Double Play

by Nikki Duvall

  DOUBLE PLAY

  by Nikki Duvall

  Copyright 2013 by Nikki Duvall

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ~ONE~

  “Put that thing away, would ya, Nina? I need a night off.”

  J.D. Shaw blocked the flash of the photographer’s camera with his good arm, keeping the other tucked close to his side. Beads of sweat were forming along his forehead and they had nothing to do with Nina. At the end of another ninety five degree day, the Midwestern summer night still steamed in the aftermath of evening thunderstorms, jacking the heat in the Field Museum’s main hall to unbearable. Just a few more hours and he’d be able to shrug out of this monkey suit and into a cold shower.

  Nina pushed his big hand away and flipped her long black hair behind one shoulder. “A girl has to make a living.” She snapped another photo.

  “Plenty of other targets in the room,” J.D. mumbled.

  “You sell papers, Sweetheart,” she said, leaning in for a close-up. “Even women who don’t like sports read the sports page when your picture’s in it.”

  “Then say something nice about me this time.”

  “That’s up to you. Give me something nice to say.”

  “We’ve been through this, Honey,” said J.D. with a smirk. “You ain’t my type.”

  Nina lowered her camera and squinted her steel blue eyes. “Don’t knock the product until you’ve given it a trial run.”

  “That’s blackmail, that’s what it is,” J.D. grumbled.

  “What’s the Titan’s centerfielder doing at a literacy fundraiser, anyway?” asked Nina. “Trying to improve your image?”

  “Like I said,” said J.D. with a twist of his lips, “that’s up to you.”

  “Well, you smell nice anyway,” she said, walking away with an exaggerated swing to her hips. “Choke up a little on that swing, J.D. You could have hit that last slider out of the park.” She waved over her shoulder. “Catch you later.”

  J.D. leaned against the bar and winced against the throb pulsing from his neck to his groin. Even with the legal limit of pills and whiskey flowing through his blood, he could still feel the strain of an overworked shoulder. Overworked. He hoped that's all it was. He slipped one finger between his starched Armani collar and the silk tie gripping his throat, allowing a fraction of heat to escape. He’d skipped dinner, opting for pain pills and booze, high on a hard fought win against the best minor league baseball team in the conference. Now on an empty stomach, the amplified voices of a thousand trust funders bouncing off the Field Museum’s marble staircases rumbled like a freight train in his head. Cigar smoke and French perfume thickened the already stagnant city air, offering his nauseous stomach one more reason to complain.

  From this balcony bar, J.D. could pick out every millionaire at this charity event, every pale faced soft gripped bastard anxious to be seen sipping champagne with celebrities. They were the same suits who shouted their contempt toward him from their air conditioned stadium seats if he struck out, then bragged they’d met him once when he hit a home run. In ten years they’d forget his name. Tonight they wanted his autograph.

  He’d give anything right now to be sitting at Fat Jimmy’s in a tee shirt and jeans, watching the Sooners kick the Longhorns’ butts on the big screen.

  He belted back his third double shot of Jim Beam Black and watched through bloodshot eyes as his agent approached from the far side of Stanley Hall. After a full afternoon of catching fly balls in the scorching Chicago sun, the last thing J.D. wanted to do was nurse Tony King’s ego at a black tie affair. By the looks of King’s fake tan and slicked back spaghetti hair, he was already enough of a pretentious prick. Trouble was, J.D. needed a ruthless sonofabitch like King just a little while longer. Just long enough to seal a major league deal with the New York Federals.

  The cameras were back. Flash, flash. “Look pretty, J.D.,” a buxom blonde said, adjusting her lens for a close up.

  “How you doin’, Crystal?” J.D. asked with his best celebrity smile.

  “Better now that you’re here. What’s up with the solo gig? Last time I took your picture you were surrounded by the full flight crew fresh from Stockholm. I don’t think Chicago has ever seen so many natural blondes in one room.”

  “Takin’ a rest.”

  “Why don’t you stop by the Drake tonight? Carrie’s throwing a party and I,” she said with a wicked smile, “booked a room for the night.”

  “Ain’t feelin’ too social.”

  “I have a cure for that,” she said, snapping another picture.

  J.D. chuckled. “What paper you working for now?”

  “Any that’ll buy these from me.” She lowered her camera and leaned in for a whisper. “I keep a few for myself, too.”

  “That’s kinda creepy,” J.D. whispered back with a devilish grin. He caught sight of Tony King climbing the steps to the balcony bar and grimaced. On a typical night, King would arrive with a purchased date and a planned entrance, the kind of publicity stunt every self-promoter dreams about. Tonight he was arriving sober and alone. Something wasn’t right.

  He sidled up next to J.D. for a group photo.

  “All done here,” said Crystal, heading off into the crowd without taking another shot. “We’ll be in the Drake’s main bar if you change your mind, J.D.!” she called behind her.

  “I don’t think she likes me,” said Tony, momentarily confused. He hiked himself up on the leather stool next to J.D., helping himself to a tray of assorted appetizers while checking his own image in the plated mirror behind the bar. He took a moment to size up J.D.’s foul mood before engaging. “Jonathan Dillon Shaw,” he said, as if trying on the name for size. “Let me guess,” he said, spitting bits of crab and crackers. “Jacked up, strung out, and apologizing to no one.”

  J.D. stroked his coal black five o’clock shadow, drumming up the patience to hold a five minute conversation with someone he cared nothing about. “Federals ain’t complaining,” he said, keeping his dark eyes on his drink.

  “They’re complaining to me. Here’s a little advice,” said King in an authoritative tone that made J.D.’s spine go stiff. “Prodigies get to be dicks. Your performance tonight had benchwarmer written all over it.”

  “I told you I wrecked my shoulder,” J.D. snarled. “And the throw got to Bellamy in time to tag the runner at home plate, which, by the way, saved the game. So you can kiss my benchwarmer ass.”

  King spent the next minute staring at J.D.’s shoulder as if he could see through the layers of expensive fabric to the fiery ligaments pulsing in the middle. He leaned a little closer. J.D. nearly choked on his overpowering aftershave. “Tell Darby you need an injection,” he said in a tone of confidence. “Federals don’t buy damaged goods.”

  “We had this conversation, King. I ain’t usin' no steroids. ”

  “Don’t blow this chance, John. You’re not going to make it without a little help.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that. Hey, Mitch!” J.D. shouted, tossing a fifty on the bar. “Pour one of them candy ass drinks for my agent here, would ya?”

  “Vodka Martini,” King corrected. “No ice.”

  A brawny Italian looking guy with a few too many miles on him hurried their way. He looked uncomfortable in a tight fitting tuxedo and bow tie. “I heard the Federals are scouting you, J.D.,” he said. He leaned toward them with the bright eyed look of someone who made his living collecting secrets. “You two out celebrating?”

  “Ain’t my shindig,” grumbled J.D. with a crooked Harrison Ford grin. “If it were min
e, I’da ordered up some dancin' girls and cheap whiskey, none of this foofoo shit.”

  Mitch laughed. “Sign my cocktail napkin?”

  “Glad to.” J.D. scrawled his name and jersey number along the square and handed it back to a smiling Mitch who slipped the napkin into his lapel pocket.

  “Be right back.”

  King frowned. “Time to get serious, Superstar. The bartender might think you’re amusing, but the Feds don’t like your reputation for bar fights and call girls.”

  “I’m an Okie, King. I could drink a fifth and you wouldn’t know it.”

  “Oh, I’d know it, alright. Last time we had this conversation, a couple of guys woke up with broken noses and I had to bail you out of the drunk tank. Reporters loved that.”

  “Well, my left hook ain’t no good and my right is out of commission, so I guess you hit a double,” said J.D. “Besides, the boss man don’t care what kind of press he gets, as long as he gets plenty of it.” He reached over the bar for an empty glass and pushed it forward. “Fill er up, Mitch.”

  Mitch glanced down at J.D.’s clenched right fist. “Sore shoulder, J.D.?”

  “Comes with the territory.”

  “I used to play ice hockey myself. Nearly made the Hawks. A shoulder injury sidelined me for good,” said Mitch. “It still hurts like a sonofabitch in winter.”

  “What do you do for it?”

  “Leggy blondes and pill bottles.” His dark eyes drifted toward a woman on the far terrace. “I wouldn’t mind that between my thighs.”

  J.D. followed Mitch’s gaze and set his jaw. Halee McCarthy wore jade silk and pearls, the very dress he’d bought for her the year before, then helped her out of the same memorable evening. Endless road trips and countless bottles of whiskey hadn’t been enough to erase the memory of their two weeks together. The taste of her still haunted him.

  Too bad his shoulder was out of commission. He had the urge to introduce himself to Halee’s date with his fists.

  “Know her?”

  “Yeah, I know her. She’s out of your league.” J.D. stirred his drink and watched the ice cubes float and sink, matching his volatile mood. “Out of mine, too,” he mumbled.

  His eyes strayed back toward Halee just as a middle aged man in a tweed jacket pulled her in the opposite direction. He took the opportunity to size up the back of her. Same curvy hips, same shapely legs. Her dress dipped down, revealing the little mole on her left shoulder blade he’d loved to tease. He watched the man slide his arm around her delicate waist and guzzled down the remainder of his drink. A camera flashed in his face.

  J.D. pushed the camera away. “Get rid of that thing, would ya?” he said, getting up to go.

  “Just one more, J.D.”

  J.D. sighed and smiled for the camera for several shots, then signed an autograph for the photographer. “Print the good ones,” he said with a wink. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said to King. He took one step forward and tried to remember which entrance he’d come through. Was it Lake Shore Drive or Soldier Field? Between the alcohol and the massive chandeliers bouncing beams of light off a sea of sequined dresses, his brain was fast approaching overload. His eyes sought her out one more time, against his will. Their gazes connected. He nodded. She cocked her head and sent him a puzzled look.

  “It’s no surprise she dumped you,” said King from behind. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “That’s where you and I differ, King. The only game I play is baseball.”

  “The object of any game is to gain and maintain control. I smell trouble,” King said in a hushed voice. He nodded toward a circle of high rollers gathered under the shadow of the museum’s towering mastodon. “Victoria Pryor has been at Halee’s side all night.”

  “The Federals owner’s…”

  “Wife. His fourth. Looks more like his daughter.”

  J.D. managed to focus a blurred gaze on his new boss and grimaced. Victoria Pryor displayed the same fierceness that permeated all of high society, a repressed anger mixed with unsettling indifference, the kind of distracted nonchalance that left J.D. cold.

  “Victoria’s taken a liking to Halee,” Tony continued. “She’s joined the board of Halee’s foundation. That’s bad news for you.”

  J.D. grunted. “Says who?”

  “Beware a woman scorned.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Get in the game, Shaw.” King glanced sideways as if sharing counterintelligence. “No one handles Victoria Pryor. Her evil is practiced. What you see before you is the finest plastic surgery money can buy. Arthur Pryor didn’t marry youth this time, he married money and power. She was ruthless when you were playing little league. Now that she’s menopausal, her enemies are dropping like flies. You disappoint Halee, you disappoint Victoria and suddenly you’re warming the bench, or worse, you’re back in the minor leagues.”

  “Bull,” J.D. scoffed. “I’ve already disappointed Halee McCarthy and I’ve still got a Federals jersey with my name on it. I don’t need any woman to get what I want. I’m a lone wolf and I intend to stay that way.”

  “Let the Federals hear you say that and they’ll cancel your contract.”

  J.D.’s eyes darkened. King cleared his throat and changed tactics.

  “Look, John,” he said, “the Feds don’t take to scandal. They want you married and settled.”

  J.D. spit out an ice cube. “What did you say?”

  “Married, Superstar. Married with children.”

  J.D. slapped his glass on the bar. Tony didn’t flinch. “Just when were you going to tell me that?”

  “It’s no one’s fault but yours.” King pulled a newspaper clipping from his lapel pocket and tossed it on the bar. “Explain this.”

  J.D. peered at the black and white picture of himself flanked by two unidentified blondes and curled his lip at the caption. Playboy Titan centerfielder J.D. Shaw turns up the heat at Shoshone’s with auto show models. He shoved the clipping back at his agent. “That don’t mean nothin’.”

  “I admire your penchant for catting around, J.D., I really do. I don’t even mind that you break every rule you come up against. But I lose my enthusiasm for bad behavior when it spoils major league contracts. You lose, I lose. And I’m in it to win. If you’re not, let me know now.”

  J.D. remained silent for a few moments. He drew in a deep breath and ran one hand through his short dark hair. The pain in his shoulder had deteriorated into a deep burning throb that traveled down his right arm whenever he tried to raise it. Doc had warned him about the future. One more tear and he’d be out of chances. His mind drifted back to his last visit to the Double HL ranch in the thick of a bleak Oklahoma winter. Faye had looked too tired the last time he’d seen her. Her drawn face belonged to a woman twice her age.

  “I’ll think on it,” he said finally.

  “You’ve got about thirty minutes to decide, Superstar.” Tony gave J.D. a nudge and gestured toward Halee McCarthy making her way toward the bar. “Look alive,” he said. “All you need is a woman and a ring. Think about what I said.”

  “Halee, Darling,” Tony exclaimed, intercepting the stunning strawberry blonde a few feet away.

  Halee dodged his kiss and slid onto the stool next to J.D. She spent an uncomfortable minute sliding her gaze up and down J.D.'s body. “Armani and cowboy boots," she said finally. "Nice."

  J.D. chuckled. "Thanks."

  "You look awful.”

  J.D. lifted a cool gaze over his half empty glass and stared into sparkling emerald eyes. “You don’t.”

  A thin band of pearls bobbed at her throat as she finished the last drops of her drink, drawing his gaze to the smooth skin his tongue had memorized. She looked different this close, more polished than he’d remembered, less like plain Midwestern girls and more like the girls he’d known back home. She’d pulled her hair off her shoulders; reddish blonde curls spilled down her sleek neck. The same little dimple at her left cheek teased him, daring him to lean over and brush
his lips across her sweet flesh.

  “I thought I’d be polite and say hello,” she said into her half empty glass.

  “It’s your party.”

  “It’s the North Shore Literacy Foundation’s party, J.D. The one you never took any interest in when we were together. Frankly, I’m surprised to see you here.”

  Her smile mocked him. One loose curl tickled her temple, another played with the small pearl drop at her ear. He resisted the urge to reach up and touch it. “I’m on Victoria Pryor’s list,” he said.

  “So it seems. Bring your checkbook?”

  “What’s the cause?”

  “Oh, I thought I’d bring together a room full of women for you to leer at. We could call it the pathetic overrated jock foundation.”

  J.D. chewed on a piece of ice. “You never complained about my performance when we were together.” He dropped his dark eyes to Halee’s pouty mouth. Her perfume played havoc with his self-control. In a matter of ten seconds he was back in her bed, loving her all over again. “Still beautiful as ever,” he murmured.

  “So glad you approve.”

  “She didn’t mean nothin’ to me, Halee.”

  “They never do.”

  “You did.” He watched her eyes fill with pain. He resisted the urge to take her into his arms.

  “I have to go.”

  He caught her by the elbow and gently pulled her back. His fingers lingered, sliding tenderly down to her wrist, her palm, folding around her small hand. She swallowed hard.

  “Say, Halee,” Tony yelled above the fray, “did you hear about John’s contract with the Federals?”

  The cameras flashed again, blinding them both for one moment. J.D. motioned them away. He watched her, searching for the slightest reaction to Tony’s announcement. She continued to stare into his eyes as if looking for someone else. Her lush mouth drew into a sneer. “Think of all the new prospects in New York,” she said.

  J.D. raised her hand to his lips and planted a tender kiss on the palm. “How about another drink for old times’ sake?” he murmured into her soft flesh.