Dangerous Lies (13 page)

His brow furrowed and he shook his head slightly, indicating he didn’t understand. With exasperation, I jerked my head more vigorously in Sydney’s direction.

“Um, Sydney?” Chet began uncertainly, glancing at me for confirmation that he was proceeding correctly. “Would you . . . like to join me at the pitcher’s mound for the coin toss?”

I beamed, signaling he’d done well, but he once again wagged his head in confusion, eyeing me like I’d sprouted alien antennae.

Chet and Sydney jogged to the pitcher’s mound for the coin toss, then returned to tell us we’d bat first. The umpires took their places on the field, one behind home plate, the other behind first base. Don Juan was first up to bat.

“What’s his real name?” I asked Chet, who had taken a seat on the bench beside me.

“Juan. Yeah, I know. Irony.”

At bat, Juan swung powerfully and missed. Even from here, I heard him swear in Spanish. The umpire pointed a warning finger at him, spoke a few stern words, and the rest of our team giggled behind their hands.

“Showboat,” Chet muttered, shaking his head, but he was smiling.

“Is he your best friend?” I asked.

“That’s such a girl thing to say.” He thumbed his nose. “But yeah. I guess that’s what he is. He sat by me at lunch in kindergarten and split his Twinkie with me. The rest is history.”

For the second time, I glanced down the bench to survey our team. “Anyone else you should warn me about?”

“Yeah, the shortstop. He’s tough on the field, but he wears his heart on his sleeve.” He nudged his thigh against mine, and the air around us seemed to grow heavy and harder to breathe. Chet’s playfulness felt awfully affectionate. And his intentions way too direct.

I laughed airily, trying to lighten the mood, but felt the sudden urge to step out of the dugout and get some fresh air. Chet was flirting with me. It had to stop. Reed was my boyfriend. I made a mental note to swing by the library first chance I got, probably before work on Monday, and check the e-mail account. Surely he’d left a message by now.

But that didn’t help me tonight. I needed to dispel any notions in Chet’s head that I was willing to take our relationship to a new level, and I needed to dispel them
now
.

I also needed to get myself under control. Chet was being alarmingly direct, and I wasn’t used to it. Reed had never overtly flirted with me; his way of showing he cared was always subtle. Touching my hand. Meeting my eyes across a room. Playing my favorite songs when we were driving in his car. He was secretive about everything he did, including revealing emotion, which meant I had to work a little harder to notice his affection. In contrast, Chet was straightforward and open. It made me feel almost uncomfortable—like stepping into noonday sun after a lengthy period indoors. It also made my heart yearn dangerously for more.

Juan had struck out and was walking back dejectedly to the dugout, and I seized my chance.

“Can’t even make it to first base?” I quipped as he threw his bat down in self-disgust.

“With you,
cariño
, I’d go all the way to home.” With fluid grace, Juan inserted himself between me and Chet, and draped his arm over my shoulder. “Don’t be nervous. I’m a good teacher.”

“Knock it off,” Chet said, giving him a playful shove off the bench. But I noticed Chet’s face had turned slightly pink.

Not giving up, Juan pulled me to my feet, pressed my body to his, and engaged me in a seductive Latin dance, humming a melodic tune in my ear. I played along, dancing with him, grateful that his comical routine had quickly defused the loaded moment Chet and I had experienced back there.

I laughed. “You’re good, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m the gift that keeps on giving,” Juan murmured tantalizingly against my cheek.

“Okay, break it up, Stella’s next at bat,” Chet reminded us. He handed me a bat and tipped his head at home plate. “Go get ’em, Slugger.”

I took a few practice swings outside the dugout while the girl at bat hit a fly ball that was caught by the third baseman. The ump pronounced her out, and I stepped into the batter’s box. In the dugout, I could hear Chet whistling and clapping for me. He was a good team captain, and was shaping up to be a good friend, and I told myself that’s all we’d ever be—friends.

I settled my feet in the dirt and choked up on the bat. It was a little long, and I was only aiming for a base hit—no flashy tricks tonight. The pitcher rocked back on her heel, then sent the ball in an easy lob toward me. I went after the first pitch with an aggressive swing. I heard the crack of the ball, tossed the bat aside, and ran. I’d squeezed a line drive between shortstop and second, and easily made it to first base.

While our dugout erupted in cheering, I bobbed a curtsy.

Chet grinned ear to ear, but I quickly avoided eye contact, choosing to pucker up for Juan instead, who was drawing a circle in the air with his finger, a clear innuendo for “going all the way.”

Chet followed me at bat, and pulled off a double after hitting a pop fly deep into left field. We played seven innings and won the game 5–4, bumping our season record to 3–0. After the game, both teams dispersed to the parking lot, and I watched anxiously as one by one the players got into their cars and drove off. Was
no
one going to invite me to a party tonight? Not even Juan? He seemed like a guy who’d be on the lookout for a good time and open to a tagalong. I knew Chet would try to talk me into going back to Carmina’s, especially since it was after eleven, but that was the last thing I wanted. If I made it back on time, I was letting her win. And I refused to do that.

Feeling deflated, I walked with Chet to the Scout. He opened my door, even though I wished he hadn’t. The gesture felt more than polite—it felt intimate. Like I was his date. I suddenly feared he might try to walk me to Carmina’s door and get me alone on her porch. Whatever happened, I couldn’t let him do that.

As we settled into our seats, I decided the best course of action was to keep things chummy—be one of the guys.

I kicked my heels up on the dash, smiling mischievously. “Sydney likes you.” Halfway through the game, she’d cinched her jersey in a knot at her waist, showing off her curvy midriff. She’d also spent every free minute chatting off Chet’s ear. Whether you lived in the city or the country, some signals were universal.

Chet glanced bemusedly at me. “What, Sydney?” He shook his head. “No way. She’s got a boyfriend. Some bull rider from Hershey. They’ve been together awhile.”

“She had her eye on you all night, lover boy.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Did you smell how much perfume she was wearing? At first whiff I thought it was Juicy Couture, but now I’m almost positive it was Pheromones to Attract Chet Falconer.”

He groaned. “Stop.”

“I’ve got a point and you know it.”

“I know no such thing.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?” I asked him directly.

He thumbed his nose some more and cleared his throat. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“What would make you think I have a girlfriend?”

“Do you?”

“No, I don’t,” he said, sounding slightly offended that I even had to ask. “Why?”

With that one question our conversation took a sudden serious, and personal, turn, and I didn’t like it. So I changed the subject. “When are you taking me out for that celebratory dinner?”

“Whenever you want.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” I said, smiling triumphantly and wickedly in equal measure. “I want to go now.”

Chet sighed and gave me a reprehensible look. “I promised Carmina I’d have you home by eleven thirty.”

“Not even coffee?” I pleaded, batting my lashes persuasively.

His eyes flicked to the clock on the dash: 11:20. “A&W is still open. Drive-through root beer floats, final offer.”

I frowned. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Me? You kidding? Mirror’s right there,” he said, gesturing at the fold-down visor. “You in or out?”

“In,” I said, but I made sure to affect a sulky tone.

Chet drove across town, pulled through A&W’s drive-through, and paid for two floats. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a root beer float. They used soft-serve vanilla ice milk, not the real stuff, but it was still surprisingly good. Chet drove to a nearby park, and we sat in the empty lot with the windows down. The air felt warm and sticky, but with a cold dessert in my hand, I didn’t mind.

“Do you have a job?” I asked. “Besides mowing lawns.”

He snorted. “You say that like mowing lawns is a lame job.”

“You don’t have to talk to anyone. You don’t even have to shower or dress up,” I pointed out.

“I only mow two lawns: Carmina’s and my own. During the day, I work at Milton Swope’s Ranch. I cut hay, maintain the pasture, and look after the cattle.”

“Go on.”

He gave me a sidelong glance, gauging to see whether I spoke out of genuine interest or to gain fodder I could tease him with. “It’s hard work but never boring. I can be riding a tractor one day, mending a fence the next, and chasing down a lost calf the day after that. Best part, come rain or shine, I’m outdoors. Not stuck in some office hunched over a computer.”

“The sun will prematurely age your skin,” I pointed out practically.

His laughter turned genuine. “My mom worked in her garden most of her adult life. She had smile lines, crow’s-feet, and sun wrinkles, and she was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”

“I’m sorry about your mom, Chet. I’m sorry about both your parents.”

He shrugged. “I appreciate that. It gets easier over time. Maybe not easier. Just more tolerable. I think it helps knowing they’re not completely gone. I don’t believe in a God who creates beings only to let them stop existing. Matter isn’t created or destroyed—just transferred, right? I can’t see my parents, and I can’t talk to them, but I feel them. They’re out there. Knowing this makes the loss less painful.” After a pause, he smiled slightly. “Knowing my mom is keeping an eye on me forces me to reconsider every time I’m tempted to whip the hide off Dusty’s back.”

“I don’t believe in God,” I said bluntly. “If there was a God, I don’t understand why he’d let horrible things happen. A God who lets people suffer, who lets people behave abominably toward each other? That’s not a God. That’s a sadist.”

“I know people who feel the way you do. Dusty is one of them. He doesn’t understand why God would let my parents die. He thinks if God cared about us, he would have saved our parents. It’s a valid viewpoint. I’ve asked myself the same questions, had the same doubts. But my parents’ death has made me a better person. I care more about Dusty now than I ever did before. I don’t think God took my parents from us to force me to be a good brother. I don’t think he forces any of us—that’s my point. He lets bad things happen because he doesn’t control us. He lets us run our own lives, and our actions have consequences, good and bad. The drunk driver who killed my parents made a bad decision. If God had saved my parents, one person’s bad decision—to drive intoxicated—wouldn’t have had a natural and negative consequence. We all have to make mistakes, because it’s the only way we learn.” He exhaled slowly, pensively. “Some lessons are harder than others.”

“That’s a noble perspective, but I disagree,” I said. “People drive drunk all the time and no one gets killed. If God really wanted to save your parents, he could have.”

“Do you wish God had saved your mom?” Chet asked gently.

His question caught me completely off guard. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. He was baring his soul to me, and all I had to give him in return was a carefully crafted lie. My mom wasn’t dead. I had nothing in common with Chet, and the fact that I was pretending like I did only made me feel more shallow and deceitful. I hated feeling this way. But what really bothered me, what hurt the most, was knowing Chet thought I was someone I wasn’t. Was this how the rest of my life would be? Lying to people and never letting them get close enough to know the real me? I hated Stella Gordon. I hated her more than I’d ever hated anyone.

Except, perhaps, my mother.

“I don’t believe in God, remember?” was all I said. Ready to switch the topic, I asked Chet, “Do you know Inny Foxhall?”

He’d taken a pull of root beer, and now he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I think so. Short with dark hair?”

“Yeah. Did you know she’s pregnant?”

“I did not.”

“C’mon. Small town. News travels.”

“It does. Toward people who tune their ear to it.”

I made a face like he was being too superior. “Any idea who the father might be?”

“She’s in Dusty’s grade, I think. He might know.”

“Do you know Trigger McClure?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think he could be the father?” I didn’t have any evidence to back up my suspicion, other than the depressed way Inny had reacted when I suggested Trigger might be leaving town soon to play in the majors. Well, that and the way Trigger seemed to prefer Inny over every other carhop when he came to the Sundown. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more between them than a routine customer–carhop interaction.

Chet frowned. “Trigger and Inny? Instinct tells me no. But I could be wrong.”

“What makes you say no?”

He thought about it, shrugged. “I guess she doesn’t seem his type. Again, I could be wrong.”

“What’s his type?”

The look in his eyes changed from conversational to speculative. “You’re not . . . ?”

“Asking for myself? Ew. No. Definitely no.” I gave a dramatic shudder, proving my point. I was not interested in Trigger.

Chet seemed to relax in his seat. “If you believe the rumors, Trigger likes older women.”

“How much older?”

“Old enough to be experienced.” He looked uncomfortable talking about this, fidgeting with the keys dangling from the ignition. “There were rumors about him and a female teacher. Far as I know, they were just rumors.”

“Oh, stop looking for the good in people,” I said. “I wouldn’t put fooling around with a teacher past him. What happened to the teacher?”

“She was moved to a different school mid-semester,” he admitted reluctantly. “He was already eighteen when the alleged relationship happened, so the story didn’t catch wind.”