by Lucy Score
What if I’d ruined it all by choosing the wrong woman?
“Hey, frowny face,” Scarlett said, skipping up the last of the deck stairs. She was smiling at me, and suddenly my questions didn’t seem so important anymore. “Please tell me you aren’t busy.”
Now she had my full attention. I hooked my hands behind my head and admired the view of her slim legs under short khaki cargos.
“I think I can clear my calendar,” I said with a smile.
“Awesome.” She threw a t-shirt at me, and it caught me in the face. “Is Jonah free?”
My feet hit the deck, and I unfurled the shirt she’d thrown. It said Bootleg Cock Spurs across the chest around a giant rooster head.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” Scarlett grinned. She pushed the deck door open. “Jonah! Get your ass out here.”
“What sport is this?” I asked.
“Fast pitch softball, my handsome neighbor,” she winked.
“I just remembered I have plans.”
“What’s going on?” Jonah asked, poking his head out the door.
“Run,” I said dryly.
“Wait till we get to the field.”
There was a moonshine stand at the ball field. Sure, there was the usual concession stand with hot dogs and mushy French fries. But the moonshine stand had the twenty-person deep line in front of it.
“Come on,” Scarlett said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the stand.
Jonah trailed along behind us, the spectator stares weighing heavily on the newest Bodine’s shoulders.
Scarlett bypassed the line and ordered three apple pie moonshines from a side window that said Players Only. I reached for my wallet.
“Players drink free,” Scarlett said, shoving a small mason jar into my hand.
“Are we seriously drinking moonshine before a softball game?”
“League rules. We also drink during the game if that makes you feel any better.”
It did not. Jonah shrugged and downed his jar of Bootleg’s finest. I followed suit. Maybe a little liquor would loosen me up. It burned in a really good way. My mouth tasted like apples and cinnamon. Like I’d just drunk a slice of apple pie.
“Wow.”
Scarlett winked. “That’s great-granddaddy Jedidiah’s recipe.”
“What kind of ABV are we talking?” Jonah asked.
Scarlett grinned. “You don’t want to know. Come on, boys. Let’s get ourselves warmed up.”
We followed her to the dugout where the rest of the Bodine family was stretching or frowning at cell phones. There were a few strangers here too.
“Y’all, this is Nash and Buck,” Scarlett said, pointing to two guys who were exact physical opposites. Nash was tall and broad like a barn with arms that threatened to explode out of his uniform shirt. Buck was short and lean with a shock of red hair. He looked as though he were a little kid playing dress up in his father’s shirt.
Jonah and I nodded in their direction.
“Nash and Buck, these are our subs Devlin and Jonah. Two of our outfielders caught the pink eye from their kid,” she explained. “And this here is Opal Bodine. No relation.”
Opal was wiry and tall with short dark hair that she tamed with a ball cap. “Nice to meet y’all,” she said, taking a practice swing.
We exchanged pleasantries.
Jonah and I didn’t have any cleats to change into, so we let Scarlett lead us through a warm-up. I couldn’t help but scan the crowd as I stretched my hamstrings. It appeared as though the entire population of Bootleg had turned out for the game.
Just about everyone of age in the stands had a mason jar of moonshine in hand.
“All right, Base Runners,” Gibson grumbled. “We’re playing the Eagler Lumberjacks. We’re up at bat first. You two okay with outfield?” he asked me and Jonah.
“Sure,” I shrugged. I’d played Little League. When I was eight. And I’d been to my fair share of Nationals games. I could handle this.
“Nash, you’re up first. Opal you’re on deck.”
“All rise for the playing of the National Anthem,” came the crackly voice over the loudspeaker.
“That’s Bernie O’Dell,” Scarlett whispered to me as we lined up to face the flag in the outfield.
“He’s been announcing since he was in junior high.”
Misty Lynn with her bleach blonde hair and very tight t-shirt sashayed up the diamond with a microphone and belted out a reasonably okay and quite dramatic version of the anthem. I noticed Scarlett glaring her down even as she mouthed the words.
The crowd ate it up, cheering and whistling. Misty Lynn curtsied, and Scarlett gave a polite golf clap. “Man, I just hate her guts.”
As if she’d heard it, Misty Lynn sauntered up to Gibson and blew him a kiss. Scarlett made vomiting noises behind us.
“Who’s your friend, Coach?” Misty Lynn purred to Gibson and looked in my direction.
“Bless your heart, Misty Lynn. Why don’t you go call your doctor for your herpes results?” Scarlett suggested sweetly.
“Why don’t you go swimmin’ in an outhouse, you piece of shit?”
I slipped an arm around Scarlett’s shoulders and hauled her to my side hoping further restraint wouldn’t be necessary.
“Oh, are you all together?” Misty Lynn asked with interest. She batted her heavily mascaraed eyes at me. “Wonder how long that’ll last. Give me a call, tall, dark, and sexy, when you get tired of Miss Scarlett here.”
Misty Lynn pranced away on her impractical heeled sandals, and Scarlett growled under my arm.
“I hate that dick locker.”
“Come on, slugger. Let’s get our pregame on,” Bowie suggested, towing his sister toward the dugout.
The Eagler Lumberjacks looked every bit the part. They played in flannel, and I couldn’t be sure without a close up look, but it looked as though even the women had beards.
Between innings, shots of moonshine were handed out to both teams. “It evens the playing field,” Scarlett explained knocking back her third shot. “Doesn’t matter if you’re an all-star athlete if you can’t run in a straight line.”
Things were getting a little fuzzy in my vision, but I still managed to get my glove on the ball a couple of times. Everyone looked like they were slowing down a bit. Opal was one hell of a catcher, and she hit no less than a double every time she got up to bat. But by the fourth inning, she was listing to the side behind the Lumberjack batter.
Jameson and Jonah got tangled up going for a pop fly and had a hard time getting back on their feet. One of the Eagler players stumbled on his jog to third base and got tagged out while he was laying face down in the dirt.
The only one who didn’t seem to suffer any ill-effects from the moonshine was Scarlett. In the fifth, she hit a bases-loaded triple. And in the sixth, she scored a sweet double play when a bunt made it past Bowie on the pitcher’s mound. She moved like the booze made her more graceful, more athletic.
By the seventh inning, I was swilling water and dumping my moonshine on the ground. Jonah was trying to tell the very sober Gibson a story about a horse and a sweater. Opal and Buck broke into a clumsy but energetic two-step in the dugout until Buck smacked his head on the overhang.
Someone in the crowd thought to toss a couple of hot dogs our way. I mainlined two of them hoping they’d soak up some of the alcohol, but in my heart of hearts, I knew it was too late. I watched Scarlett guzzle water and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand.
Why was everything she did so sexy? I loved watching her. The way she moved. The way she laughed. The way her smile reached her eyes. Her dirty mouth.
“Ahem.” Jameson elbowed me in the gut. “You’re drooling.”
I wiped my mouth.
“Metaphorically. Stop staring at my sister.”
“He can stare at me all he wants,” Scarlett interjected. “I’m starin’ right back.”
“Ugh,” Gibson groaned. “Can you all just not climb on top of each
other here in the dugout? That’s all I’m asking at this point.”
Scarlett grabbed a bat, winked at me, and gave her brother a kiss on his cheek. “Progress,” she called cheerfully over her shoulder.
Gibson eyed the other team’s dugout. “I think they’re about to call the game.” I stumbled over to him and closed one eye trying to focus on the Eaglers.
“Are they sleeping?”
“Passed out cold.” Gibson gave Scarlett a signal at the plate, and she nodded.
The pitcher threw out his pitch, and Scarlett had to take two big steps to the side to get to it, but damn did she get a piece of it. The bat connected with a clink of aluminum, and the ball soared into the air.
“Go! Go! Go!” Gibson yelled. Scarlett’s legs ate up the distance between home plate and first. She was already headed to second by the time the outfielder fumbled the ball.
“Keep goin’!” Bowie slurred next to me.
The crowd was on its feet, listing hard but still cheering. She danced over second by the time the outfielder got the ball under control and threw it.
It was a wild toss. The third basewoman had to leave the base and dive to get her glove on it. Scarlett charged past her without a glance in her direction. She picked up speed and put her head down. The Lumberjacks’ catcher was on his knees, unable to stay on his feet, when the third basewoman chucked the ball. I was out of the dugout with the rest of the team cheering as Scarlett threw herself headfirst into the dirt, sliding into the catcher and then June like a heat-seeking bowling ball attacking pins.
I couldn’t tell what everyone was cheering about until I saw the ball roll loose from the pile of limbs and drunken laughter.
“Safe!” June shouted.
15
Scarlett
Devlin didn’t seem to understand the concept of the school bus. “But what about my SUV?” he asked for the third time pointing in the exact opposite direction of where we’d parked.
“Honey, none of us can drive. That’s what the school bus is for. They’re gonna drive us home.”
“But, what about my car?” he asked again.
I grabbed his face in my hands, enjoying the feel of his beard on my palms. “I’ll drive you back for it tomorrow.”
“Mokah,” he said, finally appeased.
I released his cheeks. Bootleg took our fast pitch softball seriously like all our good times. That’s why there was a fleet of school buses waiting to drive everyone home. The visiting teams were always required to have their own bus and designated drivers who could enjoy all-you-can-eat hot dogs during the games.
Wednesdays were known as Wasted Wednesday in Bootleg. Everyone was too hungover to do much of anything besides eat greasy foods and tell everyone else to keep it down.
Devlin had held his liquor better than I expected. He was still on his feet. Bowie and Jameson were dragging Jonah onto the bus singing a truly horrible version of “Friends in Low Places.” I pulled him into a seat and took the aisle to pin him to the window if need be.
“You’re so pretty, Scarlett,” he said staring at me with one eye.
“You’re pretty far gone, huh, Dev?”
He shook his head. “I am drunk. I’ll concede on that point. But there’s just something about you. I think I like you a lot,” he added in a loud whisper.
“I think I like you a lot too,” I said, amused.
“You’re like a shot... of...”
“Moonshine?” I suggested.
He shook his head and rapped it off the window. “Ow. No, more like whiskey. You go down with a kick.”
That was a compliment I could appreciate. “Well, thanks, Dev. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“I want to kiss you.”
I think he meant to whisper it, but it came out at full volume.
“Oooooooh!” the bus’s occupants crooned.
“Hey, Scar, did Devlin pass you a note during third period asking if you liked him?” Cassidy asked, her head popping up over the seat.
“Do you want me to write you a note?” he asked with a frown.
“You should definitely write her a note,” Buck agreed.
“I’ve got a pen and paper,” Opal called helpfully from two rows back.
“Y’all are the worst.”
Fifteen minutes later, I helped Devlin and Jonah stagger off the bus at my place with a sweetly scrawled note from Devlin in my back pocket.
“Jonah, you go on ahead,” Devlin decided. “I’m gonna stay here and kiss your sister.”
“‘K,” Jonah said waving and stumbling over a hydrangea in the flowerbed he was wading through.
I clapped my hands to get his attention. “Through the woods, Jonah. Not through the flowerbeds.”
“‘K,” he said again and walked into a tree.
“He’ll be fine,” Devlin said optimistically.
“Let’s get you some water, big guy.” I led him into the house. We made it as far as the foyer before Devlin grabbed me and pinned me against the door. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“Okay,” I breathed.
His mouth seemed to operate just fine under the influence. I certainly had no complaints.
“God,” I breathed. Devlin crushed his lips to mine and hoisted me up, wrapping my legs around his hips.
When he touched me, it felt like I had straight whiskey flowing through my veins. He wasn’t gentle with me, and I liked that. I liked him rough around the edges, not tip-toeing around being careful.
I just wanted more and more of him. His muscles bunched under the cotton of his t-shirt as he held me there suspended between him and the wood of the door.
“I can’t get enough,” he whispered.
I was dizzy with it. His words, his touch, his taste. I wanted it all and so much more. I ached for him.
He shoved his hand under my shirt and the feel of his skin against mine made me moan against his mouth.
“Baby, I need you,” he confessed. It almost undid me.
“Dev, we can’t do this,” I whispered.
His hand found my breast through my sports bra, and he made a low rumble in his chest. My head fell back against the door with a thunk. I could feel him harden against me—another body part that didn’t need sobriety to function well. I shifted against him desperate to get some of that friction I was so hungry for.
Every touch left me needy for more.
“Dev,” I gasped when he sank his teeth into my neck. My arm flailed of its own volition and knocked a painting off the wall.
“Mmm?”
“Honey we can’t do this right now,” I told him even as I helped him wrestle my shirt over my head.
He pulled back looking dazed, and I felt his cock pulse against me. I shivered with dark, carnal thoughts. “We can’t do this because you’re drunk.”
“Pretty sure all the important parts are working,” he said. His cock throbbed in agreement.
I gave a strangled laugh. Never in my life had I been in this position before. “No, I mean, I don’t know if you really want to do this because you’re drunk or because you want me.”
He shifted his hips against me, and I purred like a damn cat when his erection rubbed in exactly the right spot. “I’m sure I want to.”
“You are killing me right now, Devlin. I need you to be sober as a judge and then tell me you want me. That’s the only way this is going to happen.”
He dropped his forehead to mine.
“How long do you think it’ll take me to sober up? Five minutes? Ten?”
He let me slide down the door slowly until my feet were on the floor.
I laughed. “Have you ever been drunk before?”
“Pssh. I went to college and law school.”
“But since then?” I pressed.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t help your career to be seen drunk in public.”
“A career in politics sounds really boring.”
“Small price to pay to shape our country,” he said in a deep voice.<
br />
“Are you quoting someone?” I picked up my shirt and pulled him down the short hallway to the kitchen. I gave him a gentle push toward a stool.
“My father. That was his answer to everything. I couldn’t play football because it was too brutish. I couldn’t take a summer off and travel Europe because I needed to pad my resume with internships and volunteering.”
“What did you do for fun?” I asked, fascinated.
“Made my parents happy, I guess.”
I pulled my shirt back on. “Well, guess what, Devlin McCallister? Your parents aren’t here. You can do whatever you want for fun.”
“I wouldn’t even know what to do,” he admitted. “I’m still supposed to lay low, so getting into bar fights or tipping cows over wouldn’t be a good idea.”
“Cow tipping is not a real thing.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
I set a glass of water in front of him. “Drink up, big guy.”
I turned to the coffeepot and dumped enough in to make a batch of stand-up-and-dance coffee.
“Have you ever been in a kayak before?” I asked. Not that that would be a good idea today when he couldn’t even stand upright.
“A kayak?” he frowned. “I used to row on the weekend in college.”
“Like the rich people sport?” I snorted.
“Poor people can row too,” he said in exasperation.
“What a man of the people you are,” I teased.
“Shut up.”
“Did you always want to be in politics?” I asked.
He nodded. “It was understood from birth that I’d go into politics.”
“That’s not the same as wanting to,” I pointed out.
He frowned, considering my words.
My coffee maker beeped and I poured him a mug. “Cream? Sugar?”
He shook his head. “You have any pizza?”
Forty minutes later, the remains of a very large, very greasy pepperoni and mushroom pizza sat on the coffee table, and Devlin McCallister snored on my couch with his socked feet on the table.
