Date Night

Saturday

After ending the call, I walk in circles, trying to figure out how to get myself out of this situation and stop these ridiculous bubbles of laughter from popping up. Nervous laughter? Exhaustion? Locke.

“Gwendolyn York, we’re awfully parched. Should we come out and?—”

“Stop calling me that.” I pout. Yep, pout.

“Sugar Bear better?” He chuckles.

I open the fridge and grab two bottles, not four, then march my ass back into the living room and drop one on his lap.

“Gwen or York, like everybody on the planet, including my mother.” I shove myself into the opposite corner of the sectional, cover up, and grab my tablet.

“I’m not everybody else.”

“Okay, and that … that stops. I need to focus. As you know, this isn’t a joke. My job is not a joke. What we do is important, and right now, it’s crucial that I?—”

“Never thought it was a joke. Also never thought it was as fucking dangerous as it obviously is. I’d tell you I don’t like it, but when you went all badass on Bennett, I felt like we were sitting around my folk’s table in eleventh grade. Popped wood and all. It was hot.”

Frustrated, I throw a hand in the air. “You just can’t?—”

“Fine, no wood-popping talk, Gwen or York.” He shakes his head. “Never could get down with York because I thought your dad was a giant fucking tool for not remembering?—”

“His last?—”

“I know. It’s Cabot,” He cuts me off. “Your old man is loaded. That doesn’t make him less of a dick. When I found out Cabot was his name, I thought, Damn Locke, maybe that’s why she dumped your ass. You didn’t pay enough attention to shit like that; ask enough questions about things that were important to her.” He shakes his head. “Can’t call you York. I can try to use Gwen as long as you stop talking to me through other people.”

I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my chin on them. “I’ll do that as long as you stop.” I take a minute to ponder what it is precisely I’m going to ask him to stop since it has, in fact, been me who’s been walking my ass next door.

“Knowing some of what’s up, your focus is the priority.” He turns toward me.

I hide a smile against my knees because I really want to tell him he just squished my “friends.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Gwen,” he exaggerates my name. “But they’re over there, sound asleep, probably dehydrated, but I have a feeling they’ll be okay.”

I bite back a smile as I look up at him. “Please tell me you didn’t really think I was talking to myself.”

“Look, I would if I could”—he grins and shakes his head—“but that would be a lie.”

“You’re so full of shit.” I find myself grinning, too.

We sit like that, smiling at each other, and it feels like we’re in study hall back in Walton, no words necessary.

I finally break our stare, grab the remote, and toss it to him. “You played good tonight.”

“Good was just enough. When we were on the road?—”

“You raised your average. Your focus was as fierce as it was …” I stop talking as I sit back and straighten out my legs. “It’s better than it’s been in a long time, but you know that.”

“Not gonna say I’m not tickled pink that Gwendo—Gwen noticed.”

“Yeah, well, once a baseball fan, always a baseball fan,” I say as I tap on my messages to see if Wren or Echo have gotten back to me.

“Gonna be difficult to walk away from the game.”

“You planning to retire?” I ask.

“Got a few things I’m considering.”

“Like?”

“Coaching would be really cool.”

I look up from my screen. “How’s that working between Bennett Jr. and Sr.?”

He sucks in a breath between his teeth.

“Right.” I nod. “I knew something didn’t look kosher between them. Tonight, I was pretty sure it was Jr. He seems?—”

“Angry?” he asks, and I nod. “I thought so, too. Like maybe a spoiled rich kid who thought he was above everyone, like all your college friends.”

“Ew, let’s not.”

“Moving on.” He smiles. “But no, he’s a good kid. He’s a great pitcher. What he lacks in passion for the game, he makes up for in the desire to prove to everyone who may assume what I did that he’s got mad skill.”

“You’ve always wanted to see the best in people”—I shake my head—“so maybe?—”

“No way. Back it up. I was on the fence about him until the other night at O’Donnell’s when I saw him talking to what’s left of the Jersey Ballbusters. They don’t talk to anyone. But every few seasons, they pick a player who they let into their little circle, and he was there.”

“The what?” I laugh.

“They’re old and grumpy as fuck. You know those two old guys from the Muppets. Waldorf and Statler?”

“Only because I took a psych class, and there is a syndrome named after them.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Explain.”

I shrug. “Openly critical of others’ efforts?”

“Exactly. I have a shit game, and they do a whole roundtable bit about it.”

“They sound like?—”

“The coolest guys, seriously.” His eyes light up.

I shake my head. “No. Just no.”

“I have a great game, and they’re my biggest fans.”

“I mean, you do you, but you think Bennett can handle it?”

“I think he needs it. He needs to know that people who are nice to him aren’t being that way because of his dad and flip that shit the other way. People are dicks, and it’s not because of his dad either.”

“So, Waldorf and Statler.” I roll my eyes.

“Archie and Oscar are still kicking, too. Lost one at the end of last season.”

“I’m sorry.”

We talk baseball and Walton, and he asks a million questions about my work until … well, until Marks wakes me up.

“Oh my God, I fell asleep and?—”

“Fred just went upstairs. He was awake and armed. It’s all good.” He nods to the bedroom. “Go.”

I shake my head. “I fucked up.”

“You knocked off for thirty minutes. He covered you. And honestly, there’s no reason we’re not sleeping tonight. He’s not coming in here without us knowing it. Alarms would trip before he even got inside.”

“Still pissed at myself. I was supposed to have everyone’s back.”

“Yeah, well, Locke had yours and ours, so go to bed.” He extends a hand and pulls me up. “Tonight, we sleep. It’s all good.”

* * *

Sitting on the back porch, reading over Wren and Echo’s notes, I hear Marks step out.

“We can’t let her loose when the plane lands. Gonna have to bring O’Donnell in on this. He has friends on the force. They can get her on unlawfully dealing with a minor, at the very least. Echo found another account connected to her ISP through address tracking. She was in California two years ago, a month after Cora’s mom, Bethany, passed, and friend requested her. Sick bitch. I’d like to cunt-kick her.”

“Jesus, Gwend—Gwen.” My spine straightens at the sound of Leland’s, not Marks’, voice. “That’s a lot for a man to take in before he’s even had a cup of coffee. But I’m adaptable. Let’s roll with it. Proceed.”

I look over my shoulder and up at him as he holds out one of the two cups in his hand. “I’m mad at you.”

He steps to my side and squats down beside me. “Gwendolyn can be mad at Leland, but that always leads to making nice. And Daphne can’t be mad at Fred, so?—”

“I thought Roman was Daphne.” I take the cup he’s holding out.

“I thought that for a minute, too, but last night, it hit me—Roman doesn’t have flowing hair, impeccable fashion sense, or an always-ready-for-adventure attitude. He doesn’t have that elegant charm about him. He doesn’t look like he could step straight out of a fashion magazine and jump into a mystery-solving spree.”

“You’d be surprised.” I take a sip of coffee, enjoying that he doesn’t know of Roman’s involvement.

He sits down, plants his hands behind him, and looks up at the sky. “I’m good with being Locke and Gwen for a spell.”

The door opens behind us, and Bennett clears his throat before alerting us, “Nour’s cooking breakfast.”

Leland drops his head back, thick neck on display, sexy Adam’s apple bobbing slightly up and down as he says, “Thanks, Bennett.”

I close my eyes and inhale the scent of the outdoors, Locke, and coffee. Everything inside me flutters.

Now that’s a ménage à trois I could get down with.

Ménage à trois, yuck.

I open my eyes, and he’s standing with a smirk playing on his lips.

“Locke wants to know what Gwen was just thinking.”

“Gwen was just enjoying the smell of coffee, the outdoors, and …” And what, Gwen? “The flowers. Three things that smell good together. Then I thought, ménage à trois. And finally, I thought of all the online talk of you and Vander.”

“Gwen might better get that thought out of her head. I’d never share you with anyone.”

I fake-pout, and he narrows his eyes.

Walking past him, I let him know, “Never been a fantasy of mine, and never thought it was one of yours.”

“You wanna know why?”

“Honestly, no.”

His hand stretches in front of me, holding the door shut. “They all wanted the pro player and the lifestyle. They wanted the big dick and the social media posts. A couple may have wanted my heart, but no matter how much I wished I could move the fuck on, it never happened because mine was already owned by the girl who knew me before all that.”

The hairs on the back of my neck are standing straight up, as are my nipples.

“Are you telling me your dick was small before we met?”

His lips touch just behind my ear, and he releases a sound that’s something of a laugh but more like the rumbling of distant thunder, warning of a storm approaching. “You need your focus.” He nips at my earlobe. “And I need a few minutes to let the Gwendolyn effect die down.” He steps into me, hard cock poking me in the back. “Go eat, Gwen.”

* * *

With the players at the stadium, I make CeCe’s Saturday rounds. I stop at Wags and spend an appropriate amount of time there. Then I hit Costco, which is necessary because those boys can eat. Then I head back to her place to throw together Mom’s mac and cheese crock pot recipe and a chuck roast that will be ready to shred after the game, and then I can make sliders when we all get back.

“Make sure to caramelize onions to top them with,” Mom says, and I look up at the screen to see her grinning.

I point the spoon in her direction. “This is for me and Marks.” Lie. Leland loved it when Mom made sliders and mac.

“But with the boys there, knowing how much Leland loved caramelized onions on his?—”

“Isn’t it enough that I’m making enough for everyone?”

She nods. “You look happy.”

“We’re steps away from getting this bastard, Mom. Janice will lead us to him. We’ll wrap all the evidence up nicely for the police, and then we’ll be back at Walton for a much-needed rest and moms’ time.”

“How long do we get you two for?” Annie asks.

“You know I can’t answer that. If something comes up that we both want in on, we’ll jump.”

“But no installs, no personal security jobs?”

“Nothing for at least two weeks.”

“We’ll take it. And Gwen, just so you know, you’re glowing.”

I roll my eyes, and they laugh and throw me kisses.

“It’s not like that, not at all. It’s just nice to think he and I can finally be cordial.”

* * *

The game is insane, but crazier is how vested I am in these boys after last night. Watching AJ play the position that Locke just left and doing it really good—not Locke good, but MLB good—and knowing his personality a little bit, makes him much more entertaining to watch. Rudy G., I don’t know much about him except he’s young and promising. Vander … yeah, well, I’m not a fan. So, my focus is on how well the infield works together. And tonight, the Brewers are making them work.

Feeling eyes burning into the side of my face, I turn to Whit. “What?”

“Haven’t seen you love a game this much in … forever.”

I’m not even going to pretend to be annoyed. I flat out tell her, “Last night, getting to know the rookies a little bit more gives depth.”

“Which one’s your favorite?” she asks, looking out at the field.

“Rome is. We love him.”

Whit takes a sip of her water. “That we do. Let’s hope CeCe allows herself to.”

“AJ is entertaining, half the time. You’d think it was because he’s not too bright, and the other half, you wonder if he’s playing the role to get away with being a jackass. But he’s sweet, too.”

“They’re terrified of putting him on the press rotation.” Whitley laughs.

“Bennett and I butted heads when he demanded to know what was going on or he was going to leave. We had to let them in on a lot, but I warned him that I would make him my mission if he leaked a damn thing.”

“How’d that go over?” she asks.

“Good, which is why I like him now.” I nod.

“Nour?”

“He’s difficult to figure out. He’s guarded.”

“Guarded? Could it be because he’s a rookie and trying to find his place?”

“Maybe.”

“And Locke?” she asks.

I’d usually smash that question out of the park, but I don’t. “Last night, he came down to watch the highlights. After the initial awkwardness passed, and I made him promise to stop using my full ass name when speaking to me, it was good.”

“Yeah?” she asks, surprised.

Nodding, I ask, “Who are the Jersey Ballbusters?”

She laughs. “Honestly, the coolest group of baseball fans you’ll ever meet.”

With two outs at the bottom of the ninth and the score tied at nine to nine, not one person on the plate, all the chill I’ve been feeling is evaporating into the evening sky.

Then I hear Leland yell, “Come on, Steel. Knock it the fuck out!”

And Amias Steel does just that.

Jags-10. Brewers 9. They’ve won this series.

After cheering for the Jags, I post a video of the players and the scoreboard to CeCe’s story with appropriate fanfare. Next, I give Whit a hug goodbye and make my way through the crowd. It takes much longer than it did yesterday.

At CeCe’s Subaru, I grab the picnic basket and blanket from the back, my gun from the box, and hike my ass across the grounds to the bank of the Delaware to set the stage.

* * *

Once the blanket is down, I place the basket in the center. Opened and insta-ready, I snap a picture and post it in CeCe’s story.

Postgame celebration for 2. Loving this #newtradition.

Next, I tap out a text to Rome and Marks: I ran late due to the crazed fans, but I’m here and waiting for Lover Bo?—

The back of my head explodes in pain, my phone drops, and I am lost as I fall down a dark hole. I’m on my knees, trying to push myself up. Then dizzy, nauseous, I am forced down again. Being dragged, face on grass, no gravel.

Fuck, the pain, anger, life …

My gun.

I turn my neck and see dark then him—William.

Kicking, turning, grabbing my gun.

Standing, stumbling, pointing, I’m pushed.

He’s grabbing my gun. I’m falling and grabbing him.

He’s on top of me. We’re struggling, still falling, falling, falling.

My back is on fire, stones like daggers biting my skin.

Cold. Wet. Fading into black.

I’m underwater. He is, too.

Live, Gwendolyn York, live.

Mom, Leland, Marks, Annie, Whit.

I’m up, gun pointed at me. I turn it.

Chloe, CeCe, Cora.

Fight, Gwendolyn York, fight.

“Piece of shit!” I scream, but it barely comes out.

It’s okay because my swing connects, rattling him.

But something black and hard strikes the side of my head.

I fall back.

Harder, Gwendolyn York, harder!

Coming out of the water, gun to my head, he sneers, “You’re not my daughter.”

“You’ll see them in court, motherfucker.” I lunge at him.

Shot fired.

Pain.

Black.

* * *

Drowning, sirens, pressure …

Coughing, breathing, choking.

Giant tattooed man, rolling me to my side.

“She’s alive. She needs the boo-boo bus to hurry the fuck up, but she’s alive. Aren’t you, Gwen?”

I see Marks … Rome with his knee in William’s back. They’ve got him.

I try to talk. It hurts.

I whisper, “Get him out of here.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Marks squats down beside me. “Because I’m going to chew your ass out for not following the fucking plan, Gwen. You?—”

He’s not focusing. This isn’t going to work.

“Take him before the cops get here.”

“Wait—what?” someone—brother of the giant tattooed man—asks.

“Fuck!” Marks relents as he storms over to Rome, presses a knee on William’s back, jacks his arms behind him, and cuffs him. “Go with Gwen. Do not leave her side.”

“Let me finish him,” Rome hisses as sirens near.

“Go with Gwen.” Marks pushes Rome away and pulls William up, dragging him away.

William’s eyes meet mine, and I make myself smile. I hope he knows what it means. We won, you sick bastard.

“Rome,” I cough out, and he scrambles over to me. “Tell them everything.”

“Tell who? What?”

Darker. It’s getting darker.

“Gwen!”

“Parole off …”