The Rookie and The Rockstar Read online

  “New Orleans?” he asks.

  “Yeah, back in L.A.. I can’t go anywhere without feeling like people are watching me. When I’m home, it’s like even if people are watching me, I don’t feel like it’s a threat.”

  Bo’s brows pull together. “But in L.A. you felt threatened?”

  “Sometimes.” I shrug. “Like this one time, I was just stopping for coffee, nothing going on...it’d been months since my last album...like a random Tuesday. I walk in, order the coffee, and turn around to half a dozen cameras aimed in my direction. Once that happened, people started stopping to gawk, creating a mob outside the coffee shop. I just remember feeling trapped and I didn’t want to make it worse by staying, so I hauled ass. A few of the paparazzi chased me to my car.” I swallow, remembering the way my blood was pumping by the time I got inside my car and locked the doors. “It was scary.”

  I feel Bo’s hand on top of mine and he squeezes reassuringly. “I’d never let anything like that happen.”

  “I know,” I tell him, offering a smile. “And I don’t think anything like that would ever happen here anyway.”

  He pulls his hand away and I immediately miss his touch. When he clears his throat, I know there’s a question coming, something that’s on his mind.

  “So, tell me about the other night,” he says, leaving it more of a request.

  Taking a deep breath, I let it out, kind of wishing our food would show up and I could be saved by the Pad Thai I ordered.

  “Other than it being a fucking recipe for disaster?” I ask, letting out a humorless laugh. “I felt set up. Terry knows I don’t want to be around people like Cody DiMarco, but it’s like he doesn’t care.”

  “Why don’t you fire him? Find someone else,” Bo says with conviction. “I’m sure there are people out there who would fall over themselves to get the chance to work with you.”

  The blush on my cheeks is almost instantaneous. For some reason, a compliment from Bo Bennett makes me a little self-conscious.

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” I say, humming my indifference. “But Terry’s been my manager since I started on Life with Charli.” He’s been with me through everything. I want to tell Bo that, but I don’t think we’re ready to go down that road...yet. “I can’t imagine starting over with someone else.”

  Bo lets out a deep breath, leaning back in his chair and distracting me with his sexy forearms when he crosses them over his chest. “Some of the guys have been talking about financial managers and PAs and that I need to start thinking about stuff like that, but I’d rather not, you know?”

  I nod. I do know. The second you let someone else start running any part of your life, it’s downhill from there. “But the sad part is that for you to do your job, you’ll probably need someone else to take care of the mundane, day-to-day tasks,” I tell him honestly. “It sucks.”

  He cracks a smile, letting out a laugh, and I’m mesmerized by the way his eyes seem to twinkle when he does. The dim lighting in the restaurant takes my mind back to last night...and the way he looked when we were nose to nose. So achingly beautiful. And it’s like he doesn’t even know.

  “I figure my agent can take care of most of the shit for now,” he says, leaning over the table, his hand coming down to rest on mine. “He’s already hounding me about some endorsement deals, and I know that’s all part of the package, but all I really want to do is play baseball.”

  I smile, tangling my fingers with his. “That’s all most of us want...just to play baseball, just sing, just act...the rest of the shit is like our punishment for following our fucking dreams.”

  We both laugh, the feeling of being understood thick in the air.

  Chapter 13

  Bo

  Listening to the bat crack during batting practice is like meditation for me.

  It centers me, grounds me.

  Everything about a baseball diamond is so familiar to me. It can calm me when nothing else can, and I need it today. After my date with Charlotte last night, we made out like horny teenagers in the front seat of my car, complete with fogging up the windows.

  She asked me to come in and I wanted to—God knows I did—but for the second night in a row, I put the brakes on.

  I will have Charlotte.

  I’ll have her nice and slow.

  I’ll have her fast and furious.

  But when I do, I want to be able to savor it—savor her—and I knew since we have an early game today, I’d need to be at the field by seven to make it through my normal pre-game routine.

  It was almost midnight when I made it back to the apartment last night, much to the dismay of my roommates. Luis and Jorge looked at me like I’d grown an extra head when I walked in the door. I also got the Spanish Inquisition.

  Where was I?

  Who was I with?

  Did I know what time it is?

  It’s like they’re my parents and I missed curfew.

  But this morning, when I woke up with the worst case of morning wood I’ve ever had in my entire life and Charlotte front and center on my mind, I wished I had stayed.

  I wished I had taken her up on her offer.

  Responsibilities be damned.

  I wished I had spent the night wrapped up in Charlotte.

  And that thought freaks me the hell out. A month ago, I was determined to not have any distractions. I’ve made it. I’m here, living my dream, and I’ve never let anything or anyone stand in my way. As much as I’d like to deny it, Charlotte is definitely a distraction. Just the fact that I’m regretting not sharing a bed with her last night is a big glaring sign—a fucking neon light.

  But it’s too late. She’s under my skin. And this thing between us feels like a locomotive. It’s taken a while for us to get going, but now that we are, it’d take a force of nature to stop us.

  Fortunately, I worked out most of the tension I woke up with during warm-ups. The lingering buzz under my skin is reminiscent of the way I feel before any given game, but this time, I know it has everything to do with a dark-haired beauty and less to do with a game I’ve loved my entire life.

  “Rook,” Davies says, clasping his hand on my shoulder. “Heard you were out a little late last night.”

  These fuckers gossip more than old women. “Is there a curfew I didn’t know about?”

  He gives me a sly smile. “I’m hoping this means what I think it means.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I tell him, not willing to give away anything about me and Charlotte when it comes to sex. When it happens, and it will happen, it’ll be between us. No one else.

  “Dude, how can you be in town for a month and already be making it on TMZ?” Phil asks, walking up to a group of us standing around waiting on our turn to bat.

  My heart drops at the question, then starts beating double time.

  “Give me that,” Davies says, snatching the phone from Phil. Davies inspects the photo, moving his fingers on the screen to zoom in on it. Mack walks up and looks over his shoulder. It’s when Mack’s gaze moves from the phone to me that I really start to worry.

  He knows.

  He knows about Charlotte.

  “It’s not bad,” Mack says, trying to smooth over the situation. “It’s grainy...I wouldn’t even know it was you except for the fact you’re a fucking giant.”

  Just because he measures in at around five-foot-eleven, one of the shorter guys on the team, he thinks the rest of us are abnormally tall. The fact is, he’s kind of short for a baseball player.

  When Davies walks over with the phone, showing me the screen, my stomach drops.

  It’s definitely me...and Charlotte.

  I have my arm wrapped around her waist and she’s tucked into my side.

  The moment is ingrained in my memory from last night. Something about her laugh mixed with the warm New Orleans night made it feel damn near perfect. We’d just shared a fantastic meal and hours of conversation. It was normal and something I haven’t had in a long time, if ever.
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  “Must’ve drawn a little attention...taking out someone like Lola Carradine,” Davies comments, partially in awe and partially in disapproval. “I said get laid. I didn’t say get caught up with a rockstar and land yourself on the cover of every gossip rag in the supermarket.”

  “Well, I didn’t get laid. I went on a date,” I correct, not wanting them to think mine and Charlotte’s relationship is anything less than what it is. “And her name is Charlotte.”

  A whistle has me turning my head to look who’s standing behind me. Jason Freeman, Golden Glove winner and last year’s MVP, is listening in on our conversation. “Lola Carradine, huh?” He shakes his head and smirks. “Damn, Rook, that’s a fine piece of ass.”

  At this comment, my blood turns to lava.

  Davies must see this fury on my face because he steps between me and Freeman, handing the phone back to Phil. “You want him talking about your fine piece of ass...what’s her name? Alicia? She was on the cover of that magazine a month or so ago, right? Lacy black number, if I remember correctly.”

  “Shut the fuck up, man,” Jason seethes.

  Davies nods, taking a step back. “That’s what I thought.”

  And that was the last anyone talked about Lola Carradine.

  Ross Davies has been on this team for five years and is under a ten-year contract, one of the longest in the league. If there was a designated captain for a major league baseball team, he’d be it. He keeps this team motivated and running smoothly.

  Later, when we’re walking out of the dugout for the National Anthem, he turns to me and talks quietly, where only the two of us are privy to the information. “A high-profile relationship is never easy. I’ve seen it ruin a guy’s career, but I’m not saying that to talk you out of it. I’m just saying it so you’re aware of what you’re getting yourself into. There will be guys like fucking Freeman who will love to get under your skin by making comments about her...you...your relationship. If you can’t rise above it, you might reconsider. But whatever you do, let that shit go and get your head in the game.”

  The game doesn’t go our way and we end up losing by three runs. Being our first loss of the season, the locker room is quiet, everyone taking quick showers and tossing their shit in a bag.

  “Drinks at my house,” Mack says. “For anyone who needs to drown their sorrows.”

  “I’m gonna pass,” Davies groans, tentatively stretching out his left side. He slid into home, missing by an inch, and walked away with a nice bruise he’ll feel for a few days. “I’m going home to ice this and hit the hay. I suggest y’all do the same. We’ve got another early game tomorrow and we need to show them who owns this field.”

  There are a few mutters of agreement from guys around the locker room.

  The atmosphere is downright stoic compared to the other post-game locker room sessions since I’ve been here. No beers and beignets tonight.

  All I want to do is get to my car and call Charlotte. I left two tickets for her and Casey at Will Call, but the few times I sought them out, I didn’t see anyone in the seats. I’m assuming she’s seen the photo and maybe decided to lay low for the night.

  When I step out of the locker room and into the long corridor that leads to the player parking, I hear them before I see them—people, cameras.

  “Bo!” someone calls out making my head snap up and flashes blind me. “Over here, Bo!”

  My head is spinning as I look around, thankful for the gate at the end of the corridor keeping them at bay, but feeling like a caged animal. I could retreat back to the locker room, but I’d rather get the hell out of here.

  “Bo, is it true you’re dating Lola Carradine?” one yells.

  “Bo, tell us about your relationship with Lola.”

  More clicks of a camera paired with flashes of light.

  “Do you know if she’s been in rehab recently?”

  What the fuck?

  “How long have you been dating?”

  “Is it serious?”

  A hand comes up on my shoulder, scaring the shit out of me, but when I turn around, it’s Davies standing behind me with a scowl on his face. “Fucking vultures,” he mutters, guiding me to a narrow hallway to our left. “No comment.”

  Twisting the knob, he shoves me into the dark space. “Keep walking,” he instructs. “There’s another side entrance at the end of this hallway. You can ride with me and I’ll drop you at your place. You can catch a ride with Luis or Jorge tomorrow.”

  I swear, the theme song to the Twilight Zone is playing in my head. I have no idea what just happened or how I ended up here. “Thanks, man,” I mutter, feeling like I owe him for coming to my rescue. I’m not a fucking damsel in distress, but I was not prepared for that.

  “Always tell them no comment,” Davies instructs as we start to see light coming from a closed door ahead of us. “Keep your head down, don’t make eye contact. They can smell fear.”

  Once we get to the door, he pushes it open and we’re immediately bombarded by a couple rogue photographers. When the questions start flying, I duck my head and follow Davies to his car, muttering, “No comment.”

  Chapter 14

  Charlotte

  “Lola, are you listening?” Terry asks. I’ve only heard him drone on and on about my career for the last fucking hour, so long I missed any chance of seeing Bo play today.

  After a long night and half the morning in the studio—needing something to keep my mind off of my building sexual frustration—I had finally decided to pull myself up and go catch the last half of Bo’s game. But before Casey and I could get out the door, Terry called.

  I let it go to voicemail at first, but when he immediately dialed me back, I knew I had to answer. His level of persistence knows no bounds.

  At first, I thought it was just a typical call, some other publicity stunt he wanted me to participate in or some rumor he’d heard, but then he dropped the bomb.

  Another photo surfaced earlier today. But this time, instead of showing me doing a line of coke in a grungy club, I’m on the arm of one of the best rookies in baseball. I felt like my heart stopped beating. It’s the last thing I wanted to happen. The bubble I felt like I was floating in since coming back from L.A. burst in a spectacular fashion.

  “Listen,” Terry continues. “Musicians and athletes make great couples. The media will eat this shit up. I mean, I can’t believe I didn’t think about it myself...kudos to you, kid. For once, you’ve made a choice without consulting me first and it actually turned out in your favor.” He sighs and I know, secretly, he’s pissed as hell.

  The first rule he ever set for me, back when I was barely old enough to sign my own name, was I don’t do anything without contacting him first. Never sign, speak, or agree without running it past him first. Shit, when I was younger, I felt like I couldn’t fucking sneeze without his permission. The older I got, the more of a backbone I grew, the less I consulted Terry.

  If you ask him, he would say that was my demise.

  According to him, he’s been trying to dig me out of a hole since I was eighteen years old and disappeared off the face of the earth. That time of my life is one I don’t like to think about, even though I do, every fucking day. I also don’t like to talk about it. It’s done. Over. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I’ve been trying to move on...for the last eleven years.

  Eleven years, two months, and seventeen days.

  I’ve been counting.

  When I still don’t reply to his self-indulgent monologue, he continues to talk. “So, here’s what you do,” he instructs, changing his tone to one of pure business. “You and Bo Bennett, you go out, you be seen. I’m going to need you to schedule at least two public appearances a week. We’ll cultivate a relationship, at least in the eyes of the media. We’ll play it up, showing you with this wholesome, boy-next-door type. To everyone else, it’ll seem like you’ve really made the turn toward home, coming back to your roots. People who were your fans during the Life with Charli days wil
l be eating this up with a fucking spoon.”

  His excitement would be contagious if it weren’t for the fact that every word he spews makes me want to fucking hurl.

  “No,” I tell him, my voice unrecognizable.

  “No what?” he asks with an incredulous laugh, like how dare I contradict him.

  I clear my throat, conviction heavy in my chest.

  “No, I won’t parade Bo Bennett around like a fucking prize trophy. No, I won’t exploit him. No, I won’t ask him to go under the microscope with me. He didn’t ask for this. He doesn’t want it. And I refuse to be the reason he’s distracted from playing the game he loves.” Swallowing, I bite down on my lip to keep my emotions in check. “So, here’s what you’re going to do, Terry,” I say, as calmly as possible. “You’re going to go to your people and you’re going to tell them this was two acquaintances having dinner. We were discussing a charity event, that’s all it was. And I’m going to lay low until people forget about it and move the fuck on.”

  “You’re not thinking clearly,” Terry says, exhaling loudly over the phone. “Think about it.” Each word is over pronounced like I need help understanding the English language. There’s a long pause and I wonder for a second if he thinks I’m going to change my mind.

  “Look, I can tell you like this guy. I’m not sure what’s going on, but if you really do like him, why not play it to your advantage?”

  It’s like Terry can’t wrap his mind around someone not using someone else to get ahead. He’s lived his whole damn life that way, using people like rungs on a ladder, stepping on people’s heads to get to the top.

  “Talk to him,” Terry encourages. “Have him talk to his publicist—”

  I roll my eyes and groan. “He doesn’t have one. That’s what you don’t get—Bo isn’t like everyone else.”

  Terry’s cynical laugh sends chills up my spine. “Oh, Charlotte.”

  He only uses my real name when he’s being a condescending prick.

  “Still so naive after all these years.”