This Much Is True (19 page)

“Thank God, my parents are home,” I say with a nervous laugh.

“Yeah. Thank God for that.”

He dips his head and trails his lips along my jaw line. I think he knows that turns me on. He pulls me into his body, and we are right back to the same kind of moment that started this whole thing between us. It’s all the same, except there is no music and what was once a mystery about physical attraction has been explored and duly noted. Sex with Lincoln Presley is definitely a known factor and one I know I will always remember. That thought alone has my heart beating faster. My body starts to move further into his. I’m excited at the memory, even though my mind starts to reject the idea that he affects me at this astonishing level in any way at all.
I want him. He wants me. And my parents are right upstairs
. I take in these jagged deep breaths, gasping for air. It becomes clear that I haven’t been…breathing.

“I want you to wait for me,” he says against my temple. Then he slowly kisses my forehead and each side of my face as if he’s branding me. “I want you to be good. Wait for me. And stay far away from every other guy.”

“You want me to be exclusive to you while I’m in New York; and you are God knows where? That’s what you’re asking of me?” I can barely get the words out. My pulse races out of control now. I’ve truly forgotten how to breathe.

“Yeah.” He takes an unsteady breath because apparently he’s been holding his, too. “I know it’s a lot to ask but I’m asking anyway. Tally, will you be good? I’m going to be exclusive to you, and I want to ask you to be the same for me.”

“Why would I do that?”

I pull away just enough and warily look up at him, trying to discern from his face what he’s thinking. He looks uncertain. I assume it’s an unfamiliar feeling for this amazing guy. Vulnerable. Undone. Worried. This whole parade of emotions crosses his face.

“Because I want you to.
Please
,” he says with hesitation.

“For how long? What does that involve, exactly?”

“Through the summer? Until baseball season is over? Christmas. New Year’s. Your birthday. Which is?”

“This August. The second of August. I’ll be eighteen.” I smile sweetly at him but can feel my face getting hot.

“Geez, you really
are
seventeen.” He groans. “You’re too young to ask anything of.”

“Ask me again,” I finally say, stepping closer to him.

He waits so long before forming the words, I begin to get uneasy. His lips part but nothing comes out. His features twist with uncertainty and doubt. He seems to wrestle with the whole idea now and there’s this nagging disappointment that’s about to rain down on me. This long silence just drags on between us.

“Will you wait for me?” Linc finally asks and then he lets his breath out slowly.

He awaits my answer. I remain completely still for a long while because this is serious and what he’s asking of me could change everything from here on out. Eventually, I reach up and trace his jaw line with my fingers. The charm bracelet he gave me earlier brushes against the side of his face, and he leans into my hand. He closes his eyes and slowly inhales the scent at my wrist. It’s the sweetest gesture I’ve ever witnessed from a guy. This outright bliss surges through me. It’s as if I’ve been lit from inside.

“Okay,” I finally say. “I’ll wait for you.”

It’s such an intriguing promise for something more. How can I say no to such an honest request? The truth is I don’t want to say no. I like the idea of him being mine, and me being his. It’s a foreign concept—something I’ve never wished for or contemplated or thought I would want. It’s so sweet and corny and good that I want to try. “You make me want to be a better person, Elvis.”

“There is no comeback to a line like that.”

“It’s not a line.”

He kisses me then. It’s a long and passionate kiss as if he wants to imprint on me all the way to my soul. He lifts his head when he’s done and stares at me. “Thank God, your parents are home.”

I laugh, and it’s like I just turned on all the stars at once in the night sky for him—or something along those lines—because suddenly it feels like I wield that kind of power over him. “Do you hate it when I call you, Elvis?” I ask shyly.

“Nah,” he says. “I’d hate it, if you stopped.”

“This is going to be complicated,” I say for both of us.

“Only if we let it.”

I walk him to the front door. We kiss one more time but it’s sad this time and so we end it quickly because we both admit that good-byes aren’t really our thing. He picks up my cell phone from the foyer table and programs in his number under…what else?
Elvis.

I grin at him. I feel like a school girl with her first boyfriend.

Let’s not examine that thought too closely.

“So,” he says with uncertainty returning to his face.

“I’ll see you at the airport then,” I say with a wide benevolent smile.

Promises made.

Promises kept.

Promises broken.

We start out with such good intentions, and then life does the unexpected, and we’re instantly reminded once again how things can change in an instant.

* * * *

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Linc ~ Lightning strikes

I
’ve thrown forty pitches for the cameras, so they can get me from every angle. Normally, I wouldn’t mind but as the time slips by and annihilates my plans for making it to the airport with enough time to spare to see Tally, I get uptight.

Don’t get me wrong. I love baseball. I want to pitch baseballs professionally or otherwise. I love the game. I want my new employers to be pleased. I don’t mind doing the publicity to help the team, to sell more tickets down the road so that everyone who loves baseball as much as I do will come out and watch me play. However, I want to see Tally Landon one last time before she gets on a plane bound for New York and, most likely, a new life that is clearly far away from me. With the promises we’ve made to each other—in being exclusive for the summer and the possibilities of eternity—I want to be there to see her off and essentially pass some kind of monumental test, which I’m sure she’s definitely made up in that pretty little head of hers, because she’s invariably waiting for me to screw it all up.

Trust issues?
Most definitely. We both have some of those.

Hers?
We can plainly see.

Mine?
Nobody really knows about those.

Yes. It’s true: I’m beholden to this amazing girl and the newly-found pledge and commitment we’ve made.
I can’t explain it. Her. Me.
My reaction to her and the why as how I’ve fallen so hard for this girl. Okay, let’s call it what it is:
I’m in love with this girl. I am in love with this girl. It’s all wrong. The timing sucks. Her age sucks.
Even so, I choose to ignore all of that because I am in love with Tally Landon, and that’s all that matters.

Wayward pitch.

It sails past the catcher’s glove and hits the backstop at ninety-five. The various pitching coaches are busy calling out the speed that registers on their guns and debating its accuracy under their breaths as if there is any.
Fucking baseball.
Stats are everything. I’m blowing mine because I’m worried about getting to the airport on time to meet up with Tally Landon, a newly graduated senior from Palo Alto High School that I happen to be in love with, who is five years younger than me and all of seventeen. The press would have a field day with that information. Kimberley Powers would have a heart attack if she knew. Instead, Kimberley quizzically watches me from behind the fence and pretends to be no more than a mildly interested spectator. Yet I can feel her eyes blaze right through me. They narrow suspiciously in my general direction after I throw another wayward pitch to match the last one.

She gives me the look—the one that silently screams: ‘What the fuck is your problem, Presley? Throw the fucking baseball, so we can catch the damn flight back to L.A. and civilization’. Kimberley is not enamored with my home town. In addition to my agent, she is the most relieved that I signed with the Angels earlier today.

Another bad pitch.
The photographer looks up from his camera lens.

I need to focus. I need to end this on a high note.
At least five sports reporters are here as well as a few of the Angels’ staff that delivered me the contract. A few hold their speed guns to capture each of my throws. I manage to get a strike by the umpire called in quick succession but struggle with the next two throws.

Suddenly, I hear Kimberley say from close by, “Let me talk to him.”

Her stilettos sink into the compacted dirt along the outer fence with every step she takes but Kimberley doesn’t seem to notice because she stalks toward the pitcher’s mound so fast she seems to fly.

“What the
fuck
are you doing, Prez?” she whispers as soon as she’s near enough. “God damn it. There are reporters here as well as some of the Angels’ staffers. It’s
not a Kindergarten tryout. They want a demonstration of what they just signed your huge contract for. I know you don’t see the money right away; and God knows I could personally spend that six-million-dollar signing bonus inside of a week, but get your head on straight. Throw the pitches at ninety-seven, hit the guy’s glove, and let’s get out of here as soon as Jimmy gets the money shot.
Jesus
!”

“I need to get to the airport on time,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Why? There are
hundreds
of flights to L.A.; we can get one
tonight
for all I care.”

“I have to be there
on time. Today
. This afternoon.”

“Why?”

The entire group of spectators, including the main photographer, look up and over at us. They’re clearly more interested in what she’s saying to me than watching me pitch or taking down any more of my stats.

“I’m meeting someone at the airport. I need to be there on time. It’s important.”

“Fine,” Kimberley says and gives me a withering glance. “Concentrate for the next half-hour on
baseball
and then
we’ll go
. Get it together,
Prez
. Now!” She yells the last word so loud all fifteen heads go up again at the exact same moment. “You’re buying me a new pair of shoes at the Duty-free,” she says for all of us to hear as she settles herself back in her designated spot behind the chain-link fence. Then she stands there with the expectant stance of a general manager for the next five minutes and proceeds to watch me pitch nine strikes in a row including the money shot where the ball zips from my hand at ninety-seven miles an hour.

I manage to put Tally out of my mind for the next twenty minutes and finish up with a nice slate of stats: ten fast balls, five sliders, six curveballs, and even a few changeups and enough called-strikes to make just about everyone happy, including the entire Angels’ pitching staff and their minor league coach Bud Schuyler, who sauntered in a half-hour ago, to meet his newest player.

The photo session ends only five minutes over. I did all the interviews earlier in the afternoon, and after I have a quick chat with Coach Schuyler and promise to meet with him first thing on Tuesday—in two days time—the world of baseball is relatively happy. And true to her word, we leave in thirty. Kimberley doesn’t even protest when I ask the driver to step on it to make it to SFI in twenty-five minutes if that is at all humanly possible.

“Okay,” Kimberley says as we settle down in the town car for the challenging drive to the airport at a break-neck speed. “Who is she? And what is she to you? Because that was not your best moment back there and I want to know why and effectively
who
just destroyed your concentration like that.”

I’m reluctant to answer, although I’m fascinated by her innate ability to so quickly comprehend the situation and figure out how it affects me, even though we do go back a number of years since she was once engaged to Elliott. We still share in the grief at his loss all these years later. She’s like a sister to me, but as my publicist, I’m still amazed at how Kimberley quickly picks up on things. People, places, and things. She pulls out her laptop and rewards me with this stern look compelling me to answer.

“Who is she?”

My mind races and essentially debates, whether to formulate a few plausible lies or tell her the truth. In some ways, Kimberley reminds me of Tally. Granted, Kimberley’s older, but both women exhibit similar characteristics and wield incredible almost hypnotic power through their minds, bodies, and souls in the same exact way. Kimberley is more aware of hers. I think Tally is just catching on. For this reason, telling the truth wins out. I take a deep breath and gaze over at Kimberley and steel myself for her reaction.

“You may have seen her briefly last night at my aunt and uncle’s house. Her name is Tally Landon. She’s Marla Stone’s best friend. She’s a dancer.
Not
that kind,” I say hastily when dread starts to spread across Kimberley’s face. “She studies
ballet
. She’s headed to New York for the summer to study ballet with some prestigious dance school. I can’t remember the name of it. We met a while ago. She’s—”

“
Seventeen
.” Kimberley holds up her laptop that accusingly displays Tally’s photograph. “I remember her. She didn’t stay long. All of you disappeared soon after the call with the Angels ended. She is gorgeous. Just stunning.”

She tabs through various pictures of Tally Landon that she’s already pulled up on the Internet. There’s even a photograph of the car accident where her twin sister Holly was killed. It’s hard to even recognize the burned wreckage of what was once a car. My stomach twists when I see it while Kimberley gets this almost fatalistic look. I inhale sharply.

“Lost her twin in a fatal car accident earlier this year. Wow. Okay,” Kimberley says. “She just graduated from Paly High with honors. She’s lovely.” Kimberley sighs and then immediately takes a deep breath while I just hold mine.

Here it comes.

She looks at me intently then. “You. Can’t. See. Her. Anymore.” Kimberley enunciates each word so slowly they become individual salutations all by themselves. “She’s seventeen. You’re twenty-two—almost twenty-three. You’ve got that star-crossed lovers look all over your face, Romeo; but you can’t see her anymore. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not a month from now. Not a
year
from now. Maybe two years from now. Yeah, maybe then.” She gets this stern, unhappy look. “You’re a
brand
, Prez,” she says softly so the driver doesn’t hear her. “You don’t get to
do
seventeen-year-old girls when you’re a famous baseball player and newly signed by major league baseball. Your dad would have a heart attack if he knew you were even thinking about playing around with one.” She takes a deep breath and looks at me intently. “So
please
tell me you just
thought
about it, nothing more.”

“I can’t tell you that.” This sinking feeling invades me. I know Kimberley is right on every level. My dad would freak.
She’s seventeen. I’m almost twenty-three. No math required.
What was I thinking?

Kimberley looks incredulous for a few seconds, and then it morphs into this obstinate
there-will-be-no-arguing-with-me-on-this-one
look. “Holy shit.”

She whistles long and low and catches the interest of our taxi driver with her sexy sound. She performs this dismissive wave prompting him to concentrate on the road and get us there on time. “Okay,” she says, exhaling deep and finishing with a slight sigh. “Let me think this one through.”

And so she does. Kimberley types away on her laptop and doesn’t say another word to me for a long ten minutes.

With nothing left to do or say because there is no defending this impossible
situation
, I stare out the window at the grey nothingness of it all. The onset of inclement weather matches my mood.
This is bad. I screwed up.
Tally lied about her age, but I eventually went with it. I subconsciously convinced myself she was old enough; I didn’t spend time analyzing why she would lie to me in the first place, and I didn’t walk away after I knew. I screwed up. I know better. I know what it means. I told her once—
accused
her once—of potentially screwing up my career because of our age difference, but I never stopped long enough to think through the implications of what I was doing when I started pursuing her again. The consequences for me and for her are immense. No. I wanted to be with her at any cost. And just last night, I forced her to make an exclusive promise. To me. That wasn’t fair.

The truth is simple. There is…only baseball.
I attempt to take solace in that lone fact, and that I did tell her that upfront the first night we met.
But who am I fooling exactly?
Neither one of us took the time to analyze the alacrity of that statement at the time.
Baseball is my focus.

Kimberley makes a few cryptic phone calls and finishes them up just as the town car pulls up to the passenger drop-off area in record time. She hands the driver six twenties and alights from the car before anyone can even get her door open for her.

“Follow me, Prez,” she says. “We’ve got a special pass for SFI.”

I’m still reeling from my own self-recriminations in the car. I’m not certain as to exactly where we left things on the subject of Tally after the car ride.
Where do we go from here?
Kimberley doesn’t keep me guessing for too long.

“I’ve got a conference room reserved on the second floor. You have fifteen minutes. You will say good-bye to her in your own sweet Lincoln Presley way. You will tell her
you’re sorry
. You
will not
give her false hope of any kind. You
will not
let her down easy. You will tell her how it is.” She takes a deep breath and forcefully blows it out. “And let me tell you how it is—lest you not understand the gravity of this fucking situation. If this were to ever get out, your career would most likely be over. It’s pedophile material, Prez. That’s how the public would see it. You’re the older guy, who took advantage of the innocent young girl. She’s
seventeen,
and all the papers would report it that way if the story broke
today
. No matter that she turns eighteen in a few months. No paper would print that little detail. The facts are these: she’s seventeen
today
. Her twin died a horrific death earlier this year. And, it looks like you—”