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He could have kicked himself for revealing that one.
But then she’d talked about her parents’ fighting. How sometimes she didn’t care about making it in New York; it was just a new place, a new beginning.
She told him how she was sick of every day being focused on hate.
And for the first time, he let himself start to wonder if this deal could work out.
She’d left ten minutes ago, after he’d told her to go so they wouldn’t be seen walking out together. He’d killed ten minutes burning through his last token, remembering the feel of her body with every swing he took.
Dad’s truck sat alone at the back of the parking lot, dark in the shade of an old elm tree. Michael had the keys in his hand and a bemused smile he couldn’t get off his face.
He didn’t even hear the attackers until his head was slamming into the concrete.
They were all on him at once. He couldn’t even get a handle on how many guys had tackled him. One had come from the bed of the truck. They had the chain Dad kept back there to tie down loose loads, and they had it against his throat, pinning him to the parking lot. Someone else trapped an arm, kneeling on his wrist, grinding his skin into the pavement.
And then, just as he registered the blond hair, someone punched him in the face. A good, solid punch, with power behind it.
He saw stars for a second, long enough for them to pin his other arm. He struggled, but he had no leverage.
“Hey, ass**le.”
Tyler. He’d swung the first punch—and he did it again.
Michael coughed against the chain on his throat. He gritted his teeth. He could pull power from the earth and throw them off, but he doubted they’d give him a free pass like Emily had.
Keep it together.
God, he’d been stupid. Every time he came here, he checked the store, and every time he left, he checked the truck. Every time, ready for an ambush.
o;It is to me.”
Emily stopped fidgeting and looked at him.
“So,” he said, his voice softer and almost gentle, “thanks.”
She had no idea what to say to that.
And he didn’t wait. He picked up his bat and turned for the back door to the shop, stepping out into the humidity without a backwards glance.
Emily cheated the time clock out of fifteen minutes and strode down the hill to the batting cages. Michael was still there, in a royal blue tee shirt today, using the fastest machine they had.
She didn’t even hesitate this time, just walked up to the cage and hooked her fingers through the fence.
“It’s Monday,” she said.
He didn’t look. “No kidding.”
Crack.
“You said you only come on Wednesdays and Fridays.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Maybe I didn’t want to miss the show.”
His voice wasn’t quite friendly—but it sure wasn’t hostile. She blushed again and wished her skin weren’t so fair. Maybe he’d attribute it to the heat.
Then he turned back to swing for the next ball.
There was something addictive about the sound of the machine, the regular crack of the bat, the motion of his body as he swung to hit.
