last for a while.
Bo didn’t see how the government could keep a hardworking single mother away from her own kid. It didn’t just feel wrong, but inhuman.
They reached the baggage-claim area, and Bo found the carousel that corresponded to AJ’s flight. The conveyor belt was already disgorging pieces of luggage, the occasional box bound with bailing wire, a car seat, a set of snow skis.
“Let me know when you see your bag,” Bo said.
The boy watched the conveyer belt, then glanced at the duct-taped suitcase he toted behind him. “It’s right here,” he said.
Bo frowned. “You mean you don’t have any luggage?”
“Only this.” He indicated the carry-on bag and his backpack.
“Then what are we standing around here for?”
AJ just looked at him.
Damn. There was something that drew him to this kid. This solemn, very unkidlike kid. And it wasn’t just DNA.
“Is this the first time you’ve ever flown in an airplane?” Bo asked.
“First time I’ve ever flown in anything.”
At last, a glimmer of humor. “Well, hell. This is where the checked luggage comes out. And since you don’t have any, we’re done here.” Bo grabbed the carry-on and led the way to the parking lot. As they stepped through the automatic doors, the outside air assaulted them with bone-cutting January cold. The cindery reek of jet fuel and diesel exhaust bloomed in thick puffs from the shuttle buses.
AJ seemed dazed. He hunched up his shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Bo stopped walking and lifted the suitcase. “Hey, you got an extra coat in here?”
The kid shook his head, plucking the nylon fabric of the Yankees windbreaker. It flapped thinly against his skinny arms and shoulders. “This is all I got.”
Great.
“It was hot in Houston,” AJ added.
Now that, Bo could understand. Once in a blue moon, a cold spell might hit the Gulf Coast in a fist-like front known as a Blue Norther. Usually, it was plenty warm down there, and often muggy. Growing up, Bo hadn’t owned a coat, either, except for his varsity letterman’s jacket, purchased by someone from the high-school booster club; no way could he have afforded it himself. Now, that thing had been a work of art—smooth black boiled wool, sleeves of butter-soft cream-colored leather.
He peeled off his olive-drab parka, handed it to AJ. “Put this on.”
“I don’t need your coat.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need you catching cold on top of everything else, so put it on.” A knifelike gust of wind sliced across the multilevel lot.
“People don’t catch cold from being cold,” AJ objected. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”
“Just put on the damned coat. It’s a long walk to the car.”
The boy hesitated, but then put on the parka. Bo couldn’t quite conceal his relief. He didn’t know what he would have done if the kid had defied him. Bo was a bartender. A ballplayer. Not a dad.
He got his key out of his pocket. The key fob still felt strange in his hand. He pressed the smooth, round button and the low-slung BMW Z4 roadster winked a greeting at him. He pressed another button and the trunk released. Carlisle, the sports agent who popped up at exactly the right time, had put the precontract deal together. Bo remembered standing in the cold November rain, just staring at the thing. A BMW Z4. Convertible.
Never in a million years did he think he’d own such a car. But life was funny like that. Everything could change on the turn of a dime. In a heartbeat. In the time it takes to pick up the phone. Just as he was getting his shot, he found himself in charge of a kid.
“Here’s our ride,” he said, inviting AJ to put his stuff in the trunk.
The kid complied without comment, though Bo could tell he was checking out the car.
It had been one of the first things he’d bought when, last November, a single phone call had rocked his world. Years after Bo Crutcher had hung up his dreams of a major-league baseball career, he’d gone—same as he did every year—to tryouts. The difference this time was that the Yankees finally wanted to do business. Bo knew he was well past the age most players started in the major leagues. He knew he was a long shot. But at last, against all odds, he was getting a shot. Sure, they only wanted to acquire him for a midseason trade; it was a strategy move on the part of the Yankees, but he intended to make the most of whatever time he had with the club. It would be a hell of a thing to earn his spot on the forty-man roster and on the pitching staff. His competition was a hell of a lot younger, but none of them wanted this more.
He had planned to spend the entire winter getting ready for his big break. Life, however, seemed to be making other plans for him.
“All set?” he asked the boy.
“Smells like smoke,” he said.
“I’ve been known to enjoy the occasional cigar,” Bo said. “In the off-season.”
“Carcinogens don’t take any time off.”
Bo felt like telling the kid he was being a pain in the ass, but he kept his mouth shut. He knew why AJ was being a pain in the ass. He was acting this way because he was scared shitless, uncertain of his future and worried about the only person in his life who meant anything to him—his mother. And he was pissed, no doubt, about being sent to a dad he’d never met.
There was a shitload of things to talk about, but Bo figured he’d hold off, let the kid adjust to this bizarre and unexpected situation. Only yesterday, AJ had gone to school as if it was any other day. He had no idea that when school let out, his mother would be gone and he would be bundled aboard a plane bound for a place he’d never been, to a person he’d never met before.
The engine sprang to life with a growl. Bo navigated his way out of the parking lot, paid the booth attendant, then headed for the airport exit.
The last of the cold night lingered, and heavy clouds held back the dawn. AJ didn’t say anything, just shifted in his seat and glared straight ahead, his profile clean and angry in the yellow glow of the freeway lights.
“Look, I’m sorry this is happening,” Bo said. “I’m doing my best to fix it as quick as I can.”
“I don’t see why I can’t just go where my mom is,” AJ said.
“Because she wants what’s best for you, and going to a—” He broke off, not liking the sound of detention center. “Going where she is won’t help her, or you. I didn’t ask her to call me, AJ, but … I’m glad she did.” Bo couldn’t figure out if he was lying or not. Sure, he’d always wanted to meet AJ. But he wasn’t certain of his own motivation—curiosity? Ego trip? Or did he really care about this boy?
AJ shifted in his seat. Before long, the shifting became a squirm.
“Something the matter?” asked Bo.
“I
