57. Till It’s Gone #4
He lifts his head.
“Yeah. And you’re… Allison.”
“Yeah.” I point through the net to the far side of the field. “You know who that guy is? The one in the Yankees cap.”
The kid follows my finger, squinting and sifting through his memory. “Gino,” he says, voice unsure at first. Then he nods. “Yeah. That’s Gino. He’s cool.”
Pfft. Cool. Yeah.
So is hypothermia.
“Thanks,” I say, pushing off the net,
the name still not ringing a bell.
I start to turn toward my chair—
when my eyes stagger on Andrew,
and I freeze, trapped by the scene.
He’s slouched on his hip near the baseline, glove tucked under his arm, consumed by another woman.
She’s older, blonde,
with her chest pressed up against his.
My eyes can’t shut. Or blink.
But they can watch. And follow.
She's smiling up at him as she talks,
her hand crawling up his chest,
and I break out into a cold sweat.
Soon as her fingers hook the chain at his throat, he falls back a step, but her fingers have him, sliding along the gold links in lazy strokes, her knuckles brushing his bare skin.
A sick, sour taste crawls along my gums.
You Still Mine?
Yeah.
His eyes flicker to me fast.
The edges of my vision blur on him, my thoughts driving off into dark places, taking me down narrow streets I’ve never been on before.
Wrong turn after wrong turn in the middle of the night, no map, busted headlights, ninety-miles-per-hour down Jealousy Boulevard.
I know anger.
I’m familiar with the way it feels.
Anger is hot, explosive—a violent urge to destroy until knuckles bleed.
Jealousy is an entirely different beast.
Jealousy is cold, implosive—a sour drain in the pit of your stomach. A sudden, freezing draft that makes you feel small,
feel hollow,
sick.
But it’s fine. I’m fine.
I just need a U-turn.
Someone give me a U-turn off this fucking road.
My heels catch the base of my folding chair, and I collapse into it.
Is this why he brought me here all along? This is payback for what happened with Raymond?
A girl shrieks from the stands,
“Mrs. Robinson!”
My head snaps right.
A girl leaps off the bleachers to wrap her arms around the blonde—the same woman who was just draped all over Andrew.
Mrs. Robinson.
I stare down at the black rubber floor.
She gave him the gold chain.
The one who took advantage of him.
And now, my brain is spinning sick.
My knee’s bouncing
like chattering teeth.
Little Death’s stalking closer, taunting me—You could go puke it all out like something weak, or you could be a bad girl for me and lemme see you touch yourself.
Or I could go kill her.
My fingers grip the sides of the chair,
my mouth tasting the bile threatening.
Shit. I’m gonna throw up. Right here.
“Yo—” a voice cuts in.
My teeth clamp shut.
I glance up,
and my gaze crashes into a pair of warm, honey eyes under the shade of a Yankee cap. He holds out his hand, the other pressed over his chest. “Gino. Sure you’ve already been warned about me,” he says, his innocent grin widening as he leans into the joke. “Bronx. Very scary. Lock your doors.”
I shake his outstretched hand.
No clue why I do it, some ancient, instinctual reflex overrides my brain, and my fingers close around his anyway.
He points toward concessions with his chin. “I’m grabbin’ a drink before first pitch.” His eyes narrow, reading the panic written across my face, the damage Andrew left behind. “Noticed you look kinda pale, sweetheart. Want somethin’? Water? Gatorade? Coke?”
I’m fiercely trying to hold myself together, but this guy blindsided me, catching me off guard.
I don’t know where my walls are.
“You lost, bro? Bronx’s that side.”
Andrew’s shadow falls over my shoulder, and Gino pops his gum, amused.
Andrew interrupting is exactly what he was hoping for.
“Damn, Harding. Last time I seen you, you were horizontal at the Sunoco with your face kicked in.” He tilts his chin up. “Lucky sonofabitch—not one scar.”
“Yeah, well. Guy swung like he was underwater.” Andrew steps around me. “Now mind your business. Stay on your side. Play a clean game, aight?”
Gino nods slow, rubbing his palms together. “Aight—so, based on your reaction, I’m guessin’ this is her? This the one?” His eyes track a violating path back down to me, a post-orgasmic expression melting his features. “Damn.”
Andrew shoves him back, almost knocking Gino off his feet, sending him crashing into the black netting.
I shoot to my feet,
the folding chair tipping back,
my eyes darting between them.
“Andrew—?”
This is different than he was with the Grim Reaper.
This is different than Hunter.
Andrew always holds back.
Always controls himself.
Even pissed, even shaking, even with the vein in his neck popping angry and murder in his eyes. The only time he’s ever put hands on someone, is if they put hands on me first. Always.
Peter’s there,
hand against Andrew’s chest.
“Harding. Look at your girl—look at her.”
He knocks into Andrew’s shoulder,
forcing him to break eye contact.
And when Andrew’s head snaps to me,
his eyes are more scared than angry.
Peter shoves him back a step.
“Now look at me.”
His brows lift. “Don’t be a dumbass.”
Gino catches himself on the ropes,
a loud laugh escaping him.
“Yo, chill, baby boy. I’ll go easy on her.”
Andrew rips his arm out of Peter’s hold.
“She don’t know you, and you don’t need to know her. You keep your beef with me, you keep it with me,” he grits out. “You bring her into it? Swear t’God, there won’t be enough people in this dome to pull me off you.”
Peter rams his shoulder into Andrew’s.
“Back up, back up. You’re two seconds from making this guy the victim,” he says, hauling him backward. “Give him nothing.”
Some man yells from the sidelines,
breaking through the tension,
forcing the guys apart.
The game starts with Andrew at shortstop.
Middle of the diamond,
where everything can touch him.
To his right, Peter’s on third, his gum smacking at a fast, nervous pace, his glove hanging at his side as he tries talking Andrew off the ledge. “The fuck’s goin’ on with you, kid? Huh? You touch him first, you’re fucked. Use ya head for once.”
But Andrew’s a statue, ignoring Peter’s constant nagging in his ear.
He’s slouched forward, palms on his knees, his cap throwing shade over a stone-cold face, his gold chain swinging like a pendulum at his throat.
Danny winds up the pitch.
The first Bronx batter steps in
and swings—
Crack.
Ball’s a grounder,
ripping across turf right to Andrew.