Chapter 13 #2
“Flower,” Bolan strains behind me. He could easily catch me. His legs are longer, stronger, and I’ve seen him run bases. He has speed.
“Ruthie.” His voice distantly follows me, but he doesn’t chase, and I make my get away, rounding the back of the stadium and heading for the parking lot on the opposite side.
I’m shaking by the time I reach the SUV Bolan rented for me and buckle Tulane inside her car seat. Finally, I pull into line behind all the other fans eager to exit the stadium parking.
If I thought I’d get away with it, I’d keep driving. Head for anywhere but Bolan’s home.
+ + +
The sharp slam of the apartment door lures me from the main bedroom.
“Shh,” I warn Bolan with a stiff finger against my lips when the hard thud of a full duffle bag hits the entry area floor.
“Tulane is sleeping,” I whisper. The late afternoon timing isn’t great, but she’s had a long day. A long few days, between arriving in America, the rush to Las Vegas, and then a hasty turn around to Arizona. Poor baby is exhausted.
And I’m tired as well.
Tired of cheating men and stolen moments.
“Why did you run away like that?” He immediately asks, hands in fists on his hips.
He’s wearing a pair of loose athletic shorts in Anchors royal blue and a long-sleeved athletic shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
That bear inked on his forearm is practically glaring at me.
A baseball cap covers his head, forward facing this time, like he means business.
“How can I help keep your reputation clean, playing the dutiful wife, when I, and everyone else nearby, had to watch women so enthusiastically admire you? Offering sex like Tulane and I weren’t even standing there.
” I swallow the sudden lump in my throat, fighting the desire to correct myself.
Admire my husband. The dryness of my mouth matches the Arizona desert. “A threesome, Bolan. Really?”
He stares back at me before swiping the cap off his head and running his palm over his scalp. Back and forth his hand moves against his hair, making it stand up a bit before he sets the cap back on his head, this time flipped backward.
“Look, I never said I’d been a good boy.”
Nope. He’s admitted a few times he’s been bad. An entire report was written about his bad boy reputation and a plan devised to correct it. That’s my purpose here. To shield him from errant decisions.
Yet, I hadn’t expected something like two excited fans in his face. In my face.
He’s going to have fans. Admirers. People who crush on him.
I’ll have to accept it, and I get it. Bolan Adler is hot.
Even if he’s covered most of the game in protective gear, the strength of his thighs and the power in his arms is on display.
Plus, that firm ass. Then he removes that mask and those damn dimples appear.
I tell myself to brace for the next time because there will be more women. Innocent admirers. And fanatics. And ball chasers. Those women who are willing and wanting to sleep with a professional baseball player for notoriety.
The trouble is I don’t want to witness it, remembering all too well Clifton’s infidelity because of the same type of attention.
“Those girls were nobodies.”
That’s what Bolan casually said about Melody Cross. The woman he was momentarily engaged to. How many others will he claim as insignificant? How many people will he tell I’m of no consequence? Did he even mention to those women he has a wife?
“Did you even tell them you are married?” Does that hold any weight with him?
Bolan blinks a few times, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him. His expression suggests he’s either shocked that I’ve reminded him or repentant that he hadn’t mentioned it. While I want to believe he’s sorry, I just don’t. Not with my track record, not with his.
“Well, what about you?” he snaps, lowering his hands and glaring at me. “My wife was wearing some other man’s name of her back.”
“I told you what happened.” Blaming the retail store’s availability is a bit weak but I truly hadn’t had other options, and I’d been in a rush to have something that showed my support of the Chicago Anchors.
I removed the T-shirt as soon as I got to the apartment, and I’m currently wearing a solid white tee.
“Where is the shirt?” His tone turns glacial as he eyes up and down my torso.
“In the bedroom.”
“Go get it.” The sharpness in his words pisses me off and I should argue back.
I don’t take orders from him.
I don’t have to do what he says.
He isn’t my husband.
The last one catches me up, though, and I spin on my heels, the petulant stomp of my exit emphasizing I’m as angry as him.
I snag the shirt from the top of the hamper. When I re-enter the hall, Bolan remains by the front door, head lowered; his shoulders drooping. At the forceful pad of my feet on the tile flooring, he lifts his head again. His eyes narrowed.
Standing three feet away from him, I fling the shirt in his direction.
My aim is even better than I intended as the tee lands on his head, covering his face.
I have to bite down on my lip to stifle the release of a startled laugh.
I can’t believe I threw it at him. Nor can I believe the hot glare aimed back at me when he swipes the shirt off his head.
He holds it up to read the back one more time, and then rips the cotton right down the center.
“Bolan!” I shriek, louder than I should with a napping toddler down the hall. “I hope that’s not superstitious or something.” Baseball players are notorious for being superstitious.
“It’s probably sacrilegious.” He scoffs, then mutters under his breath. “Wearing another man’s jersey.” He tosses the shirt to the floor. “And I don’t want that guy’s name on you. Or anyone else’s but mine.”
He bends down for his duffle bag, struggling to hastily unzip the closure. When he stands upright, he holds up an official team jersey and flips it around so I can read the back.
“Adler,” he barks at the custom print of his name on the back of a royal blue jersey. “Number twelve.”
He lowers the jersey just the slightest bit as he narrows his flaming gaze at me. “Know what that number means, flower?”
Silently, I shake my head as I’m ensnared by those eyes again. The ones with the heat of a forest fire in them.
“It means I’m twice the man he is. Because I’m patient.” He drops one corner of the jersey and slaps his chest hard. “Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” I swallow thickly, meeting eyes I can’t read but that swirl like a storm again. One crackling with lightning strikes and gray clouds.
“When you’re ready for me.” He gulps. “Because I’m right here, baby.”
He’s waiting for me to give him a signal that I want more. That I want him.
I lick my lips, my mouth still dry, and take the jersey from him. Bringing it to my chest, I tuck my chin and inhale the fresh newness of the shirt.
Bolan bends at his waist again and retrieves a second item from his bag. “I also got this.”
In his hands is a miniature jersey, also in royal blue, with ADLER in small print across the back. “Want both my girls wearing our name.”
He points between us. “Adlers.” Like we’re a package deal. A family.
Something I always wanted. One of my own.
Tossing the larger jersey he purchased over my shoulder, I reach for the smaller one. Spreading it between my hands, I stare at the tiny size and small font. The giant number twelve is centered on the back.
Tulane is going to look adorable in this mini-me jersey.
Slowly, all the steam seeps out of me, and I lower the shirt. “I’m sorry.”
Bolan had been bending to pick up his bag, but his head snaps upward, and he slowly stands, leaving the duffle on the floor.
I lick my lips again, uncertain I should say what I’m about to share, but suddenly feeling like the truth needs to be let out, if only a sliver of it.
“Clifton.” I swallow thickly. “Cliff. He . . . uh . . . he wasn’t exactly faithful to me.”
“What the fuck?” Bolan mutters. His hands immediately come to his hips again.
“In fact.” I clear my throat. “He wasn’t faithful at all.” My voice strengthens. “We’d been high school sweethearts and took a little break in college. That was the first girl.”
The secret I’m holding about Bolan and me hits hard, but this moment isn’t about my sins.
Instead, I power on with Cliff’s history. “It happened a second time when he played professional football.”
The life of a professional athlete, he’d said. The attention. The temptation. As if either was an excuse. Like a little extra interest or the momentary enthusiasm of a fan excused his behavior.
He wasn’t even that great of a player. Not one people would readily recognize. He’d been a second-string wide receiver.
“Second time?” Bolan scoffs, his brows severely creased.
Fool me twice, shame on me.
“The third time, though . . .”
Cliff had been away for six long months on an Army mission. I’d been waiting for him, as a wife should. Holding off on my own dreams. Pressing pause on having a family. Working for his father when being in sports management was the last thing I wanted to do.
The third time. I’d asked Clifton for a divorce.
“Third time?” Bolan barks, stepping closer to me.
For some reason, I step back, afraid of his touch. Afraid of how much I secretly crave it, want it to be real, yearn for it to mean something to him.
Forcing down the pain of that final time and brushing past the rush of hurt on Bolan’s face, I barrel on, keeping my gaze on his eyes. “Nylah and Jared don’t know.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I don’t want them to.” I didn’t want to ruin their image of their son. Their precious, perfect boy who is gone.
I also hadn’t wanted to lose them as better parents than my own.
Bolan licks his top set of teeth and turns his head a second. “Who does know?” He looks back at me, hands restored on his hips.
“Only me. And now you.”
His hands fall from his hips. His fingers spread wide before relaxing. He stares back at me. “You’re trusting me with this secret?”
I tilt my head. “I’m trusting you.” With this secret. With my heart. I don’t want Bolan to shatter it like Cliff did, and cheating is a hard limit for me as I told him when we negotiated terms for this arrangement.
Real marriage or not, I don’t want a wayward husband just because we are together for false pretenses.
Patience. I need it in order to trust him with more of me.
Plus, I still have another secret I’m keeping from him.
Bolan nods before closing the gap between us. The rush is so quick, it startles me, but I don’t flinch away this time when he gently catches my upper left arm and leans toward my right ear.
“I’m sorry that happened to you.” His voice is a whisper of sincerity.
“And I’m sorry, too, flower. That you thought, even for a second, that I’d step out on you.
That you had to witness a sliver of my past. I told you I’ve been bad, but I’m promising .
. . on my heart.” He leans back and paints a giant X with his fingertip over his chest. “That I’ll be good to you. ”
Then he kisses the tip of his finger that crossed his heart, and he cups the back of my hand, lifting it palm upright. He sets that kissed fingertip against my inner hand, like he’s branding my love line. Marking me with that promise. Stamping me with a kiss he’s being patient to give me.
Patient to earn.