Page 6

Chapter 6

Need A F-ing Plan

Damien

T he second she shut that door—hell, maybe even before—I knew I was screwed. Not like uh-oh screwed. Like bone-deep, inevitable, got-a-fist-around-my-throat kind of screwed.

Delilah Monroe, the little songbird, is a goddamn problem. Not because she talks too much, though she does. Not because she looks like trouble in bare skin and beat-up boots, though she does that, too.

It’s because of the way she looked at me. Like maybe, just maybe, I could be the one person who didn’t let her down. And that? That’ll wreck a man faster than a hundred and two mile per hour fastball high and inside.

I drag a hand over my face as I hit the turn for home, gripping the wheel like it’s personally responsible for this mess.

“They messed with the wrong girl.”

I meant it when I said it, and now it’s a goddamn problem. Because I can’t let that go. And I will find out who the hell thought it was smart to screw her over. Some slick-suited industry snake. Some agents who thought she was easy to break down and abuse.

I hit the steering wheel once. Then hit it again for good measure. Not because I’m mad at her—I’m mad at myself. Mad at how easy it was—one night—for her to get under my skin. And of course, because I’m a dumbass and didn’t get her number.

Smart, Donovan. Real professional.

“Hey, Siri. Text Ty.”

“ What do you want to say to Ty? ”

I grit my teeth. “Need Delilah’s number. Forgot to get it. And find out her schedule. Sponsors are gonna expect to see her around now that she’s met the team. I need any information you have on her.”

I pause then blow out a breath and about think the part that’s worse than all of that— and I want her there.

When I pull into my driveway, the sight waiting for me just about sums up my entire night.

Garbage.

Everywhere.

Son of a?—

Looks like the damn critters had a party while I was gone.

I just sit there for a second, hands on the wheel, staring at it like maybe if I wait long enough, it’ll disappear.

It doesn’t.

Of course it doesn’t.

I pull into the garage and look around at the empty space that I should fill up, like some of my other teammates. For now, it’s the SUV, my Harley, an ATV, a small tractor, an old farm truck that came with the place.

I climb out, grab the gloves from the box I see sitting on the bench, and start cleaning like the world’s angriest suburban dad, like my dad used to do when this happened.

He warned me, “Owning a home is great till you’re the one fixin’ every damn thing that breaks. You ain’t got time for that shit.”

I knew I didn’t, which is why I hired people … who sleep at night, unlike the nocturnal nightmares around here.

Thirty minutes later, I’m inside, scrubbing raccoon germs off my hands, eating cold steak out of a Tupperware with a fork that might actually be a serving fork.

This is my life. MLB first baseman. Garbage man. A major league stud turned simp in just over an hour.

Perfect.

I wake to my new alarm clock—growling, hissing, snuffling, snorting, thumping, and scratching. I bang on the wall. “It’s bedtime. Get on my schedule or move the fuck on!”

It stops, but not for long.

I groan into the pillow and try to fall back to sleep.

Until they return.

It feels like just minutes when I wake to a text. Ty shares her contact information and hits me with a text so fast I know he’s probably been working at this for hours. I need that ten mil deal, if only for him. He deserves the fifteen percent he’ll earn.

Ty:

Okay, here’s your girl’s entire life story because, apparently, I moonlight as the damn CIA now.

Name- Delilah Green; Monroe is her mother’s maiden name and stage name.

Birthday: April 23 27th

Virgo—obviously. She reads like a Virgo with trust issues.

Hometown: Clarksville, TN. Army town. Dad was stationed at Fort Campbell.

Dad: Staff Sergeant Luke Green, Army, killed in action in Afghanistan when Delilah was almost 4. Decorated. Local hero vibes.

Mom: Jolene Green—struggled with addiction after her husband’s death. Not long after, she married a POS—Sam Layne. He’s now doing his second stint in state prison. Five years for dealing; was out two years. Back in for armed robbery, among a slew of other things. He’s doing twenty years. The marriage resulted in one daughter, but she’s never met her father. They had one daughter. Jolene got clean but passed away a month before Harlan entered college. Cirrhosis and pneumonia.

Little Sister: Harlan Green—19

Obviously, the mom gave her hers and Delilah’s last name and not his. Harlan is a college student at Fairhaven College in Connecticut, a private school. Aside from what they get in student loans, Delilah pays every single bill to keep her there.

Apparently, Harlan’s smart as hell. She’s on a pre-law track.

Best Friend/Roommate: Rae Houston. Met in that nightmare music influencer house. Rae’s got lupus, a chronic illness, and gets flare-ups that knock her out for days or weeks. Plays gigs with a three-piece band, works part-time at just enough hours to get health insurance and bartends during her days off. She was in the foster care system since the age of 8. Rae appears to be the only one who stuck by her. Have you seen her? Smoke show, D.

Your girlfriend’s schedule:

Customer service rep for Sunline Internet—remote job.

Lives in a one-bedroom above a laundromat off Gallatin Ave. Real dump.

She just started doing gigs again when Harlan went to college. Looks like weddings, bars, random stages, wherever they’ll cut a check.

She’s not afraid to work.

Ty:

You’re not messing with a model or wanna-be WAG. She’s not here for clout or clicks. She’s here surviving. Hustling.

Ty:

No public Twitter. IG private. Barely posts. She might be the last pure soul left in Nashville.

Ty:

She’s not going to screw you over. Everything about her screams loyalty. And I don’t have to tell you to treat her good, I know you will. See you tonight.

I stare at the screen like I didn’t just spend eight hours convincing myself it’s best to stay the hell out of her orbit. Don’t complicate it. Do this thing as intended … for public consumption.

Ty:

Harlan and Rae call her Lala.

It’s too early to send her a text. The only normal people awake are me, Ty, and the critters.

“Rise and grind,” I say on a yawn as I sit up and stretch.

As I shovel in the meal—chicken, rice, avocado—I send her a text.

Me:

You busy tonight?

Delilah:

Depends … Are you asking me to fight someone or hide a body? Or just curious.

In spite of talking myself down all fucking morning, I can’t help but smile. She’s a fucking trip.

Me:

Come to the game tonight. Got you a seat behind home plate.

Delilah:

Can’t. Got a gig at Neon. The regulars would riot if I bailed. And by riot I mean old Carl would cry into his Miller Lite.

Me:

Respect to Carl. What are you doing tomorrow?

Delilah:

No show tomorrow. Just me, bad reality TV, and whatever Rae orders for dinner.

Me:

Come to the game. I’ll leave you a pass.

Delilah:

You always like this, or is this major league treatment?

Jesus H. …

Me:

Got a home game during the day. Come.

Delilah:

Can’t.

Me:

Can’t or won’t?

Delilah:

Bit of both. It’s a Rae day.

Me:

Rae day?

Delilah:

Yeah. It’s the one day this week we both have off. No gigs. No bartending. No BS. Just us, takeout, trash TV, bad wine. Sacred territory. Non-negotiable.

Me:

Change it up. Cold beer and a good game. My treat.

Delilah:

Throw in a hot dog, and I’m all yours, big man.

I type and think of several responses, like …

Babe … careful saying stuff like that to a man who already wants to ruin you.

And …

Trust me; I’ve got a better sausage to offer.

And …

You want it grilled or just … ya know, raw and ready to go?

And …

I’ll give you a footlong to write a song about.

And also …

Careful. That sounded dangerously like consent to being fed and wrecked.

She’s not a chick at the bar wanting that kind of attention for the night. She’s my girlfr—fake girlfriend.

So, I give that title the respect it deserves.

Me:

Easy sell. A hot dog is all you, Songbird.

Last night, standing outside, I knew it was bad. I just didn’t know it was this bad because it was nighttime. Everything looks better at night, and I’m counting on that being true when it comes to Delilah, too.

Feel like a dick admitting this, but I need a flaw to focus on, just one.

I grab the jerseys off the passenger seat—both home whites, both mine—and head in.

At the bottom of the stairs, I shake my head, wondering if they’ll bust under my six-foot-four, two-hundred-twenty-five-pound frame.

Halfway up, I hear her voice.

Not her real voice, not the one that razored down my spine last night when she was giving me the sweetest hell I’d ever been given or busting on one of my teammates, but her customer service voice. Flat, sweet in that dead-eyed way that screams, I really want that direct deposit to hit.

“No, ma’am, I understand that you’re frustrated … No, I wouldn’t want my internet cutting out during The Bachelor either … Uh-huh … Sure, I can absolutely transfer you to a supervisor …” Beat of silence. “They’re gonna tell you the same thing I just did, but okay.”

Christ.

I hang back by the stairs, outta sight, letting her finish. Listening to her soothe whatever suburban warlord is on the other end of that call.

This girl deserves a damn medal. Or a drink. Or like … functioning Wi-Fi and a landlord who isn’t playing chicken with a lawsuit.

When I finally knock, she cracks the door open like she’s expecting bad news.

Until she sees me.

Until her face does that thing—that little tug at the corner of her mouth like she wants to smile but doesn’t quite trust it.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, brow up.

I hold up the jerseys. “Figured you might want options for tomorrow.”

She blinks then looks at the name across the back. Donovan . Twice.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Been called worse.” I glance past her shoulder. Bare floors. Hand-me-down couch. Kitchen the size of my locker room shower. “This place always this charming, or is it just dressed up for me?”

She snorts. “Careful. That’s premium Nashville real estate slander you’re throwing around.”

I shake my head. “Serious question: how much does that job even pay?”

She crosses her arms, wary now. “Enough to eat. Most days.”

Most days. Jesus.

“You know I could float you for a while,” I say, dead level. “Just until the music money kicks in.”

Her entire body locks up. Not offended—defensive .

“Yeah,” she says, real quiet, “that’s what the last guy said, too.”

And there it is. That landmine I didn’t even know I was walking toward.

“I was told, if I left quietly, I wouldn’t owe the advance back,” she says. “Didn’t matter what he did. Didn’t matter that I could’ve blown his whole damn life up. Money talks. And women? Women like me? We’re supposed to shut up and disappear.”

Something ugly and protective coils in my chest.

I step a little closer. “I’m not him.”

“I know that,” she says instantly. But she’s still shaking her head. “I just … I don’t take advances or handouts.”

I scrub a hand over my head, a reminder that I need to play this safe, and not just for her. “All right then.”