He was going to swing—

He was going to kill her—

His hand shot out and caught the steel bar.

Emily stood there gasping. She’d done it—she’d swung for his head. The end of the putter hung about five inches from his face.

And his bat was leaning against the counter.

Harmless.

She couldn’t move. He didn’t let go of the club, either, using his free hand to dig into the pocket of his jeans. A five-dollar bill dropped onto the glass counter between them.

“So can I get five tokens or what?”

Tokens. For the batting cages.

Of course.

Emily couldn’t catch her breath—and that never happened. Her panic had kicked the air into a flurry of little whirlwinds in the space between them, teasing her cheeks and lifting his hair.

She could catch his scent, though, sweet and summery, mulch and potting soil, honeysuckle and cut grass. A warm fragrance, not something that belonged on someone she was supposed to hate.

He was staring at her, and he had a death grip on the club. She could feel his strength through the slim bar. “Well?”

“Yeah.” She coughed and cleared her throat, using her own free hand to punch at the cash register. “Sure.”

It took effort to look away from the dark brown of his eyes. Wasn’t there some kind of rule about not looking away from an enemy? She fished the tokens out of the drawer, almost dropping them all over the floor. Somehow, she got them onto the glass counter and slid them toward him.

Then they stood there comically, connected by the slim rod of the club.

She wanted to let go—but she didn’t.

Especially now that she’d tried to hit him, when he’d never made a move to lay a hand on her.

She swallowed, thinking of Tyler’s bruised face after he’d gone a few rounds with Michael Merrick.

He leaned in. “I come here every Wednesday and Friday.”

Emily nodded.

“You going to try to kill me every time?”

She shook her head quickly.

He let go of the club. She sheepishly lowered it, but didn’t put it back in the bucket with the others.

Michael swiped the tokens from the counter and jammed them into his pocket. He swung the bat onto his shoulder again.

Emily opened her mouth—for what, she wasn’t sure.

But then he was through the door, pulling it shut behind him without a glance back.

The ball came flying out of the machine, and Michael swung the bat hard, feeling it all the way through his shoulders.

Crack. The ball went sailing into the net.

One place. That’s all he wanted—one place where he wouldn’t get hassled.

And now he was screwed.

What the hell was Tyler’s sister doing here, anyway? She wasn’t a jock chick. From what he knew of her, she should probably be flirting over the counter at Starbucks or something, not babysitting a half-dead sports center.

Summer should have meant a break from this crap. Ever since they’d moved here when he was in sixth grade, school had been a prison he got to escape at three o’clock every day.

Only to be hauled back in the next morning.

Just like in a real prison, not everyone sucked. There were the people who didn’t know he existed. The people who knew but didn’t care. The latter made up the bulk of the student body.

But then there was the group that knew everything about him. The group that wanted him dead.

The Elementals.

Like he’d picked this. Like he’d woken up one morning and said, I’d love to be tied to an element. I’d love to have so much power it scares me.

I’d love to be marked for death because of something I can’t control.

Another ball.

Crack.

This wasn’t the only place with batting cages, but it was the cheapest. One sat closer to home, with fake turf in the cages and everything, but here his feet were in the dirt, pulling strength from the ground below.

If he took his shoes off and swung barefoot, he could draw enough power from the earth to blow the ball straight through the net.

Oh, who was he kidding? He could practically do that now, steel-toed work boots and all.

That was part of the problem. He was a pure Elemental. Power spoke to him straight from the earth. The others in town had power, sure, but nothing like his. He could theoretically level half the town if he lost his temper.

Which was why they wanted him dead.

Another ball.

Crack.

At least his parents had worked out a deal: He’d stay out of trouble, and the other families wouldn’t report his existence.

There’d been money involved, sure. He had no idea how much. But sometimes he couldn’t believe his entire being rested on a signed check and a frigging handshake.

It didn’t help that the other kids in town—the kids who knew—seemed determined to make him reveal himself.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and Michael punched the button to stop the pitches, whirling with bat in hand.

He wouldn’t put it past Emily to call her brother and his friends.

No one stood in the dust between the batting cages and the office. Dad’s work truck was still the only vehicle in the parking lot.

Michael swiped the sweat off his forehead and turned to slap the button again. Another ball came flying.

Crack.

He’d have to think twice before bringing Chris or the twins here again. It was one thing to walk into enemy territory alone, and entirely another to drag his little brothers.

And, damn it, this shouldn’t have been enemy territory!