We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,27

Jaxon. Even the mess I’ve made with Jo. All of it goes out of focus until there’s only one thing remaining.

Leather in my left.

Ball in my right.

I crank back my right arm, hike up my knee, and throw with all my might — with every bit of my rage channeled into tensing muscles and blinding speed. The ball is a blur as it sails past Ryan’s swinging bat, straight into Tomlinson’s glove.

Strike.

Ryan blinks, looking dumbfounded. The smug smile is gone from his face.

Behind the backstop fence, Coach is yelling. Holding the speed-gun in the air. Grinning ear to ear as he yells out the numbers on the screen.

102 mph.

It’s the fastest pitch I’ve ever thrown.

I linger at the field after practice ends, running mindless laps around the track. I’m in no great rush to get home. Things with Jo are a tangled catastrophe; it’s easier to avoid her entirely than attempt to work out the knots with both hands tied behind my back.

My teammates are long gone by the time I finally call it quits. I head for the dugout, rubbing the sore muscles of my pitching arm as I grab my equipment bag. After a night of no sleep and a full day on the field, I’m dead tired. A walking zombie. With any luck, that means I’ll fall into bed tonight too exhausted to dream, let alone think.

The last place I want to spend time is inside my own head, second guessing all my decisions.

My truck is the only one left in the parking lot. It’s already getting dark, shadows of each light pole stretching across the asphalt like skeletal fingers. My cleats echo with every footstep, a solitary patter. My mind is far away — already back at Cormorant House, wondering what Ma made for dinner, how Jo spent her day, whether Pa ever got the lawnmower running. It was giving him trouble this morning.

I don’t notice the men leaning against the cab until it’s too late. When they push off and step toward me, I go still, my arm freezing halfway to the tailgate, my stomach vaulting into my throat.

“Reyes, right?”

The leaner of the two men grunts the question at me. His eyes are shifty, darting back and forth across the parking lot for some unknown threat. Behind him, the beefier man stands in silent silhouette. One look at them — the tattoos, the low-slung jeans, the piercings, the vaguely menacing demeanors — makes it clear they’re not Manchester-by-the-Sea locals. The criminal element in this town is typically limited to speeding tickets and illegal parking fines.

Still, I’ve seen them before. I’d bet my pitching hand they’re the same guys who’ve been following me around — an almost-indiscernible presence, shadowing my movements from a careful distance in a black Ford Bronco.

I’m not sure when, exactly, they started trailing me. I noticed them for the first time about a month ago. We were on the way to school — Jo in my passenger seat prattling on about her parents’ latest, greatest save-the-world initiative — when I glanced in my rearview mirror and did a double-take.

Wasn’t that same Bronco behind me yesterday?

After that, I started paying better attention to my surroundings. Suddenly, they were everywhere I looked: parked in the woods by the front gate, driving in the lane behind mine on my way home from practice, idling across the street as Jo and I bought paper cups of sugary lemonade from a little kid’s neighborhood stand.

I guess I should’ve known it was only a matter of time before they made actual contact. It’s not like Jaxon didn’t warn me.

“Uh…” I clear my throat, trying not to sound intimidated. “Who’s asking?”

“You don’t need to know.”

I arch a brow. “Then I guess I don’t need to talk to you.”

At my flippant tone, the big guy takes a step forward, bringing his shoulder parallel with his partner’s — and his full bulk into view.

My heartbeat kicks up a notch. At six-foot-three, I’m not a shrimp by any measure; I don’t often feel intimidated. But this guy could turn me into mincemeat with one squeeze.

“Look,” the skinny, shifty-eyed one says. “All you need to know is, we’re… associates of your brother. We need to talk to him about some business.”

“What sort of business?”

Not the legitimate kind, I’m guessing.

He ignores my question to ask one of his own. “Have you seen him lately?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“He’s lying,” the giant grunts, cracking his knuckles with a sickening pop. His hands are big as holiday