“I think living in a city would make me stir-crazy,” said Michael.
She thought of his parents’ landscaping business and wondered if a guy like Michael would actually suffer in a city. “I guess we’re not fated to be together, then.”
She’d meant for it to come out flippant, full of sarcasm, but the words fell flat and honest. He looked over his shoulder. “I guess not.”
The machine buzzed, signaling the last pitch. Michael hit hard, sending the ball into flight before it hit the nets and dropped dead.
She expected him to feed it another token, but he stepped over to the fence and hooked his hand on a link exactly five inches to the left of hers.
Again, he was too close. Her heart kicked. She stared up at him and stopped breathing.
“Want to learn?” he said.
“Learn?” Her voice was squeaking.
He tapped the fence with the end of the bat. “How to hit.” She couldn’t. She’d already spent too much time talking to him. This had danger written all over it.
But some part of her heart had already told her brain’s insistent thoughts to shove it.
Because she was already saying yes.
His brain kept asking him what the hell he was doing, but Michael ignored the doubts and led Emily to the slowest cage. All afternoon, her presence had been little flickers against his skin, not entirely unpleasant. From the moment he’d caught her in the office, blushing and stammering and fighting to turn down her music, he’d been fighting the urge to reach out and touch her, to see if those little flickers were a promise of something more.
She hadn’t reported him. That had to mean something. Right?
Especially now, when she stood with him in the eight-foot-square cage, listening to him talk about things like stance and hand position and letting the ball come to her.
God, he needed to shut up. He felt giddy and nervous and it was a miracle he could even form a coherent sentence. He held out the bat. “Here. Let’s just try.”
She made no move to take it. “I’m probably going to give myself a concussion.”
“Come on. My brother could hit off this machine when he was eight.”
She made a face. “Now I feel better.” But she took the bat and attempted to hold it the way he’d shown her.
She looked ridiculous and adorable and he tried not to laugh.
Just as quickly, he choked it off.
What was he thinking?
Sharp words sat on his tongue, ready to drive her away. He could stop this now. They could go back to being mortal enemies. She’d let one mistake slide. That wasn’t the same as helping him. Or even accepting him.
She looked over at him, and he was sure she could read the doubts on his face.
Just like he could read the doubts on hers.
Michael jammed his hands into his pockets, feeling his shoulders tighten.
Before he could say anything, she said, “I look like an idiot, don’t I?”
He let out a breath. “Nah.” Then he paused and almost smiled. “Well. Maybe.”
“Tell me what to do so I don’t take a ball to the frontal lobe.”
So he demonstrated again, and she took the stance again, and when she said she was ready, he fed a token to the machine.
At the first ball, she didn’t even try to swing. She flung herself back and almost dropped the bat. “Holy crap, that’s fast!”
He caught her shoulders before she could plow into him, intending to set her straight, the way he would one of his brothers.
She froze, just for an instant, but it was enough. He yanked his hands down.
She didn’t say anything, so he backed away to lean against the chain link, putting clear distance between them. “You want me to go get a putter?” he said. “You have no trouble swinging those.”
That earned him a rueful glance over her shoulder.
But then her expression softened. “You can show me.” She paused. “It’s okay.”
He hesitated, just long enough for him to hear the machine revving up for the next pitch. So he stepped forward, caught her shoulders again, and pushed her into place. Then, without thinking about it too carefully, he put his arms over hers, his hands on the bat, and guided her into the swing.
“Don’t run from it,” he said. “Stand strong.”
She got a piece of this one, and you would have thought she’d scored the winning home run at the World Series. Bat in the air, jumping up and down, silly smile on her face.
“I hit it! I hit it!”
It made him smile. This was vastly more satisfying than showing Chris how to hit a curve ball. “Okay, try not to make it a foul ball next time.”
She made a face. “Killjoy.” She tapped the bat against the ground and got back into position. Like a frigging major league player.
He laughed.
And then he shut up real quick when she threw another glance over her shoulder. “You going to show me again or what?”
CHAPTER 6
Michael crossed the parking lot with a spring in his step. He told himself to knock it off, that one batting lesson didn’t mean anything.
Especially not with Emily Morgan.
But he kept thinking of the feel of her hands under his, of the way her shoulders fit perfectly within the circle of his arms, of the smell of her skin.
He found himself wondering what other things would feel like. Holding her hand. Touching her hair.
Kissing her?
Stop it. You’re an idiot.
But the curve of her neck had been right there. She hadn’t flinched from his touch. Really, if you took away the baseball bat, the way he’d been holding her had been pretty damn intimate.
When he inhaled, he could almost still smell her.
Stop it!
He’d already told her too much. How baseball let him clear his mind and focus on something not related to his element. How he worried every day would end with a loss of control—like Friday.
How badly he wanted to leave town.
He could have kicked himself for revealing that one.But then she’d talked about her parents’ fighting. How sometimes she didn’t care about making it in New York; it was just a new place, a new beginning.
She told him how she was sick of every day being focused on hate.
And for the first time, he let himself start to wonder if this deal could work out.
She’d left ten minutes ago, after he’d told her to go so they wouldn’t be seen walking out together. He’d killed ten minutes burning through his last token, remembering the feel of her body with every swing he took.
Dad’s truck sat alone at the back of the parking lot, dark in the shade of an old elm tree. Michael had the keys in his hand and a bemused smile he couldn’t get off his face.
He didn’t even hear the attackers until his head was slamming into the concrete.
They were all on him at once. He couldn’t even get a handle on how many guys had tackled him. One had come from the bed of the truck. They had the chain Dad kept back there to tie down loose loads, and they had it against his throat, pinning him to the parking lot. Someone else trapped an arm, kneeling on his wrist, grinding his skin into the pavement.
And then, just as he registered the blond hair, someone punched him in the face. A good, solid punch, with power behind it.
He saw stars for a second, long enough for them to pin his other arm. He struggled, but he had no leverage.
“Hey, ass**le.”
Tyler. He’d swung the first punch—and he did it again.
Michael coughed against the chain on his throat. He gritted his teeth. He could pull power from the earth and throw them off, but he doubted they’d give him a free pass like Emily had.
Keep it together.
God, he’d been stupid. Every time he came here, he checked the store, and every time he left, he checked the truck. Every time, ready for an ambush.
Until today.
Tyler hit him again. Michael tasted blood.
Keep. It. Together.
“Do it,” said Tyler. “You know you want to.”
Someone kicked him in the side, and Michael redoubled his struggles. They were too heavy. He couldn’t get loose.
They kicked him again.
Power rushed through the ground, coming to his aid without his asking. He forced it back. He could take a few punches.
Tyler laughed and spit in his face. “Good thing Emily told us where to find you. I didn’t think we’d have this much fun all summer.”
Michael froze. Tonight at the batting cages—had she been stalling him?
You going to show me again or what?
He coughed. “Go to hell, Tyler.”
“Funny you should mention hell.” Tyler held up a butane lighter. “Since I brought the fire.”
Then he clicked the trigger. Flame burst from the end.
Michael tried to recoil. He only succeeded in slamming his head against the concrete again. He was straining against the chain so hard that he almost couldn’t breathe.
Flame lit Tyler’s features. He brought the lighter close to Michael’s face, until the heat was painful.
Michael strained away. He had no idea if Tyler would really burn him, but flame against his skin would definitely push his control past the brink.
“Do it,” said Tyler. He leaned closer, until Michael wanted to clench his eyes shut. “Do it.”
Michael prayed for another customer to arrive. But he knew how dead this place was.
Tyler put the flame against the chain. It seared right through the metal. “First we’re going to burn you, and then we’re going to burn your little brothers.”
The pavement cracked and split. Michael surged against their hands. He slammed someone into the concrete before he could stop himself. The chain went flying.
But then he heard someone yelling. The guys. They were scattering, stumbling away from him, tripping on the loose pavement.
No, not stumbling away from him. Away from the girl with the steel bar in her hands.
Emily, with a putter.
“Dad is going to kill you,” said Tyler. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Michael,” she called. “Can you drive?”
It took Michael a second to get it together, but then he realized his keys were on the pavement, where he’d dropped them by the door. His joints didn’t want to work, but he was able to get the keys into his palm. “Yeah.” Stars still danced in his vision. “I think.”
And then he must have been losing time, because he was starting the ignition of the truck, and Emily was in the passenger seat beside him.
He took a deep breath, and it seemed they were pulling onto Mountain Road, leaving the sports center behind.
He rubbed at his eye, surprised when his hand came away with blood. “I should have said no,” he said.
She gave him a concerned glance. “What?”
He winced, and suddenly there were two roads in front of him. “I shouldn’t be driving.”
She unclicked her seat belt and knelt up on the passenger seat, leaning across to brace a hand on his shoulder.
It was almost enough to make him hit the guardrail. “What are you doing?”
“Keep your eyes on the road.”
“Did you set me up?”
“Shhh. Drive.” She leaned in close and blew on his neck.
No, that was almost enough to make him hit the guardrail. He pushed her away. “Stop. Tell me the truth. Did you—”
“No. I didn’t. Let me help you.” She shoved his hand out of the way and knelt up again.
Her breath on his skin felt awful and amazing at the same time. He fought not to make a sound.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I wish I had more power.”
“No,” he ground out. “You don’t.”
“I saw their car,” she said. “Around the corner. Tyler and my dad have been talking about staking out the sports center all week—”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”