I didn’t find it. I was just another in a long line of women who had graced Rob’s bed. Though, of course, I hadn’t even rated a bed recently, I thought sourly. Just a desk in the press box.
Pulling my attention back to the bitter guy in front of me, I watched him all but spit at the TV. And when he noticed my attention, he shrugged. “Bastard has all the girls eating out his hand. They don’t know the truth.”
I blinked and tried to appear fascinated instead of repulsed. This guy might be the reason I came to Nebraska, but that didn’t mean I had to like digging up dirt. “What truth?”
“He’s a coldhearted bastard. He uses ’em and throws ’em away like tissues.”
“Women?”
“Women, friends, you name it. He just takes and takes and nobody says boo because he’s famous.”
Well, here was a man with an ax to grind. I felt sleazy just encouraging him to continue. “Did he take something from you?”
“Yes!” The word was spit into his beer right before he drained the mug. “But nobody wants to hear my sad tale.”
“I do,” I said. I couldn’t bring myself to touch the man, but I did lean forward and try to look earnest. “What happened?”
“It was my sister he destroyed. Fucking destroyed.” He slammed down his beer. “Me, I just taught him everything. Taught him how to swing, how to stand. Everything.”
Maybe, but he hadn’t been the one to practice all hours of the day and night. Teaching is one thing. Putting in the hours to do it is something else entirely. But I didn’t focus on that. “So you two were friends?”
“Grew up together. Lived in each other’s backyards. Until he fucked my sister.”
The beer went sour in my stomach. Was “fucked” figurative or literal? “Wow, that sucks,” I said noncommittedly. “What happened?”
“Got her pregnant, that’s what. Then dumped her like a used douche.”
Ew. I really didn’t want to hear this. Of all the bad things I could think about Rob—mostly that he was a womanizer of the first order—this was something I didn’t believe. We’d talked a lot in between bouts of sexual ecstasy. I just didn’t think he had it in him to abandon his child. But then, a lot of people did stupid things when they were kids. Hadn’t I come here for just this kind of dirt?
Maybe. And so I stayed. I bought another beer for Rob’s former best friend, who I learned was Tom Sullivan. I ordered nachos for myself so I had something else to blame for the sick feeling in my gut. And then I pumped the guy for whatever concrete details I could get, including the name of his sister, because I was going to have to verify whatever facts I could find.
We kept talking long after the baseball game ended. Bobcats over the White Sox 5–2. Rob had played spectacularly and there were lots of annoying commentator jokes about how a beautiful woman could inspire a man to greatness. The crowd loved it. Tom and I choked into our beers.
It was late by the time I headed back to my cheap motel room. I wasn’t looking forward to sleeping on a bed that was more uncomfortable than my car, but at least I’d be able to shower off some of the ick I felt from this day’s work. It was a short walk from the bar and the evening air was nice. I was busy counting the number of pickup trucks I passed—easily ten times what I’d see in Indianapolis—when a sleek black Corvette drove up beside me.
I’d taken self-defense classes and even knew how to fire a gun safely, but I wasn’t carrying and I sure as hell couldn’t take on a car with my bare hands. I jumped sideways into the grass, but the car just paced me, its engine making a dull rumble that somehow soothed my headache instead of irritating it. I’d already threaded my keys between my fingers, so I wasn’t completely bare-knuckle when the car window dropped down.
“Heidi! Thank God. You shouldn’t walk alone at night.”
“Rob?” I gaped at the man. He couldn’t seriously be here. He was in Chicago. I’d seen him on TV. But that was hours ago, and… I did some rapid calculation in my head. Yeah, he could have made it here by now if he’d driven straight from the stadium.
“Get in before someone recognizes this car.”
Someone? Hell, everyone. It was a black Corvette in Broken Bow. He had to own the only one. “Come to get a dose of adoration from your homeys?” Okay, I admit it. Maybe I was angry at the way he and Brittany had been making kissy-faces at each other on national TV. Or maybe I was just out of sorts because I’d never imagined myself spending days looking for smut on one of my exes. Either way, the words were harsh, and I knew it.
He grimaced and pushed open the car door. “I came to see you. Damn it, don’t you ever check your messages?”
Yes, I’d checked them. And yes, I’d heard his anonymous plea for me to talk to him. “Sorry, Rob from Ft. Lauderdale,” I drawled. “I must have forgotten to hit reply.” Or more likely, I hadn’t known what I wanted to say, so I’d hadn’t said anything.
His gaze grew angry, but his tone remained steady. “I can get fired for talking to you. And if anyone local uploads a picture of this car right next to you, then I sure as hell will get fined. So please, will you get in so I can talk to you in private without risking ten thousand dollars?”
I stared at him, the numbers not lining up in my head. Could he seriously get fined just for talking to me? I’d known that the Bobcats were obsessive about controlling media interaction, but ten grand? That was enough to make me scramble into his car and slam the door.
“I hope you weren’t lying,” I said, wondering if I’d just jumped into the car of a crazy person. “I’m a journalist. I can find out the truth.”
“Believe me, I know you’re a journalist.” He hit the gas and we roared away. “The question is whether you’re a fair one or not.”
Normally I’d be insulted to my very bones by the suggestion. But right then, I was sick on nachos, beer, and too many hours spent trying to dig up dirt. I couldn’t feel dirtier if I were wearing stilettos and a hooker miniskirt. So instead of arguing, I tried something else.
