Sacrifice
Page 91

She steadied the rack and called over her shoulder, loudly enough to be heard over the music. “I’m so sorry—”
Then she stopped short. Michael Merrick stood there.
She stared at him, unable to move.
He made a circular motion with his hand. “Could you turn this down?”
“Oh . . . sure.” She dashed for the stereo behind the counter and yanked her iPod cord free. The music died instantly.
When she straightened, Michael was at the counter. She could barely catch her breath.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said flatly. “I like Broadway musicals as much as the next guy.”
Her cheeks felt hotter—if that was possible. “Sorry. It’s been dead. I mean . . .” She hesitated. “You need tokens?”
“I have some from the other day.”
“Oh. Okay.”
But he was still standing there, staring down at her. It took some effort to meet his eyes, but at least she could read the emotion there: surprise, and intrigue, and confusion.
“About Friday,” he said.
She wet her lips. “Friday?”
“I stayed up all night.” A self-deprecating shrug. “Most of the weekend, really.”
She frowned. “Okay . . . ?”
“I was waiting.” He rested his forearms against the glass, and his voice dropped a notch. “I thought you’d turn me in.”
“For the parking lot?” She shrugged and picked at the disclaimers taped to the glass counter. “It’s not a big deal—”
“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.
Before she knew it, four pitches had gone by, and she realized she looked like a freak stalker.
She had to say something. “That looks so . . . therapeutic.”
“Want a turn?”
“What—No!” God, she’d been standing here staring. She couldn’t even remember why she’d come down to the batting cage. “Sorry. I’ll just . . . I’ll . . .”
“I’m sorry about Friday.” Michael fed the machine a new token. “Not just for the parking lot.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “For being a dick.”
She should turn and walk away. She didn’t want to. “It’s all right.”
He paused to swing. The crack of the bat stole her breath.
Another glance. He tapped the bat against the dirt. “Sure you don’t want a turn?”
Emily shook her head quickly. “I’ve never played baseball. I’m not sure the fast-pitch machine is the best place to start.”
He snorted. A laugh? She couldn’t tell. She felt like they’d completely ventured off the map of what felt sure and certain.
Then he said, “So why do you need this job so badly?”
“I want to move to New York City.”
The words were out before she could stop them. But he’d surprised her with his gratitude, followed by this apology. And for some reason, it was easier to have a conversation while his back was turned and his attention was focused elsewhere.
“New York?” Crack. The ball strained at the nets before dropping to the earth.
She swallowed. “Yeah. I have a friend who graduated two years ago who’s an understudy on Broadway. She says she’ll help me get a job.”
“You want to be on Broadway?” The surprise in his voice was almost tangible.
She bristled, ready for the mockery she’d gotten from her father when she’d mentioned this last year. There was a reason she made the appropriate noises about researching colleges but kept her true plans a secret. “Yeah, so?”
He didn’t say anything, the bat poised over his shoulder.
“I mean, it’s not like a guarantee or anything,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “I’ll probably end up waiting tables and calling my parents to borrow cash after six months.”
A ball flew at him. Crack.
“Nah. I could see it. You kept up with that Wicked song.”
Her jaw almost hit the ground. “You recognized the music?” And was that a . . . compliment?
He shrugged. “My dad got our mom tickets for her birthday last spring. We all had to go. Some crap about needing more culture.”