Perfect Pitch (12 page)

For just a moment, she pictured Judith Burroughs’ frown. If the beauty pageant coordinator got the least hint of what had happened in this bedroom the night before, she would destroy Sam’s career.
 

Sam imagined how she would feel, standing in Judith’s musty office at the pageant. She’d concentrate on the older woman’s lipstick, on the spidery red lines that crept up the fine wrinkles above those disapproving lips. She’d set her attention on the helmet-like hair, held in place with half a can of hairspray. She’d try to keep from crying, try to leash her despair as she was read the Riot Act in no uncertain terms.

And she’d drop off her tiara and her sash the following morning, sneaking into the office as early as possible, to avoid prying eyes and unwelcome questions.

It would be terrible. Horrible. The most embarrassing thing Sam had ever done.

And the worst part was, being fired from her position as Summer Queen would mean the certain end of Musicall. The end of the program she’d spent nearly a year building. The end of her dream of making a difference in the lives of kids who needed a sense of community, a sense of connection.
 

In between organizing Musicall sessions and attending to her ordinary Summer Queen responsibilities—awarding blue ribbons to local livestock, speaking to endless lunch meetings of the Elks, the Rotarians, the Optimists, the V.F.W., and the Odd Fellows—Sam had been trying to parlay Armistead Broadbush’s limited support of the music program into full-fledged funding. In fact, this coming week, she had three meetings scheduled with potential donors.

But time was running out. Even if her torrid relationship with DJ
did
stay under wraps, there were only seven weeks left before the Summer Queen crown passed on to someone else.

Sam couldn’t give up. She couldn’t intentionally cut her reign short. Not when she knew Musicall
did
make a difference. She only had to look at Daniel to see that. The boy had blossomed in the program—in only two weeks, he was full of more smiles, able to communicate better with his classmates, with the adults around him. Daniel was flourishing, and other kids would, too.

So she couldn’t give a hint that anything was out of the ordinary. She had to make sure Judith never even imagined what the Summer Queen had done the night before. Sam had to guarantee that no one associated with the pageant had any reason ever to suspect what she longed to do
that
night, after DJ finished at the ballpark, after he was back in her arms.

Easily said. Not quite as easily done. But her first step was getting to the grocery store launch on time, hair and makeup perfect, smile in place.

The smile would be easy enough. She felt like bursting into song then and there.

It only took her a moment to twitch the sheets into some semblance of order. She smoothed the comforter with a reluctant hand. The burgundy pillows seemed to mock her as she tried to place them at casual angles, but she finally got the effect she desired.

She took the mug of coffee with her as she let herself out through the garage.

* * *

DJ rolled his shoulders, making his way out of the training room. He’d spent more than an hour on the table, taking the brutal punishment of deep tissue massage. He’d be damned if he’d tell the trainer to focus on his left arm, on the muscles that still felt like they were draped in a sheet of lead.
 

Tired arms were just part of the game. That was the price of pitching more than forty innings in five starts. His father had never bitched about a tired arm. Shit. Pop had pitched four complete games in a row, two of them shut-outs.
 

DJ wasn’t some candy-ass rookie, whining at the first hint of fatigue. He knew baseball was a man’s game. He’d take it easy until tomorrow, his throwing day between starts. He’d be fine.

Not that he’d babied his arm the night before. Jesus, he hadn’t believed his sight when he’d walked into his living room. Samantha waiting for him, wrapped up in those scraps of crimson silk like some sort of Christmas present for a very good boy. He’d nearly dragged her onto the floor, then and there, ripping off that flimsy excuse for underwear.

But he’d played her game. And damn, if she hadn’t given him a run for his money. When he’d called her from the road, when he’d said all those things over the phone, he’d never thought he was drawing a roadmap.

He’d never been with a girl like Sam. She looked like one thing—like a country girl, like the girl next door. She could be any guy’s sister, fresh and sweet and
innocent
. The memories she shared, the happy home life, despite the hardships of multiple military posts… And the beauty pageant stuff, the high and mighty Summer Queen who blushed at a kiss before she sang the national anthem.

But beneath that shell was a real woman. Sam knew what she wanted, and she wasn’t afraid to ask for it. Wasn’t afraid to give, in exchange.
 

She might have been the one to break into his house the night before, but her action had actually shown that she
trusted
him. She was willing to offer herself up to him, make herself vulnerable in—

Before he could complete the thought, his phone rang. He eagerly fished it out of his pocket, wondering if Sam had somehow sensed the direction of his hungry thoughts, if she was calling to give him a taste of the wicked temptation she’d fed him on the road.

He frowned when he saw that the caller was Dave Wooster, Trey’s Little League coach. “Dave!” he said.

“Welcome home!” The guy was obviously calling from a playing field—there were shouts in the background, and a loudspeaker announced the recap from an inning just completed. “You had some start on Thursday!”

They bullshitted about the game, reliving the bottom of the eighth, when DJ had loaded the bases, only to get out of it by striking out Detroit’s leading scorer, a home-run threat who already had one grand slam on the year. A little double-play grounder had ended the inning, and the ninth had been easy, picking off the bottom of the order.

“It’s great to have you back,” Dave said. “I’m drawing up the batting order for this afternoon’s game, and I wanted to make sure Trey will be here.”

“Sure,” DJ said. “Why wouldn’t he?”

“I wasn’t sure what time you got in last night. The time change is only an hour, but
my
boys will take any excuse to park their lazy asses in front of the TV.”

What the hell? Why did Dave think Trey was on Chicago time?
DJ forced himself to laugh, even as he confronted the truth. Trey had obviously skipped out on practice. Two weeks of practice, and at least two games. “Let me check with Isabel,” he said into his phone. “If Trey doesn’t make it this afternoon, I promise he’ll be at practice on Monday.”

“Great,” Dave said. “We need his bat back in the lineup. We’ll make the playoffs, but I want to make sure we go deep this year.”

DJ answered automatically, already striding toward the equipment room. Trey should be there, polishing batting helmets alongside the regulation batboy. He’d arrived at the park almost an hour ago, dropped off by his friend’s father. DJ had gone through the usual routine, shaking hands, asking about the kids’ sleepover, signing a couple of baseballs.
 

The whole time, he’d thought
he
was the one with the secret. He was the one who had left a woman sleeping in his bed after a night of sex that made
Playboy
look like a little Golden Book.
 

But Trey was the one with the real secret.

He shouted his son’s name as he rounded the corner. The batboy took one look at DJ’s face and went scurrying out of the room, muttering something about collecting the players’ cleats from the night before. Trey looked up from the navy-blue batting helmet he was polishing.
 

“Sir?” he said, but he wouldn’t meet his father’s eyes.

“Coach Wooster just called.”

Trey didn’t say anything. Instead, he stared at his shoes, pretending that the dirty laces were the most fascinating things he’d seen in his life.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Judging from Trey’s reaction, this was going to be bad. The kid was only ten. He couldn’t be drinking already, could he? Using drugs? Christ, he wasn’t even going to middle school until next year. DJ bridled his anger, reducing his threat to, “If I have to call Coach Wooster for the details, your punishment is going to be a lot worse.”

Trey glanced at him with wounded eyes before returning his gaze to his sneakers. “I went to Musicall.”

DJ could barely make out his son’s whispered words.
Musicall! What the hell!
And then it hit him. Trey had asked about the goddamn music class. He’d asked and been told no. Little League was a commitment. The team was his future. What sort of kid would pass up a slot on the best team in North Carolina to go clap his hands and sing a song or two?
 

DJ swallowed the first three things he thought about shouting before he settled on, “Coach Wooster was counting on you for those practices. For those games. For
today’s
game.”

Trey’s lower lip started to tremble. Dammit. The kid hadn’t cried in front of him for two years, at least.
 

DJ sighed and sat on the metal bench beside his son. “You know I think Little League is important. But I’m a lot more concerned that you lied to me.”

“I didn’t lie!”

“You didn’t say anything out loud, not any of the times I talked to you while I was on the road. But you didn’t tell me the truth, either. You didn’t let me know you were skipping practice.”

“Musicall is more important than practice!” Trey’s defiant shout bounced off the metal lockers behind DJ. “It’s a lot more fun! And Miss Samantha said—”

“Samantha knew you were there?”

Trey gave him a weird look. “She’s the one who teaches Musicall.”

Christ!
Sam had heard him tell Trey, in no uncertain terms, that the kid couldn’t go to music class. She’d sat there at the dinner table, eating her steak, drinking her fancy sparkling water. She’d nodded at him, accepted what he’d said.

And then gone behind his back, the moment she had the chance.

And she certainly hadn’t bothered mentioning the fact that she and Trey were best buddies, not when she’d waylaid DJ the night before.
 

“You’re going to today’s game,” DJ said.

“But Dad—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Isabel’s with her family!”

“I’ll call a cab to take you to the park.”

“My uniform’s at home!”

“The driver will stop along the way.”

Trey stared at him, his eyes as dark as thunderheads. The kid’s jaw was set in stone, and his eyebrows slanted down in a vicious frown. He looked like the devil’s own son.
 

DJ knew that stubborn expression. He’d caught it on his own face a million times. When his father had kept him at batting practice in the cage behind their house, hour after hour after hour. When Pop had timed him on wind sprints, long after the high-school gym was supposed to be closed. When the great Dan Thomas had ordered him to pass up admission to the liberal arts college he’d applied to on his own, had stood over him until he’d signed the card getting him into Florida, with its world-class baseball program.

And all of that resentment had paid off. DJ was in the majors now, pitching the season of his life.

He wasn’t going to let Trey settle for anything less.

“Finish up here, son. There’ll be a cab out front in half an hour.”

He turned away before Trey could protest, but he only made it halfway down the tunnel to the dugout before he was grabbing for his phone. He punched in Sam’s number and started to count the rings.

* * *

Sam was still holding the pair of over-size green shears when her phone rang. Judith and Mr. Marx were raising flutes of all-organic sparkling cider, toasting each other and gesturing to include the crowd of applauding onlookers just beyond the severed ribbon. Sam stepped to the side of the dais and risked a quick look at her phone.

DJ.

Her heart started pounding. A quick glance at her watch confirmed that he only had an hour before the start of the game, before he was confined to the dugout for nine innings. If she didn’t answer now, she wouldn’t be able to talk to him until that night. And then it might be too late. Especially if he was calling about his invitation to dinner.

She stepped closer to a massive display of native grains and answered her phone. “Let me guess,” she said, pasting on an innocent smile for the shoppers around her. “You want to give me a few instructions for tonight. Are you going to tell me what to wear?”

“I
want
you to stop screwing around with Trey.”

Her stomach turned to a block of ice. “Excuse me?” she managed, and the two words were as cold as the frozen food that gleamed in the next aisle.

“You heard me. That boy is my son, and I know what’s best for him. The skills he learns now set muscle memory for the rest of his career.”

“He doesn’t have a career!” Sam exclaimed. “He’s a ten-year-old boy.”

“And if you have your way, he never
will
have a career. Don’t cross me on this, Sam. I know what’s best for him.”

A tangle of replies bubbled to her lips.
Don’t treat that child like an adult just because your own father treated you that way. Daniel has an aptitude for music. With the changes I’ve seen in two weeks, I can only imagine how much he’ll improve over the summer. If there
is
a summer for Musicall.

She settled for, “Maybe you’re used to issuing orders to your employees, but I don’t appreciate your tone of voice. Isabel signed the permission slip for Musicall. Why don’t you try talking to her?”

“Isabel doesn’t read Eng—”

Just as he cut himself off, Sam saw Judith Burroughs looking around, obviously searching for her in the crowd. Gritting her teeth, Sam shifted her phone closer to her mouth. “I’m working, DJ. I have to go.”

She hung up before he could issue more commands. Only after she’d tucked her phone back into her pocket did she realize she was shaking.
How
dare
DJ talk to her like that?