Page 89 of Wild Hit
Actually, thisispeace—okay, not quiet, but I’m walking on sunshine right now. Even more than after having won another glass bat. I don’t want this to end. I also don’t think it’s right to act like clingy lint to Audrey’s T-shirt.
I’m still debating how to navigate that after we’re parked by the curb, and all three of us are getting out of the car. My genius strategy is to stall some more by stretching, which also isn’t entirely an act. We got stuck on some really bad traffic coming up Semoran after taking Consuelo home, and I was about to become welded to the car seat. The sound of the back door opening spurs me to action.
“I got it, I got it,” I chant as I hurry. My suitcase is pretty heavy between Marty’s stuff, mine, and All-Star paraphernalia. Audrey’s looked about similar size, so maybe it’s heavy too.
And then something catches my attention. Between evening cicadas and a hot breeze, I hear something like a click. It wouldn’t register if I didn’t hear it again. And again.
I glance around and there it is, a dark figure in a neighbor’s bushes. The thing making the sound? It’s a camera with a very long lens, aimed right at Audrey and my daughter.
I don’t know what happens, one moment I’m about to take care of my family’s luggage. The next I’m sprinting across the residence.
There’s some scrambling. Someone yells. My legs pound the ground with violence. I don’t know if I’m breathing. My entire focus is on catching the paparazzi. No one takes secret picturesof my kid—no one. I hear my name in my brain. I shout back at it—not my family!
The man tries to run. Luck strikes for me, and the bushes tangle him up. I catch him by an ankle and yank him like a rag doll. I land one knee on his back, pinning him with no chance of escape. I’m breathing like a race horse as I reach for his arms. He tries to squirm free, but there is no way in hot hell that I’m letting him loose. I pin his arms with my legs and lean over him.
“Who the hell are you?” I bark in his ear. “Why are you taking pictures of my family?”
Dude tries to spit some venom at me and I have minus patience for this bullshit.
I free one hand to dig his head deeper in the grass, and speak very low. “Answer or this is gonna get damn uglier.”
“I’ll—I’ll press assault charges,” he squeaks out.
“I’ll keep pressing your face into the dirtandalso press charges for stalking a woman and a minor, how about that?”
“Screw you!”
Tip taps echo until two sets of legs appear before me. One is from my daughter, and she’s holding one of my signed wooden bats. The other one is my wife—Audrey, I mean. She’s waving a… spatula?
“I called nine-one-one,” the woman says out of breath, her eyes volleying between the intruder and me, back and forth. “Who is he?”
I lean forward to whisper at the man. “Answer the lady.” The order goes with a bit more force from my hand.
“I’m a PI! I was hired for this job!” he finally spills out, completely catching me off guard.
A private investigator? And not a paparazzi?
Thankfully, Audrey has kept her marbles. “Who sent you?”
“Your momma,” the asshole tries, spitting out some grass blades.
“That’s funny,” Audrey says in a flat voice. “Try again before the cops arrive, and maybe we’ll see if the charges can be lighter.”
The pause indicates that the guy is giving it a thought. But then he says, “I can’t reveal that.”
“Audrey,” I say with some difficulty, not from keeping the guy prisoner, but from keeping my anger and fear in check. “Ch-Check the camera,” I stutter through a tight jaw.
She drops the spatula and scrambles to grab the thing. When the PI jerk crashed, his equipment went flying off and is possibly broken. Audrey picks up the camera and the lens stays on the grass. Even though her expression is confident, bordering on annoyed, I can see the way her hands shake as she fiddles with buttons.
“No! You’re going to break it!” the jackass has the nerve to say.
I lean down again and speak with my lowest voice, so my daughter doesn’t hear. “I’m going to break something else if you don’t tell me who sent you.”
“That—That’s assault!”
“It might become murder depending on what’s in that camera,” I add almost conversationally.
Guy spits out more grass and finally wheezes it out. “Henry Vos hired me.”
