Various States of Undress (11 page)

Georgia thought about refusing, but Virginia didn't give up easily. Plus, she really did need to spill, so she took a deep breath. “My internship sucks, and I have the beginnings of a mad crush on the totally stubborn guy who's totally wrong for me. To make it worse, I'm supposed to be interviewing him, but he's not cooperating. If I don't get him to talk, I won't get the course credit I need for my internship, I won't graduate, and I won't have a degree.”

“Oh.” Virginia's eyes widened. “This is . . . so not like you.”

“I know, right?” Georgia flopped back on the bed and dragged the laptop closer to her head. “What do I do?”

“About what?”

“Well, for starters, how is it going to look if . . . I mean, you saw Brett and me on the pitcher's mound, right?” she asked in a miserable tone. “Did you see the look on my face?”

“The look of adoration?” Virginia grinned. “It was beautiful.”

Georgia groaned. “What if the media blows it out of proportion? I
am
the media for God's sake, and I want to be taken seriously.”

“No offense, sis, but you take
yourself
so seriously that there's no room for anyone else not to. And as for the media—all you have to watch out for is the paparazzi.” Virginia made a face. “As for those bloodsuckers—avoid. Ignore. But don't say a word to them—especially in denial. That shit will come back to haunt you.”

Ignore. It sounded easy, but Georgia never let anything in her life be easy. She nodded anyway. “Okay.”

“And please—have some fun for once. It thrills me to no end to see you having fun.” Virginia kissed her fingers and pressed them to the screen. “Get some sleep.”

“Thanks, Virginia.” Georgia summoned up a smile. “Good night.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.” Georgia shut the laptop and sat there staring across the room. Her gaze drifted toward the doorway and then settled on the kitchen counter. After the way she'd been kissed tonight—after the way she'd kissed Brett—it wouldn't surprise her if there were scorch marks left behind.

She sighed. The best thing she could hope for? Not to be burned. By Brett, by WHAP, and—most of all—by herself.

Chapter Six

W
HEN
B
RETT WOKE
up to the blare of his alarm clock the following morning, Georgia's lips were the first delicious thing to creep into his sleep-fogged consciousness. The second was the memory of her round, firm breasts pressed into his chest. Intent on half-dreaming of her for another few minutes, he smiled and turned to smack the snooze button. He missed. The clock tumbled off the nightstand, and, with a sigh, Brett bent to the floor to pick it up.

Rubbing his forehead, he draped the comforter over his shoulders and walked into the living room to flop on his over-sized sofa. It was cold in his apartment, and he liked it that way. Growing up with no A/C did that to a guy. The memory of his mother's rundown shotgun house crept into his mind, chasing away the sweet thoughts of Georgia, which was probably for the best. He wasn't sure that he could even process the fact that he'd kissed her. Besides, today was a day off, which meant visiting his mom anyway. Brett's smile began to droop.

Right about now, his mom would be standing in the tiny bathroom, a cigarette hanging between her lips as she teased her hair. Well, assuming she was up because she had a job to get ready for. If she was unemployed, as she was a lot of the time, she would be asleep on the couch in front of a floor fan because her bedroom was too hot in the summertime and her neighborhood—he'd long since quit calling it
his
neighborhood—was too dangerous to leave the windows open.

Brett stared across the room at the open door to his bathroom, which contained a soaking tub with jets. The vanity was marble. So was the counter in his kitchen, which surrounded high-end stainless steel appliances. He lived in a luxury apartment in Harbor Town, on exclusive Mud Island, because he could. Even though he was playing in the minors, his contract was with the major league. He could afford it. While his mom could barely afford to buy groceries. She lived in a shithole in Southeast Memphis because she was too stubborn to take help—and worse? She wouldn't help herself. What kind of fucked-up pride was that?

Brett had been asking himself that question for years and had tried to fold her into his life. He'd given her season tickets to Redbirds games in an effort to see her more, but Margot Knox didn't come to games because she didn't want to embarrass him. On the flip side, she had no problem talking him up to anyone who would listen. She was proud, in her own way. And strong. He knew that.

Joe, who was all the way up in St. Louis, hadn't given up on Margot either, but there wasn't much he could do. Brett was hanging on by a thread, himself. On his rare days off, he made the drive across the bridge, past the stadium, and south—his stomach clenching as his childhood came into sight with every weedy block he passed—until he reached Margot's house.

Today would be no different, but today he needed to have a talk with her. And he needed to focus on that, not on kissing Georgia. That was its own Pandora's box that he didn't even need to be thinking about at the moment.

With a groan, Brett threw off the cover, walked to the kitchen, and pulled out a gallon of milk. He drank straight from the carton—because he could—and took a quick shower. Twenty minutes later, he was in his Jeep, headed over the bridge. After fighting through traffic and battling the wave of frustration about, well, everything that threatened to set his mood at a simmering boil, he arrived on Melody Avenue, which sounded a hell of a lot better than it looked. He parked in front of the small, weathered house, stopping on the cracked sidewalk to pick up an empty beer can. He threw it in the bushes, climbed the rickety porch, and knocked on the security bars covering the front door.

“Mom?” He knocked louder, the bars rattling under the pressure of his fist.

“Brett?” Margot's raspy voice was loud—too loud, as always.

“It's me.”

“Oh, good.” The door opened with a creak, and Brett stared at his sleepy mom, all petite five feet of her, standing in front of him wearing a halter top and cut off sweatpants. She looked worried. That was nothing new, but she looked nervous too. About what?

“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “Come on in.”

Brett kissed her cheek and stepped into the stuffy, dark living room and, as he usually did, reached for the remote to turn down the blaring TV. “How are you doing?”

“Great,” she said enthusiastically, as she always did. “Joe sent me something new for my collection.” She gestured to the end of the room, which was packed full of carefully arranged baseball souvenirs, most of the items displayed on a couple of folding card tables. “A signed ball from the All-Star Game.”

“Cool.” Brett walked over and picked it up, rolling it in his hands. With hard work, he'd be bringing home a Major League All-Star ball soon too. But he
had
to focus. He couldn't have any more incidents like yesterday—getting thrown out of a game just because he couldn't keep his temper under control. Joe didn't sweat the small stuff—that's what he always told Brett. But Joe wasn't still stuck in Memphis. Joe hadn't gotten involved with the president's daughter. And when Joe's life story had been shoved in front of the viewing public, it had been by a random reporter at WHAP. If Georgia decided to dig deep and put Brett's story on the air, the viewing public would be a lot bigger just because of who she was. On top of that, Brett didn't want to tell it to her. He'd put her on a pedestal, and it turned his stomach to think of her touting him as a poster boy for overcoming poverty. He put down the ball and turned around.

Margot was chewing on her thumbnail, and she avoided his gaze.

“Are you feeling okay, Mom?”

“I heard on the news this morning that you had a rough time at yesterday's game,” Margot said, ignoring his question.

“Yeah.” He paused. “It was my fault, though. Not gonna let it happen again. I'll get in the groove and stay there, ya know?”

Margot's silence was answer enough—she loved him, but she didn't believe him.

“What else is new?” He sat on the worn, slip-covered sofa, his elbows on his knees. “Like, for instance, what's bothering you? Because I can tell that something is.”

Margot sat beside him. “I oughta be asking you that question, son.”

If she did, though, he would avoid the truth. How was he supposed to tell the woman who idolized him that he was in danger of screwing up his chances to be called back up to the Cardinals? That he'd let himself get so distracted by meeting Georgia—and worried about that damn interview—that he was starting to make mistakes again? He could control how he played, and yet . . . he hadn't recently.

He sighed. “Mom, if you're hinting around about the Cardinals, I didn't get called up yet. Probably won't happen until later in the season.”

She shook her head. “Not what I'm talking about.”

“Okay. Then tell me.”

She picked up a copy of the
Memphis Commercial Appeal
and pulled out the sports section. With a long nail, the polish on it chipped, she tapped the front page. “You haven't seen this?”

Brett stared down at the picture of himself standing by the Redbirds dugout, looking down at Georgia, who held on to his shoulder. It had been taken the last night when they were standing just inside the tunnel—right after she'd thrown out the pitch. And right after she'd asked him over to her place, judging by the huge grin on his face in the photo. He glanced at the description accompanying the picture.

“Redbirds catcher Knox to be featured by President Fulton's daughter,” he read aloud. “Oh yeah. That.”

She smacked his arm. “When were you gonna tell me about this?”

“Right now. It's why I came over.” He put his arm around his mom's thin shoulders. “I wasn't hiding it from you.”

Mollified, she hugged him back. Her fingers shook when she pulled away. “This is amazing. What's she like?”

The memory of her lips parting under his, her soft, quick exhalation of breath just before he settled his mouth on hers, flashed through his mind. “She's great. She threw out the first pitch at the game last night. You weren't watching it on TV?”

Margot shook her head. “I was at work. I'm waitressing night shift at O'Brien's now.”

“Good for you, Mom.” O'Brien's was a twenty-four-hour family-style restaurant, but in the wee hours, it catered to drunks. He doubted his mom would last long in the job—who would? “You like it there?”

“Hell no. Let's get back to the president's daughter. What's she really like?”

Beautiful. Sweet. Annoying. And scary. If Georgia ever got hold of his mom, every detail of his childhood would be up for grabs. Margot was matter-of-fact about poverty, to the point of being painful. And she loved to tell the story of Brett's dad, Joe Knox Sr., who died while fighting a wildfire in California. “If he'd have lived,” Margot always said, “life would be different. We'd be living next to palm trees instead of moving back to Memphis and living next to a junk heap.”

“Well?” Margot reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table but glanced at Brett's worried expression and put them back.

“She's great, like I said.” he ventured. “Real nice. Hard worker.”

“Son, you could say that about anybody. Give me details.”

Brett cleared his throat. “Actually, Mom, details are what I wanted to talk to you about. More than likely, because she's dead set on interviewing me, she's gonna want to talk to you too.”

Margot closed her eyes.

“And I'd rather you fill her head with baseball instead of . . . the past. Think you can refrain from telling her all about Daddy?”

“I—” Margot stared at him for a moment, and then her eyes filled with tears. Brett frowned.

“Okay, something's really wrong, and you'd better tell me right now.” He took her hands and waited as she bowed her head and sniffled. “Mom,” he prompted gently, “Do you need some money?”

“No. I wish that was the problem.” She tried to laugh, but it came out choked. Brett ducked his head to look at her. The panicked expression on her face made his heart turn over. Whatever she had to say, it was bad.

“When I woke up this morning and saw the paper, I knew I had to . . . to say something I've been meaning to say for a long time. Ever since you were grown.” She shook her head. “But when you walked in the house, I lost my courage.”

What was she talking about? “Since I was grown?”

“Yeah. I'm so afraid you're gonna hate me.”

He drew in a sharp breath as alarm took hold of him, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “Whatever it is, I'd never hate you.”

She didn't look up. “It's about Daddy.”

“Okay,” Brett heard himself say quietly—too calmly, almost as if his voice was detached from his body.

“I can't tell that story about him anymore.” Margot's lips, furrowed from years of smoking, began to tremble. “It's not true, Brett.”

“What do you mean?” Brett stared at her.

“There's no easy way to say it, so I'll just say it as plain as I can.” She pulled her hands away from his and twisted her fingers together. “There is no Joe Knox Sr. I made him up.”

“Made him up.” Brett repeated her words, but he couldn't believe them. She made him up. She made his
father
up? “Is this some kind of a sick joke?” he asked.

“No. It's the truth.”

As the words sank in, Brett sat there, motionless, seeing nothing.
“Why?”

Margot didn't answer; she only began to cry harder.

Brett listened to her, but he couldn't look at her. After a moment of sitting there, his heart racing, his fists clenched on his knees, his gaze shifted to the family picture hanging on the wall above the TV. It was small—one of those free 8×10s from a Kmart portrait studio—and surrounded by a plastic frame.