Page 95 of Wild Hit
Marty grabs a candy and unwraps it. I peek at her notebook and confirm that she did, indeed, just finish a problem. And I confirmed that I’m still not rich all on my own, so I also take one candy.
The ten-year-old spitfire gives me a look like she can’t believe I’m matching her pace, and I click on something random on my iPad, pretending like I just completed another task. Grabbing another candy lights up a fire under her, and next thing we know, we’re competing for the prizes in the bowl, and chugging lemonade to make space for more. She works, I work, and it all seems like harmless fun…
Until it isn’t.
CHAPTER 34
MIGUEL
I’m singing on the way home. It’s one of those songs that produce the deepest cringe in my daughter—heck, probably even in my parents. It seems like no one listens to joropo anymore, but occasionally I like to remind myself that so far, I’ve still spent the larger portion of my life in Venezuela.
Today’s jam is Toy Contento by Mario Suarez. Hummingbirds kissing flowers feels apropos when today is day one of Audrey rooming with us.
Am I—the hummingbird—going to kiss her—the flower? Who knows. Probably not. But am I going to wish I could? Hell yeah, every freaking moment.
“Calm down, dog,” I tell myself.
The music stops, replaced by the amplified sound of my phone ringing. I take it as a sign that I was about to go down the path of misbehaving in my thoughts. After checking the caller ID, I answer using the steering wheel controls.
“What’s up, prima?”
Amelia makes a sound of pure disgust. “Ugh, why do you sound so happy after giving me so much work?”
“If it makes you feel any better, I was planning on giving you a generous bonus to express my gratitude.”
“In that case.” She clears her throat and flips the script. “I was calling to tell you that the legal team’s on the case and you have nothing to worry about. The one who should be sweating it out is the maladjusted jerk who put a snitch on you.”
Sadly, I doubt it. No interaction I’ve had with that Vos guy has led me to believe that he’s capable of regret.
“That’s good,” I say, all things considered.
“However…” My cousin drags the word enough that I almost drive a mile in the silence.
“If you’re not gonna talk I’d rather go back to listening to joropo while I drive.”
She sighs. “It’s just, I don’t know how to say it because I already know what your reaction will be. But you really should start considering some extra security.”
Ah, yes. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation.
Ever since my career hitting a ball with a big stick really took off, and the associated fame and salary started catching public interest, Amelia has been suggesting that I get some bodyguards or something like her clients who are soccer players or celebrities. They’ve been all over the world, and that brings a heavier layer of scrutiny than I can imagine.
The thing though, is that even though baseball is still ‘Murica’s sport, I don’t get accosted by people when I go to Trader Joe’s. The risky moments are before and after games, when tipsy fans are closer to us than ever. And the team and stadium staff have that fine tuned to an art.
“No.” Before she protests, I add, “Not for me, at least. Can you get someone to watch my girls from a distance? They’ll panic if they know another dude is following them, even if it’s someone looking out for them.”
“Your girls?”
“Look at that, I’m arriving home already,” I mention in my most innocent tone, but there’s no hiding that little blooperthere. My agent just caught onto something I’m not even willing to admit to myself—shit.
“Hmm. Fine, I’ll get two guys on the case. Let me know if you change your mind for yourself.”
Not gonna happen.
“Bye, Amelia.”
“Bye, you insufferable goodie-goodie two shoes.”
With that, she ends the call and the music returns. It’s a shame because I’m already pulling into the driveway, and I can see that Audrey’s car is parked out front. I turn off the engine and take a few deep breaths, one after the other.
