Page 45 of Renegade Ruin

Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.

Fuck. I don’t need my jackass teammates in my head right now. Not when I know what I’m about to ask is a fucked-up driveinto left-center. But I’m desperate for a little control over my life, and this might just be the answer to gaining it.

My eyes drift, taking in the room. It’s impersonal and cold, and not what I expected from our warmhearted former owner, but it sets a precedent. One I’m sure Willow was aware of when she chose it for the setting of our conversation. I was hoping for the comfy sectional in the living room, but wish in one hand and want in the other.

The large mahogany desk looms in front of a wall of bookshelves that holds various law texts and baseball memorabilia. Adjacent to the desk, floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the setting sun on a private beach. The same private beach that each of the monstrous houses in this community boasts. I might be a professional baseball player with a multi-million-dollar contract, but this is more than even I could imagine. I keep scanning until my gaze lands on the bar cart in the corner.

Bingo.

Willow had the right idea. Drinks are going to be necessary. At least for her. I can’t allow myself to indulge. If I do, I might not want to stop and I need to keep my wits about me.

See? I’m trying to do better.

I make quick work of pouring Willow a gin and soda with a twist of lime just the way she likes it.

When I’ve finished, a binder, tucked between the glass shaker and the lip of the drink cart, catches my eye. The leather is worn, a stark contrast to the perfection that drips from every surface in this room.

I’m not usually one to snoop, but curiosity gets the better of me. What could be so unimportant for the immaculate Richard York to leave out for anyone to find? My gaze darts toward the door to make sure Willow isn’t standing there before I pick it up and carefully work the zipper around the edge.

I don’t know what I expect to find, but it definitely isn’t pages upon pages of baseball cards—rare ones at that.

My mouth drops open. It’s the kind of collection any kid would dream of. Hell, any adult would too. There was a time I collected cards like these, but growing up in a house of eleven, expensive baseball cards weren’t exactly a reasonable expectation to show up under the tree.

“Starting without me?” Her voice is hesitant but playful, and I hope that will carry over to the conversation we’re about to have. I need this to go well. If it doesn’t, I’m not sure how I’m going to make it through the coming weeks.

With one hand, I clutch the binder to my chest, like a kid who’s just been caught red-handed, and I pick up the gin and soda I made for her as a peace offering.

I glance up to where Willow stands in the doorframe in leggings and an oversized Renegades sweatshirt. Her hair is no longer down, instead she’s pulled it up into a messy knot on the top of her head with a few stray curls framing her face. It’s a good look on her. Relaxed. Dangerously so. It’s almost like by dressing down she’s taken off the mask of being an owner for this conversation. And while that’s the girl I remember, the girl I once started falling for, I have to remind myself that isn’t who we are anymore. What I have to say won’t change that. It can't.

“Just making sure you have what you need,” I say, lifting the gin and soda in her direction. It’s not a complete lie.

She raises a brow, and I understand the skeptical line she’s pressed her lips into. I’ve given her every reason to question my motives.

Willow closes the space between us and takes the drink from my hand, her eyes zeroing in on the binder.

“Am I drinking alone?” she asks at the same time I say, “Are these real?”

I chuckle. “Yes. I’m taking a break from alcohol.”

Her brow raises even higher, but she doesn’t pry.

I let the binder fall open in my hands once more and run my fingers over the rare cards, and for a moment I almost pull them back because I have no doubt these should be in a museum. “You know what this is, right?”

Willow leans over and looks at the card I’m pointing at. She huffs a laugh. “Yes, I’m aware. It’s a 1948 Leaf #79 Jackie Robinson rookie card.”

My eyes go wide at the same time my cock takes notice. It’s incredibly hot she’s able to rattle off the card's name in its entirety. “So, you know what one of these is worth?”

“More than one with your face on it.” She smirks and lifts her drink to her mouth, moaning as the alcohol coats her throat.

The sound is a flashback to the night in my hotel room and is like a lightning bolt to my dick. I shift my weight to hide the evidence of my blood rushing south behind the bar cart.

“Am I in here?” I tease, brow raised as I turn the page and marvel at each of the cards.

“Not a chance.”

I bring my hand to my chest in mock hurt, loving the way her lips tip up in a lively smile. “I suppose even without my presence, this collection is incredible.”

“Thank you.”

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