“No.” She bit her straw. “Not yet.”
His swearing rose half a decibel. “Let me get this straight. You’ve been doing shows in strange places—and other countries—with no personal security and without even telling people where you are?”
Silently, she nodded, still not looking at him.
“Dammit, you know better. You’re not stupid. Your mom raised you so well all those years, making sure you were protected, and the minute she’s gone you run off half-cocked to—”
“To live?” she shouted back, slamming her empty cup in the holder. “She shoved me under a glass lid, then she decided she needed to experience the world and what the hell was I supposed to do? I didn’t know how to be free. I’d been in a box all those years, and when she left, I couldn’t figure out how to deal. So I did what I always do when I can’t handle life. I sing.”
God, didn’t that sound pathetically quaint. Meek little church girl, needing to lose herself in lyrics she had no right to be singing. What did she know about love? She’d never experienced it. Sex, yes, that she knew, in limited, disinteresting quantities. She’d had boyfriends, done the whole looking for love in all the guess-they’re-good-enough places. But that was a poor substitute for a lasting relationship built on something real. Assuming such a thing existed.
“I get that,” he said quietly, sending her train of thought headfirst into a wall. He flipped on his turn signal and coasted through the center of their small town—her small town, since apparently he didn’t live in Yardley anymore. The severity of his expression seemed even more poignant when illuminated by the watery flicker of streetlights. “That’s why I play ball. To get out of my head. It makes me more than I am. And less, if that makes sense.”
“Yes.” A whisper was all she could get out; her throat was so tight.
“That doesn’t mean you can risk your safety. Freedom must look awfully alluring when you’ve been cooped up in a small town all your life. I get that.”
“You would, since you left too.”
“Yeah. I did. I didn’t want to come back either.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his head, his weariness evident in every strained movement. “Look, I don’t want to clip your wings. You’re old enough to live your life the way you need to. I respect that. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to keep your secret from my sister or look the other way when I know you could get hurt. That’s not me. If your mother were around, she’d skin my ass if I didn’t step in.”
“There’s nothing for you to do. You said it yourself. This is my life, my decision.” She hated that she was practically pleading, but she had to fight for her dreams. She’d be damned—full curse intended in this case—if she let him take them away under the guise of friendship. “My next show is scheduled in two weeks in a much safer area of Brooklyn. I’ve been there a million times and nothing will happen, I promise.”
He pulled to a stop in front of the small house she’d lived in since she was ten, next door to the family home where Cass still lived. It was a way they each had hung onto slices of their childhood even when the world had been spinning wildly out of control. Silly, maybe. Childish probably. She didn’t care.
Sometimes comfort and security came in odd forms, and she and Cass had snatched onto theirs with both hands.
“Nothing will happen,” Chase agreed, staring straight ahead while his truck idled at the curb. She was afraid to move and startle him out of the semi-trance he’d dropped into. She could almost hear the but hanging in the air.
When she didn’t reply, he swung his gaze to hers. “You’ll be safe, all right, because I’m going to be there too.” Her lips parted on a wheeze of breath. “If you intend on playing bigger venues and keeping your whereabouts a secret from those who love you, you need personal security. And right now I’m the only man I trust you with.”
He slammed out of the vehicle before she managed to shut her mouth.
Chapter Four
Chase stewed about the situation throughout the weekend and into the following week. It wasn’t as if he had a ton of other things on his plate at the moment, other than going to the occasional AA meeting. Once in a while—not often enough lately—he even went inside rather than returning to his truck. He hadn’t found the right group in the city yet, that was all. Then there were the oh-so-thrilling doctors’ visits and PT and lots of hours spent doing research on his condition online. He didn’t want to have surgery, but more and more it looked like he’d have no choice.
There were no guarantees. Yes, the Tommy John operation could fix him up and get him back on the field, assuming some team would be willing to take him on after months of rehabilitation. His already damaged reputation didn’t make him a prime candidate in many teams’ eyes, and despite how en vogue the Tommy John surgery was in some circles nowadays, the fact was he’d be different afterward. Better, probably? Yes. But the surgery could also leave him unable to ever pitch again. The odds of that were extremely low, but it could happen. It had happened to a guy he knew. And then what? He’d live off his money for a while, abstaining from everything that made life fun until he finally keeled over from sheer boredom?
Hell no. He needed to do something else while he considered his options. Which led him right back to Summer.
She needed a bodyguard. He had the muscle and the street smarts to protect her. He’d been circling around the idea of an agency for long enough that he knew he couldn’t do it on his own. At first, sure. But he didn’t have a head for numbers and he wasn’t some admin-type. He needed a partner, someone who could take on clients with him and might even know something about running a business.
Someone like Jax Wilder.
He hadn’t seen Jax in years. They’d run into each other at the occasional press junket but never spoke. In the early days after they’d both been drafted, Chase had gone out of his way to avoid his former best friend. Jealousy was a bitter brew—though back then, he’d refused to see his hot, relentless fury towards Jax as envy—and it had taken him a long time to put down the bottle. Now that he was out of the MLB himself, maybe for good, he’d decided to stop dredging up the past.
Plus he needed the guy, though he’d never tell Jax that.
Chase sat back in his booth at Slocum’s Diner and stared at the mustard-splattered menu in front of him. His stomach growled, sick of waiting for him to make up his mind. He’d been thinking way too much lately and it was starting to piss him off. He wanted a drink. He wanted a woman underneath him. Or over, he wasn’t fussy.
God, he wanted his old life back.
The bell over the door chimed and he jerked up his head, tearing his gaze from the meatloaf special to lock eyes with his former nemesis. Jax had also been the closest friend he’d ever had. Would ever have.
Jax strode over to the booth and tugged off his scarf, tossing it on the cracked red pleather seat. Then he did the same with his bomber jacket before extending his fist to Chase for a knuckle bump. He didn’t speak, but his terse expression said it all. Despite Chase having been the one to call him, Jax expected his old buddy to shut him down.
Not happening. Not this time.