14. Devlin
DEVLIN
I hadn’t heard any gunfire or screaming coming from Scarlett’s house since our talk in her driveway yesterday, so I assumed she and her brothers had reached a tentative truce. Or she’d killed them all and quietly buried their bodies in the backyard.
But when Jonah came downstairs the next morning, I figured she had either missed one or they were all alive.
She was working on another project today which left me feeling bored and missing her.
A McCallister missing a drama queen. I almost didn’t recognize myself anymore.
And it wasn’t just the beard I was growing.
I went for another slow, painful jog and spent the rest of my day catching up on work emails.
Feeling so removed from my work was a new experience for me.
I’d been groomed for politics since elementary school.
My father spent thirty years in and around politics.
My mother spent that time dedicated entirely to social events and fundraising.
I was the next generation of their efforts.
I loved public service. Sure, the lawmaking was tedious to the point of impossibility. And party lines were more like trenches divided by minefields. But it was a noble calling.
When I wasn’t in session, I was a partner in the family law firm. The law was something I’d long been fascinated with, and I missed practicing. But when there was a legacy to build, the wants of the individual didn’t matter.
I stared at the email I’d been ignoring for two days. It was from the family’s public relations rep. Blake was responsible for working with our attorneys to clean up the mess I’d left behind. I opened it and noted that both parents were CC-ed.
Devlin,
I hope this message finds you well. We’ve met with Mr. Ralston, and while he claims he’s still mulling assault charges, I’m confident that he doesn’t want news of your altercation leaking to the media any more than you do.
Things are beginning to quiet down, and in a few weeks, I think it will be safe to have you make a few public appearances.
But I do agree with your parents that the divorce should be postponed.
Anything that brings attention back to you right now will almost certainly be detrimental to your political career.
Sincerely,
Blake
I closed my laptop and kicked my feet up on the table. I was attempting to enjoy the spring sunshine, the view of the lake. But my thoughts were chaotic. What if I did postpone the divorce? What if I kissed Scarlett again? What if everything I’d worked for my whole life was impossible now?
What if I’d ruined it all by choosing the wrong woman?
“Hey, frowny face,” Scarlett said, skipping up the last of the deck stairs. She was smiling at me, and suddenly my questions didn’t seem so important anymore. “Please tell me you aren’t busy.”
Now she had my full attention. I hooked my hands behind my head and admired the view of her slim legs under short khaki cargos.
“I think I can clear my calendar,” I said with a smile.
“Awesome.” She threw a t-shirt at me, and it caught me in the face. “Is Jonah free?”
My feet hit the deck, and I unfurled the shirt she’d thrown. It said Bootleg Cock Spurs across the chest around a giant rooster head.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” Scarlett grinned. She pushed the deck door open. “Jonah! Get your ass out here.”
“What sport is this?” I asked.
“Fast pitch softball, my handsome neighbor,” she winked.
“I just remembered I have plans.”
“What’s going on?” Jonah asked, poking his head out the door.
“Run,” I said dryly.
“Wait till we get to the field.”
There was a moonshine stand at the ball field. Sure, there was the usual concession stand with hot dogs and mushy French fries. But the moonshine stand had the twenty-person deep line in front of it.
“Come on,” Scarlett said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the stand.
Jonah trailed along behind us, the spectator stares weighing heavily on the newest Bodine’s shoulders.
Scarlett bypassed the line and ordered three apple pie moonshines from a side window that said Players Only. I reached for my wallet.
“Players drink free,” Scarlett said, shoving a small mason jar into my hand.
“Are we seriously drinking moonshine before a softball game?”
“League rules. We also drink during the game if that makes you feel any better.”
It did not. Jonah shrugged and downed his jar of Bootleg’s finest. I followed suit. Maybe a little liquor would loosen me up. It burned in a really good way. My mouth tasted like apples and cinnamon. Like I’d just drunk a slice of apple pie.
“Wow.”
Scarlett winked. “That’s great-granddaddy Jedidiah’s recipe.”
“What kind of ABV are we talking?” Jonah asked.
Scarlett grinned. “You don’t want to know. Come on, boys. Let’s get ourselves warmed up.”
We followed her to the dugout where the rest of the Bodine family was stretching or frowning at cell phones. There were a few strangers here too.
“Y’all, this is Nash and Buck,” Scarlett said, pointing to two guys who were exact physical opposites.
Nash was tall and broad like a barn with arms that threatened to explode out of his uniform shirt.
Buck was short and lean with a shock of red hair.
He looked as though he were a little kid playing dress up in his father’s shirt.
Jonah and I nodded in their direction.
“Nash and Buck, these are our subs Devlin and Jonah. Two of our outfielders caught the pink eye from their kid,” she explained. “And this here is Opal Bodine. No relation.”
Opal was wiry and tall with short dark hair that she tamed with a ball cap. “Nice to meet y’all,” she said, taking a practice swing.
We exchanged pleasantries.
Jonah and I didn’t have any cleats to change into, so we let Scarlett lead us through a warm-up. I couldn’t help but scan the crowd as I stretched my hamstrings. It appeared as though the entire population of Bootleg had turned out for the game.
Just about everyone of age in the stands had a mason jar of moonshine in hand.
“All right, Base Runners,” Gibson grumbled. “We’re playing the Eagler Lumberjacks. We’re up at bat first. You two okay with outfield?” he asked me and Jonah.
“Sure,” I shrugged. I’d played Little League. When I was eight. And I’d been to my fair share of Nationals games. I could handle this.
“Nash, you’re up first. Opal you’re on deck.”
“All rise for the playing of the National Anthem,” came the crackly voice over the loudspeaker.
“That’s Bernie O’Dell,” Scarlett whispered to me as we lined up to face the flag in the outfield.
“He’s been announcing since he was in junior high.”
Misty Lynn with her bleach blonde hair and very tight t-shirt sashayed up the diamond with a microphone and belted out a reasonably okay and quite dramatic version of the anthem. I noticed Scarlett glaring her down even as she mouthed the words.
The crowd ate it up, cheering and whistling. Misty Lynn curtsied, and Scarlett gave a polite golf clap. “Man, I just hate her guts.”
As if she’d heard it, Misty Lynn sauntered up to Gibson and blew him a kiss. Scarlett made vomiting noises behind us.
“Who’s your friend, Coach?” Misty Lynn purred to Gibson and looked in my direction .
“Bless your heart, Misty Lynn. Why don’t you go call your doctor for your herpes results?” Scarlett suggested sweetly.
“Why don’t you go swimmin’ in an outhouse, you piece of shit?”
I slipped an arm around Scarlett’s shoulders and hauled her to my side hoping further restraint wouldn’t be necessary.
“Oh, are you all together?” Misty Lynn asked with interest. She batted her heavily mascaraed eyes at me. “Wonder how long that’ll last. Give me a call, tall, dark, and sexy, when you get tired of Miss Scarlett here.”
Misty Lynn pranced away on her impractical heeled sandals, and Scarlett growled under my arm.
“I hate that dick locker.”
“Come on, slugger. Let’s get our pregame on,” Bowie suggested, towing his sister toward the dugout.
The Eagler Lumberjacks looked every bit the part. They played in flannel, and I couldn’t be sure without a close up look, but it looked as though even the women had beards.
Between innings, shots of moonshine were handed out to both teams. “It evens the playing field,” Scarlett explained knocking back her third shot. “Doesn’t matter if you’re an all-star athlete if you can’t run in a straight line.”
Things were getting a little fuzzy in my vision, but I still managed to get my glove on the ball a couple of times.
Everyone looked like they were slowing down a bit.
Opal was one hell of a catcher, and she hit no less than a double every time she got up to bat.
But by the fourth inning, she was listing to the side behind the Lumberjack batter.
Jameson and Jonah got tangled up going for a pop fly and had a hard time getting back on their feet. One of the Eagler players stumbled on his jog to third base and got tagged out while he was laying face down in the dirt.
The only one who didn’t seem to suffer any ill-effects from the moonshine was Scarlett.
In the fifth, she hit a bases-loaded triple.
And in the sixth, she scored a sweet double play when a bunt made it past Bowie on the pitcher’s mound.
She moved like the booze made her more graceful, more athletic.
By the seventh inning, I was swilling water and dumping my moonshine on the ground. Jonah was trying to tell the very sober Gibson a story about a horse and a sweater. Opal and Buck broke into a clumsy but energetic two-step in the dugout until Buck smacked his head on the overhang.
Someone in the crowd thought to toss a couple of hot dogs our way. I mainlined two of them hoping they’d soak up some of the alcohol, but in my heart of hearts, I knew it was too late. I watched Scarlett guzzle water and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand.
Why was everything she did so sexy? I loved watching her. The way she moved. The way she laughed. The way her smile reached her eyes. Her dirty mouth.
“Ahem.” Jameson elbowed me in the gut. “You’re drooling.”
I wiped my mouth.
“Metaphorically. Stop staring at my sister.”
“He can stare at me all he wants,” Scarlett interjected. “I’m starin’ right back.”
“Ugh,” Gibson groaned. “Can you all just not climb on top of each other here in the dugout? That’s all I’m asking at this point.”
Scarlett grabbed a bat, winked at me, and gave her brother a kiss on his cheek. “Progress,” she called cheerfully over her shoulder.
Gibson eyed the other team’s dugout. “I think they’re about to call the game.” I stumbled over to him and closed one eye trying to focus on the Eaglers.
“Are they sleeping? ”
“Passed out cold.” Gibson gave Scarlett a signal at the plate, and she nodded.
The pitcher threw out his pitch, and Scarlett had to take two big steps to the side to get to it, but damn did she get a piece of it. The bat connected with a clink of aluminum, and the ball soared into the air.
“Go! Go! Go!” Gibson yelled. Scarlett’s legs ate up the distance between home plate and first. She was already headed to second by the time the outfielder fumbled the ball.
“Keep goin’!” Bowie slurred next to me.
The crowd was on its feet, listing hard but still cheering. She danced over second by the time the outfielder got the ball under control and threw it.
It was a wild toss. The third basewoman had to leave the base and dive to get her glove on it.
Scarlett charged past her without a glance in her direction.
She picked up speed and put her head down.
The Lumberjacks’ catcher was on his knees, unable to stay on his feet, when the third basewoman chucked the ball.
I was out of the dugout with the rest of the team cheering as Scarlett threw herself headfirst into the dirt, sliding into the catcher and then June like a heat-seeking bowling ball attacking pins.
I couldn’t tell what everyone was cheering about until I saw the ball roll loose from the pile of limbs and drunken laughter.
“Safe!” June shouted.