“I wouldn’t believe you if you had,” he told me, and this time there was nothing playful or taunting in his voice. Nothing to make me weak-kneed and girlie. But that didn’t stop my lip from tingling where he’d touched it. He picked up the ball, and I led the way back to his car, following the chalk path that led to first base.
“You ever start that book I lent you?” The sudden change in subject was as jarring as it was welcome.
I shrugged, spinning to face him and catching the ball when he tossed it to me. “I finished it, actually.”
“What?” he drawled, flashing me a dubious look. “You’re lying! And here I thought you were all dumb jock and zero substance.”
Even though I knew he was teasing, I glowered at him and chucked the ball back in his direction.
Except that what I’d meant as a playful gesture ended up virtually lethal in execution. The ball didn’t just lob from my hand in a good-natured, we’re-just-messing-around kind of throw. It flew toward him at Mach speed, as if I’d just launched a missile at his head. He was quick enough, or lucky enough, to get out of the way in time.
When it hit the backstop, splinters sprayed outward in an explosion that made even me flinch from where I was standing.
If Tyler hadn’t ducked in time . . .
I covered my mouth. “Oh my god,” I breathed incredulously.
He stared at me and then whipped around to inspect the damage—the crater I’d left in the wooden backstop behind him.
“I—oh my god,” I repeated. “I’m so sorry.” And I so was. I had no idea what had gotten into me or where the hell that throw had even come from. He had every right to be pissed at me; I’d nearly decapitated him with my runaway pitch.
“Jesus Christ, Kyra,” he breathed as his fingertips traced around the fragmented wooden edges. “Have you ever done that before?”
I’d seen plenty of scuffs and dents in the backstop, mostly from foul balls or from the bats themselves, but never anything like what he was looking at.
I shook my head even though he wasn’t looking my way.
“That’s like . . .” He turned to face me, and I could barely meet his eyes. “ . . . Damn.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. And then my throat closed when my eyes shifted, focusing on the street beyond him and the backstop and fencing.
We were no longer alone.
Parked at the far end of the street, almost, but not quite, too far to see from where we were, was Agent Truman, watching us. Watching me.
He leaned against a polished, black sedan, his ankles crossed in front of him. The only thing missing were his government-issued shades.
He didn’t give any indication that he’d noticed us and looked completely out of place loitering on the fringes of a baseball diamond.
But I knew what he was doing there, and I could feel his eyes on me. Everything about him made me intensely, insanely, inscrutably uncomfortable. He’d seen what I’d just done, and for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on, it mattered.
I had no idea what was happening to me. According to my dad, and Dr. Dunn, and the mother I could barely stand to be around, I’d lost five years of my life but I was still sixteen. And now I find out my fastball is lethal?
All I knew for certain was that I didn’t want Agent Truman knowing any of it. This was my life. I’d just gotten it back and I was just figuring it out. I didn’t want him—or anyone else—knowing about it, or me.
“Let’s get outta here,” I told Tyler, waiting for him to catch up to me.
He didn’t argue, and he didn’t notice Agent Truman, who I couldn’t take my eyes off of and who never, for a single second, stopped staring at me.
I was so consumed by the NSA agent’s daunting presence that I almost didn’t notice when the back of Tyler’s hand grazed mine. Except it was all I noticed, because my breath caught, and I glanced sideways to see if Tyler had noticed it too.
He caught me looking at him, and my face flushed when he grinned back at me. And then his fingers captured mine, this time for real, not an accidental brush of skin against skin.
We were holding hands, and my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might splinter the way the backstop had, and suddenly we were all alone then, just the two of us.
Just like when I’d picked up the ball, the feel of his skin was so achingly, beautifully, disarmingly right. Righter than I could remember it ever being with Austin, which felt like a betrayal just to think.
It was almost painful that the moment only lasted a few short seconds, which was how long it took us to skirt the edge of the fencing and reach his car. When we stopped, I untangled my hand from his, not wanting him to be the one to end it first.
“There you go again, being all stubborn.”
I ignored the jab as I slid inside the car while Tyler held my door for me. I ignored the slamming inside my chest, and the fact that I could barely contain my smile no matter how hard I tried to bite it back.
By 10:36 Tyler had texted me no less than eight times, saying nothing in particular but revealing so much with his absurd messages.
Planning to sleep tonight, or should I be worried that you’re some sort of creature of the night, like a vampire or bat?
I meant bat like the animal. Not of the baseball variety.
Did you get my last text? Am I bothering you?
I can bring you another book if you need one.
And my favorite, but mostly because it was so lame: I’ll be dreaming of you.
I’d responded with a lot of yeses, got its, nos, and thanks but no thankses. But I’d learned three very interesting things from his attempt to text the pants off me.
He’d been keeping track of my sleeping habits, which could either be viewed as disturbing or sweet.
His flirting skills sucked.
He’d definitely gotten under my skin.
When half an hour had passed since his last message and I was sure we were done for the night, I set the phone aside and left my room in search of leftovers. As usual, the house was quiet at this hour; and just like every night since I’d been back, my mom had left a plate for me, another of my old faves: meat loaf.
And just like each night it tasted . . . not quite right. I picked at it for a few minutes, choked down a few bites, and ultimately tossed the rest. I threw it down the garbage disposal so my mom wouldn’t notice that I couldn’t seem to stomach her cooking anymore.
As I stood in front of the sink, I peeled the curtains apart and peered outside. I didn’t really expect to see Agent Truman and his cop-mobile out there, but I couldn’t rule it out either. Not after he’d shown up at the baseball field the way he had.
He had definitely gotten under my skin, and not in a good way.
On my way back to my room, I paused in the hallway. The faint glow of a nightlight spilled out from the open door to “my brother’s” room. I took a wary step forward, curious about this kid who was supposed to mean something to me.
His room was the exact opposite of what it had been the last time I’d been in there, when it had been filled with IKEA office furniture, and filing cabinets stuffed with my mom’s work files, and bookshelves jam-packed with my trophies and team pictures. I wasn’t sure where any of those things were now, but it seemed likely they’d been banished to the same place my personal belongings had gone. That, or thrown away. Remnants from another life.