“No. Not the third base coach. The third baseman? The kid?” She smiled savagely at his confusion, raising her decade-long-held weapon, and enjoying her direct hit after his clear insult. “That’s my son.”
Shell-shocked, he looked back and forth between her and the boy playing baseball. And then he shook his head in denial.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Chloe.” His voice low, and near begging, the truth visibly washed over him. “No.”
“His name is John Jameson Hennessey. He’s nine years old. And he’s your son, too.”
She was a mother.
Without a child.
Jameson had his fair share of surprises in the Navy.
FUBAR situations requiring he work the problem, or the result was dismemberment at best, death at worst.
He’d once been in a Columbian jungle at nightfall, his team separated by unexpected gunfire from FARC guerrillas roaming the dense terrain, defending a drug lord the SEALs had been sent to eliminate, when he happened upon a solo fighter without warning.
Rounded a heavily canopied tree and there he was. The enemy.
Nose to nose, just as skilled and just as surprised.
“Hey there, amigo,” Jameson had murmured as they each held their trigger finger over a raised automatic weapon.
Simultaneously realizing if one fired, the other would too, and they’d both be blown away. Not cool. Jameson didn’t want to die that day.
A little hand-to-hand combat occurred, and yeah, he ended up muddy, winded, and bleeding, but flesh wounds from a dull machete couldn’t compete with a calculated slash to the guerilla’s carotid, his sharp K-Bar a lethal weapon.
Having a long arm span proved beneficial in a knife fight.
That night in the jungle had been one hell of a surprise. His intel failed him on that mission, but his instincts and training kicked in.
Today, it happened again.
His intel failed him.
And the Navy hadn’t taught him jack shit about working this kind of problem. The problem of being a parent without any inkling you had a kid.
A son.
The playful sounds of the park dwindled. The sight of a stricken Chloe disappeared.
His entire world reduced to one dark-haired boy.
Standing a good forty yards away, driving his fist into the center of his oiled glove, he waited for the practice batter to swing. When he did, it was a one-hop grounder to third base, and the boy fielded it smoothly, making a long throw to first base and the easy out.
The coaches—of which Wyatt was one—clapped, then called the team to the pitcher’s mound, practice over. Hovering for a pep talk, the group broke up quickly, Wyatt staying close to the boy, mimicking the motion of fielding then throwing and giving what Jameson assumed were pointers. To his son.
His son.
When the boy took off his ball cap and swiped a hand over his forehead, his full face now in view, it made it real. Made it more than just Chloe’s word. Because while Jameson had never lain eyes on this child before, he’d seen him. Back when he was a kid himself, every time he looked in the mirror.
It was a sucker punch.
It stole his breath.
Instinctually, he took a step toward the field, needing to touch him, hug him, tell him he had no idea. Jesus Christ, he just needed to meet him—his own fucking child—but Chloe stopped him.
“Don’t,” she warned, her body blocking him from moving in a feeble attempt to physically restrain him from the boy. “You can’t.”
“Yes, I can.” And nobody was going to stop him.
“No, Jameson.” Her voice was raw, gaze pleading. “You can’t engage.”
Except Chloe and those beautiful blue eyes, begging him to stay put.
“Why not?”
But her interest was back on the field, and Wyatt, who’d noticed Jameson’s presence. Wasn’t happy about it, either. He divided his attention between shooting them warning glares and distracting the boy by adjusting the ties on his leather mitt so he didn’t look their way. He was clearly in protection mode, and it made Jameson’s blood boil.
Taking another step, he moved Chloe out of the way, but she gripped his arm with a hold so tight he’d have to drag her dead weight along if he went any further.
“Please, Jameson,” she urged. “We need to leave.”
“Not happening.”
But he stopped because . . . what the fuck did he plan on saying once he reached him?
Hey, I’m your dad. Where have I been your whole life? Oh, just here and there. Shooting guns and playing war. No regard for the fact I had a family who needed me.
Jesus, those three words—I’m your dad—nearly buckled his knees.
Before he could say fuck it and figure out his opening line on the fly, because he was looking at his beautiful flesh and blood son, a woman’s voice sounded in the distance.
Chloe’s body stiffened, and she sucked in a jagged breath.
“Hi, Johnny! Nice throw!” A blonde woman carrying an oversized baggie of orange slices waved at him, rushing toward the field from the parking lot. “Sorry I missed seeing you practice, pumpkin. I got a flat tire!”
Anybody who’d just gotten a flat tire shouldn’t be so damn chipper, but her ridiculously happy voice told him she was one of those people. Chronically positive.
“Changed it in twenty minutes, all by myself,” she said, holding up her arm and showing the boy her minuscule bicep, her outfit the usual Hamptons housewife attire—high dollar athletic apparel, high dollar sneakers, and a high dollar handbag.
The boy grinned. Johnny. And Jameson recognized that wide, sunny smile. Saw it every time Chloe smiled.
“Geez, Mom! Don’t call me pumpkin in front of my friends,” he grumbled, but he ran toward her, giving her a quick, affectionate hug.
Mom?
He felt Chloe exhale, her body deflating like a balloon, and he took her full weight against him. Probably the only thing keeping her upright.
Oblivious to their audience, the woman laughed and patted the boy on the back, then handed out orange slices to the players. As she did so, she chatted with Wyatt, who stood watching him and Chloe from the corner of his eye.
Somehow, the woman noticed his preoccupation and looked their way, her gaze snagging on Chloe first. She froze, her smile slipping.
Fear.
That was the best way to describe her expression. Unadulterated fear. The same fear he saw on that guerilla’s face when he looked down the barrel of Jameson’s AR-15.
Then, she turned angry.
Put her arm around the boy, protecting him from an invisible enemy, pulling him into her. And that was when she noticed Jameson. Her mouth dropped open, and it was almost comical, her shock. Disbelief replaced the anger.
She turned the boy completely around, his back to them so he’d not inadvertently see his own face on a strange man, said something in his ear, and rushed him off the field. Never once letting him out of arm’s reach.
“Bye, Uncle Wyatt,” came his small, happy voice. Then it was gone.
He was gone.
Jameson watched them walk toward the parking lot and away from him. With a doting woman he called Mom, but yet, was not his mother. A short minute later, he disappeared inside a silver Mercedes SUV as if he’d never been.
Jameson stood there as the tail lights faded, so many questions hammering inside his head he was sure his brain would explode.