Moonshot (30 page)

He grabbed my arm, stopping me halfway through the balcony door. “I can’t hide this, Ty. The next time I see you, I’m pinning you against a wall and kissing you. I don’t care who is nearby; I don’t care who sees.”

I pulled my arm away and stepped into the room. “Don’t threaten me, Chase.” I opened the door to the bathroom, Titan ready, body tensed for a command.

“It’s not a threat. It’s just—I’ve waited a long time for you, Ty. Don’t ask me to wait any longer. Not after tonight.”

I reached for the doorknob. “Stay here. I’ve got Titan with me; I’ll be fine on the way back.”

“You can’t go back alone—” he protested, his hand hard as he held the door shut. I watched the muscles of his forearm flex, and Titan let out a low growl.

I turned my head, looking into his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Our eye contact warred for a moment, and his reluctant push off the door was one that surrendered more than it understood. I opened the door and let Titan out, stepping forward and stealing one last kiss in the moment before I stepped through.

He said nothing. Not
I love you
. Not
goodbye
. He stood in that doorway and watched as I walked down to the elevator, my quick glance back catching his eyes. I could have run to him. Jumped into his arms and let him take me away. Out of this life, away from Tobey and the team and the deaths. He had money, we had love. He could quit the game and we could screw everything and retire to a beach, our days spent with nothing but sunscreen and margaritas, sunrise massages and afternoon orgasms. I’d have babies and he’d coach little league and we’d be happy. I could taste that future as clearly as I could breathe. And I wanted it so hard my chest ached.

Instead, I got on the elevator, Titan licking my shin before settling against my leg, his eyes fixed on the door. I got off the elevator, walked through the lobby, and out onto the street. And there, I ran. I ran as fast as I could, Titan stuck to my side, my heart hard in my chest by the time we hit the stadium gates. I stopped at the security stand, gasping for breath, my hello short and stilted, a genuine smile of relief coming when I saw the guard reach down and hold out my bag. I hadn’t thought about it, had left it on the field, my keys and my phone inside.

“You worried us, Mrs. Grant, leaving your bag and your vehicle. You should have let us know you were going for a run. We tried your cell, but—”

“—it was in the bag.” I wiped at my face, my hand coming away damp. “I know. Sorry about that.”

“Hopefully we didn’t disturb Mr. Grant.”

I paused. “What?”

“We tried Mr. Grant’s cell phone. When we couldn’t get yours. Hopefully it wasn’t too much of a disturbance.”

I wanted to crawl through the window of the security hut and shake the man. Quiz him five ways from Sunday. Did Tobey answer? What did they tell him? Did they pull footage? Mention Chase? I swallowed everything, pulling my phone from my bag. “I’ll call him now. Thanks.”

“Absolutely, Mrs. Grant. Have a good day.”

I nodded, feeling faint, my legs wobbly as I walked through the entrance, taking the side path toward the parking garage, afraid to look at my phone.

I had never been scared of Tobey before. But suddenly, without even seeing my phone, I was terrified.

What had I done?

Why had I done it?

And what would I tell him now?

86

I didn’t call Tobey. I didn’t want to risk waking him up, on the slim chance that he’d gone back to bed. I loaded Titan into the back, then climbed into my SUV and drove home to face him. Before I pulled out of the garage, I sent him a text.
On my way home. I’m safe. Love you.

It was four in the morning. Too early in the morning to make a life-changing decision. But too late in the game to lie anymore. I could see myself becoming a different woman, the kind who snuck around, who lied, who cheated. Too easily could I fall into that role. The truth of the matter was, for Chase, I think I was born for that role. I had been his since the moment we met. Everything else, everything with Tobey, had been a lie. A lie I’d told myself since my pregnancy, but started believing in recent years.

The car rolled over bumpy New York streets, and I glanced at the time again, hesitating. Then I reached for my phone, and unlocked it, my dial of digits slow.

It rang only twice, and then he answered.

At the sound of his voice, I started crying.

87

Dad let me cry, not saying anything, his silence comforting across six thousand miles of space. When I finally stopped—hiccupping once, then twice—my final sniffles long and wet, he spoke.

“Tell me what happened, Ty.”

“I messed up.” I pulled into a closed gas station, putting the Range Rover in park and digging into my center console, finding an abandoned napkin and blowing my nose into it. “And I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Is it Chase?”

I stopped, surprised by the question. I shouldn’t have been. The man knew me better than anyone. “Yeah.”

“You slept with him?”

“Yeah.”

“Was he Logan’s daddy?”

Fresh tears leaked. “No,” I whispered. “That was my first … Tobey was my first. That was the truth.”

He let out a hard breath. “I’m sorry, Ty. I wish—” He sighed. “I wish I could have done a better job of protecting you.”

I looked out the window, the sky already lighter, my clock ticking. “It wasn’t you. I was stupid.”

“All teenage girls are stupid, Ty. I shouldn’t have let you marry Tobey. Even if it was the decent thing to do.”

I said nothing, staring at the skyline, a narrow glimpse of it between two buildings. There was a long stretch of silence before I spoke. “What do I do, Dad?”

“You know what to do, Ty.”

“Spikes first?” I guessed, my voice cracking.

“Spikes first.”

“You haven’t even asked if I love him.”

“Oh Ty.” He chuckled. “Why do you think I tried so hard to keep you from him? You’ve been in love with that boy since the moment he set foot in our stadium.”

I wiped under my eyes with the napkin, then balled it in my fist. “World Series is in a month.”

“I know.”

“This will be the fifth year, Dad. The fifth girl.”

“You can’t think like that, Ty. Whatever psychopath is out there, you can’t change fate to please him. And we don’t even know, for sure, what he wants. If a World Series ring would even stop this at all.”

“I know.” I heard the words, but could only think of Tiffany Wharton’s face. So pretty. So young—younger than me.

“Dad?” I said, in the moment before he hung up.

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for not telling you.”

I could hear his smile in his words. “I knew, baby. I
always
knew. I lost that battle from the start.”

“Spikes first?” I asked weakly. “You sure?”

“Those men know the danger. You have to go after what you want. You’ve spent long enough making all of us happy.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hung up the phone, taking a moment to compose myself before pulling out and heading home, my foot stronger on the gas, my hands trembling on the wheel.

I knew what I had to do. And unfortunately, Dad and Chase wouldn’t be happy about it.

88

2009 was our last World Series win. Before that, 2002. Since 2009, billions had been spent, all in hopes of one winning season and the series that haunted all of our dreams. A series that would lead to a ring. It was our obsession. We had worked so hard for this. And I’d be damned if I would be the one responsible for us losing, not with it in such clear and attainable sight.

If I told Tobey about Chase, he’d release him. There was no doubt in my mind of that. Regardless of the killer, Tobey wouldn’t walk into that stadium and watch my lover in a Yankee uniform. Chase would be gone by morning, and our World Series hopes would be
gone
. Our team wasn’t good enough without him. That was the bottom line.

Dad wanted me to go after what I wanted? I wanted our boys to bring home a ring. I wanted the deaths to stop. I wanted to stop lying. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with the man I loved.

I just needed to find a way to accomplish all of that.

I pulled up to our home, my stomach twisted in a hard and painful knot.

89

Tobey was asleep. I stood, shocked, in our bedroom doorway, the rising sun hidden behind our blackout shades. I had practiced a variety of defenses and excuses, fully prepared to walk in the door to a distraught husband. Yet, three or four hours after I normally got home, he was asleep, his hand stretched out on my empty side of the bed, the blankets bunched around his waist, his upper back exposed. I dropped my bag by the door and walked quietly to his bedside table, picking up his cell and unlocking it. His ringer had been off, two missed calls, two voicemails from the stadium, my text unread. I unlocked it and deleted the missed calls, the voicemails, and my text. Then I replaced it, pulling off my clothes and stepping into our bathroom, my shower quick, my sneak into bed done without waking him.

I carefully lifted his hand and slid next to him, his body rolling to his side, eyes remaining closed, his features relaxed in sleep. I studied him for a minute, the first in a long time. When we’d first married, I’d often stared at him in the night, wondering about the man I had walked down the aisle to, so much about him unknown. I had thought, back then, that he was handsome. He’d changed, his boyish good looks faded, his features harder in their lines as he lost any youthful fat. But he was certainly a handsome man. One who turned his fair share of heads. And he loved me, something I seemed to constantly remind myself of. I’d done that for a long time. Overlooked my own depth of love because of our friendship, the strength of our marriage. This would all be easier if he was a jackass. This would all be easier if he had a mistress, or a stable of affairs, or if he was unhappy. I had no excuse for my behavior, nothing to blame it on, except that I’d never really been
in
love with him. My heart, it just hadn’t been available to give.

And maybe that was the only reason that mattered. Maybe if I
had
loved him, and he had been a bunch of terrible things, then I would have overlooked all of them, just as he overlooked my lack of love.