Moonshot (34 page)

And there he was. In high definition, his jaw tight, eyes looking down the line, his hat pulled low, a day’s worth of growth on that face. The camera held him there, held me in place, until the pitch, one low and outside. My hand tightened on the doorframe, willing him to wait, but he didn’t. He swung, one hand leaving the bat, the crack loud and crisp, his eyes on the ball until it was gone, the crowd surging to their feet, his eyes moving to the camera and giving it one, cocky wink. I turned from the TV, but was too late to miss it.

I walked through the kitchen and out the front door, the cool fall night a shock to my senses. My butt hit their front steps, and I wrapped my arms around my knees, his face, that wink, stuck in my mind. And there, on a stranger’s empty front porch, for a long breath of time, I mourned a life lost.

A life I had now found. It was there, in my grasp, that man down there one who had waited for me. Four years he had waited. I suddenly wanted to run out of the box, like I had fled that party, taking the halls, elevator, and ramp down to the field. I wanted to burst into that dugout and wrap my arms around his neck. Jump into his arms and kiss his lips, inhaling the scent of sweat and clay and leather.

I didn’t. I stared down, watching him from above as he leaned against the dugout fence, one foot resting on the ledge, his eyes on the game, on the action. Then I turned back to the room, and found my seat next to Tobey.

101

World Series: Game 2

I didn’t know what happened when lives split. Couldn’t imagine sitting in this bedroom and packing up my things. I didn’t have much, not that was just mine and not ours. Some memorabilia from my ball girl days that Tobey had framed and mounted. A few things in the baby’s room … the shrine that still sat, two rooms away, neither of us able to bear the task of returning it to a study. After I left, I was sure he would. I was sure he’d take my library and turn it into a cigar room. Would probably have the gardeners tear out my orchids and replace them with something else. Something without memories. I would do all of that, if I were him. I would burn this place to the ground without a moment’s guilt.

I had less than a week left in this house. Not enough, yet hundreds of hours too long. I walked through the library, my hand drifting over the spines, thousands of hardcovers—some read, some not. I spent most evenings in this room, Tobey off with the guys, me with my plots and heroines. Fell into other worlds, Chase seen in every hero, his build in every description, his touch in every sexual scene. He had rescued me from burning buildings, solved murders, and seduced me a hundred ways. I smiled, thinking of all of the times I had pictured actual sex with Chase and expected it would fall short, my expectations that of the bestselling erotica variety.

But he hadn’t fallen short. He had been a hundred thousand times better. As a teenager, he had corrupted me. As a woman, he had ruined me.

I heard steps behind me and turned, Tobey in the doorway, smiling at me. “One win down.”

“Yeah.” I smiled as widely as I could manage. We had barely eked out a win the night before, the Cubs leading up until the last inning.

He glanced at his watch. “You ready? We should leave soon.”

I nodded. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He glanced around the room. “Need more bookshelves? I can have that wall blown out, if you don’t mind sawdust and construction for a few months.”

A few months.
The guilt was climbing up my chest, clawing into my heart with long nails. “I’m fine,” I said faintly.

“You feeling okay?” He looked at me closely. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Just nerves,” I said quickly. “We’re so close.”

“I know.” He smiled. “I’m ready to bring that trophy home. Already had them prepare a spot in the cabinet for it.”

“Great!” The response came out too loud, too forced, and he studied me for a moment before nodding.

“I’ll be downstairs. Let’s try to leave in the next ten minutes, okay?”

“Yeah.” I turned away from him and straightened a bookend. When I heard him leave, I jogged upstairs, wanting to check my email before we left.

102

World Series: Game 3

This is driving me crazy. Every time I see you with him, I feel a piece of me break.

Tension was in the air, the bodies that passed our seats subdued, everyone on edge, short greetings tossed our way. Game 2 had been bad, a loss by four runs, the team’s cohesion off, everyone batting shit, errors right and left. I had stayed at the skybox’s glass, tension building with each inning, the drinks Tobey kept passing me not helping, nothing helping. I almost went down there. Just wanted to see his face, to hear his voice. I needed it, each of these days without him were torture.

Now, Tobey and I sat in the first seats of the jet, each new body in the open door causing my heart to skip, my eyes frantic in their game of avoidance and need. I tried not to look, but I failed. Then, there was the moment of glance and stick—his head ducking through the opening, a hat on his head, his eyes finding mine, the edge of his mouth barely lifting, his chin nodding, his eyes going from me to Tobey, and his mouth flattened. “Mr. Grant,” he drawled. “Mrs. Grant.” He nodded and moved past, down the aisle. It took every muscle in my neck to keep my head trained forward, to not turn my head and watch his exit. I wondered if he turned around. If he glanced up at us when he sat. I hated sitting next to Tobey. Being on this jet with both of them. I tried to get Tobey to fly out separately, but he refused.

If he wasn’t here, I’d have your seat leaned back and my face between your thighs.

I saw the email twenty minutes after we took off, the jostle of turbulence covering up my small reactionary gasp, the uncomfortable cross of my legs. I tilted the phone away from Tobey, rereading the email, committing it to memory before I pushed the delete button.

There.
Gone
. I shifted in my seat, needing some relief from the sudden ache between my legs. Tobey leaned over, kissing my neck, and the familiar stab of guilt returned. It’d been haunting me, getting stronger by the day, gaining momentum with every touch of my husband’s hand, every whisper in my ear. I wished I could hate him. I wished I didn’t feel pity for him. He was too good for pity. He was too good for any of this.

Three more games.

Five more days.

Then, the lies and the deaths would all be over.

103

World Series: Game 4

We had won Game 3. A short-lived victory since we were now down by four runs. Chase swung, the ball ripping from his bat, going high, high, high … gone. I watched fans in the upper decks scramble for the ball, bodies jumping off seats, a claw of arms and elbows until one lone figure cheered, his arm stretched high in the air, the ball clenched in his fist. It didn’t matter. No one was on base. One run in, three more needed just to tie up the game. And in the sixth inning, our prospects looked bleak.

I tipped back my beer and sank into the chair. Took another pull. I’d been using alcohol to avoid sex with Tobey. Guzzling drinks and then stumbling into our room at night. Funny, since alcohol was what put us in bed together the first night. That chug of his beer, then the next round of shots, the fuzz they brought when they hit my virgin system. The recklessness it had pushed him to. I doubt Harvard boy would have fucked little Rollins without a condom, had his head been on straight.

Another inning, another run brought in by the Cubs. Tobey growled under his breath next to me, the entire box quiet as we watched. We should have changed pitchers earlier. Should have put Franks before Chase in the lineup. Should have, should have, should have. I should have ended things with Tobey a long time ago. I could have done it before the attachment, before the love. Then maybe this wouldn’t feel so seedy. I was a woman unaccustomed to guilt, and it drowned me—pulling me deeper, cutting off my air supply.

I stood at the final pitch, tossing my empty beer bottle into the trash, the loss painful as I stared at the final scoreboard. Two more losses and we’d lose the World Series. Two more losses and … what? Would another girl die?

I stumbled for the door, and Tobey caught my arm, holding me steady, his hand a shackle I reluctantly leaned on for support.

It was too much pressure, all of it. Baseball shouldn’t be life or death. Baseball shouldn’t determine fates.

104

World Series: Game 5

Our last day in Chicago. I stepped from the elevator, into the huge lobby, one that towered upward, its grandeur constructed over a century ago. I paused, my eyes sweeping the room, looking for Tobey. He’d come down fifteen minutes earlier, anxious for our lunch with Dick and John. Not seeing him, I headed for the restaurant, walking quickly, tension knotting my veins, any public experience always running the risk of—

“Ty.” Chase. Freshly shaven, a nick on his jaw, his hair wet. He wore sweatpants and a long-sleeve T-shirt, the smell of soap drifting off his skin, a duffel bag hanging from one shoulder. He joined me, our steps carrying us closer to the restaurant, and I glanced around.

“I’m meeting a group for lunch,” I said quickly.

“Right here,” he ordered, herding me left, down a short hall and through a doorway. I stopped just inside, a long desk holding three computers and a printer—the business center.

“Chase,” I argued quietly, reaching for the handle, his hand covering mine for a moment, one dip in heartbeat, before he reached higher and locked the latch, my eyes following his movement as he reached for the blinds, twisting slowly, our window to the outside world reduced, then shut off. There was a dull thud when he dropped his duffel.

“Don’t fight me on this, Ty.” He stopped before me and rested his forehead on mine, inhaling deeply, his voice gruff, hands sliding up my arms and into my hair. “Five minutes. Please.”

“What is this?” I asked faintly, my eyes closing as his fingers traced across the scoop of my sweater and down, over my breasts, his mouth soft as he pressed just under my ear, then on my collarbone, then up to my mouth.

“This is a dying man’s taste,” he whispered, brushing his lips over mine. Softly. Harder. “This is me reminding you of what we have.”