by Lyssa Layne
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
They say that people come into your life for a reason, season, or a lifetime. I met Dawn DiDominzio after she read The Right Pitch and she was begging for me to write Jace’s story. I told her I might but I had no clue how to even attempt to redeem the bad boy. Finally, inspiration hit and I have Dawn to thank for being the reason for this book.
There’s another saying that life mimics art. I wrote and finished this story in July 2015, little did I know that only a couple months later that Laurel and I would have so much in common (if only it was Jace!). By my side was still Dawn, she was there for me during this season of change and she’s honestly what kept Lyssa Layne marketing alive and thriving.
Dawn is a reason, season, and lifetime friend to me. There are no words or dedications that I can write that can let her know how much I truly appreciate her friendship and support. Everyone needs a friend like Dawn in their lives! I thank you, lady, for everything you do for me as a P.A. but more importantly, as a friend. You are the best and I love you!!!
Of course, I have to thank my other beta readers, Rebecca Austin and Dana Gallie, for hating Jace and letting me change their opinion on him. My cover models rocked the hot, humid July weather and we got some great shots. Thank you Tracy Bellm, Blake Wellington, and Tyler Brocksmith. Tyler, I promise you that you won’t die from being on the cover of a romance novel and when you’re older, chicks will totally dig it!
To my good friends, Melissa Keir, thank you for your formatting skills, Tami Adams of Magic of Books Promotions for your proofreading, and to E.J. Kellan for making my cover come to life. To the lovers of Lyssa Layne, thank you for your continued support and staying by my side during this period of time. I promise I’ll do my best to continue giving you hot, steamy stories with book boyfriends we can’t resist.
A Diamond is Forever
He has to pick which diamond he’ll be on forever
CHAPTER 1
A warm, California breeze blows through the patio where I’m enjoying some Spanish fine dining. The spicy smells of the sauces float through the air and twinkle lights illuminate the area, setting the mood for the evening. There’s one person I can think of that would love this place but she’s on the opposite side of the country right now.
“Alright, boys, the night is young. Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into!”
I clap my hands, rubbing them together mischievously as I recall the good times that my old teammate, Grant Adamson, and I used to get into. Tonight, we’re sharing dinner with his buddy, L.A. Stags shortstop, Tate James, and my current teammate, Jace Richards. We won’t discuss Grant and Jace’s former relationship because the point is that they’re buddies now and all is good.
“We’re all married men these days, Benny. Remember?” Grant speaks with a chuckle in his voice, letting me know that he’s teasing me.
“And the two of us have got kids to get home to,” Tate reminds us, gesturing between him and Grant.
I turn to my new teammate. “Guess it’s just you and me then, Dickey,” I say to Jace, grinning as I know he hates my nickname for him.
Jace rolls his eyes. “You’re on your own, dude. Laurel’s blowing up my phone because Grey’s on a date. Her last text, and I quote, said ‘Should I have given him a condom?’”
We all laugh at her text but it soon trickles off as we remember what it was like to be a horny teenager. Hell, I’m only thirty-four and I’ve got a horny teenager of my own back East thanks to my poor decisions when I was a teen myself.
“Well, no one put a ring on it, so I’m going to explore the options.” I hold up my left ring finger that is void of the jewelry the other three share. I lift my eyebrows quickly in the direction of the blonde server walking in our direction. My eyes drift up and down her body, pretending like I’m checking her out but it’s all for show.
“Benny Martinez, need I ask how Isabel is doing?” Grant asks, clearing his throat.
My lips drop into a frown at the mention of my longtime girlfriend and mother of my son. Grant knows my intentions are always empty and that there hasn’t been a woman in my life since Isabel entered it in ninth grade. But he also knows my commitment issues and the fact that despite almost twenty years together, I still haven’t put a ring on her.
“Now, Adamson, you know I only like to appreciate la belleza of women around me.”
I use my native language as if it’s some kind of code and no one around us will understand what I’m talking about. Born in Puerto Rico and growing up in Spanish Harlem, I used to speak español fluently and on a daily basis. Then I got to high school and discovered my love for a game called baseball. Turns out I was pretty good at it, but my group of friends, aside from Isabel, went from primarily Latinos to the offspring of those living on the Upper East Side. Needless to say, my Spanish went out the window but sixteen years later and I’ve made my name in MLB as the New York Aces’ best closing pitcher. I still practice my native tongue but usually in a way that my mama would not be proud of.
Tate glances up from his smartphone. “Martinez, you do realize we’re in Los Angeles. You know almost half of the city’s population speaks Spanish, right?”
“Excuse me, gentlemen?” The blonde waitress stands beside our table, her white blouse unbuttoned just enough to let the imagination wonder. Her eyeliner is feathered out in a smoky eye and she wears a bit more blush than I like but she’s still a pretty girl. My Isabel has a flawless, dark complexion that requires no make-up but I still appreciate this girl for putting forth an effort to look nice.
“Yes, amorcita?” I answer for the group, calling her a Spanish pet name.
Her cheeks turn bright red, giving off the natural blush of a woman’s skin that is much sexier than the artificial kind she brushed on. She interlocks her fingers on each hand, twisting her thumb ring nervously. She finds the confidence she’s searching for and lifts her gaze from her hands to look each of us in the face.
“Um, aren’t you guys ball players?”
My lips slip into a sly grin, the professional athlete line works every time, but when the ladies recognize it before I have to point it out, it’s even better. Taking her hand in mine, I bring it my lips and kiss it softly.
“So kind of you to notice,” I pause, looking at her breast to read her nametag, “Ladonna. What a beautiful name, I might add.”
Her eyes light up and that shyness she was harboring slips away. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, keeping her hand in mine. “So, how long are you boys in town?”
A credit card is thrust between myself and the waitress. Jace is leaning forward, effectively forcing us to break our touch. I’m familiar with the look of irritation on his face and I bite back the urge to laugh as it wasn’t too long ago that Jace was Mr. Playboy himself. The waitress takes his hint and retreats inside to swipe the credit card.
“Fuck, Martinez, what the hell kind of game are you playing? Fuckin’ marry Isabel and end this shit,” Jace mutters, throwing his wallet on the table as he waits for the beautiful blonde to come back with his card.
“There’s no harm in looking, Dickey.” I shrug nonchalantly and take a sip of my wine. “I thought tonight was going to be a fun guys’ night out, didn’t know I was with a bunch of old geezers.”
Tate smirks. “Aside from Adamson, aren’t you the oldest at the table?”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, but I’m not going to sit back and pretend that beautiful women don’t exist.”
Across the table, Grant temples his fingers as he speaks. “None of us are saying beautiful women outside of our wives don’t exist. There’s just a fine line between appreciating their good looks and disrespecting our own ladies.”
Paired with his wise words, the glow from the candle on the table and the twinkle lights directly behind him, Grant is looking a tad bit Yoda-ish. I hold up my hands, accepting his words for the evening and deciding to lay off on my flirting so I don’t offend the bridegrooms at my table. I don’t have to convince
anyone because I know I would never cheat on Isabel, but for some reason that’s unbeknownst to me, I just can’t seem to pop one little question to her.
CHAPTER 2
Sanguine tunes with Spanish lyrics play in the courtyard of my apartment complex. Dredging up the stairs in my wool Burberry suit pants, I curse the elevator that is forever broken. At least the stairwell has open windows so a small breeze offers somewhat of a relief from the summer heat. My suit coat thrown over one shoulder and my suitcase in my other hand, I climb the steps to the tenth floor where home sweet home waits for me.
The sounds of kids singing and yelling at each other dance up the stairs and I smile. I used to be somewhat of a hero to the neighborhood kids being an MLB player and all. These days, I’m just Señor Benny who they think is the next best thing to Santa. I never come home from a game or road trip empty handed, usually it’s some kind of Aces’ shirt or giveaway, but their favorite is when I leave a filled piñata hanging above the patio. I learned my lesson the hard way not to do that when I get in late at night or I won’t get to sleep in once the children discover it the next morning.
At last, I finally reach my front door which is already ajar, letting the breeze in from outside. The smell of Isabel’s famous pasteles, or Puerto Rican tamales, greet me and my stomach gives a loud growl to say hello back. Pasteles have always been my longtime favorite food and Isabel strongly believes if she feeds me enough of them, I might return to some of our authentic roots.
I kick open the door the rest of the way, letting it hit the wall beside me and stepping into our little hot box that we call home. Did I mention that the entire building isn’t air conditioned? I could buy this building if I wanted to, and the good Lord knows I’ve tried, but I haven’t because Isabel would kill me if I did. Instead, we pay just under two grand per month for our place, which is pennies to what I make per inning. Our humble abode is a two bedroom apartment that luckily only houses three people—myself, Isa, and our son, Marcos. I might overpay rent each month to cover some of our neighbors who struggle to get by because it’s about the only thing Isabel will let me do with our money.
“Hola, gordi!” I call out to Isabel as I set my stuff on the couch and shed my dress shirt, tugging it over my head. Following the aroma to the kitchen, I take a second to watch my woman. Isabel, the woman I love, is the sexiest mujer I’ve ever laid eyes on. My lady is a full figured woman, thick around the hips and booty with buxom bosoms. My current view is of Isa bending over the oven, swaying her hips from side to side as her lavender, cotton romper trimmed in white crochet stretches over her wide backside and makes my pants do a little dance of their own.
Finding the rhythm myself, I quietly dance across the room until I slide my hands over her hips as I hum along with the music from the courtyard. Isabel jumps in surprise, clanging the pan of pasteles on the rack in the oven. Grinding my hips against her bottom, I let her see for herself how happy I am to be home.
“Benjamin Martinez!” Isabel shouts, accenting my name in her sexy Spanish way. Closing the oven door, she turns to face me. “Tienes miedo a la mierda de mí!” She says, which translates to I scared the shit out of her. At barely five feet four inches tall, her bark is pretty intense.
I pull her closer to me, swiveling my hips against hers. Her frown quickly disappears as she notes my manhood pressed against her. Slowly, her lips raise into a smile and she shakes her head.
“I take it you missed me?”
“Always, Isa, you’re my girl.” I lower my head, pressing my lips against her neck.
Isabel runs her fingers through my dark mop of hair, thicker on top and buzzed on the sides.
“How were the women on the road?”
She’s fishing, she does this every time I come home. I’ve never cheated on her, not even so much as kissed another woman on the lips. Still, it doesn’t matter what I say, she is insecure when I’m on the road although she refuses to travel with me, contending that Marcos needs a steady home life and has to focus on school. Grant and I have had many a conversation over the years regarding this as it used to piss me off every time she’d ask a question like this. Grant helped me to realize that it’s more than likely my fault for not marrying her already.
“Beautiful,” I comment, taking her bottom lip between my teeth and sucking lightly, “but not as hermosa as my Isa.”
I can tell by the dip in her lips that that wasn’t the right thing to say. I lift my head and look into her dark, almost almond shaped eyes that are outlined in black eyeliner while her lashes are a mile long as they are coated in mascara. Isabel once told me that a swipe of mascara and eyeliner is all a girl needs and I must say that I agree.
“Isabel, beautiful women outside of you exist. There’s a fine line between appreciating their good looks and disrespecting you, which you know I would never do.” Her chin drops and I move my fingers under it, raising her head to look me in the eyes. “You know that, don’t you, Isa?”
She shrugs, her fingers fiddling with my gold cross necklace which she would shit if she knew how much I paid for it. “I know, Ben Ben, but you know there’s so many pretty girls out there that would—”
“I don’t care, Isabel. You’re the only pretty girl I want.” With that, I crush her lips with mine, devouring her plump lips and the strawberry lip gloss that coats them. My fingers knead her hips and my cock throbs to be unleashed. “Where’s Marcos?” My fingers search the back of her romper, trying to figure out how the hell to get this thing off.
“At Janisa’s,” she mumbles, tilting her head back and her long, dark hair tickles my arm. “They’ll be here for dinner in about an hour.”
Giving up on finding a zipper, I grasp the straps of her romper and pull them down her arms, leaving her completely topless in the middle of our kitchen. A devilish grin creeps over my lips because in twenty years, every time I make love with Isabel, it only gets better and better.
CHAPTER 3
After an icy cold shower after some afternoon delight with my Isa, I’m stripped down to my undershirt and a pair of khaki cargo shorts. With an ice cold Dos Equis in hand and a box fan blowing in my face, this place is a little more tolerable. Sitting on our orange couch that’s been passed down from generation to generation in our family, my feet are propped up on the worn down coffee table and I’m actually in my own kind of paradise. Isabel sings along with the music from the courtyard as she finishes dinner in the kitchen and I watch a muted baseball game on television. It’s like a glimpse into my future days of retirement.
“Pasteles? Again, Mama?” Our sixteen-year-old son, Marcos, questions Isabel’s dinner choice as he enters the apartment. His dainty girlfriend, Janisa, follows on his tail. She’s a cute girl with all the strong Puerto Rican characteristics from the dark hair to the curves on her small frame. From what Isa tells me, the two are inseparable and she’s a little concerned. I try to remind her that we were the exact same way when we were their age. Not realizing I’m in the room, Marcos curses under his breath in Spanish about tonight’s menu.
“Language, hijo. Men shouldn’t speak like that in front of women,” I remind him.
Marcos turns in my direction and I catch a glimpse of myself at his age. Our son is a perfect mixture of both us as he has Isabel’s eyes and my short nose. His dark hair is much longer than mine has ever been and it’s evident that he needs a haircut as he flips his hair back when he turns his head. He’s trying to follow in my footsteps of being a ball player, although he’s more into the batting side of the game than the pitching like me.
“Papa, I didn’t know you were home.”
His posture straightens and he takes Janisa’s hand in his own. I’m inclined to frown at his reaction to my presence but instead, I stand up and cross the room. Extending my hand, I shake my son’s hand to show him respect then I politely kiss Janisa’s hand.
“Lo siento, Janisa. Marcos knows better than to curse in front of a lady.”
Janisa has always been a shy girl
and tonight is no different. Her cheeks turn red under her tan skin and she half hides behind Marcos, giving me a shy smile as she does. Marcos doesn’t respond to either of my statements. Instead, he changes the subject to baseball, which is both disappointing and exciting.
“Papa, you should see me hit! I’ve nailed our rival’s screwball and hit it out of the park. Will you be at our game on Tuesday?” Marcos’ eyes light up with excitement as he talks about America’s favorite pastime and the livelihood of our family.
Standing up, I walk to Marcos’ side and clamp my hand on his shoulder. “That’s great, hijo, but I’ll be back on the road tomorrow. Maybe your mother or Janisa could send me a video?”
“Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, shrugging out of my grip and taking Janisa by the hand. The young lovebirds retreat to his room without another word.
From the doorway, Isabel clears her throat. “He wants your approval, Benny.”
I shake my head, forcing a laugh to lighten the situation. “I approve. What father wouldn’t approve of his son excelling in something he’s interested in? It’s even better it’s the game I love.”
Isabel’s lips drop into a frown. “He’s a teenage boy, Benny. You remember what it was like to fight for your father’s attention.”
I scoff and roll my eyes. “If you remember, gordi, my father was long gone by the time I was Marcos’ age.”
My parents’ story isn’t too different than Isabel and my own. High school sweethearts who found themselves preparing to be parents while they were still kids themselves. My father stuck around until graduation, when I was two, and then he split, unable to make a lifetime commit to my mother. He floated in and out of our lives until she finally gave him an ultimatum, either be the father I needed or stay away forever… he opted for the latter. Growing up, I faulted my mama for his lack of presence, especially when Marcos was a baby himself, but the older I get, the more I understand she was only doing it for my own benefit. I promised myself that I would never do the same thing to Isabel and Marcos, the two of them are my world.
