Moonshot (16 page)

I laid in the backseat, my head in his lap, his fingers in my hair, absentmindedly playing with strands. The SUV, a fleet car from MLB, drove slowly, bumping over occasional potholes, the driver clueless to my identity and highly-paid to ignore Chase’s.

We passed over a train track and the clatter made me think of my mom. Of the sounds in the kitchen when she cooked. Pots clattering, the scrap of metal spoons against a pot. Funny how odd things can take you to new places. I looked up, into his face.

“My mom was a great cook.”

“Yeah?” He ran a soft finger over the lines of my ear and waited.

“Yeah. I remember sitting in the kitchen and drawing as she cooked.” I could picture the coloring book perfectly—my favorite—one with Belle and Gaston and all of her relationship drama. “Is it bad that that is the only thing I can remember?” Not the scent of her perfume. Not the sound of her voice. I just remember that damn coloring book and the smell of spaghetti cooking.

“It’s not bad. I don’t remember much from that stage of my life. And you don’t have to remember her to still love her.”

“I know.” I turned my head, watching the shadows as they moved across the leather. But did I?

“What happened to her?”

“She was having surgery. Something went wrong with the anesthesia.” I’d been home with a sitter. Dad had been in Colorado, playing. Neither of us there when she died.

“I’m sorry. Is it hard to talk about?”

I looked away from the shadows and up into his eyes. “No. But you’re the first person I think I’ve ever told.” I think he was the first who had ever even asked. When I was younger, people brought up my mother a lot. Nothing worse than a heartbroken girl being innocently asked where her mommy was. “My dad did a good job of stepping in,” I said quickly, my loyalties fierce. “A great job.”

“Are you going to tell him about us?”

I opened my eyes. “Us?”

“Well, yeah.”

It was a question worthy of sitting up, and I did, turning to him, my equilibrium off for a moment before I found my bearings. “I didn’t know there
was
an us.”

“I’d like there to be.” His voice was low and steady, like we weren’t having the biggest conversation of my life, like he wasn’t CHASE STERN asking me to be his girlfriend.

“You want to be my boyfriend.” Clarification was needed because this was huge, and if I was wrong, if I was misreading this, then I needed to reel my heart in before—

“Yes.”

“Exclusively.”

“Yes.”

I looked away from his eyes for a moment. “That means no other women.”

His mouth twitched into a smile. “Yes. I know what it means.”

“I’m not ready to have sex.”
Again
. I wanted to add the words, to give him some hint that I had, unfortunately, done that before, but couldn’t. Adding that would lead to questions. Answering those questions would mean facing my mistake head on. It was easier, especially in this new world, one where Chase wanted to be my
boyfriend
, to pretend that it never happened.

“That’s fine.” He reached for my hand, and I pulled away.

“No. You say that’s fine, but I’ve lived in a world of men for ten years. And I’ve seen almost every one of them cheat. There’s too much temptation—it’s not fair for you to be with someone like me, someone—”

“Ty.” He cut me off, his hand pulling at the back of my neck, bringing me forward, his mouth hard as it kissed the top of my head. “Shut up. I’m a big boy, I can handle some celibacy. Just please don’t tempt me too much.” He lowered his mouth, bringing it to mine, and we shared one long kiss, a kiss that had my heart pounding and nails digging into him, the muscles in his arm tight under my grip.

When the kiss ended, we were both breathless, and I pushed my hair back, trying to find my composure, my sanity in all of this. “I can’t tell my dad.” Not yet. Not when his opinion of Chase was lower than garbage. Not when I was barely eighteen, and Dad was finally giving me space. “If he knows, he won’t let me see you. I mean … not like this.” There would be curfews and limitations. He’d watch me like a hawk, and question me to death. Assuming that he didn’t forbid it altogether. I may be eighteen, but I was a Yankee employee. And I was his daughter, his world. For the moment, my life, and my decisions, weren’t exactly my own.

He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “It’s your decision. Just let me know when. But I’m yours. No other women. No drugs. I promise.”

I nodded. And when he pulled me onto his lap for another kiss, I felt his conviction in his touch, his taste, his reverent whisper of my name.

And just like that, five blocks away from the Marriott Marquis, we were official. Officially together.

Officially committed.

Officially screwed.

“Even once they made the Yankee connection, Ty wasn’t compared to the victims ‘til the fourth girl died. Then some criminal behaviorist finally made the correlation between the hot blondes and Ty.
That
was really when the investigation started to break wide open. And that’s when the protection detail started following Ty. For all the good they did.”

Dan Velacruz
, New York Times

50

Cleveland

I hid my yawn behind my glove, the motion still caught by Higgins, fifteen yards away, in left field.

“Tired Ty?” he called out, reworking the glove onto his hand.

“Nope.” I scoffed, earning a laugh from him, his head turning as the hit went high left. Foul. Five innings in, and we were up by two. The remaining innings were crawling by, my eyes heavy, a nap calling my name. I’d been dragging all day, Dad all but pulling me out of bed that morning. My body wasn’t built for 3 AM bedtimes, a habit that my secret relationship with Chase was fostering. Last night we’d driven to his hometown, a quiet suburb forty-five minutes out of Cincinnati. He’d given me the grand tour, the final stop his high school.

The ball shot through the dark toward me, and I reached out, catching it barehanded, grateful for his light toss. Behind him, the dark lights of the stadium, the high school barely visible across a sea of grass. I stepped closer to him and threw it back, the toss short, him only fifteen feet away.

“It’s so odd,” he said. “That you’ve never been in high school.”

I shrugged, glancing over my shoulder. “I didn’t miss it.” I held out a hand, ready for his throw, but he turned, tossing the ball back to the dugout. I watched as he came closer.

“High school’s pretty great.” He looped an arm around my shoulders and steered me around, heading for the bleachers, his first step up on metal loud in the deserted dark. “I had some great moments here. I hate that you missed it.”

We sat halfway up, the metal hard and cold against my upper thighs, and I looked toward the buildings, a fortress of red brick that looked more like a prison. “What was so great about it?”

“It’s hard to explain.” He leaned forward, rubbing at a spot on his palm. “There’s this energy in high school. A sort of magic.” He looked over at me. “I see it in you, sometimes. The way you smile when you see something new. The excitement you get over something dumb. How your breath hitches when I lean toward you.”

“That’s not high school. That’s just … being young.” I hated that I was five years younger than him. I wanted to have this conversation on an adult level, one where we were equals.

He leaned back, resting his elbows on the row behind him. “I would have loved to meet you back then.”

“When you were in high school?” I wrinkled my nose. “You would have ignored me.”

“No.” He sat up, tucking some hair behind my ear. “I would have fallen for you the minute I saw you. You would have been the star of our softball team, and I would have stayed after practice and offered to help you with your batting.”

I snorted. “And I would have told you where to stick it.”

“Nah.” He shook his head. “I was a stud in high school. You might have tried to play hard to get, but you would have been all over me.”

“You know … you’re still a stud.” I looked over at him, his eyes lifting off the field and back to me. “I think you’re probably more of a stud now than you were here.”

Something in his eyes dimmed. “High school’s funny. It builds gods out of those who don’t deserve it. Makes them feel invincible just because they can hit a ball, or score a goal.”

I heard the catch in his voice and knew he was thinking of Emily. Of the late practice and distractions that had cost her life. And I distracted him the only way I knew how, throwing my leg over his and straddling his lap, my hands settling on either side of his face. “What would you have done, if I had let you coach my swing?”

He ran his hands slowly up the back of my thighs, caressing the skin before he got to the edge of my cutoff shorts, his fingers carefully sliding under the edge of them, hot points of contact that squeezed my ass. “I would have gone to first base.”

“Which is?”

His hands pushed further, and I lost my breath, his mouth lifting to mine as he pulled me down, harder on his lap, the rough fabric of my shorts almost painful as he lifted his hips and pressed against me. His mouth was greedy, his kiss ragged and deep, my hair falling around our lips as they battled. His final kiss slowed the tempo, his hands sliding out of my shorts and I panted, my body craving his, craving more, and never wanting to stop. “That’s first base?” I asked. It felt enormous for something so minor, yet nothing between us had ever felt ordinary.

“A Chase Stern first base.” He smiled at me and swept my hair behind my shoulder, his hand on my neck as he tilted it back and kissed the delicate skin there.

“Would you have tried for second?” I closed my eyes, his hold on my neck comforting, his mouth on my throat the most sensual thing on the planet.

“With you, I’d have tried for anything.”

I pushed gently on his chest, his lips leaving my neck, and pulled at my T-shirt, the thin material stretching over my head, everything Yankee gray for a moment before it was off, and he was staring at me, and if I could have taken a photo of his face right then, I would have saved it for eternity.

“Don’t even think about third,” I said. Then, I reached back and unclasped my bra.

He hadn’t tried for third. He’d been a perfect gentleman, even when I could feel him rock hard in his jeans, his expression painful when he went to stand. I had reached for his jeans, ready for more, but he’d stopped me, his hand firm on my wrist, his voice solid when he’d spoken. Now, in the light of the next day, my arousal calmed, I was glad he’d had the strength when I didn’t.

I yawned again, forgetting to cover my mouth, and heard Higgins chuckle. “Shut it,” I snapped, both of us straightening to attention when there was a pitch—strike. The third strike. I pushed off the wall and joined Higgins, both of us jogging for the dugout. I caught Dad’s eye from the pitcher’s bullpen and waved.

“Want to come out with us tonight?” Higgins offered. “Shawn and I are hitting the local casino. Watching us win at blackjack might wake you up a little.” He threw an arm around my shoulders and squeezed.

“Nah.” I smiled up at him. “But thanks. I’m gonna head to bed early.”

We approached the dugout, and he motioned me ahead, my eyes quick as I came down the stairs, scanning the bench, looking for anything that needed to be done. Behind me, a wave of men took the stairs, the area filling up quickly, spirits high, the air rough with masculinity and competitiveness. Still, I knew the minute Chase walked past. I felt the soft touch of his fingers as he brushed them against mine. I felt his presence, then ached for it as soon as he was past, as soon as his butt hit the seat of the bench, and I had only his eyes—burning contact that I had to avoid, had to look away from, lest we get caught. I turned toward the field, stepping up to the fence, and watching the outfield settle into place, but couldn’t stop my smile.

51

New York

“Chase, baby, how is life?” The fast crone of his agent took him right back to Los Angeles, to that big glass office full of ambitions and regrets.

For a rare moment when speaking with the man, Chase smiled. “Life is good, Floyd.”