Page 78 of Wild Pitch
Or else I’ll have to drive home to get them, and I’d rather not explain to my roommates why I’d be poaching pots or knivesfrom our kitchen. I trust them a lot more than Otto, but I don’t want them to think this is a bigger deal than it is.
It’s just that none of the other guys legitimately sounded as bad as Starr did, and the second he admitted to not having eaten anything my amygdala kicked in. I’m a fight type of person, which rather than anger, more often than not translates into having to dosomethingso I don’t feel useless.
Soup it is.
I probably break a world record of fastest grocery shopping for all the ingredients necessary for Dad’s chicken soup. It’s his bootleg version of the Venezuelan mondongo but only with one type of meat—chicken—and without spending two days in the preparation. It’s still a pretty hearty everything-but-the-kitchen-sink recipe that cures everything but a broken heart. I tried it after I got dumped and it’s the only time this soup hasn’t fixed me.
The drive to his house is pretty quick, and when I shift into the brick streets is when I know I’m in the seriously moneyed area. Breathing here already increases my taxes.
“You have arrived,” my GPS says, the screen signaling that my destination is on the right. But all I see is a concrete wall at odds with the open lawns on every other lot. I park behind two cars by the entrance of the bunker-like property and check that the house number nailed over the entrance matches the text message from him.
“Huh,” I mutter as I step out of my Jeep. I pick up the bags of groceries from the back and head over to the door. I search everywhere for the keypad, and I don’t know if it’s because the streetlights are too dim, or if it’s just that this door is too fancy, but it takes me a good moment to find the near seamless keypad.
The door gives out a fancy little beep as it opens.
“Oh, geez,” I say to myself. Is this a bank or a home?
I walk into a yard unlike anything I’ve seen before. It’s quite narrow but long—very long. There’s perfectly manicured grass, and the walls are flanked by so many plants that it’s easy to forget that the whole property is encased by concrete. But something in the middle of it makes me smile.
Starr straight up built a pitching mound with a strike zone painted old school against an end wall. The wall is stained with blows from what must be thousands of pitches he’s thrown at it.
Shaking my head, I close the entrance door behind me and make my way across the narrow patch of grass to the house. In contrast to the property’s perimeter, the house walls are made of crystal clear glass. Inside the lights are on and display decor straight out of a gallery room—large, modern furniture in earth tones, brass all over. But first, there’s a front door I must defeat.
I wouldn’t consider myself a genius of my generation or anything, but I key in the same code as before and this door also opens. I’d pat my own back if my hands weren’t busy.
“Wow,” I say once I’m inside, and my voice echoes in the empty chamber of perfect acoustics.
This place was clearly decorated by an expensive designer because even the light fixtures look intentional. The kitchen is pristine, only with a bowl of fresh fruit on the marble counters. There better be actual cooking crap behind the cabinets. I place the bags on the kitchen island by the farm style double sink, straight out of the renovation shows my roomies and I like to binge watch while dreaming of having house-buying money one day.
There’s only one thing missing from this place, though. And that is…
Signs of life.
And I don’t just mean because Starr wasn’t waiting by the door to greet me. I mean that there’s literally no indication that he even lives here. Where are the family pictures? Thedomestic messes? The mismatched mugs or even the Orlando Wild paraphernalia? This looks like a freaking AirBNB that costs a grand per night.
“Starr?” I call out weakly. Something about raising my voice in this house kinda scares me. What if my shrills break the glass or something?
I glance around again, as if he could pop out from between the couch cushions. The kitchen seems to be smack in the middle of the floor plan because the main entrance opens directly to it and to the vast living room, which I’m facing right now. I pad softly toward the opposite wall to the entrance, where massive crystal doors overlook a long pool that spans across the length of the property all the way to the back, where I assume the rooms are. It feels way longer than the front yard, and since I didn’t see his car outside, I put two and two and deduct that it’s because the front yard is cut short by a garage. The wall with the strike zone must be its side.
The property probably fits three of my dad’s whole lot, except this is just for a single guy. He must throw some pretty wild parties in here.
I shake off the yuck that gives me and take out my phone from my pocket to shoot him a text. MyI’m heregoes completely ignored. Did he go out? No way to find out unless I snoop in his garage.
Well, since I’m here I might as well. I retrace my steps to the entrance, using the sort of mental map I’ve made of the place. There’s a short, narrow hallway to the right of the entrance that I ignored when I walked in. It ends in a door and it unlocks to a dark, uncomfortably hot space. I feel around the sides until I find a light switch and flip it.
Voila, a massive black pickup truck is parked in the middle, surrounded by racks of tools, household goods, and baseball equipment. A.k.a. a garage.
I turn off the light and close the door. This tells me one thing: Cade Starr is somewhere in this house, and he might be indisposed enough that he’s passed out.
I gasp a little. “What if he needs urgent care?”
Screw decency, I need to find this guy right now.
My sneakers squeak against the marble floors as I pivot around the kitchen to the opposite hallway that runs by the pool. Somewhere behind the kitchen, it cuts perpendicular into a smaller hallway, but I try the very first door on the left instead.
Success.
If it hadn’t been for the single lit up lamp by his bed, I’d have missed him and tried another room instead. His bed is massive, no doubt custom made for a 6 foot 4 giant like him. And there, in the middle, is none other than the house owner.
