Make Me Yours (Top Shelf Romance Book 4)

by Devney Perry

  “It’s none of my business if you’re here or not.” I turn to face the game. The first pitch is thrown. A strike low and questionable, and Johnson, the Wrangler at bat, feels the same way by the way he looks back to the home plate umpire.

  “Good seats, huh?”

  Crap. That means he got them for Easton in lieu of making me sit in the family section that typically has okay seats. I swallow back my vitriol and replace it with manners. “Thank you. Yes, they are.”

  The crowd cheers as Johnson strikes out and jogs back to the dugout. I keep my eyes there, study Easton sitting on the bench with his leg guards on, as he laughs about something one of his teammates says. It’s warming to see him in his element and kicking ass at that.

  The next two outs happen quickly and the inning switches from the top to the bottom. Easton jogs out to the plate, all business, and I have to say it’s sexy as hell to watch a man do what he does best.

  Especially when he squats down and gives me a view of his very fine ass.

  “May I ask what it is about me that pisses you off so much?” Finn finally asks after being on the receiving end of my cold shoulder.

  “Only if you want me to be honest.”

  “It’s not an act, is it? You really don’t like me.”

  I turn to look at him and shake my head. He doesn’t waver from my gaze, just holds it without flinching. “I don’t trust you. Any agent who tells their client to sign an agreement like you did Easton, isn’t out for their client but rather out for themselves. The question is what exactly is in it for you? You get your fifteen percent commission regardless of where Easton plays, so why give him bad advice unless you and Tillman have something going together on the side?”

  He lifts his eyebrows and takes a slow sip of his beer, then looks back to the game unfolding before us. He watches Easton throw down to first base and almost pick off the runner taking too generous of a lead off the bag. “I see.” It’s all he says, but his expression says so much more that I can’t decipher.

  “Are you trying to tell me something different happened?”

  This time when he turns to face me, his eyes are harder, and there’s a grit to his voice. “Just so we’re clear, Tillman’s a fucker, and I hope he gets what I think is coming to him. As far as Easton is concerned, he’s like a brother to me. I would never do anything to intentionally hurt him or his career. You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to trust me. All that matters is that Easton does. So long as both of us are rooting for the same thing for him—success, health, a long career, happiness—that’s all that should matter.” The emotion in his voice surprises me, and there is really nothing more I can say to refute what he says.

  Because it’s true.

  I don’t have to like him to love Easton.

  My knee jogs up and down. My hands are clasped. Finn is sitting forward on the edge of his seat. Tension fills the stands.

  The score is tied with only one out and the Wrangler’s pitcher bungled up the beginning of the inning. His pitches wouldn’t hit the spots they needed to hit and now two batters later there are runners on first and third base. That means the runner on first is going to steal.

  With less than two outs, no catcher risks throwing down to second base to get the runner out because that means the runner on third may try to score. It’s too risky.

  No catcher but Easton Wylder that is.

  Finn knows it too.

  This is what sets him apart from the good catchers and makes him great. His cockiness. His justified belief in his abilities. His confidence in his body.

  I study Easton. His stance behind the plate with one hand tucked behind his back, fingers twitching in anticipation, waiting for the ball to be pitched so he can do what he does best.

  The pitcher checks both runners on first and third to try and stop them from getting too far from the bag. He winds up. He pitches.

  With lightning-fast reflexes, Easton has thrown the ball with laser precision to second base. The tag is made. The runner’s out. And before the umpire even finishes throwing his thumb back in the “you’re out” signal, the shortstop is throwing back to home plate where the runner from third base is barreling down the line toward Easton.

  He catches the ball split seconds before the runner slams into him full force. Easton is knocked to the ground with the runner on top of him but with the ball held tight.

  The umpire signals out, and I jump out of my seat cheering like a maniac in a stadium full of people rooting for the Yankees. I high-five Finn. He whistles in celebration.

  But it’s when I look back toward the plate, that my heart drops. Easton is still sitting there. His chest protector is being taken off him. His face a mask of pain I’ve seen before.

  “No. No. No.” I’m out of my seat flying up the aisle needing to get to him when I have no clue where to go. All I know is I need to get there now. “Finn, where? Tell me where? Get me to him.”

  He jogs ahead of me, weaving in and out of fans, as every part of me rejects what I just saw.

  It feels like forever, but it’s only minutes before we’re out of breath and descending in an elevator. When it opens a security guard stands there.

  “I’m Easton Wylder’s agent. She’s his personal PT. We need to get to him now.”

  He eyes us as my hands shake, trying to get the pass Easton handed me earlier from my purse.

  This can’t be happening.

  “Here,” I all but shout when I find and hold it up. Before he has a chance to respond, I’m running down the hall following Finn toward the locker room.

  His shoulder was good. Strong. It can’t be happening again.

  Please let it not be happening again.

  I can hear him before I see him. His cry of pain. His groaned “Fuck.” And when I clear the doorway, my heart drops to my feet. He’s on a table, his face distorted in agony as the team doctor evaluates his shoulder.

  “Easton.” It’s the only thing I say as I rush to his side.

  “When I threw . . . I felt it tear,” he says, a grown man reduced to tears.

  But these tears aren’t from pain.

  They’re from a valiant man terrified he’s going to lose the only thing he’s ever known.

  Easton

  The pain.

  It’s fucking brutal.

  I pop an Oxy.

  It dulls it temporarily.

  The surgery was a success.

  Dr. Kimble’s voice rings in my ears. The look of hope on Scout’s face fresh in my mind. But it’s been a week and the pain is still so goddamn vicious.

  The cheers from the stadium outside my condo are a fucking slap in the face every time I hear them. The opening notes of Welcome to The Jungle echoing up to where I sit. The fireworks from the left field wall at the end of a win. All are reminders of what I’m missing. What I might be losing.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  I glare at my dad who’s acting like my frickin’ babysitter. Like that’s not humiliating. But Scout’s at work—with the Aces—and I’m here.

  Broken.

  Injured.

  Completely fucked and feeling sorry for myself.

  “I have some news that might cheer you up,” he says, trying to sound upbeat.

  “Nothing’s going to cheer me up unless you tell me that Santiago was hit by a bus. He’s the reason for all this. He started the chain reaction. The cocksucker.” His head jostles from my honesty, and I don’t really fucking care.

  I’m in a bad place. I’ve fallen down the goddamn rabbit hole and if I keep popping these Oxy, I might want to stay there.

  “That’s not how I raised you.” The warning is given and it takes all my restraint to say you didn’t raise me at all, Mom did. But I’m lucid enough to know that’s dick-ish, so I bite my tongue and resist taking out my misery on him.

  When I don’t say anything else, he continues. “I think Boseman is going to fire Tillman.”

  I should be happy over this announcement
, feel vindicated, but all I feel is spite. “Little too late for me. Not like that’s going to help me any. Besides, he’s another person who needs to get hit by a bus,” I say without remorse, the pills beginning to take effect, starting to relax me, even though all I feel is rage.

  “Son.”

  “Don’t son me. Don’t fucking anything me. You hear me? Your head was so far up his ass that I’m surprised you’re not looking through his belly button. You have no right to chastise me.”

  “I’m going to give you that one. Just this once,” he sneers. “And chalk it up to the drugs and the pain. But you need to remember who you’re talking to, whether you’re a grown man or not.”

  We glare at each other—him in that calm, passive expression that is anything but the argument I’m aiming for. “Sorry I can’t be as perfect as you.”

  His laugh is tinged with a sarcasm I don’t understand. “I’m anything but perfect, Easton. The older I get, the more apparent that becomes.”

  A muted roar of cheers filters through the window from the stadium. I clench my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut for a moment as I try to find civility.

  It’s not an easy task these days.

  “Dad, I’m good. Scout will be back in a bit. You can go.”

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  “All I’m going to do is sleep. Please.” Everyone needs to leave me the fuck alone.

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  He shuffles about a bit, tries to stall, but finally, the elevator doors shut.

  Silence. At last.

  I pop another Oxy. I close my eyes and wait for that calm to hit me.

  The upside, I’m back in Austin. I’m with Scout. I get to sleep in my own bed.

  The downside, I can’t even hold her. I watch her go to work every day for the fucker who screwed me over. And I don’t get to play the game I love until next season.

  Frustrated. Moody. Pissed. I shift to the chair by the window and watch what I can’t have.

  The only good news of the day is Karma’s raised her head.

  Let’s hope she meets Tillman full force.

  And maybe she’ll take a little detour and settle the score with Santiago while she’s at it.

  Scout

  He’s sitting in the same spot I left him.

  In the same clothes as yesterday.

  I’ve got to do something to snap him out of this funk. It’s been two weeks, and every day he seems to become more and more depressed.

  “Hey.” I throw my keys on the counter and pick up the bottle of Oxy, quietly counting how many are still in the bottle to make sure he’s not overmedicating.

  “Hey.” No emotion. No anything.

  Three pills are missing. I can handle that number. Just one less thing to worry about when it comes to him.

  “What did you do today?”

  “Same shit. Different day,” he replies, sarcasm tingeing its tone.

  I approach where he sits in his chair facing the window and run a hand through his hair, my fingers scratching gently at his scalp.

  “How about we get dressed and go get something to eat?” I suggest, just like I did two days ago.

  “I’m not hungry,” he grunts.

  “How about we watch a movie?”

  “I’m sick of watching TV.”

  I walk in front of him, hands on my hips, and look down at him. He doesn’t lift his head. He doesn’t meet my eyes. It’s as if I’m not even present.

  Frustrated, worried about him, and needing to feel close to him somehow, I try the only thing left I can think of.

  “I’ve got an idea,” I say, the smile playing on my lips and suggestion lacing my tone. Placing my hands on both arm rests of his chair, I dip down to give him a kiss.

  “No.” His hand on his good arm flies up and pushes me away.

  I stumble back a few steps. Embarrassment stains my cheeks, as tears burn hot in my eyes. My chin quivers as I fight back the humiliation and struggle with remembering that he’s not himself and doesn’t mean it.

  But it still hurts.

  “I know you’re struggling with this, Easton. I know you’re pissed off at the world and your body . . . but I’m here. I have no idea what to do anymore to help you.” He finally lifts his eyes to meet mine. They’re flat and lacking all emotion. “Your body I can help heal”—his laugh is loud and condescending—“but your mind? I can’t help you there without you telling me what you need from me.”

  “I don’t need anything from you.” And those words only serve to cut me deeper.

  “You refuse to go anywhere near the windows when I’m home. You say you don’t want to be reminded of what you’re missing, and yet every time I come home, you’re sitting there, staring at exactly that. You won’t go out. You won’t talk to me. You won’t do anything. It’s been two weeks since the surgery and I’m still sleeping in the guest room.” I’m whining. I know I am, but it’s only because I’m worried, and I miss him desperately, but feel completely helpless.

  “You don’t understand,” he finally says, gaze still fixed on the view beyond.

  “You’re right,” I say, dropping to my knees in front of him. “I don’t. So help me understand. Please, Easton. Just let me in.”

  “I told you I don’t need anything and I meant it.”

  His words sting regardless of how many times he says them.

  “I think you should talk to Finn and consider the offer,” I say, trying to get him to focus on something other than what he’s lost.

  “You also think taking a walk outside will make everything better. Why don’t you just kiss my boo-boo while you’re at it? I’m sure that will work miracles and heal me. Right?”

  “Don’t be a dick.”

  “Then don’t act like my mother.” His eyes meet mine. They’re hard and angry and unrelenting.

  “I think I’m going to sleep at my place tonight.” I choke back the sob threatening to come out.

  “Good idea,” he sneers and then looks back toward the window, effectively dismissing me.

  I stand there for a beat, hoping against hope that he’ll apologize for being a prick, that he’ll ask me to stay, but he does neither so I leave.

  When I exit the building, I stop in indecision but ultimately decide to walk the several blocks home to clear my head and dull the hurt. While I know he’s having a difficult time adjusting to the fact that he busted his ass to get back to the game to have it ripped back away just as he was making a killer comeback, I don’t know how to show him the bright side of things.

  I need to get him out of his funk.

  With each step, I realize I might have an idea how to help him. I dial my cell. “Scout?”

  “Hey, Drew.”

  “How’s the asshole?”

  I laugh because he has no clue how right he is. “If you want to know the truth, right now he’s been upgraded to fucking asshole status.”

  “Ohh. That bad, huh?”

  “Yeah,” I say, knowing I sound like I’m playing around. The hurt is still real, though. “I think he needs some testosterone intervention.”

  “We tried. I called him yesterday to get him to come out with us after the game. I even offered my chauffeuring service to him but he declined.”

  “That’s cuz you drive like a maniac.” I laugh.

  “Every man’s got to have one wild streak.”

  “Oh please.” I glance around as I approach the backside of the stadium, the halfway mark between both of our places. “What if you take the party to him? He won’t leave the house. I’m not sure if he doesn’t want people to see him with his sling or if he truly is pissed at the world . . . but he keeps pushing me away and . . .” My words fade off as I try to fight back my tears. I’m certain he can hear them in the waver of my voice, though.

  “You okay, Scout?” Concern floods his voice.

  “Yeah. I will be. We had a fight, and I just need a break for the night.”

  “You sure?”


  “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Yes. I’m fine.”

  “Go home. Go out with friends. Do something and leave the fucker to us. I’ll call Tino and JP and round up a few others. We’ll head over. He won’t be able to refuse a pack of us. Besides, we have a long plane ride tomorrow to sleep it off.”

  I’m distracted by something to my left through the narrow opening of the exterior wall. For an instant I think I see Cal and Santiago talking in the stadium’s parking lot.

  “Thanks, Drew,” I say, distracted as I step back to look again.

  But when I look again, it’s just Cal, hands on his hips, and an expression I can’t make out from the distance.

  I jolt awake. I’m disoriented. I’m on the couch. My couch. Not Easton’s. My pulse races as I try to figure out what I was dreaming about.

  And just as my heart starts to calm, there’s a clink on my window. It scares the shit out of me, but also makes me wonder if I didn’t have a nightmare at all and that’s what woke me up. I glance at the clock—it’s three a.m.—and grab my cell on the coffee table beside me, ready to dial 9-1-1. Am I’m overreacting? Leave it to me to call the cops when there’s a branch hitting the window or something benign like that.

  Just as I have myself talked into that theory, the noise happens again—tink—but this time it’s several at once, almost as if . . . what the hell?

  I get up from the couch, crouch down, and creep over to the window. I probably look ridiculous, but no more ridiculous than thinking there is someone throwing pebbles at my window in the early morning hours. As I pull back the curtains to look out, the noise hits again. I’m startled by it, and surprised when I look out to see Easton standing in my front yard.

  I have the window open in a beat. “Easton. What are you—it’s three in the morning.”

  His laugh floats up to where I am and as mad as I am at him, the sound of it so very welcome.

  “Do you know how pathetic I am?” he asks, but finishes the question with more laughter as he stumbles and affirms my assumption that he’s more than a little drunk. “I can’t even be a decent Romeo. You’re on the first story and I can’t even throw rocks that high because I have to do it left-handed. As you can see, my left-handed aim is for shit.”