Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel (27 page)

Inside the stadium, the organist played a rising set of chords
,
the sound wafting into the parking lot.
Duh-duh-duh-duh, duh-duh-duh-duh.
Paige could picture the happy fans searching for their seats, stocking up on hot dogs, peanuts, beer, and the Kilby specialty, Catfish jerky. She hoped the special playoff season T-shirts she’d ordered were selling well, and that the Baseball’s Hottest Outfield posters would be considered collector’s items rather than a reminder of yet another embarrassing moment in Catfish history.

After locking the Range Rover, she hurried toward the staff entrance, her favorite cowboy boots thudding on the still-warm pavement.

Nina must have already gone inside, because she saw no sign of her. She pulled open the door and stepped inside. The staff entrance opened onto a small foyer with an elevator on one side and a staircase on the other. It was a small space, something cobbled together during a stadium renovation from the 1970s. There wasn’t much place to hide, so a soft squeal seemed completely out of place.

“Hello?” she called. “Nina, is that you?”

She stepped into the foyer, jumping when the front door crashed shut behind her.

She took a few deep breaths to calm herself. What was wrong with her? This was a busy baseball stadium, not some haunted house.

Shaking off the feeling that something was wrong, she went to the bottom of the staircase. “Nina!” She called. “Where’d you go?”

Stupid question. There was only one place to go. Up. She started up the stairs. Nina must have dashed ahead for some reason. Maybe she’d seen Leiberman. Maybe she had to pee. Maybe Nina was tired of being shadowed by her.

Halfway up the stairs, a scuffling sound drifted from the direction of the elevator. Now that definitely wasn’t right. Nina would never have taken the elevator. Nina had told her that she’d once been trapped in a mall elevator and since then always took the stairs or an escalator.

Paige launched herself down the stairs. At the elevator, she punched the button. The door opened an inch, then closed, opened again, then closed. Was it malfunctioning or something else? She looked around
for something to jam between the doors, but the foyer had nothing in terms of decorations. The next time the doors opened, she stuck her right cowboy boot between them. Not wanting to risk any broken bones, she quickly she pulled her foot out of the boot. With a steel inset in the toe, the boot worked like a charm, preventing the doors from closing. Able to peer inside through the narrow opening, she saw a terrified Nina in the grasp of a tall, wiry man in a black leather blazer. His hand was clamped over her mouth, her face turning red.

Paige pulled out her cell phone to dial 911.
No reception.
She turned and ran toward the front door as the elevator doors whooshed open behind her.

“Give me that phone,” the man ordered in a nasal voice that definitely did not come from Texas. She kept running. If she could just get outside, she could get a signal and call for help. But just as she reached the door, the man, dragging Nina along with him, managed to catch up and grab her. He knocked the phone from her grip and smashed it under his heel.

She backed away. “Who are you? What do you want with Nina?”

Nina’s right cheekbone looked swollen. She seemed to be in shock, barely aware that Paige was there. The man had
hit
her. The bastard.

“You stay out of it.” He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his jacket, yanked her forward and locked one cuff around her wrist. Viciously, he jerked her toward the stair railing.
Crap.
He was going to imprison her in the foyer with no cell phone while he did God knew what to Nina. No one would come this way until after the game. No one would be able to hear her scream or yell for help.

The other cuff was a few inches from the stair railing, ready to close her in, when Paige lunged for Nina.
She grabbed the girl’s nearest arm and hauled her forward, thrusting her wrist into the cuff. It clicked shut, and there they were, handcuffed together.

Whatever happened next, at least Nina wouldn’t be on her own. He probably had the key, but if he looked for it, Paige thought she could try to grab the gun she’d spotted under his jacket. Maybe.

“You crazy bitch.” The man in black leather scowled. Paige realized he was younger than he’d seemed at first, probably around thirty, with a wispy beard. “Getting kinky on me. Fine, I’ll take two for the price of one. Come on, both of you.” He yanked them back to the elevator. Paige didn’t struggle. Not only did he have the hidden sidearm, but he also wore a Leatherman attached to his belt. He never would have made it through the metal detectors at the front gates. Pretty smart of him to use the staff entrance. She made a note to inform her father of this gap in security—assuming she made it out alive.

She motioned to Nina to stay quiet, stay calm.

The girl nodded. Though still pale, she wiggled her fingers to touch Paige’s and shot her a relieved smile. The kidnapper kicked Paige’s cowboy boot across the foyer and pushed the two of them into the elevator. He punched the Up button. “Now where in this building can I find good cell reception?”

“W
HO ARE YOU,
mister? Can you explain what this is all about? I’m sure we can work it out, whatever it is.” Paige tried to stay calm as the elevator ascended through the levels of the stadium.

“We can skip the chitchat, doll. Right now I want a good signal. Fucking technology.”

“I can help with that. The best cell phone reception is on the field or in the stands. A few corners here and there aren’t bad, but mostly the stadium’s pretty bad for cell phones. We use landlines a lot.” It seemed ridiculous, talking about cell phone reception with a kidnapper. Or whatever he was. “What’s, um, going on? What are you after?”

“Don’t ask me questions, ’cause they don’t fucking tell me anything,” he grumbled. “I’m one step away from a babysitter. Can’t believe they sent me down here on
Fight Night.
”

“Kilby’s actually a really nice place,” Nina piped up. “Sure it’s small, but the people are friendly.”

The kidnapper shot her an incredulous look. “I’m not looking to relocate.”

“Are you from Detroit, then?” Paige asked. “Do you work for the Wachowskis?”

He clammed up as the elevator reached the top floor, which was used for storage. An open, low-ceilinged space, it was filled with piles of boxes, some neatly labeled, others simply shoved haphazardly into corners. Pushing Paige and Nina in front of him, the kidnapper prowled fretfully through the space, looking at his phone. Finally he stopped short.

“Two bars.”

Paige met Nina’s eyes, trying not to laugh. “Do you have Verizon? You should try AT&T.”

“Thanks for the tip.” The kidnapper hit a number on the phone, then walked a few steps away to conduct his conversation.

“Is he after Trevor?” Nina whispered to Paige. “What’s going on?”

“I have no idea. Just don’t say a word until we figure out what he wants.” Overall, he didn’t seem very menacing. If he was with the Wachowskis, he must be more of an underling. Not that he couldn’t still hurt them if he chose. He might be on the wiry side, but he was strong.

The kidnapper spoke into his phone; she craned her neck to listen. In the low rumble of conversation, all she caught was the word “sister” and the word “deliver.” So this
was
about Trevor.

Flipping his phone shut, the jittery man came back and dragged the two girls to an old couch shoved up against the wall. “Sit down.”

Awkwardly, Paige and Nina coordinated the action of lowering themselves down to a sitting position. The handcuffs made it uncomfortable and difficult, and Paige nearly yanked Nina off her feet when she stumbled. He took a zip tie from his pocket and attached Nina’s ankle to the leg of the couch. Paige sniffed. It smelled of cigar smoke and locker room. A castoff from Duke’s office?

The kidnapper took her backpack away and dug through it for her wallet. He checked her ID. “Paige . . . Notswego?”

“That’s right.” Paige put on her most innocent expression. She hadn’t gotten around to changing her driver’s license back, and now she was thankful. It probably wouldn’t help this situation if he knew she was Crush’s daughter.

“What is that, African?”

“Yes.”

“Reminds me of that basketball player just got signed by Golden State, what’s his name . . . Hudson Notswego.”

“My husband.
Ex
-husband,” she added quickly, in case he was thinking in terms of ransom money.

“Yeah?” The man seemed genuinely impressed. “Got a killer jumpshot. Wait . . . isn’t he with that talk show lady? The one with the boobs?”

Paige stared at him stonily. One more black mark against Hudson, that she’d have to deal with questions about him and Nessa
while being held hostage
. “Can we change the subject, maybe? Like, why you’re keeping us up here in a storage room? It seems a little stupid because there’s no way out. When they come for you, you’ll be trapped.”

But the man seemed unworried about that possibility. “Hudson Notswego. That’s some contract he signed. Did he cheat on you? Heard that most of those NBA players get a lot of pussy. You’re probably better off without him.”

Next to Paige, Nina gave a soft giggle. “You’re definitely better off,” she whispered in Paige’s ear. “Trevor would never cheat on you. He really, really loves you. You love him too, right? You’re not going to break my brother’s heart?”

“What? Why do you say that?”

“Hey!” The man snapped his fingers. “No whispering.”

Paige barely looked over at him. The kidnapper didn’t seem bent on hurting them, so she no longer feared him. Actually, he seemed nervous more than anything else, as if he was afraid of screwing up. “What are you talking about?” she asked Nina.

“Trevor thinks you’re like a baseball princess, and he’s more of a peasant. I’m pretty sure he wants to ask you to marry him but thinks he doesn’t deserve you. He didn’t say that, because he doesn’t talk about this stuff. It’s just my theory.”

“Doesn’t deserve me? Why would he think that?” In dismay, Paige rattled the handcuffs, making Nina flinch. “Sorry.”

“Because of his . . . you know . . . our past. His record. All the bad stuff from before.”

The man loomed over them like a telephone pole in black leather. “I said, no fucking whispering. Talk out loud, so I can hear.”

“That’s fine.” Nina cleared her throat. “Actually, I want to talk out loud, because I have something to say to the Wachowskis.”

“
What?
No!” Paige tried to put her hand over Nina’s mouth but couldn’t manage it with the clanking iron bracelet. “Don’t you dare, Nina.”

Nina shoved her hand away. “You can’t stop me. This is my life, and my brother, and I want him to get all the good things he deserves.”

Paige rolled on top of her. Maybe she could squish the breath out of her, make it impossible for her to talk. Nina kicked Paige in the shin, then wriggled her head free.

“Girl fight.” Smirking, the kidnapper held up his
phone to take a picture. “This job just got more fun. Makes up for missing
Fight Night.
I’m gonna have to put my money on Notswego’s ex on this one.”

“I’m Trevor Leonov’s sister,” squeaked Nina.

“True that, but you don’t got his upper body strength, and the other girl’s taller, so—”

“I’m not talking about your stupid girl fight, moron! My brother didn’t hurt Dinar Wachowski! I did!”

T
he traditional singing of the Star-Spangled Banner had barely ended when Trevor and the rest of the Catfish ran onto the field. Game Four. If they won this game, they’d be on their way to the Triple A championship game. If they lost, the series would be tied.

Most importantly, he was supposed to play ball as if everything was normal. That’s what the FBI had requested of him and Crush.

At first, when he revealed the whole story to Crush, burn scars, threats, hotel door graffiti, and all, Crush had yanked him from Game Three. “Your life is more important than the damn championship,” he’d growled. But then he’d called a buddy in the FBI. The Feds wanted to see if they could trip up the Wachowskis, who they’d been monitoring for some time. Based on their surveillance, nothing big was in the works, they told Trevor. They were just hoping for a slip of the tongue caught on wiretap. He had nothing to worry about, they assured him. They took his cell phone, put him in a secure hotel, and told him to act normal.

Yeah right. Tell that to the anxiety tightening his gut. He hadn’t even dared to talk to Paige or Nina; best to keep them out of it for now.

Out in left field, Trevor caught the ball Dwight whipped toward him, then hurled it back to Bunner at second in the last “around the horn” before the game
started. His shoulder felt nice and loose, his arm strong. Too bad he wouldn’t get one more chance to play before Grizz. He’d begged his old friend to come down to Kilby with the team and watch the rest of the series. But Grizz had elected to go home and rest up.

“It’s enough that I got to see you play the way I always knew you could,” he told Trevor.

“If I get the call-up to San Diego, I’m flying you in.”

“Done deal. I’ll be there. But make it quick, boy. I can’t hang on forever.” He winked at Trevor and the other players, who had clustered around to shake his hand and get his autograph. Watching the respect his teammates gave Grizz made Trevor want to shoulder bump every single one of them.

And to think he had Paige to thank for the chance to see Grizz again. Hungry for the sight of her after a day of deprivation, he glanced over at the owner’s box. Two empty seats glared back at him.

No Paige. No Nina.

Crush, armed with his Armani shades, sprawled in his seat as if the outcome of the game made no difference to him. Next to him sat Mayor Trent, her posture upright, hair teased to Texas politician poufiness, a Go Kilby smile on her face. Behind them sat Marcia Burke and a few other members of the management staff who Trevor didn’t recognize. And there, at the front of the box, the shocking absence of Paige and Nina.

Maybe they were in the ladies’ room. Both of them. Maybe they’d gotten stuck in traffic on their way to the stadium. No reason to be alarmed yet.

Trevor spent the top of the first inning lecturing himself not to panic. There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for their absence; he just didn’t know it yet. Luckily, no balls made it to left field. Farrio retired the side with only one hit, a harmless single. As
Trevor jogged to the dugout, he tried to catch Crush’s eye, hoping to get a read on whether he was worried. But the owner was caught up in a conversation with the mayor and never looked in his direction.

None of the first three Catfish batters got on base, which meant that Trevor only got as far as the on-deck circle before the inning ended. After handing off his bat and helmet to the bat boy, he jogged slowly to left field again, scanning the aisles and seats for a glimpse of tumbling brown locks or Nina’s short blond tuft of hair. Maybe they’d decided to sit somewhere else this time. Maybe Crush had asked them to stay out of sight. Maybe he was being paranoid.

Maybe love was making him nuts.

He barely followed the action on the field during the second inning. With one out, two Storm Chasers got on base, and the next batter hit a long fly ball to left. Lost in anxious thoughts about Paige and Nina, he didn’t even notice until Dwight screamed his name. With Dwight yelling the entire time, he ran at top speed to chase down the ball. When he caught it, pure muscle memory told him to twist in midair and whip it back to second base.

A 7-4-3 double play. End of inning. No score.

The radio play-by-play drifted into earshot as he ran to the dugout. “As so often happens, the guy who makes a brilliant play to end the inning is the first up to bat. Trevor Stark has been unbelievable this entire series. Watching him is like watching a chess grandmaster playing in a public park or a NASCAR champ in a bumper car. He’s always been a player to watch, but now he seems to have hit turbo boost on his game. The Friars have got to be salivating right about now. My guess is, we get through the championship and bye-bye Trevor Stark.”

Trevor rolled his eyes as he swung into the dugout. Stupid commentary. He hoped none of the other players took it seriously. If Dwight hadn’t gotten his attention out there, he would have missed that play by a mile. Baseball was a team sport, why didn’t anyone seem to remember that? Especially the Wades.

At the reminder, a chill shot through him. In that dark little side street in Omaha, he’d made Paige promise to watch all the games, and to make sure Nina came too. Maybe it was selfish, but it relieved him of worry. She’d said,
Where else would we be?

But she wasn’t here.

Batting helmet and gloves on, he grabbed his favorite bat and went to the plate. The next time he checked, the girls would be there. They’d be settling into their seats with drinks or waving bright blue foam catfish.

But the two seats were still empty. Crush was deep in conversation with Mayor Trent, their heads bent together. Cozy as hell. But where were Paige and Nina?

With one foot out of the batter’s box, he took a practice swing. Mechanics were good, no pain, he felt nice and loose and warmed up. Powerful, as if home runs would come streaming off his bat. He knew the Storm Chaser pitcher well, knew that his curveball didn’t always drop and that he threw more than his share of wild pitches. Already he could see the fear in the hurler’s eyes.

If it weren’t so early in the game, he’d probably get walked. But the manager wouldn’t call for a walk now, especially with no one on base.

Here came the first pitch. Wide and outside. Ball one. Trevor backed out of the box, glanced again at the owner’s box. No Paige.
Where else would she be?

Second pitch. Another ball, so wide the catcher barely managed to save it.

I’ll be staring at you the entire time.

Ball three
barely cleared his ankles. In the owner’s box, Crush laughed at something the mayor was saying. No Paige. No Nina.

Trevor couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped out of the batter’s box. “I’m out,” he told the umpire.

“Huh?”

“I’m out. Tell Duke or whatever you’re supposed to do.”

He jogged across the infield diamond. All around him, shock waves reverberated. He heard confused murmurs from the audience and a “What the fuck?” from the Storm Chaser third baseman as he cruised past. The play-by-play radio announcer was going nuts. “With three balls and no strikes, Trevor Stark just did something so bizarre, I can’t think of a single precedent in all my years in baseball. Instead of completing the at-bat, he is now
running
across the field, straight toward the third base line. Everyone else is backing away, in case they have a lunatic on their hands. If so, that sure would explain a lot about Trevor Stark’s erratic history since he signed that big contract with the Friars.”

He ignored all of it and ran straight to the padded barrier along the third base line.

“Crush!” he yelled. “Crush Taylor!”

The entire stadium went quiet. People stood on their seats, craned their necks, shushed each other. So much for acting normal.