The Ace and The Assistant
Page 1
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Bonus Epilogue
Acknowledgements
More Books by Jiffy Kate
About the Authors
The Ace and The Assistant
Copyright © 2020 Jiffy Kate
Visit the author’s website at www.jiffykate.com
Edited by: Nichole Strauss
Cover Design and Formatting by Jersey Girl Designs
Photograph by Wander Aguiar
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imaginations and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.
Chapter 1
Ross
Rock, pivot, lift, throw.
Thwap.
Rock, pivot, lift, throw.
Thwap.
“Shit!”
Come on, Davies. Get your head outta your ass and hit the fucking target.
Yogi Berra once said, “Baseball is ninety percent mental and the other half is physical” and fuck if he wasn’t spot on.
The physical side of my game, I still have. I can throw the damn ball and make it land where it needs to be, when I’m focused. Which means, it’s the mental part that’s kicking my ass. Clearing my mind and thinking of nothing but doing my job is the struggle and has been for the last six months.
Well, longer, if I’m being completely honest.
Not only did my marriage implode before my eyes but so did the New Orleans’ Revelers’ chances for going to the playoffs last season. I take full responsibility for letting my team down but the demise of my seven-year marriage, that’s not all on me. Marriage is both people giving one hundred percent, a fifty-fifty partnership at the very least.
But Felicia gave up on us.
Felicia Davies, my college sweetheart who promised me she’d always stick it out, through good times and bad, decided she was tired of being my wife… my sidekick. Her words, not mine.
Felicia Davies, the woman I thought I’d spend the rest of my life with—have a family with, experience the highs and lows of life with, grow old with—decided she was done living in my shadow and wanted the spotlight for herself.
Felicia Davies, my ex-wife—who now, from what I hear, is this city’s biggest up-and-coming socialite, the Philanthropy Princess of New Orleans—checked out on me, our life, and our marriage.
Not that I give two shits.
Because I don’t.
Rock, pivot, lift, throw.
Repeating the words in my head, I drill the ball at the strike box in my practice net like I’ve done more times than I can count. Instead of practicing at the field or in our team gym with the other Revelers during the off-season, I’ve stayed at home. Some may say I’m licking my wounds, and there’s some truth to that, but I really just don’t want to be around people yet.
I won’t deny, after our divorce was finalized, I missed Felicia. We had been together so long and she brought a sense of belonging. Being my wife, she was part of my identity. So, of course, I missed her. But, now that some time has passed, I realize our relationship wasn’t as solid as I thought it was. Or maybe that I pretended it was? That’s what really has my head fucked up.
How am I supposed to be a leader to my teammates, my organization, and the league if I’m failing at my personal life and oblivious to my marriage falling apart?
During a particularly rough patch a while back, I thought about putting a picture of Felicia in my practice strike box. Let me be clear, I’d never hit a woman or joke about doing so, but I wondered if it’d help me concentrate on the target while getting some aggression out at the same time. Ultimately, I didn’t do it, but now, I’m wondering if I should put my own face up there since I’m the one to blame in all this.
Rock, pivot, lift, throw.
Thwap.
Rock, pivot, lift, throw.
What the fuck?
“Lola?”
I must be losing my mind. After imagining Felicia’s face in the strike box, followed by my own, I’m now seeing the face of Lola Carradine—world-famous rock star and girlfriend to my teammate, Bo Bennett—on top of my fence.
I blame the Louisiana humidity.
“Hey. We brought lasagna.”
Okay, Lola can talk so that must mean she’s real, right? Or Charlotte, rather, I’m still getting used to calling her by her real name, instead of her stage name—Lola—what the rest of the world calls her. In my head, I kind of still use both, interchangeably, but most of her family and close friends call her Charlotte. I think it helps her separate her public life from her private life and I get that.
But regardless of her name, she brought food and that’s never a bad thing. Taking my chances that she’s really here with my favorite dish, I motion to the house and tell her I’ll let her inside.
Turns out, Charlotte and Bo really are here, along with an amazing lasagna. The three of us sitting around the table like this… eating, drinking, laughing...reminds me of better times, back when I wasn’t embarrassed to show my face in public and could allow myself to have some fun. Of course, Felicia was never around but Charlotte’s younger sister, Casey, would sometimes fill her void.
I miss those days.
“Is there someone you can call to catch up on stuff you don’t want to tackle? Like open your mail and handle your finances… an assistant or something?”
Charlotte’s questions pull me out of my memories and I look up to see her and Bo watching me, waiting for an answer. I glance around the room and see what they obviously see: dirty dishes piled up in the sink, the trash can overflowing, unopened mail, and who knows what else covering the opposite side of the table we’re at. I’ve let this place—a fucking mansion—go to hell all because I can’t get my shit together.
Embarrassment doesn’t even cover it.
Shame comes close, though.
Wincing, I finally respond. “That used to be Felicia’s job. She handled all of that… the mail, the bills, the house.” I shake my head and stare into my mostly-empty wineglass. “I haven’t taken the time to find someone. It’s hard to know who to trust. I guess I could hire a firm or something, but that feels so impersonal and I have a remodel job that needs to be finished. Then, of course, there’s Spring Training...” I add, drifting off. I realize there’s no way I can leave my life in its current state and be in the right frame of mind while I’m preparing for the upcoming season.
“What about Casey?” Charlotte asks. “She’s been the best assistant I could ever ask for and she might not have a college d
egree to back her up, but she has me as a reference and loads of hands-on experience. I’d trust her with my life… I do trust her with my life.”
I try to school my reaction to her suggestion because, honestly, I’m shocked. Casey and I have always gotten along well, but I can’t help but worry it might be uncomfortable having her here, with just the two of us. We’ve never been alone together because Bo and Charlotte are always around. Besides, wouldn’t it be strange to hire someone I consider a friend?
“Plus, you know her, so it might make it an easier transition. With Spring Training coming up so soon, you wouldn’t have to worry about leaving your affairs in the hands of a stranger.”
Or I could look at it that way.
Maybe I’m overthinking this, like I have been with every other thing in my life lately. I haven’t made any decisions and that’s resulted in not going forward or backward, just staying stagnant.
“It’s a good idea,” Bo declares, and I can’t help but wonder when our roles reversed—him helping me. It wasn’t too long ago I was the one giving him advice.
Now, I’m wondering if I even knew what the hell I was talking about. Since Felicia ended things, I’ve started questioning everything.
Who am I?
How did I let my marriage fall apart?
What the fuck am I doing with my life?
I never pictured myself here—struggling to find my footing and my fucking identity.
“What do you say?” Bo asks, pulling me back out of my thoughts.
Sighing, I down the last of my wine and sit back in my seat. It’s not a horrible idea and much better than anything I’ve come up with on my own, which is nothing. Casey’s a smart girl and she’s used to juggling busy schedules. The best part, with Lola Carradine as a sister, she’s well-versed in discretion. I need some of that in my life right now, while I try to pick up the pieces and figure my shit out.
“Okay,” I finally agree.
What do I have to lose?
Chapter 2
Casey
Scanning the kitchen counter, I make sure I have all the ingredients I need before popping my earbuds in and hitting play on my music app. Some people may like to belt out their favorite tunes while in front of their bathroom mirror, while others may prefer to perform while cleaning. Speaking for myself, I love putting on private concerts when I’m cooking. The kitchen is the perfect place to dance around and it’s full of tools that can double as mics, guitars, and drumsticks.
Normally, my music is blaring but I don’t think Charlotte and Bo are up yet and I’m nothing if not considerate, hence my earbuds. They were out pretty late last night, doing who knows what, so I thought I’d make a breakfast casserole we all can enjoy.
I quickly put together the dish, put it in the oven, and set the time. As I tidy up the kitchen, I take a few spins around the island while using a clean, wooden spoon for my mic. I’m so deep into one of my favorite albums, nothing in the world exists except me and the music. When I turn and see movement out of the corner of my eye, I forget about staying quiet and let out a scream rivaling the eighties hair bands I typically listen to.
“For the love of all that’s holy!” Pulling out my earbuds, I toss them on the counter and brace myself.
“Sorry,” Charlotte says, raising both of her hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to startle you, I swear!”
Glaring at my sister, I clutch my chest and try to get my heart rate to slow down to its normal rhythm. Deep breaths in…. And out… in…
Trying not to laugh, she continues. “I even called your name but you obviously didn’t hear me. What were you listening to anyway?”
“Stevie Nicks, of course,” I say with a wink, picking my earbuds back up and stuffing them in my pocket. Those little ninjas disappear faster than socks and hair ties combined, and cost a fortune to replace. “Disappointed it wasn’t The Lola Carradine?”
Everyone knows I’m my sister’s biggest fan, but real talk, she’s no Stevie Nicks. Besides, I have to keep her grounded. That’s what little sisters are put on this earth to do. Well, that, and if you’re me, you also manage your big sister’s life.
“Of course not. I’d be listening to Stevie, too, if I was cooking.”
Still feeling like my heart is racing, I grab a glass from a cabinet and fill it with water, taking a large drink. “What are you doing awake anyway? I assumed you and Bo were sleeping in.”
Charlotte picks a banana from the produce basket and peels it. “Nah, you know I can’t sleep when the sun’s up.”
“What did y’all do last night?” I ask, digging for information without blatantly coming out with the nosey questions. “I must’ve fallen asleep before you got home.”
She shrugs, leaning against the island. “We had dinner at Ross’s house.”
Without me?
That’s my knee-jerk reaction, but I focus on schooling my features. She doesn’t need to know it stings to hear I was left out of last night’s dinner party. The four of us used to have dinner all the time, but since his divorce, we haven’t seen much of him. Which is weird because you’d think it’d be the opposite. According to Bo, he’s struggling.
Charlotte quickly takes a bite of her banana, as though she’s trying to keep herself from saying more.
Why is she acting so weird?
I’m probably overreacting because Charlotte knows she can tell me anything. We have zero secrets between us.
Well, except one… you know, the one where I’ve had a crush on Ross Davies since the moment I met him. But, it’s no big deal. It’s a tiny, baby crush that will go away eventually, I’m sure.
When she continues to eat her banana in silence, it’s on the tip of my tongue to ask how he’s doing, but that seems too personal. Clearing my throat, I decide to play it safe and ask, “Anything interesting to report?”
“Oh, well, you know, he’s still trying to cope with life after divorce,” she hedges.
Must. Not. Roll. My. Eyes.
I hate that Ross is hurting, I really do, but why can’t he see whatsherface was all wrong for him?
Thankfully, the oven timer goes off, saving me from saying anything that may sound suspicious.
I slip on my oven mitts and take the casserole out, placing it on a trivet so it can cool, before turning the oven and the timer off.
After a few more seconds of silence, Charlotte tosses her peel in the trash and walks over to where I’m standing. “He really needs an assistant. You know, someone to help him get his life straight…”
A non-committal hum is all I can muster while I reach into the cabinet and take out some plates and set them on the island.
“You know, someone to do for him what you did—and still do—for me,” she continues.
No, I think as I open the drawer and take out three forks, what he needs is a swift kick in his perfectly firm booty so he can focus on baseball. But, of course, I don’t say that. “Absolutely, he should totally get some help.”
“I knew you’d agree!” Charlotte pulls me into a side hug and crushes me to her. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle my own shit for a while. Getting Ross back on track is more important right now. So, focus on him. And, you’re the best!”
Say what?
“Wait. I think I missed something,” I tell her, pulling away with a scrutinizing gaze.
Did she drink too much wine last night?
Bump her head?
Do I need to call her doctor?
Letting out a confused chuckle, I place the forks methodically by the plates. “I’m confused. You make it sound like I’ll be the one helping Ross.”
Surely I’m misunderstanding her excitement.
“Because you will be.”
“Umm. no.” I grab a pizza cutter to slice the casserole into even squares.
“Case, please. You’re the only one who can truly help him.”
“Char, there are plenty of assistants out there who would kill to work for Ross Davies. Hire one of them!�
�
She growls in frustration. “You know he wouldn’t agree to that. He may be kind of pitiful right now but he’s still got his pride and doesn’t want the whole world to know he’s struggling. You can help him, I know you can. And it wouldn’t be forever, just until he gets back on his feet and starts the season.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I get what she’s saying. Really, I do. Being behind the scenes of her life, I know how much people who live in the spotlight value their privacy. But this is Ross Davies. The one I have the tiny, baby crush on. It’s one thing to have pizza nights and dinners with him, but it’s another to work for the man.
And he is a man, in every sense of the word. The manliest man I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Focus, Casey.
“Please,” Charlotte begs, imploring me with her puppy dog eyes. Wouldn’t the tabloids love to see this—Lola Carradine practically on her hands and knees, begging.
Could I do this? Could I work closely with the man of my dreams in his house and remain professional? Could I whip his life into shape and not be tempted to whip him in the bedroom?
Absolutely. I’m Casey freaking Carradine.
The better question is, will I?
“Fine,” I finally say after an extremely long stare off that rivals the ones we used to have when we were kids. “I’ll do it, but you owe me big time.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Charlotte says, raising her hand for a high-five. I leave her hanging but that doesn’t deter her excitement. “It’s going to be great. You’re exactly what he needs, I just know it.”
Ha! I wish.
“Oh, and Ross wants you to meet with him at his place today for a little interview-type of thing, even though you’re a sure thing. It’s just a technicality, so don’t be nervous.”
My eyes go wide as I turn on her. “Why do I feel like I’ve been pimped out?”
Charlotte just smiles, knowing I’d do anything for her. And Ross.
“You are so going to owe me.”
Okay, Casey, you need to relax.
This is no big deal.
It’s just Ross, your friend, and soon-to-be boss.