Page 11

chapter

five

Fade Into You – Mazzy Star

CAMPBELL

Campbell released a breath, but his chest still felt tight. Surely, he’d imagined the sympathy crossing Fontana Quinn’s lovely face.

No . More than sympathy.

How could a woman he barely knew possibly understand the revulsion that returned with stepping back onto this field? Back into a life he’d run from as if hell were burning his heels.

And why— why damn it —had he shown her?

“Take it, True,” a deep voice from somewhere behind him chided. “Teach these boys how to swing like a pro.”

Campbell turned, leaden and defeated.

He loathed this park, loathed the memories it stirred—grit on his teeth, the crack of ball against bat, skin slick with sweat. Sports had never held his interest, and if not for coercion from his father...

Now he stood on the same stinking field, in the same weary body, facing the same group of assholes.

Only now they were fully grown assholes.

One in particular seemed to have a personal reason for his hostility.

A reason sitting on the top row of the bleachers, wearing form-fitting Levi’s and a hideous flannel shirt.

Henry Bowman. Star cornerback for the Promise Eagles the two years Campbell had played unenthusiastic quarterback. Fucking great .

“Whadaya say, True? Be a fine treat for these boys. Especially your little brother over there.”

Campbell started, momentarily forgetting Kit was on the field.

His brother stood between second and third, a jersey at least two sizes too big hanging from his gaunt shoulders.

The resemblance to the boy he’d been blew a breath of frigid air down Camp’s spine.

A whispery, grazing touch of sorrow. A tentative smile crossed Kit’s face as he dug the toe of his sneaker into the dirt and gave a shy thumbs-up.

Before deciding whether he’d take the dare—and why he did this, he’d never know—Campbell looked into the stands. Fontana stood with a fist perched on her hip, the end of another slick ponytail wrapped round her finger.

She was angry.

Campbell glanced from Fontana to Henry.

Huh . Remarkably, not at him.

Henry shuffled from one foot to the other, lowering the bat to his side. “Forget it, True. Just ah...um, old times. Not fair to ask when you haven’t played in years. Besides, Russell hasn’t pitched since softball season. Might wrench his arm.”

“Russell on the mound? Really is a replay of old times.”

Henry’s gaze shot back to the bleachers, then he whistled as if in pain. “Sure, whatever you say.”

Like something out of a cartoon, a lightbulb flickered to life above Camp’s head. He stifled a laugh. No. No way. Is that why she ?—

Acting on the foolish impulse to impress a woman he didn’t even like , he stepped forward, arm extended, palm to the sky. “Give it to me.”

“Naw. Forget it,” Henry said, almost pleading.

Campbell smiled, but his voice dropped, honed to a hard edge—like John Nelson’s blade against wood, sharp enough to hold. “You wanted a show, Bowman? We’ll put on a show. Sorry it’s not the one you planned.”

He rolled his fingers into a fist, then relaxed them. “Now give me the goddamned bat.”

Henry’s frown settled in, carving deep grooves into his cheeks, but he handed it over.

At least the idiot didn’t glance at Fontana again.

Campbell bit back his disgust and stepped behind the plate. He hoped the sharp twist in his gut wasn’t jealousy. Hoped to God he wasn’t blindly chasing some impossibly absurd impulse.

The buzz of excitement—entirely at his expense—droned in his ears, a steady hammering. He shut it out. He’d always been able to shut it out.

The pressure. The weight of expectation. The feel of wood grain beneath his fingertips. The swirl of dust as he stamped his feet, squared his shoulders, and found his place in a place he’d never wanted.

He gripped the bat, and a painful flood of memories surged through him, racing down his arms and into his mind. God, for a camera. For the familiar press of a viewfinder against his brow, a barrier to hide behind—his face, his feelings, all of it.

“Hold it like this, son. Just one more hour of practice.”

“Can’t you see the talent you’re wasting on those damn pictures, Campbell Loman?”

With a swift, caustic twist, Campbell jabbed the bat at Henry. “This is the last time I swing one of these for anyone but myself. And if you ever drag my family into some ridiculous display of machismo again, I won’t be held accountable for beating the shit out of you. Understand ?”

Ignoring the color staining Henry’s cheeks, the echo of his father’s voice in his ear, the all-too-familiar weight of the bat in his hands, Campbell closed his eyes, drew a breath, and let the world fold in on him.

FONTANA

“I can’t watch.” Fontana slumped onto the bleacher as a sharp gust of wind sent a shiver through her.

She tugged her sleeves past her wrists, hunching into her shirt as if she could disappear into thrift-store flannel.

“He holds the bat like it’s a hot coal. I’m surprised he even knows which end is up. ”

As Campbell stood there, motionless, a pang of remorse zipped through her—ridiculous. Then came sympathy, which she somewhat understood.

Her jaw tightened. “I’m going to kill Henry. This is the last time he makes a scene and gets away with it.”

“Plenty of time to flay the Cro-Magnon later.” Jaime grasped her elbow, pulling her to her feet.

“You’ll want to see this. Trust me.” His voice turned knowing.

“Repulsion isn’t ignorance, darling. Believe me, I know.

You can understand something and still find it utterly repellent.

And your precious Atlanta? He knows exactly which end is up. ”

Fontana didn’t understand Jaime’s cryptic remark, and she didn’t ask. Small-town secrets were the hardest to unearth—and the longest to endure. Innuendo, trivial gossip in its kindest form, had shadowed her in every town her father had dragged her and Hannah through.

She’d learned to respect not knowing everything.

After being on the wrong side of too many whispers to count, she no longer had the heart to indulge. Instead, she watched, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as Campbell gave a jerky nod of agreement to Russell Blaine, Promise High’s baseball coach.

The pitch came in fast and looked a little high to her, but hittable for someone who knew which end of the bat was up.

Knees bent, elbows angled down and in, wrists spiraling with deliberate control as he brought his arms forward. The play of muscle in his shoulders, forearms, back… lower .

Beauty of form and motion.

Absolute, unwavering.

Somewhere in the middle of Campbell True’s superbly balanced, effortless swing, Fontana realized she’d been had. Tipping her head back to watch the ball leave the park, she clenched her teeth hard enough to crack a molar. “Thanks, Jame.”

Jaime bowed at the waist, his speech strangled by laughter.

“Where did he play? College ball, right?”

Straightening, his lips curved into a knowing smile.

“Why do you care, Tana? He’s a licentious blackguard, come to execute great deeds of evil.

According to the gossip, he’s got a different woman on his arm every night—young, old, blonde, brunette, redhead.

No need for you to get mixed up with a man of his caliber. ”

He tugged on her ponytail, flicking the end against her chin. “According to you, no need to get involved with anyone. ”

Fontana ignored Jaime’s familiar jibe and shifted her gaze. The licentious blackguard offered a charitable smile as Tammi, former cheerleader and the proud owner of the only hair salon in town, sashayed over from her usual spot behind the dugout and wrapped him in a hug.

Why did she care?

Odd. But for some reason, she did.

Perhaps it was intrigue. Fontana hadn’t been intrigued by a man in so long, she felt strangely awakened.

Unable to look away, she watched as Campbell tousled Kit’s hair when his brother approached, then sent him back into position with a smack to his bottom. Flashing a tight smile, he tossed the bat to Henry, who caught it with a backhanded snatch.

A beat passed—tense, unspoken. A silent assessment between two men, then Campbell moved away.

Prowled, if she were forced to be more precise.

“What happened?” she asked as Campbell yanked a navy cap from his back pocket and fit it snugly on his head, closing himself off while the entire town stared. “In this park? With his father?”

Jaime’s amusement dried up like moisture on hot pavement. “His family history is dicey. His father was a real piece of work. His mother, not much better.” He paused, then added, “Maybe you should ask.”

She tried to ignore the loose threads skimming the back of Campbell’s thighs as he stalked away, denim molding to each flex of muscle. “I’m not talking to him.”

Not with women already trailing in his wake.

Not after he’d mentioned never being denied by them.

Jaime sighed, exasperation evident in the sag in his posture. “Come on, Tana. I saw him glance up here before he hit the ball. ”

She fiddled with a button on her shirt, unsure if Campbell’s dark perusal meant anything.

“Sloppy flannel must be a turn-on, a solid attention-grabber.” He tunneled his hand through his hair. “I’m not sure why the blonde thing hasn’t helped me. Do you think I should go dark again?”

Fontana stood, dusting off her jeans to avoid looking at her friend.

She knew where this conversation was headed. Her pathetic sex life had become a weekly topic of debate.

“Maybe he’s hot for you. Maybe you’re hot for him. Hell, maybe the whole damn world, except for dear old me”—he jabbed a thumb in his chest—“is on the brink of having thrilling, passionate sex .”

“You’ve got to do something this weekend, Jame. You’re as excitable as a caged dog.”

“Horny, darling, it’s called horny by everyone over the age of fifteen. A perfectly normal response for those of us who enjoy sporadic climaxes.” Dropping his head, he collapsed back with a huff. “I’ve gotten tired of my own efforts.”

Silent, Fontana loped down the bleacher aisle, her cheeks flushed. She enjoyed climatic episodes as much as the next girl—she simply preferred them alone .

“Good luck,” Jaime called. “All our sad hopes are pinned on you, darling!”

Good luck. As if she were doing anything but going for a pop.

Stretching her legs, working the stiffness from her back and hips, she sidestepped a row of nylon folding chairs occupied by chatty grandmothers and verbose veterans.

She headed for the Snack Shack, hands stuffed in her pockets, shrugging off the discomfort.

Caution, she thought, was simply making up for a youth spent on a train bound for nowhere.

Making up for the twenty-six times her father had told them to pack up and leave .

New city, honeypie.

New city, same abuse.

She didn’t need a therapist to identity her issues—though, for a brief while, one had helped. She was tired of reliving her childhood, and therapy had become a never-ending cycle of regurgitation.

The queasy, insanely fearful feeling she’d woken to this morning.

Her dread of losing everything.

Because, in Promise, for perhaps the first time, she felt safe.

She swallowed and threw a quick glance around, just to make sure. Locked up nice and tight, Tana . Yes, of course. She knew that. She received monthly medical reports on Alias Quinn’s progress. Or lack thereof.

Looking over her shoulder was a habit, nothing more. Though he had said he’d find her if he ever got out. But he would never get out.

Fontana ignored the thick scent of grease in the air and counted each exhalation until her heartbeat slowed. Another therapy trick. Leaning against the counter at the Snack Shack’s order window, she pulled a crumpled five-dollar bill from her pocket and ordered a pop and a bag of peanuts.

“Pop,” the pimply-faced clerk repeated, his jaw slack in confusion.

“She means Coca-Cola. Make it two.”

Her lashes lifted, and her gaze met Campbell’s, dark and direct beneath the shaded bill of his cap. Remnants of emotion lingered in his eyes, dim but visible. Something, though she wasn’t sure what, had happened on that field.

Once again, a tingle of awareness—of predestination—fluttered through her.

Perhaps he felt it, too, because his mouth flattened, carving shallow creases into his stubbled cheeks. Reacting, those impossible dimples flickered to life.

Run, Tana .

“Nice hit,” she said instead, reaching to take her drink from the clerk, pleased that her hand hardly trembled.

Lifting his cup to his lips, Campbell studied her over the curved rim. “You think so?”

“You know so.”

Silent at first, he surprised her by finally admitting, “I guess I do.” Grabbing the bag of peanuts, he tossed four bills on the counter and turned away, expecting her to follow. “That your fiancé sitting up there, ogling the third base coach?”

Fontana fell in step beside him, trying to ignore the generous expanse of skin exposed by his cutoffs, the play of muscle in his shoulders and chest. Figures, she thought, exhaling sharply.

God had bestowed a truly sensational face and a hotter-than-hell body on this guy.

“What was I supposed to say when we met? Sure, dinner and a movie sound great. Don’t know you from Adam, but what the hay?

In fact, how about we get to know each other a little better in this muddy ditch? ”

A grunt of laughter escaped him. “Still slicing apples with your tongue, I see.” He took a long sip, his throat pulling taut as he swallowed. “Charming.”

“Cool. My top priority in life. To be charming.”

“Jesus.” His gaze raked over her, head to toe, then back. “You’re something else, Fontana Quinn.”

The words slipped out before Fontana could stop them. “I’ll be anything you want—if you sell me your mother’s studio.”