IT TOOK PAIGE the entire trip to the owner’s box to recover her poise. Good golly, even in the early days with Hudson she hadn’t gone up in flames like that. As soon as Trevor touched her, she’d felt electricity sizzle across her skin. That kiss, hot and deep and demanding. Addictive. She still felt the aftereffects, her body tingling like the echoes of a bell still rippling through the atmosphere. Trevor Stark was dynamite wrapped in the body of a Viking angel.
Nothing in her sexual history had prepared her for that chemical explosion. On the surface, Trevor wasn’t even her type. He was so controlled, so intense, so mysterious. He was the “bad boy” type that had never appealed to her. She was more of a “one of the boys” sort. For her, things usually started casually, with a hike in the hills or a few pizza-and-beer dates with a group of friends.
Of course, her entire dating experience came from college, so maybe she was just uninformed. She and Hudson had lived in the same dorm. She’d gotten to know him over ice cream in the dining hall and working on an anthropology project together. They clicked, the sex was fun, they’d had an easy, drama-free relationship from the start. When he graduated and signed a contract with Virtus Roma, he proposed. They’d gotten married, moved to Italy, and voilà. End of dating experience.
Trevor Stark, on the other hand? Oh my God. The way he’d held her, so she felt the force of his strength, the control of his grip. The way his kiss had absolutely consumed her, lighting her up like a torch. The way her inhibitions had melted away in the face of her primitive, embarrassing lust.
What was wrong with her? Was she just sex-starved, as she’d told Trevor, scrambling to explain her mortifying behavior?
She knew one thing for certain. It wasn’t his fallen-angel face. It wasn’t his ripped body. It was something else, something deeper. On the surface he was all ice and control, but underneath there was molten magma, intense and fierce. She’d felt it. It had surged from his body into hers, electric and dangerous and irresistible.
What fueled Trevor Stark?
Reaching the door to the owner’s box, she slipped in and went to the seat next to her father. Trevor was right, they couldn’t do that again. They might burn down the freaking stadium. And cause Crush’s head to explode.
Sorry, Paige, she told herself. No hot sex with the ballplayer, no matter how sex-deprived you are.
But maybe there was something else she could do with Trevor Stark. She’d always been curious about people. One of her favorite courses in college had been psychology, even though Crush had mocked her for it. Maybe she could put some of her curiosity to work on the enigmatic ballplayer. Could she figure out what made Trevor tick? Why he was throwing away his talent? Why he was still playing Triple A in Kilby when he ought to be with the Friars?
She stole a glance at her dad, who was firing eye bullets across the stadium. Following his gaze, she saw a gray-haired man in a bolo tie and cowboy hat. Roy Wade. Her father’s longtime nemesis.
“Still feuding with the Wades?”
“You don’t feud with people like that. You squash them under your boot like gnats. They’re trying to steal the team.”
“Excuse me?”
“They want to buy the Catfish, and they have the commissioner convinced they’d be better for the league.”
All the pieces fell into place. “That’s why you vowed to win the championship? Because of the Wades?”
“Everyone loves a winner. If we win under my watch, they’ll have a hard time making the argument that I’m an embarrassment to the league.” His gaze moved sideways, across the crowd, then settled on a blond woman coming down the aisle. “Well, look who deigned to visit the Catfish.”
Paige lifted the binoculars from the counter that ran the length of the owner’s box. The woman had the classic Texas big hair and a curvaceous build. She wore blue jeans but didn’t look comfortable in them, as if she usually dressed less casually. “I don’t recognize her.”
“That’s the mayor of Kilby, Wendy Trent.”
His tone, somewhere between intrigue and suspicion, made her look more closely. “Is that her husband?”
Crush snatched the binoculars away to check out the man following the mayor down the aisle. “Don’t know.”
Interesting. Something was definitely going on there. Paige sat back and switched her focus to the players on the field. A bunch of young, attractive, physically fit men in tight baseball pants and blue caps. Well, maybe baseball wasn’t so bad. She could probably put up with it for a few weeks.
“With slugger Trevor Stark on the injured list for the moment, the Catfish are going to have a hard time gaining any ground in the standings. And that’s bad news for Crush Taylor and his vow to win the championship.” Trevor rarely listened to the local sports radio shows, but right now it was his only baseball fix. He had the morning off from the ballpark, and had finally gotten the tires replaced on his Escalade. He’d duct-taped the mirror into place, and so far it was holding.
“Duke Ellington hasn’t said much about the nature of Stark’s injury. Bar brawl? Jealous husband? Or something actually baseball-related? With Stark, you never know.”
“He is the biggest mystery on the team. All the talent in the world, but he just can’t seem to put it together into a cohesive package.”
“You’re right, Bob, that’s about the size of it. Some say he could be the next Barry Bonds or Mark McGwire, without any rumors of steroids, ha ha. He’s got power, speed, and smarts. Never seen the guy play stupid. On the field, he’s got it together. Off the field, he’s definitely not ready for prime time.”
“Sometimes it seems like he doesn’t want to leave Kilby.”
“Well, it is a pretty good place to live.” They both chuckled, though every listener knew the absurdity of that theory. Triple A players, by their nature, wanted to move to the big leagues. “We’ve got a caller on line three. Billy, you’re up. What do you think of Crush Taylor’s determination to win the Triple A championship?”
Trevor punched the button to shut off the commentators who thought they knew him. He couldn’t avoid the Friars forever, he knew that. But the more time passed, the more the danger would subside. His one true talent had always been baseball, but he couldn’t fully develop it in juvie. After he’d gotten out, he figured he’d get a job in construction or something equally low profile. But Nina had thrown a fit. “You belong in baseball,” she kept saying. “Don’t you dare quit playing. Promise me, Trevor.” So he’d joined a local independent league team. He’d worked his ass off, listened, learned, built his strength, worked on his power, refined his swing. After a couple years of that, he’d gone to a tryout and caught the eye of a scout for the Mexican Leagues.
More work, more training. He’d set records, then broken those records. Finally, he’d gone to a major league tryout and impressed a famous sports agent. The agent had gotten him into the draft, where he went in the third round. Big contract . . . bingo. He’d put a bucketload of money into an account for Nina and arranged for her to move to Tucson. If he was going to have a baseball career, he wanted her somewhere unconnected with their previous life.
The fact that his sister was now far away from Detroit took a huge load off his mind. But the danger was still too great. The Wachowskis had destroyed his father with their drugs and threats. They’d gotten him sent to juvie. No way in hell were they going to touch Nina.
He parked in his usual spot at the Kilby Boys and Girls Club and loped inside, his duffel bag full of signed balls slung over his shoulder.
“Hi Trevor.” The counselor on shift waved him in. “They’re waiting for you.”
He went into the common area, where teenage boys of all races and ethnicities filled every available spot on the sagging hand-me-down couches. He recognized a few from previous visits. Piercings, tattoos, strange eye makeup, all par for the course. Didn’t bother him. He’d seen all that and much more during his time in the system.
“For those who don’t know me, I’m Trevor Stark from the Kilby Catfish. Anyone here like baseball?”
A general rumble of indifference answered that question. He set down the duffel and pulled out a couple of signed baseballs, displaying them to the kids. “That’s all right. You don’t have to like baseball. But do you know how much these are worth on eBay?”
Now he’d gotten their attention. They tossed out guesses. “Million dollars? . . . Two million . . . About twenty bucks?”
“They’re worth a lot more than that.” Trevor scanned the room, meeting every boy’s eyes, making sure they knew that when he said things, he meant them. These boys were on the edge. Fall one way, they might end up in juvie like him. The other way, maybe they had a chance. He couldn’t tell them his story—couldn’t risk it getting out. But he could give them some motivation.
“Who here went to school every day this past week?”
Three boys raised their hands. Only three. Christ, there were probably twenty kids in the room. He beckoned the three forward and deposited a ball in each boy’s hand. “Well done, kids. Want to know who signed these balls? Barry Bonds, Cal Ripken Jr., and Ozzie Smith.”
The boys grinned—those were pretty famous names, after all. Trevor had been collecting balls like these for years, every spring training.
“What do you think these balls represent?”
One wiry Hispanic boy took a stab. “Bank?”
“That is true, they’re worth money because they’re signed by those particular players. Do you think those players woke up one morning with a million dollar swing and a big contract?”
They shook their heads.
“Damn right they didn’t. So what do those balls represent?”
“Hard work,” one boy called out.
“Mad skills,” said another.
“Yes and yes. Anything else?”
“Um . . .” The boys exchanged shrugs and confused glances. “Testicles?”
Everyone cracked up, the room filling with laughter. Trevor didn’t mind. Now the ice was broken and they could get down to real conversing.
“How about this.” He paced across the length of the room, tossing the ball in the air, rolling it on the back of his hand, flipping it behind his back. Kids had short attention spans, and it was important to keep them from drifting. “How about persistence? Know what that means? Means you keep on doing something even when it gets hard. Even if you don’t want to go to school, you go. Have a bad day? You shake it off and try again the next day. It means you don’t give up.” He spun the ball in the air, the red stitches forming a mesmerizing blurred pattern. “These balls were signed by people with persistence, and now they’re yours, because you guys went to school every day last week. That’s persistence.”
“Nah, man, my teacher, she’s hot.” A black kid with barrettes in his braids grinned, showing off a mouthful of braces. “I hate to miss a day.”
They all hooted, and Trevor winked at him. “Ladies’ man, eh?”
“Just like you, playa.”
He winced at the realization that his reputation had extended even to the Boys and Girls Club. “Gotta have respect, though. Respect is everything. Respect yourself. Respect the ladies. Respect the game. You know?”
“Respect, man, respect.” The boys murmured agreement with that concept. Trevor had found that particular word to be very powerful for kids.
“You want respect, you gotta give respect. I respect you guys for going to school even when it’s tough. Those of you who didn’t manage to get to school every day, keep on trying. Make it, and I’ll have a ball for you next time.”
The black kid raised his hand. “Mr. Trevor Stark, how’d you get so many balls? Did you steal ’em?”
He laughed along with everyone else.
“’Course he didn’t. He ain’t no criminal,” another kid scolded the first. “He ain’t like us.”
Trevor busied himself with zipping up the duffel. “No, I didn’t steal the balls,” he said tightly. If these kids only knew how much he was like them—except he was even worse. These boys hadn’t been sentenced to juvenile detention. “Those players gave those balls to me, to give to you. Those Hall of Fame players are out there rooting for you. Wanting you to do well. You remember that every time you think about quitting, or getting on a bad path. Got me?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Trevor Stark. Yes sir.”
He went around the room sharing low-fives and fist bumps. The kids might not all be rabid baseball fans, but every young boy he knew admired physical strength.
When he’d connected with every kid in the room—making sure no one was left out—he shouldered his gym bag and headed for his Escalade. A white Chevy Cavalier was just leaving the parking lot. As it turned on the road, the right front tire skimmed the curb. A white car, sketchy driving . . . He squinted at the brown-haired girl at the wheel. Nah, it couldn’t be her. Why would Paige Taylor be at the Boys and Girls Club? She was probably home pampering her one-eyed cat or working with Crush on new plans to torture him.
He smiled, thinking of those incredibly hot moments in the clubhouse. Why he and Paige had such intense chemistry, he had no idea. They had nothing in common. She was the daughter of a sports legend, while his father was a drug addict. She was protected, sheltered. People, including her famous dad, cared about her. He, on the other hand, was on his own and had been for years. No one had his back, and he didn’t need anyone to. Paige was warm and alive, while he was nothing but ice inside.
He unlocked his Escalade and tossed the duffel in back. His phone buzzed as he slid into the stifling heat of his vehicle, which had been sitting in direct sun for the past hour. As always, he checked the number before he answered. When it came through as “unknown,” he stiffened. He’d changed his last name when he got out of juvie, and there should theoretically be no trace of his former self out there. But you never knew.
“Yeah,” he answered brusquely.
“Trevor?” The light female voice on the other end was so muffled he didn’t recognize it. But he relaxed. Why did he always have to imagine the worst possible scenario? This wasn’t a call from Detroit. It was a girl who’d managed to find his number. Maybe—maybe it was Paige.
A grin split his face, and his spirits lifted. A sparring session with Paige Taylor was just what he needed. “I just saw your rental car,” he said. “Are you stalking me?”
“Trevor, it’s me, Nina. Do you really have girls stalking you?”
“Nina?” Panicked, he looked around, as if one of the Wachowski gang might be eavesdropping. He slammed the door shut and jabbed the button that closed the window he’d left partially open. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. This is a disposable phone, so relax.”
“Relax? You promised to call only for emergencies. Do you need money?”
“Trevor, that’s insulting. I don’t need your money. I want to come see you, that’s all. I miss you.”
“You can’t come here. It’s too risky. We’ll do our usual visit after the season’s over.” Every year, they met somewhere different, someplace nowhere near Detroit, Tucson, or wherever he was living.
“No.” His sister’s voice thickened. “I’m sorry, but that’s months away. There’s something I want to talk to you about. I’m going to come see you.”
“No!” He punched his fist against the steering wheel. “Nina, listen to me. Don’t do anything crazy. Just stay where you are. Can’t we talk about it over the phone?”
“You said the phone’s only for emergencies.”
“Okay, then, can’t it wait until after September?”
“I don’t want to wait. Are you mad? You sound mad.”
Terrified was more like it. “I’m not mad. I promise. But we should hang up now. What if someone heard you?”
“You’re so paranoid, Trevor.”
If Nina knew what had happened three years ago, she wouldn’t say that. A Wachowski underling had spotted him at a nightclub in Syracuse. That’s when he’d acquired the scar on his cheek, along with two broken ribs. The bright side was that those injuries had kept him off the field for a week, and he was traded to the Friars after that. He didn’t think the Wachowskis had yet realized that Trevor Stark, baseball player, was Trevor Leonov from Detroit. But he didn’t want to take any chances.
“Better safe than sorry, that’s my motto. At least when it comes to you.”
“What about lonely. Where does lonely fit in?”
“You have Mrs. Shimon.” The woman he paid as a bodyguard slash housekeeper.
“She’s not you,” Nina said simply. “She won’t hit fungoes with me.”
He couldn’t help laughing at the image of the stern Israeli, a former paratrooper, goofing around with a ball and glove. “There are more important things than baseball.”
“I want to see you play. Please.”
The determination in her voice gave him chills. If she came to see him play, and let something slip, and it got back to the wrong people, they’d both be in danger. He didn’t care about himself, but Nina was not going to get hurt.
But what if she took things into her own hands, the way it sounded like she might?
“I’ll think about it,” he finally said. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Are you happy I called?”
“I’m furious, and I’d fire Mrs. Shimon if she didn’t have so much special weapons training.”
“You can’t blame her. She’s a very good prison warden.” The bitterness in Nina’s voice made him feel like a total shit. He hated that it had to be this way. Even the wistful sound of her voice made him ache with missing her. She was the only family he had left.
“Yes, Nina, of course I’m happy you called. Just be careful, okay?”
“I will. And you start making plans for that game. Please?”
“I’ll try, sweetheart.”
He hung up before she could press him further. Plans? No. Not happening. If only Nina was right, and the Wachowskis had filed him under Ancient History.
But they hadn’t. At least they hadn’t three years ago, and what would have changed since then? An attack on a member of the top echelon had to be avenged. Would be avenged. A three-year stint in juvie wasn’t enough. The scars on his back and the one on his cheek were a constant reminder. The Wachowskis would demand more if they found him. And if they learned the whole truth . . . if they learned about Nina . . . He shuddered.
Now that was never going to fucking happen.