And at first, all I can think is that with him gone, I’ll be able to breathe for a second. Have a clear mind.
Let him go, Scout. If you do, then you can’t get hurt any further. Because people leave. They all do. Ford. Mom. At some point soon, Dad will, too. Chalk up Easton to having fun while it lasted. Some good sex, a new friend, but nothing harmed in the end. He’s too close. You’re too close. Push him away or you’re going to end up devastated. And alone.
Walk away now, like he will from you.
Clear mind. Hard heart, Scouty-girl.
But what if I don’t want a hard heart anymore?
My feet move. Toward him.
My heart, hard as it may be, jolts into my throat.
And I really wish I had my damn Nikes on instead of my cowboy boots.
“Easton!”
His shadow’s up ahead, the streetlights hitting his hair a beacon for me to follow.
“Easton!” I call as I chase after him.
“Forget it, Scout. Just forget it.”
“No, wait.”
“At some point, it’s not worth the trouble anymore.”
Tears burn and my vision blurs as I catch up to him, just as he hits the lobby of his building. Conscious of the other people, I don’t yell like I want to for him to stop. Instead, I move a bit faster. He steps into the elevator and turns to face me with shoulders square, body tense, and eyes that say everything he doesn’t speak.
Step in now or turn around and keep walking. Now or never.
My pulse pounds, knowing the answer but fearing it at the same time.
I step in.
Easton blows out an audible breath as he pushes a button, and I’m not sure if that’s a good sign or a bad sign, but it doesn’t matter because my heart urged me to step in when every sensible thought screamed for me to stay out.
The elevator jerks and then surprises me when it begins to descend. I glance over at him, but he’s just staring straight ahead—jaw clenched, hands fisted, face intense.
So damn handsome.
I want him.
In more ways than let’s have fun ‘til it ends.
Because I want to take a chance on this. On him.
Sure, we’ve known each other for a couple of months, but when I look at him now, when I think about him when I’m alone, when I anticipate seeing him, it makes me want to push all fear out the window. It makes me want to step into him rather than step away. It makes me realize it’s okay to want more, when before, I’ve never even allowed myself that chance at all.
And I get it now. What he said the other night about making your own happily ever after. His implication that it’s not easy. That sometimes it takes time and patience and shutting up instead of shouting louder. That it might be the hardest thing in the world, but it can also be the most rewarding.
We just fought in the parking lot. He walked away, and I chased, for the first time ever. That should tell me something . . . but it’s bigger than that. There is the notion that, even though he was livid, even though he told me he wasn’t doing this, he still stood in the elevator with his finger on the open-door button and gave me a choice to be with him. The idea that he was mad at me, but still wanted me. That he walked away, but that didn’t mean he was leaving me.
This all hits me in the few seconds we have during the elevator ride down—it’s suffocating and invigorating.
When the doors open to the private field, I follow as he steps into the lighted entry, the rest of the space still in the muted dark. The elevator dings, the doors close behind us, the silence returns.
“Easton.” It’s a plea. A question. A “talk to me.”
“Don’t ‘Easton’ me,” he says as he turns to face me, eyes alive but posture guarded.
So we stand and stare but don’t speak. My heart is in my throat. My emotions a train wreck inside of me.
I expect him to tell me to leave.
I expect him to shake his head and say no more.
Wouldn’t that be fitting, considering I now want more?
But he does neither. We just stand there as the air around us shifts and changes, reacts and charges. It’s hard to draw in a breath, and yet I know damn well it’s not the air that’s making me feel that way but rather the look in his eye.
Then in the space from one beat to the next, he has me against the wall, his lips on mine, his body pressed against me in the most delicious of ways. Our hands grab and pull and squeeze and feel.
He wages an all-out assault on my senses with his lips alone. There is nothing gentle about the kiss. There is nothing passive. It’s packed full of greed and need and hunger and a violent desire that ignites every nerve inside my body.
I react in kind. My anger at his accusations earlier, my sadness over Ford’s birthday, and the realization of my feelings—they all curl into an explosive ball of harbored energy that gives just as good as it gets.
There are sparks of hunger on his tongue when it brushes against mine. Each connection is like a livewire hitting water—evocative, incendiary, inescapable.
And just when I feel like I can’t catch my breath—when I’m drowning in everything that is Easton Wylder—he tears his mouth from mine, hands fisted in my hair, knee between my thighs, and eyes a burning kaleidoscope of colors.
“Fucking Christ, I’m so mad at you right now.”
And that’s all I get—the growl of his anger—before I taste it on my tongue as he dives back in, catching me off guard and taking what he wants, what I offer him, once again. His stubble scrapes my skin, his fingers tighten in my hair, and his teeth nip my lips, swollen from his.
I fight against him. Not because I don’t want more, but because I need to explain.
“I wasn’t there for Santiago,” I pant as he lets us resurface for air. His eyes narrow, his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip, and his fingers twist in my hair so he can pull my head back.
He struggles with words. I can see them form, then fade, and so he speaks with his lips again, but by putting them back on mine.
But it’s not enough. As much as there’s no hesitation in his actions, I can still feel it from him and know he doesn’t believe me whole-heartedly.
As hard as it is to stop him again, I can’t do this without him understanding the truth. “I was there for my brother,” I explain between kisses.
His lips move for a few seconds more, but as soon as the words sink in, his hands still in my hair he leans back to look at me. “You have a brother?”
I swallow loudly and realize there’s hurt in his eyes that I never expected to be there. I don’t understand it. Moreover, I choose not to because if it’s there, then I’m responsible for it being there.
So, I lean in to kiss him again. To try and pretend like I didn’t see it, or the confusion in his features. To a
bsolve myself of being the asshole I suddenly feel like I’ve been.
“No, Scout. No. You don’t get to hide behind your sweet fucking kiss. You don’t get to hide your life from me when I keep giving you more of mine. Jesus fucking Christ.” His growl of frustration echoes around the concrete walls as he paces a few steps away from me, shoves his hands through his hair, the distance between us reinforcing how far away from me he feels right now. “You don’t get it, do you? This. You. Me. This. It goes both ways.”
His words fade and die in the space around us. The look on his face—resigned, uncertain, disappointed—causes the panic to flood full force through me. And the panic this time isn’t because he’s getting too close, but rather because I fucked up. Because I didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt and just assumed he’d run.
“What do you want from me?” I’ve never spoken a truer statement and been more afraid of the answer.
“More than I think you can give me.” His voice is even, but it feels like he just shouted at me at the top of his lungs. The rejection is blindingly real and scary and overwhelming to a point that fear speaks for me this time. Shame carries the tune.
“What do you want to know, Easton? That I had a brother who was two years older than me? That he was my best friend, my everything, and three years ago he died? That I had a mother who went to get milk when I was five—left my dad washing the dishes and my brother in the bath and me in my Strawberry Shortcake pajamas waiting for her to come back and read me my bedtime story—and never came back? That we were too much work for her? That we weren’t worth coming back for?” I yell, each word escalating in pitch, my body vibrating from the words I hate to admit but now can’t stop from tumbling out. “Or let me see . . . What other juicy secrets can I tell you that no one else knows? What can I confess to prove to you that I really am trying to let you in instead of push you away?”
“Scout. Please. Stop so—”
