His temper snapped. “Believe me. It’s not even tempting right now.”
Her eyes hardened. Flickered.
Good.
He swallowed. No, not good. He’d just hurt her worse.
But she’d pushed him to it. What woman turned a guy down, then got upset when he took someone else? Did Meg not get her own insanity?
She returned to the sink. “Go outside with Terrell.”
Might as well. “I’m taking him with me. He can play on the field, hit in the batting cage. A kind of graduation present. You good with that?” Not that he cared. He was taking Terrell.
She shrugged. “Whatever, Mike. Just go.”
He headed for the back yard.
How had this week gone so wrong?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The view through her office window reflected her emotions perfectly. Dark treetops across the street bounced beneath the wind and pounding rain, their movements backlit by flashes of lightning. The storm hadn’t started until Mike’s game ended, but her clock showed it was after eleven, and Mike and Terrell still weren’t back from the stadium.
She flipped her pen end-over-end between her fingers. Her anger from Friday had morphed into cold numbness. And why not? Mike had forced her to relive the old pain of his betrayal. For all she knew, the woman he’d been with had been Brooke.
Meg gave up trying to distract herself with work and shut off her computer before trudging downstairs. The kitchen was spotless, but anger always did that to her. Their Texas townhouse had been spotless, too, when she turned in her key to her lawyer and returned alone to her parents and the soothing smells of the farm.
She stood before the bank of kitchen windows, staring at the Ashburns’ house. A single light shone from their living room. What would Jill’s advice be?
The light went out.
So much for that idea. Looked like she was on her own.
Jill, of course, would say Meg was not. She had God. The Bible.
But the pain of desertion still craved human comfort.
And tonight even Terrell was gone. With the one who’d deserted her.
A car door’s slam drew her to the living room. She peeked between closed curtains.
Mike lifted a sleeping Terrell from the Range Rover. He held him against his chest and hunched over him to protect him from the downpour before darting up her sidewalk.
Meg let the curtain fall. If only someone would shield her like that.
She could already hear Jill saying that God did care for her like that, and, while Meg knew it was true, she was afraid to let her hurt go and be limp—like Terrell—in her heavenly Father’s arms.
Doing that would require her to forgive all that Mike had done.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mike was sick of rain.
Sunday evening the team arrived in Kansas City with storm clouds towering in the west. At the airport, wind whipped his suit coat and pants against him as he boarded the team bus. By the time they reached the hotel, blowing rain drenched everything, and the sound of wind and water beating his window kept him from a deep sleep.
That and Meg.
More storms rolled in Monday, twice halting the night’s game while the grounds crew spread the tarp over the infield. Mike spent the rain delays with his teammates in the clubhouse, but he escaped once and jogged up the runway to look at the field. Sheets of rain blew across the stadium. He leaned against the cement wall, wondering if Meg’s stormy coldness had passed.
In the morning, the sun peeked around the clouds, but the rain came and went all afternoon. By game time, the outfield was soaked again. Mike dove for a ball in the first inning, only to catch a faceful of grass and water.
Before the inning ended, the light rain turned into a downpour, starting another rain delay.
Mike ran across the field to the dugout, water splatting up around each footfall. Once inside the clubhouse, he paced. Rain delays were the worst, but two straight nights of them?
Again he jogged down the runway and stared through the dugout.
Fine droplets blew in toward him.
He needed something to distract himself, something to relieve this stress that seemed to build with every minute. He stepped farther into the dugout, letting rain touch him. Like he could get any wetter after his hydroplaning act.
The tarp caught his attention.
He ran up the dugout steps and onto the grass. In a few strides he reached the edge of the rain-covered tarp and dove head first. The cool water shocked him, but he held himself straight as he slid, water piling on either side of his body. He’d hear about it, for sure, but a guy could only stand so much rain and time and angry ex-wives. He slid once more, feeling better. The few fans left cheered him, but he gave them only a token nod as he returned to the dugout. He hadn’t done it for them.
Like a dog, he shook his head, water flying from his hair.
In the clubhouse, teammates laughed at something on the television.
Mike joined them and watched himself dive onto the tarp.
Will Hamrick tossed him a towel. “You look like you might need this.”
Mike ran the towel over his face, hair, and neck. “Think they’ll call it?”
“They just did. No sense wasting the night. Let’s go out.”
Not in this mood.
But by the time he’d showered and dressed, Will had talked a third of the team into hitting a club.
Mike caved and joined them.
He, Will, and Travis shared an Uber ride. Mike dug out his phone, tempted—for some bizarre reason—to call Meg.
Why? To irritate her more? To mend fences?
Hard to fix them when she’d demolished them.
But his phone showed that she’d called him. During the game. He smiled his surprise. His relief. She’d called him.
Wait. She knew he wouldn’t be able to answer his phone.
Was something wrong?
Or had she wanted to tell him off when she knew he couldn’t say anything back?
There was no message.
Okay. He pocketed the phone. He’d find someplace private at the club to call her back.
By the time the car stopped in front of the club, the downpour had lessened, but the sidewalks were still empty. Mike slid across the seat and out the door after Travis, pausing to tip the driver before catching up to Will and Travis.
The double doors of the club opened, and a couple ran out with a shared coat over their heads. Neither noticed him, which was fine. He caught the door, following his friends inside.
Voices and laughter mingled with the band that played on one side. The smell of burgers and fries suddenly called him, waking hunger he thought he’d already satisfied. He worked his way through the crowd to the opposite side where Will, Travis, and five other teammates surrounded two tables. He’d place an order, then call Meg.
With food coming, he headed for the exit. Outside he’d be able to hear her better, even with the rain.
Which had slowed to a soft gentle shower.
“Where’ve you been for the past three days?” he muttered as he found Meg on his phone. He stayed under the building’s overhang, tucked into the corner, and listened as her phone rang.
The doors opened, a lone man filing out, the band’s noise exiting with him.
Mike turned his head into the corner and stuck a finger in his ear in time to hear Meg say hello.
“Meg, it’s Mike. I’m returning your call.”
“My call?” She sounded confused. “From when?”
“Tonight, eightish?”
“I didn’t call you. I was cleaning Terrell’s—” She halted, and when she spoke again, a smile colored her words. “Terrell called you. I was coming downstairs from my office and caught him acting funny. I must have walked in on him.”
“Sorry I missed him.” Their Saturday at the stadium had been a blast, despite how the day had begun. “Is he awake?”
“No.”
“Bummer.
Well, tell him he can call me anytime.”
A noise distracted him, and he looked over his shoulder as someone walked by, head down in the rain. He turned back to the brick corner. “How are you?”
“I’m all right.” She didn’t elaborate. “I should go. I’ve got laundry to fold.”
“That can’t wait?”
“It’s been waiting. We’re digging through it each morning.”
“Got it. Then I guess I’ll talk to you later.”
“I’ll tell Terrell you called.”
“Thanks. Meg, wait.” He pressed his lips together. He shouldn’t say this. He shouldn’t start it all over again— “She isn’t anybody, Meg.” But Sara had been, he remembered after the words were out. “I don’t want you to think… I’m not seeing anyone. I don’t have my eye on anyone but you.”
She said nothing.
He took in a deep breath. Why did he keep putting himself out there? He forced his voice to be light. “What about you? Have your eye on anyone?”
Her voice, this time, was gentle. “Mike, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Then what, Meg? Tell me what to talk about.”
She kept quiet for a moment. “We enjoyed your slide. It looked fun.”
She watched his games? Even after their fight Saturday? “It was a decent stress reliever.”
“Well, good, I guess.”
“Yeah.”
“Mike, I’m—I hope your stress isn’t from me.”
How did he answer that?
She sighed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“No, Meg. Don’t—just—” He stumbled over his words and swallowed before trying again. “I don’t want us handing out fault every time we turn around. Yeah, I’m a little stressed, but so are a lot of guys on the team. I hear that’s life.”
“Maybe.”
The silence returned. Mike held his breath.
“Well, thanks, Mike. I should go. Our clothes are still waiting.”
“Sure.” He pushed off the wall with his shoulder. “Go have fun with your laundry.”
She gave him the light chuckle he’d almost forgotten. “I will. Goodnight, Mike.”
“Night.” He’d made her laugh. They’d actually had a conversation that went… well? Was that the right word? No one was mad, she wasn’t crying… Hope rose—flooded—through him. This was good. This was really—
“Mike Connor?”
He turned toward the male voice behind him. “That’s me.”
A hooded figure stood with arms upraised. Mike looked up as the arms began their downward swing.
They held a crowbar.
Mike threw an arm up over his head.
The crowbar smashed against his forearm.
White-hot pain knifed through him, the blow knocking him backward into the brick. He clutched his arm to his chest as he fell to the ground, the burning on the side of his head minor compared to the agony in his arm.
A clank sounded.
Mike braced for another blow.
But the man was gone, already a distant figure down the street.
A woman dashed into view, almost toppling over his feet.
Reflexes jerked his body into a ball, his elbow banging the brick. Pain flashed up his arm. Mike let out a gush of air, not recognizing his own cry of pain.
Because he’d never felt pain like this before.
The woman pointed down the street. “Did that guy hit you?”
Awareness registered. Someone had attacked him.
Another woman dropped beside him, brown hair sliding over her shoulder. “Are you okay? Did you see who did that?” She looked from his arm to his face, then sat back on her heels. “You’re—”
Pain sent dark shapes across his vision. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. His shoulders shook. “Just call the police.”
Seconds later she spoke into her phone.
But the words didn’t register. He pressed his lips together, barely holding back the agony that pushed from the pit of his stomach.
Breathe, man. Deep breath. Breathe.
He opened his eyes to find the other woman kneeling at his feet, focused on his arm.
Mike followed her gaze.
Red drops dotted his hand and arm.
Was that blood?
He stared at the specks of red. He could feel them now on his face, see them on his shirt. Whose blood was that? He shifted for a better look, but pain flooded him again, and he slammed his fist against the sidewalk.
Spots flashed before his eyes.
Passing out sounded wonderful.
“Don’t do that,” one of the women said. “You’ll make it worse.”
He breathed through his mouth until his eyes cleared and the nausea passed. “I’ve got friends inside.” He ran through their names until the brunette nodded at Brett Burkholder’s name and dashed in to find him.
The blonde stayed with him.
Slowly, he tried to cradle his arm against his chest. But the slightest movement shot torture through his arm, and he tried not to sniff, tried not to blink, tried not to breathe.
The club doors crashed open. His teammates surrounded him, but Mike ignored their questions. All he wanted to know was where that blood had come from.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The sky hinted of dawn when Ben woke. Dana slept, so he slowly slid out of bed. He pulled a gray Air Force T-shirt over his head, then watched her to make sure her sleep was deep.
She was out.
He slipped through the partially open door and crept down the hallway, avoiding the areas that creaked, until he reached the living room. He unlocked the front door and opened it.
The paper wasn’t there yet.
He heaved a sigh as he closed the door. No, he was in control. He could wait.
In the kitchen, he flipped the light switch, squinting against the fluorescent’s glare. The Keurig sat silent and empty on the counter. He placed a pod inside, set a cup beneath it, and started it. With a sigh, he dropped onto a dining room chair to wait.
Yesterday had been exhausting. He’d started showing homes at eight in the morning and didn’t stop until after nine that night. Dana had reheated her homemade focaccia bread for him, and he’d stayed up until eleven, nibbling it while he watched SportsCenter. Like the previous two nights, he’d found the show uneventful.
Maybe today.
If not today, there was always later in the season. He could wait. He’d waited years already.
Coffee gurgled quietly into his cup.
Ben eyed the clock on the stove. In five minutes SportsCenter would start all over again, giving him enough time to get comfortable in the recliner. Until the paper arrived, that would have to do. When the show’s familiar intro began, he’d get the same thrill he got from opening the paper, a rush he was beginning to look forward to.
He pushed himself up from his chair, giving in to a yawn. The mug was half full, and he leaned against the countertop, tapping his fingers on the fake granite.
Patience, Ben. He smiled. Funny how difficult it was to wait for coffee when waiting for revenge could be so easy.
Chapter Thirty
From the first-class seat behind him, an air-conditioning unit hissed as the passenger redirected the flow of air. Mike shifted in his window seat, his back muscles tight from the weight of a cast that ran from the bottom of his fingers to halfway up his biceps. The sling’s strap pulled against his neck, and for the third time since he’d walked onto the plane, Mike ran a finger beneath it in hopes of finding some comfort.
At least his painkillers were helping. He’d suffered an open fracture, and the Royals’ surgeon had attached a plate to… some bone. Yep, he’d be setting off metal detectors for years to come.
The Kansas City police, though, had come up with zilch. Elizabeth and Kerri, the women who’d witnessed the attack, didn’t see anything he hadn’t seen himself—some guy had whaled on him once and run.
But why? He’d received no threaten
ing mail, and despite turning down the usual number of autograph requests, no one had stood out as being that angry about it. He’d even considered Meg’s assistant’s fiancé, but Meg had carefully asked Dana who said Ben had been showing homes all day.
Mike stared out the window for the hour-long flight. There were no clouds, ironic after almost a full week of rain. Green squares of farmland gave way to suburbs butting up to each other until Lake Michigan, dotted with boats, appeared. Nice—a beautiful day to be absolutely miserable.
Inside O’Hare, Mitch Wilcox, the team’s General Manager, met him. So did a mob of reporters. Mitch deflected their questions as he and Mike walked, surrounded, down the concourse. Once they escaped, Mitch drove him home, talking about the investigation and trying to weed out any clues Mike might have forgotten.
As if he hadn’t spent his time in the hospital doing the same thing.
To his relief, Mitch dropped him off at the front door of his off-season, suburban home—his current home now that he was on the disabled list—and left. Few things were more humiliating than getting beat up. Listening to another man talk it over was worse. “I’d rather get beat up again,” he mumbled as he wandered into the kitchen. He set his wallet, phone, and keys on the counter. Might as well let Meg know he was back.
His call went to voicemail. “Hey, Meg. It’s Mike. I’m home.” He fiddled with the strap of his sling, reminded why he was home before the rest of the team. Suddenly he was glad she hadn’t answered. She’d probably want to know how he was, and he didn’t want to talk about it. “Guess you’re busy. Bye.”
He ended the call.
His phone beeped, reminding him that his dad had called while Mitch had been driving him home. He put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter, then headed to the fridge to see if Maria, his mom-like housekeeper and assistant, had gotten the fridge stocked like he’d asked.
One shelf was completely filled with bottled water. Mike grabbed one and managed to twist off the lid.
“Hi, Mike,” Dad’s gravelly voice sounded. “Give us a call when you’re home. Thought we’d come see you for a few days since you’re laid up. Mom wants to do some cooking for you.”
Homestands (Chicago Wind #1) Page 13
