Back in the Game: A Stardust, Texas Novel (31 page)

Rowdy tensed beside her, hunched his shoulders, put a hand to her back, and leaned in closer.

“Ignore them,” she whispered. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

He moved her in front of him, wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She smiled as she felt his arousal nudge her bottom. A thrill of excitement that she had swiftly grown to anticipate pushed through her.

“Rowdy?” a feminine voice called through the crowd. “Rowdy Blanton, is that you?”

He ducked his head to her shoulder. “Oh no. We should have brought Warwick after all, but I wanted an evening alone with you.”

A young, beautiful woman in another ticket line was waving like a crazed game show contestant. “Yoo-hoo. Don’t you hide from me. I can see you there. Rowdy. It’s Christy. Christy Jones. We sat next to each other at a banquet last June.”

People were turning around, craning their necks, striving for a better look.

“You’ve been recognized.” Breeanne tried not to sound dry, hot, and prickly, but she didn’t think she pulled it off.

“Dammit. I was afraid this was going to happen. I apologize in advance,” he said.

“For what?”

A long squeal erupted from another female. “It is! Oh. My. God. It’s Rowdy Blanton!”

A stampede of clattering heels, a cloud of feminine perfume, as a throng of gorgeous women surrounded them. Rowdy tried to hold on to Breeanne’s hand, but the pawing females separated them.

Breeanne was nothing but flotsam in the wake of his magnificent ship. Her earlier exuberance vaporized. She couldn’t enjoy an evening out being reminded how she couldn’t measure up to the hundreds of women who wanted him so desperately. Her stomach sank, and she wished she was at her parents’ Fourth of July party instead of watching this feeding frenzy.

She felt a hand clamp around her wrist—a strong masculine hand, towing her back toward him like fisherman reeling in a skiff gone adrift from the dock. Rowdy pulled her up against his side, draped his arm over her shoulder, and held her close.

Terrific. Now she was close enough to see fawning fan girls drool on him.

“Who’s this?” asked the girl named Christy, tilting her Barbie doll platinum blond head and blinking big eyes so green she had to be wearing colored contacts. No eyes were that color in nature. “Your little sister?”

He puffed his chest out proudly. “This is my girlfriend.”

The words sounded so sweet to her ears, but he’d called her his girlfriend before, using her as a shield to ward off predatory women. Breeanne notched up her chin. If it helped him to use her that way, she’d accept it. But she refused to let herself fall for the yearning that burrowed deep in her belly, a yearning that wanted to be his for real.

“Her?” Christy sounded incredulous.

The women shot each other bamboozled, what- could-he-possibly-see-in-this-schlump looks.

Breeanne reached up, patted Rowdy’s chest, and said smugly to the gathered women, “I give exceptional blow jobs.”

“Burn!” The jock behind them heehawed like a donkey. He held a palm up to Breeanne. “Give me skin, sista.”

She hopped up to slap his big palm.

That reduced the tension. Rowdy tucked his sunglasses in his pocket, signed autographs, and chatted with his fans for twenty minutes. The entire time, he kept his arm locked around her, holding her close.

As if she belonged there.

A girl could get mighty used to this, and therein the seductive danger.
Enjoy the moment for what it is. Just don’t start believing it’s going to last.

The crowd thinned out as people strolled into the stadium. Rowdy broke up the fanfare by angling his head toward the ticket counter. “We’ve got to pick up our tickets. I want to see my little brother making his starting debut,” he said to them.

The fans good-naturedly waved him toward the will-call window, and walked into the stadium, shaking their heads and marveling. No one else was in line now.

Rowdy went up to the window. “Will-call tickets waiting for me. Rowdy Blanton.”

The ticket taker got off her stool, held up a finger. “If you could just hold on a minute, sir  . . .” She disappeared from view.

“Looks like she wasn’t impressed with you,” Breeanne said.

“Happens every once in a while.” He winked.

“Are you getting nervous about seeing Zach pitch?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “I’m scared he’s not up to the challenge.”

“I’ve reviewed his stats from the Mudcats. Why did Dugan Potts call him up?” It was something Breeanne had been wondering for a while, but hadn’t brought up because Zach’s transition to the Gunslingers was a sore topic with Rowdy.

Rowdy gave a nonchalant one-shoulder shrug, as if he didn’t care enough to lift both shoulders, but she saw distance come into his eyes and knew he was no longer in the moment with her, but kicking around a painful memory.

She changed the subject, stood on tiptoes to peer into the ticket cage. “I wonder what the holdup is. Where did that ticket taker go?”

“Rowdy Blanton?” a stern voice said from behind them.

They turned to see two beefy security guards, who looked as if they might be twins, standing there, hands poised over the stun guns clipped to their belts.

Rowdy broke out the patented grin. “Hey, fellas, what’s up? Want an autograph?”

“We’re going to have to ask you to leave the premise,” the slightly taller of the two said, his gaze noncommittal, but his twitchy hand ready for action.

“I’m here to see my brother throw his first starting pitch in the bigs, boys.”

“No, you’re not,” said the second guard.

Puzzled, Breeanne looked from Rowdy’s beaming face to the scowling guards standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way to the entrance. What was going on here?

“Um, Rowdy.” She plucked at the sleeve of his shirt. “I have a feeling you’re still persona non grata around here. Let’s go.”

Simultaneously, the security guards widened their stance and undid the snap on their stun gun holsters. If these two weren’t twins, then they’d tandem-practiced their intimidation techniques.

“Are you guys twins?” Rowdy asked, his grin just getting wider and wider. “You look a lot alike. Who is the oldest?”

“He is.” The slightly taller one inclined his head toward his brother, and seemed unhappy about it.

“You guys know how it is. I know you know how it is. Your brother gets on your last nerve, but still, he’s your brother. You’re proud of him when he does good. You take his ego down a peg when he gets too cocky.” Rowdy’s voice was smooth and easy. “That’s what brothers are for.”

The game had already started, the announcer’s voice boomed over the PA system. “Pitching for the Dallas Gunslingers is Zach Blanton making his big league starting debut.”

“When your bro is sick, you take him to the hospital.”

“Fucking A,” said the older twin.

“And if he tells you that he left tickets for you at the will-call booth on the day he makes his big league starting debut, well, you wanna be there. Am I right?” Rowdy nodded as if trying to get them to agree.

Like magic, the twins bobbed their heads in unison.

“What’s your name?” Rowdy asked the taller one.

“We’re not here to get chummy. We’re here to escort you to your vehicle and make sure you leave the grounds.”

“Right. I got that. You made yourself clear, but there’s no reason we can’t be friendly about this. C’mon, you know my name, it’s only fair that I know yours.”

“Abel,” said the smaller one.

“Please tell me you’re not Cain,” Rowdy said to the other one.

“I’m Alec.”

“This is Breeanne.” Rowdy slung his arm around her again. “My girl.”

The words “my girl” set off a fizzy firestorm in her stomach, and she didn’t want to let him down. Breeanne raised a hand, not sure what to do. “Hi.”

“Look,” Rowdy went on. “We drove over two hours to get here. I know you’ve been given orders to keep me out of the stadium and I completely respect your position.”

“Good,” Alec said. “It makes things easier.”

“I’m not asking to take a seat or anything, but if you could just let us get a peek at the field. Let me watch Zach throw out one pitch, I’d appreciate it. You can stay with us the entire time, and escort us right out afterward. C’mon, where’s the harm? I’ll sign an autograph for you.”

The brothers looked at each other, considering it.

“Just one pitch?” Abel asked.

Alec shook an Eeyore head. “We have our orders.”

“But he’s right.” Abel lifted his shoulders. “How many times does a guy get to see his brother’s starting debut pitch on the mound in the major leagues? You’d do everything you could to be there if it was me and I’d do the same for you.”

Alec scratched his chin, considering.

Rowdy was going to succeed. He was going to charm them into letting him into the stadium. The man was something else.

From behind the security guards came the sound of someone applauding in a slow, sarcastic way. “Gotta hand it to you, Blanton, you’re slicker than snot.”

Sheepishly, the twins separated, one moving left, the other moving right, revealing a squat silver-haired man with an unlit cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth, walking toward them, smacking his palms together harder and harder the closer he got. He had eyes like a Boston terrier, chubby hamster cheeks, a potbelly hanging over his belt, and low-slung, bowlegged gait.

Breeanne recognized him from TV. It was Dugan Potts, the Gunslingers general manager.

Rowdy tensed beside her, his arm going heavy around her waist.

“But then I know how you are, so I came down here myself to make sure these two idiots did their job.” Potts glared at the twins like they were something he’d flushed down the toilet bowl.

It might just have been her imagination, but Abel’s knees looked like they were shaking, and Alec’s Adam’s apple convulsed. These big guys were scared of the diminutive general manager.

“We were just escorting him off the property, sir.” Alec stood marine-stiff and she half expected him to salute.

Potts ignored the security guards, and fixed Rowdy with a stare so malevolent it sent an arctic chill straight through Breeanne. “I heard you were writing a book.”

Rowdy said nothing. Gone was the wit and charm he’d pulled out for the security guards.

Potts waddled closer, but not within striking distance of Rowdy. “I’ll have to preorder my copy. Check if you got your facts straight.”

“Don’t bother. You’re not mentioned in the book.” Rowdy smiled sweet but when he spoke his voice held a warning burr.

What? Of course Potts was mentioned in the book. It would be a pivotal part of the climax of his autobiography.

“No?” The cigar seemed permanently stuck to his lower lip. When Potts talked the cigar bobbed, as if it was saying yes, yes, yes.

“Not once.”

“I find that strange. A book about your life and you don’t mention me? My feelings are hurt.” Potts gave a nicotine-stained, bulldog-in-a-spiked-collar smile.

“I saw you on television,” Rowdy said as lightly as if they were best buddies having drinks at a bar, but he leaned forward aggressively. Loomed over Potts. His hands clenched into fists, back flat, arms welding stiffly to his sides. His entire body was a hard, straight line. As if he was a sheer mountain face about to fling a crushing boulder down onto the general manager.

“Yeah?” Potts’s hands went to his hips and his chin jutted up, eyes hard and dark, as if just daring Rowdy to make a physical threat against him.

“You were with a guy who looked exactly like the man who attacked me. Right down to the snake tattoo on his right forearm. Imagine that.”

“No kidding?” Potts grunted, shifted the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “You know what they say, everybody’s got a look-alike.”

They eye-wrestled each other. Neither one blinked.

Breeanne pressed her palms together, brought her fingertips to her lips, thought,
Mongoose and cobra
.

“Why did you pick up Zach?” Rowdy’s voice turned steely enough to cut Irish oats.

“Why do you think?”

The humid air twisted with tension. The men stayed locked in their stare-down. Abel and Alec kept glancing at each other and shrugging. Something was going on here that no one except Rowdy and Potts knew anything about.

“I just want you to know,” Rowdy said, “that you’re not in the book.”

Why did he keep saying that? She was going to have to corner Rowdy about this. They couldn’t finish the book without including Rowdy’s suspension from the Gunslingers. When and why had he decided to leave Potts out of the book? He disliked the guy, and clearly, the guy disliked him right back.

The veins at Potts’s temple bulged, and he laid on the sarcasm like butter. “Thanks a lot for leaving me out.”

Rowdy raised a fist. “Hands off Zach.”

Breeanne pasted a palm to her mouth, smothering her gasp. Was he going to deck the general manager?

“Or what?” Potts sneered, but his fingers were twitchy, tapping along his belly like he was playing piano keys.

“You know what.”

“You threatening me?”

“About as much as you’re threatening me.”

Potts pointed a militant finger in the direction of the exit. “Get off my property.” To Abel and Alec, he snapped, “Do your job, dammit.”

Immediately, each man clamped one of Rowdy’s arms, spun him around, and marched him to the parking lot. He didn’t try to charm or cajole or resist.

Breeanne hurried after them.

“Young lady,” Potts called.

She stopped, turned back around, put a hand to her chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you. Heads-up. Don’t believe a damn thing that character says. He’s a liar and a cheat.”

“I haven’t found that to be true.”

“You don’t know everything there is to know about him.”

That was true enough, but she was not about to betray Rowdy. “And I don’t know everything about you either.”

“Fine.” Potts waved a dismissive hand. “Go ahead and trust the sneaky sonofabitch, but you can’t claim you weren’t warned.”

CHAPTER
23

I don’t know why people like the home run so much. A home run is over as soon as it starts . . . The triple is the most exciting play of the game. A triple is like meeting a woman who excites you, spending the evening talking and getting more excited, then taking her home. It drags on and on. You’re never sure how it’s going to turn out.