Always Right (3 page)

Kyle felt like someone had kicked him in the gut. The roof of his mouth went numb, and he couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers. Mosquitoes must have lodged against his eardrums—the only thing he could hear was a high-pitched hum, squealing above his heartbeat. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue had turned to sandpaper.

He wondered whether those windows on the far wall opened. He wondered whether he wanted to throw himself out, or Amanda Carter.

Right. Like that would solve anything.

He’d spent the past ten years dreading that someone would dig up his time at Spring Valley. He hadn’t been a minor when he’d gone into rehab, a kid whose record could be scrubbed clean when he turned eighteen.

But he’d only been a year past that magic threshold. And there’d been extenuating circumstances. His doctor had
prescribed
oxycodone for the first month, told him it would get him past the pain of a fucked-up ankle. But surgery brought its own pain, and he could only manage the long recovery with more meds—the type he’d bought off fellow students, not the ones from a pharmacy. The little white pills took the edge off—smothering the pain in his foot, but also covering his doubt about whether he’d ever get back to playing fitness.

And then there were the steroids. He’d been terrified of getting hurt again, of going through more hospital stays, more agony. He’d started taking the ’roids because they helped his body to heal. He’d kept taking them because he was afraid to stop.

By the time he’d dropped twenty pounds he didn’t have to lose, he’d known he was in trouble. He’d broken down in Coach’s office, not sure if he felt like puking because of the secret he was finally sharing or because of the poison in those goddamn pills, in the shit he was shooting into his muscles. Coach called his parents while Kyle cried like a baby, and they’d all agreed he needed help, more help than the school infirmary could provide. Spring Valley was the ticket—near his hometown, discreet, and with a proven track record for cases like his.

Cases like his—where rehab was complicated by family shit, and a relapse or three thanks to smuggled pills, and the constant, grinding fear that he was throwing away the only thing he’d ever really wanted in life: baseball. It had taken ninety days—the longest three months of his life—but he’d left Spring Valley in time to start spring quarter of his freshman year.

He’d stayed clean ever since. And he’d kept Spring Valley secret—not even the guys on his college team knew the specifics about the “family emergency” that had kept him out of school. But Amanda Carter had found out now.

“What do you want?” he finally asked.

“Nothing you can’t afford to pay.”

“You’re blackmailing me?”

“Absolutely not!” But she wouldn’t meet his eyes. Instead, her gaze kept slipping past his shoulder, like there was something fascinating outside that goddamn window. “Blackmail would violate North Carolina General Statutes, Chapter 14, Section 118.”

Shit. She was actually citing him chapter and verse. “Then what the hell are we talking about here?”

“Me? I’m talking about you hiring me. I’m a lawyer, and I can advise you on ways to keep your story from coming out in the press.”

Right. And he was born yesterday. “You’re a
patent
lawyer. At least that’s what it says on your firm’s website.”

She did look at him then, a quick flash of green, a knife of interest that cut through the rest of the bullshit. She was smart; he’d figured that out the second he’d read her biography online. That’s what made her dangerous. He’d known it would be hard to convince her to do what he wanted. He just hadn’t expected the tables to turn quite as fast as they had.

She finally swallowed hard and said, “Let’s just say I have a lot of different skills.”

“And I’m supposed to pay for those skills. What are you worth?”

She blushed. Interesting. It was possible that Ms. Amanda Carter hadn’t quite thought through her career as a blackmailer. Her voice quavered, just a little, as she said, “One hundred thousand dollars.”

Christ
. That wasn’t pocket change, not even to a guy with a major league contract. But it wouldn’t come close to clearing him out.

And he could set some conditions if he paid. He could make her show up at the ballpark for Saturday’s game. “Let me guess,” he said, testing her. “You want it in small, unmarked bills.”

She shook her head, annoyed. “I want it in a dozen checks. Each for a random amount, each for less than ten thousand dollars. Payable to me.”

What the hell did she need a hundred grand for? She was a goddamn lawyer. Sure, she wasn’t earning major league baseball dollars, but she shouldn’t need to hold him over a barrel. Not like this.

But the crazy thing was, he was considering it.

Spring Valley could fuck up his life, big time. The League was tightening its drug checks all the time. If they found out he’d used back in college, he could resign himself to peeing in a cup every night for the rest of his life. Not to mention the effect his past would have on how he lived today. How could he go into a homeless shelter and tell kids to stay clean? How could he face all the questions about how weak he’d been, about how he’d lied and cheated, about all his mistakes?

Sure, it could have been noble and inspiring to say he’d overcome his past. But he’d thrown out that option when he decided to stay silent for ten long years. If Amanda spilled the beans now, he’d have to explain why he’d never said a word when the biggest guys in the game were busted for using, why he’d never staked out a position on whether users should be allowed in the Hall of Fame. If he’d really reformed, he should have been demanding that everyone toe the line.

His drug use had been shameful a decade ago. It would destroy him if it became public now.

Because the last thing the Rockets needed was that type of distraction. They were looking at the last two months of the regular season, their first real chance at the playoffs in ages. The team had been through hell the last couple of years, personally and professionally. And Kyle Norton would rather die than be the one to drag them down, to take their eyes off the prize.

He couldn’t believe he was thinking of going along with her demand, but he asked, “When do you need it?”

“A week from today.” She sounded unsure, like a kid bargaining for a new bedtime.

Bed? What the fuck was he doing, thinking of a bed, where Amanda Carter was concerned? She might have that whole sexy librarian thing going on—eyeglasses and her hair swept up off her neck, the V of her soft white blouse, prim and proper against that dark grey suit. But he knew the truth. She was a menace.

He nodded toward the ticket that still sat between them on the table. “You’ll come to the game?”

“You still want me to?” Her voice cracked on the question.

That was the damnedest thing. He
did
still want her at the game. He needed her there. He’d put on her sunglasses yesterday, and he’d gotten a hit for the first time in twenty-seven games. Everything else he’d done was exactly the same—his batting stance, the routine of adjusting his wrist guards, the way he tugged at his jersey.

Her glasses had given him a hit.

Sure, that was superstitious. But superstition didn’t mean he
wasn’t
right, that the glasses
hadn’t
made a difference. He had to keep the ball rolling. He had to get her back in the stands. And if that cost him a hundred thousand dollars, it would be worth it. It had to be. The team was counting on him.

“I want you there,” he said. “Wearing the same clothes you wore yesterday. With your hair the same way. Use that ticket, and come to the game, and I’ll think about paying your bribe.”

~~~

Saturday afternoon, Amanda stood outside Rockets Field, wondering if she really dared to go inside the park. She was holding the ticket Norton had brought to the office. She’d braided her hair, the same way she had the week before, and she was wearing the same shorts, the same bright green T-shirt.

She’d done her research. Norton
had
kept his hitting streak going for the entire week. It was a good thing she’d taught herself to read box scores when she was a kid, figured out how the math worked, learned how the numbers fell into perfect place.

But it was nuts, thinking that her presence in the stands had anything to do with his breaking out of his slump. It was as crazy as a little kid hopping over lines in the sidewalk—step on a crack, break your mother’s back. She winced, thinking of her own mother’s back, of the chronic pain that had driven Laura Carter from years of waiting tables. Superstitions were a waste of time.

It wasn’t Norton’s baseless beliefs that kept Amanda from entering the ballpark now. It was remorse for what she’d done.

Even in her scarlet fog of temporary insanity on Monday afternoon, she’d thought clearly enough to make her demands verbally. The North Carolina statute she’d cited to Norton only covered written communication. And she’d covered quickly, even though her pulse had skyrocketed, even though she’d been appalled by the words that had come out of her mouth. She’d told him he was paying for services she would render, for legal representation.

Of course, any competent attorney could make an easy case against her. Hell,
she
could make the case, and she was just a lousy patent lawyer.

No. She wasn’t a
lousy
patent lawyer. She was a damn good one. She’d just been trapped, betrayed by a temporary flash of emotion. She could put all this behind her—get her money, pay her partnership fee, and never again need to think about what she’d done to save herself.

She just had to go into the ballpark and pretend that her presence was enough to change a professional athlete’s abilities, to outweigh years of practice. Her being there mattered more than the countless times he’d stepped to the plate. Sure it did.

At least Norton’s insane faith in superstition meant she wasn’t likely to be arrested here at the park. He wouldn’t turn her in for extortion, not when he needed her. Besides, he could have sent the police after her at any point in the intervening week.

Amanda strode up to the turnstile and presented her ticket. On automatic pilot, she found her way to the right-field seats, to the same section where she’d watched the game a week before. The crowd was still sparse; batting practice had just gotten under way. Sure enough, there was her place, centered in the front row. Wedged between the folding seat and the back was a pasteboard box. She looked both ways as she picked it up, feeling like there should be spotlights focused on her, like every single fan should be staring at her.

That was ridiculous, though. The people who’d come early were watching batting practice. They were juggling hot dogs and popcorn, finding cup holders for their beer and soda. A couple of rows back, a kid begged for cotton candy.

No one was paying attention to one nervous lawyer. No one cared about Amanda at all.

She sank into the seat and pried open the box. A pair of sunglasses rested inside—titanium and plastic, the same polarized lenses she’d worn last Sunday, the same logo stamped into the earpiece.

Beneath the glasses were a dozen slips of paper. Blue paper, with black writing. Checks.

Amanda’s heart started pounding so hard she couldn’t draw a full breath. For a moment, she thought she was going to faint; she actually saw black clouds gather at the edges of her vision, closing in, cutting her off. She forced her lungs to fill, and she fought to quench the burning stones that filled her belly.

Finally, she was able to slip the sunglasses into the collar of her shirt, freeing up her hands so she could page through the checks. Each was completed with a loose, easy handwriting. The date on each was Monday, the deadline she’d given Norton, and his signature filled the lower right corner on every slip. The dollar amounts differed. She forced herself to do the math in her head, using the cold, hard familiarity of numbers to calm herself.

One hundred thousand, to the penny. Just as she’d demanded.

What the hell was she doing here? She looked to her right, but a family had filled those seats—mother and father and four rambunctious kids, all with backpacks blocking the walkway. Two elderly men sat to her left, bending over their scorecards as they shouted to each other about some last-minute substitution in the Washington batting order. One of them had a cane; Amanda couldn’t make a quick get-away there.

Then there was a shift behind the plate. A pitcher came out to stand behind the cage at the foot of the mound, and he reached into the bucket of balls at his feet. Players jogged toward the bases. A handful of men trotted into the outfield.

Sure enough, Kyle Norton was running toward her, like a missile homed in on the brilliant green of her T-shirt. She felt the
tug
of his gaze again, as if some rope stretched taut between them. His hair riffled in the breeze, looking more gold than chestnut. She realized he hadn’t shaved that morning, probably for a few days, and the scruff of beard looked good on him, made him seem a little dangerous, like a bad boy.

She folded the checks in half and slipped them into her right pocket, just in time to raise her chin defiantly as Norton came to a stop beneath her. “Hey, sweetheart,” he called up, just like she wasn’t stealing a hundred thousand dollars from him. “If you really want to thank me, let me wear your glasses!”

She recognized the words; she’d heard them just last Sunday. But then, they’d been something casual, a funny line tossed away for the price of a stray baseball, for nothing. Then, she’d tossed down her glasses without really thinking about them.

Now, she had a reason to pay attention to Kyle Norton. A hundred thousand reasons. Attentiveness poured off him, searing between them like a molten wire. His eyes blazed as hot as gas flames as he waited for her to move. Most people weren’t even looking their way; they didn’t realize there was a drama being played out at the right field fence. But the old guys at the end of her row stared, and the middle two kids from the family on the other side were poking each other and pointing at her.