Page 26 of Playboy Pitcher
“That’s what thieves say to justify stealing,” she hisses, giving up and shoving both hands into my chest.
I grin. “You saytomayto; I saytomahto.”
Letting out an exasperated scream, she slumps against the car again, crossing her arms so tightly over her chest, I’m surprised she doesn’t crack a rib. It’s as much of white flag as I’m going to get, so I lower my arm to get a good look at the name embossed on the front of the card.
My grin fades. “You want to tell me how the hell you know Drake Prescott?”
Son of a bitch. I knew I recognized that asshole.
“I was about to ask him to leave,” she mumbles, staring at her shoes.
“Sweetheart, that guy had eighty-proof blood in his veins and your arm in a vice. The only thing you wereaboutto do was havewas a black eye.” The words might sound heartless, but the knot in my chest is very real.
The major league pitching circle is small, and the gossip within it savage. Nothing is off limits, from minor league rookies to fifty-year retirees. That’s why I know Prescott has a history of demandingthings. When he doesn’t get them, he takes them by any means necessary.
“Willow…” I sharpen my tone to let her know I’m not fucking around, but she doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even react. She just keeps staring down at those damn spiked heels, her chin stubbornly lowered. The knot in my chest tightens and it pisses me off.Fuck it.If she doesn’t give a shit, why am I trying to give myself a heart attack? Shaking my head, I flick the card at her feet and turn to leave. “Have a safe drive back to New York.”
“I’m not going back.”
I glance over my shoulder, uncertain if I heard her correctly or if I’m hallucinating. “What did you say?”
Lifting her chin, she catches my eye. “Never mind.”
“Don’tnever mindme, Willow. You can’t just say shit like that and…” I lose my train of thought as she looks away in the middle of my rant. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”
Instead of shifting back around, she keeps her face turned and fluffs that damn hair again. I start to roll my eyes, only to stop cold. Instead of brushing it back, she brushes it forward.
Into her eyes.
Covering her face.
This crazy girl is trying to hide behind bright blue hair. Jesus, that’s like trying to play hide-and-seek while sitting on top of a blaring firetruck.
Not only that…her hand is shaking.
“What the hell did he do to you, Willow?”
“He didn’t do anything.”
This time, I’m the one crossing my arms so tightly my muscles shake. “Then what did he say?” I demand, standing my ground. “Don’t play the semantics game with me. You’re obviously upset. What the hell’s going on?”
“Go fuck yourself, LaCroix.”
“Maybe later. For now, just answer the question.”
She lets out a humorless laugh. “Why do you care? I’m just some spoiled bitch in charge of your future who doesn’t know dick about baseball.”
That’s the second time she’s thrown my own words back in my face. I’m not used to females doing anything but dropping to their knees, much less talking back. I’m about to tell her as much when her words hit me. “Wait. You said in charge of my future.”
“So?”
“Incharge,” I clarify. “Notwasin charge.”
A smirk twists those pouty lips. “Don’t play the semantics game with me, LaCroix.”
Fucking hell, she’s doing it again. Tipping my head back, I suck air between my teeth, blowing it out slowly before leveling a hardened stare at her. “Did you or did you not sell the team?”
Willow swallows, her chest heaving with a labored breath. “I—I have to go.” Bending down, she swipes the business card and her keys from the ground and takes off in a sprint around the front of the car.
