Switch Hitter

by Sara Ney

  I narrow my eyes, giving the remaining player a look. Are they trying to get rid of me?

  “What did you say your name was?” Derek asks.

  “I didn’t.”

  His face is blank; impassive. Stony. And directed at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Scarlett.”

  His mouth curves. “Sober Scarlett.”

  “So you’re a rhymer? Cheers.” I hold up my red plastic cup, raising it in a toast. “Got any other set of skills?”

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with my other set of skills.” He’s pleased with his innuendo, which sends Tess into a giggle fit.

  Gross Tess, no.

  Just…no.

  God, what is it with these guys? Are they all like this?

  And why do my friends think they’re so damn charming? They are the furthest thing from it. Crude. Sarcastic. I can tell by the cold glint in this one’s eye that he’s a colossal asshole.

  Stereotypical D1 student athlete.

  What a shame.

  What a waste of a hottie.

  What a dick.

  Derek’s face goes from a scowl to a smirk. “Heads up Sober Scarlett, the cavalry has arrived.”

  Huh?

  Cavalry? He must be drunk.

  The music goes from barely audible to an earsplitting decibel, so loud I can no longer hear what anyone is saying. Suddenly, I can hear nothing but moving lips and—

  A large hand covers my eight shoulder, the weight of it warming my upper bicep, hotter than it already is. My head swerves, eyes settling on that large hand. Rough. Manly. Square tipped fingers. Short nails.

  My green eyes travel upward, lifting their way up a tan, bare forearm, meeting a dark set of eyes; strong nose. Full lips.

  The human attached to that big hand is striking; not in a beautiful way—I wouldn’t call him that. I wouldn’t call him hot, or handsome, either.

  He’s way too intense for that.

  Way too broody.

  His eyes are a sullen brown, crinkled at the corner. Lips set in a straight unhappy line, just like his friends before him.

  What is it with these guys? Why are they all so grumpy?

  I feel my eyes widen when he leans his torso, warm breath brushing my ear. Leans down, into me, broad shoulders dipping and brushing against mine as that exquisite mouth speaks slowly near my ear.

  I inhale, of course I do—he smells so good I can’t stop myself.

  “Can you follow me for a second?”

  I shiver.

  “Where to?” My eyes stray to the front door. The staircase leading to the second floor. The kitchen where I filched the water inside my cup.

  “Over by the front door, no big deal. Just for a second so it’s easier to talk.”

  Silent warning bells go off inside my head; this guy came out of thin air and suddenly has something to say to me in by the front door?

  Isn’t that weird?

  What’s the harm in following him to the corner? It’s not like he’s taking me to one of the bedrooms. It’s not like he can try anything in a room full of people, right?

  Right.

  My eyes slide to Derek. To Ben, who has materialized. To Cameron and Tess, ogling me expectantly, both their manicured brows raised, stunned. I’ve seen these looks before; they’re excited.

  “Okay,” I agree slowly. “I guess that would be alright.”

  “Follow me then, yeah? Stay close.”

  I nod, giving my friends one last sidelong glance before complying.

  Whoever this guy is, his presence parts the crowd like the Red Sea as we wade through it, people clearing the way so he can get by.

  I follow, gaze trained on his broad back. His broad, sexy back, muscles beneath his t-shirt straining with every step--every motion—the lines of his neck are tan and dense.

  Tense.

  His rich brown hair must have been cut recently, the lines precise. Short in the back, longer at the top of his head.

  He shoots me a glance over his shoulder to make sure I’m still behind him before yanking the handle on the front door, then pushing the screen open.

  I hesitate before following him onto the porch, foot poised on the threshold, cool air hitting me like a wall. I breath a sigh relief. Oh my god it feels so good; I was about to die in that hot, sweaty room.

  In this stupidly thick sweater.

  I step down onto the porch, over cautious, taking note of witnesses in and around the yard. One, two, five people loitering on the lawn. Three on the opposite side of the porch. Two on the sidewalk near the road, smoking next to a car.

  He appears to be doing the same; scanning the yard, doing a mental head count, nodding with satisfaction when he finally turns to face me.

  Nonetheless, we both startle when the door slams shut behind us and we’re alone on the porch.

  He is tall—really good and tall—legs spread slightly, arms crossed. Typical baseball player stance, except no uniform. No glove.

  “So. What’s up?”

  His nose dips down, studying me, those brawny arms uncrossing, the cords in his forearms stretching. “So. I hate to be the one to tell you this but you can’t go back in the house

  I laugh, rolling my eyes at the overhang above us. “Oh, oh-kay.”

  “I’m not fucking around right now. You can’t go back inside—you’re being kicked out.

  I snort. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the unlucky bastard that drew the short straw.”

  My nose crinkles. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re driving my friends fucking nuts and they don’t want you back inside.”

  His mouth curves into a wry, patronizing smile. “And I drew the short straw for the honors to kick you out.”

  Wait. Is he being serious? “For real?”

  “Yeah—like, for realz.” He imitates an airheaded girl, fake twirling an invisible lock of long hair.

  Except I’m not an airhead, I’m not stupid, and I’m not a—

  “Cockblocker.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” I had to have misunderstood him.

  “Inside they’re calling you cockblocker. Because you won’t stop running your mouth.”

  “I wasn’t running my mouth!”

  Without warning, he plucks the red plastic cup from my hand, sniffing the contents with that big, Greek nose of his. “What’s in here, vodka?”

  He sniffs at my cup again, taking a good, long whiff, sticking his nose inside.

  “No,” I contend indignantly. “That’s not vodka! It’s water!”

  “Water? Where’d you get water around here?”

  Not this again…

  I hold up my hand to pause the conversation. “Hold up. Rewind: they’re calling me Cock Blocker?”

  “You’re messing with their game.”

  I snort. “Your friends have no game. Unless you count lying, which isn’t impressing anybody.”

  “What were they lying about?”

  “Does it matter at this point?”

  “Not really—they want you out and it’s their house.” But now he’s curious, I can see it in his eyes. By the set of his arched brows.

  “Look,” I huff. “It’s not my fault your friends are claiming they won the College World Series last year when they didn’t. All I did was call them out on it—it’s stupid that they’re even lying about it.”

  “How are you so sure we didn’t win the CWS?”

  “Dude, seriously? You too?”

  He laughs at my use of the word dude, Adam’s Apple bobbing. “No, not me too. I’m not a fucking liar, I’m just wondering how you knew they were full of shit.”

  I shrug. “I have a baseball obsessed brother.” I don’t mention that Shaun is autistic and knows statistics about most collegiate teams, dating back before this guy was even born.

  “Sucks to be you, I guess.” His eyes stray to a window, gazing inside, longing to be back inside. “Look, can you leave? It’s cold and I’d rather
be back inside.”

  “You’re seriously kicking me out.”

  His nod is authoritative. “Yup. This is me, officially kicking your scrawny ass out.”

  I do not have a scrawny ass! “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Sorry ma’am. Can’t let you back inside, you’re disturbing the peace. I’ve been tasked with escorting you from the premises.”

  My head tips back again, and a nervous, giddy laugh—usually reserved for moments when I don’t know how to react— erupts. Moments like this one that have me laughing like an idiot.

  “Escort me from the premises? What are you, an undercover cop?” I sass, trying to turn my humiliation into a joke.

  Only—if this is a joke, it isn’t funny, not at all. It’s embarrassing and awkward and now that we’re out here on the porch in the cold.

  “Can I at least go back inside and tell my friends I’ve been kicked out?”

  “Nope.” He obnoxiously pops the P. “I’m under strict orders not to let you back in.”

  “Whose strict orders?”

  “Mine.” One mammoth paw scratches across his stupidly sexy square jaw. “Come to think of it, I guess I am kind of like an undercover cop.” His smile widens. “Yeah. I like that.”

  He smirks and god is he cute. So cute I have to glance into the yard to stop myself from staring directly at his white smile, chiseled jaw and sparkling eyes.

  Jerk.

  “Please let me go back in and tell them I’m leaving?” Jeez, now I’m begging. “Please?”

  “Hell no.”My arms cross definitely. “Text them if you want to let them know you’re not going back in, they’ll get it.”

  In a last, desperate attempt to gain footing, I stomp my foot like child. “I’m not leaving this porch until you let me back in.”

  He yawns, sounding bored. “Why are you being so dramatic?”

  “Because! This goes against my…” I search for a word. “Civil rights!”

  “Your Civil Rights,” he deadpans dryly. “Do tell.”

  “You can’t kick me out!”

  “You’re cockblocking my friends!”

  “Your friends are pigs.”

  “You don’t know that for a fact. Derek and Ben are fine lads.”

  “Fine liars, you mean.”

  “That too,” he laughs.

  “I’m not standing out on this porch while my girlfriends are inside. I’m not abandoning them.” Although to be honest, I can guarantee they won’t care that I’m not going back inside. We’re friends, but we’re not best friends, and our intentions for going out couldn’t be more different.

  “Sweetheart, if you don’t leave this property, I’m going to end up babysitting you and that’s not how I want to kill time on a Friday night.”

  My chin tips up definitely. “You punish me, I punish you. Seems like a fair trade.”

  His teeth rake over his bottom lip as he watches me, back and forth, gleaming white.

  “Fine,” he says at least. “While you’re standing here being stubborn, I’ll be over on the stairs.”

  Removing his cell from the back pocket of his jeans, he holds it up, thumb sliding across the screen, the glow illuminating his stupidly attractive face. He twists his wrist in my direction. “Do continue ranting. Don’t let me stop you.”

  I eyeball him again as he settles onto a wooden porch step, legs spread out in front of him.

  “You’re really not going to let me back in?”

  “Nooo.” He drags the word out. “I’m really not letting you back in.”

  “What if I promise to zip my lips?” I run two pinched fingers across my mouth; throw away the key.

  “Cute.” His eyes are fastened to his phone. “But no.”

  “I can’t be out here and leave my poor friends alone with those idiots.” I pause. “Oops. Did I say the word idiots out loud? Take pity on me, please.”

  His head gives a slow shake. Tsks. “It’s going to be a really long night if you keep doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Begging to get back inside.”

  “I’m not begging. I’m asking.”

  His eyes leave the screen of his phone, raking my person up and down with a dismissive brow. “It’s begging—I know what the difference is and it’s annoying.”

  The skin on my neck feels hot; the telltale signs of a blush brightening my face, even in the cold. “If…if you don’t let me back inside, I’m calling the cops!”

  “Be my guest.” He takes a loud, slurping sip of his beer. “Tell them Rowdy sent you.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Trust me, doll face, I’ve been called worse.”

  “Oh god—don’t call me doll face.”

  “What should I call you then? I know you don’t like the name Cock Blocker.”

  I stomp my foot, frustrated. “Ugh! Why do you have to be so stubborn?”

  “You’re calling me stubborn? Uh, okay.” He mumbles the word Jesus under his breath, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to lecture him for using the Lords name in vain, but I bite the words back instead. For once.

  “I-I...I’m sorry. I just...” feel helpless out here on the porch.

  His eyes narrow as he studies me. “Bet you were one of those girls in high school that used to raise your hand during class to ask for extra credit.”

  My, “So?” slips out before I can stop it. What’s wrong with raising your hand and asking for extra credit? That’s how you get good grades and get ahead in life—going the extra mile.

  “So. No one liked those girls.”

  I flush again, loosing count of how many times I’ve turned bright red in the amount of time we’re been sequestered to the front porch. Alone, if you don’t count the drunks loitering around the property.

  I fake a scoff. “And you were one of those jockstraps that barely passed their classes and cheated off girls like me.”

  He spreads his arms, wing-span wide. “Yet here I am with a full ride to college. Imagine those odds.”

  I try another strategy. “What am I supposed to do until my friends come back outside?”

  His head dips, and he’s back to ignoring me in favor of his cell phone. “Not my problem.”

  “But they could be inside for hours!” Holy crap, where did that whiney voice come from? I really sound annoying.

  “Want me to walk you home?”

  “I’m not going home—and I’m not going anywhere alone with you, but nice try.”

  “Really, you’re not gonna to leave? Your friends had no problem ignoring the fact I hauled you off.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, you didn’t haul me off. I followed you.” Like a moron, because he was intriguing and cute and I was curious.

  Curiosity killed the cat, Scarlett.

  “Stay if you want, suit yourself.” He eyes me up and down. “You’re certainly dressed for it.”

  Was that a dig? I narrow my eyes, confident that it was a knock against my sweater. “I was sick last week! I had a cold!”

  He holds up his bear paws. “Hey, no judgments. I’m just saying you’re wearing a sweater that could double as a parka. I’m the one who’s going to freeze their balls off in this tee shirt if it gets any colder.”

  “If you want to run in and grab something warmer, I can come with you.” I smile sweetly. “Promise I won’t disappear on you.”

  His lips twitch. “I think I’ll take my chances against the hypothermia and frost bite setting in.” He taps away at the lit up screen of his phone, the glow casting illuminating the bottom of his chin and nose. “Why do you think,” he asks absentmindedly, “it bugs you so damn bad that your friends are getting hit on, but you’re not.”

  “Is that what you guys thought I was doing? Being spiteful?”

  His wide shoulders shrug. “Seems like it.”

  My mouth drops open, horrified. “I was not cockblocking my friends because I’m jealous!”

  “So you admit it; you wer
e cockbocking.”

  “No! That’s not what I meant! That’s not what I was doing; it’s not my fault your friends lie.”

  “Is it because you’re completely sober?”

  “I’m not completely sober!”

  “So are you drunk?”

  “No! Of course not.” I flip my hair, affronted. Seriously, the nerve of this guy! “I’ve been drinking water most of the night.” Someone has to be the responsible and keep their wits about them.

  Besides, if I was drunk I would have ripped this sweater off hours ago, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “Let me get you a beer. Maybe your problem is that you need to take the edge off.”

  “Thank, but my only problem is that I’m out here, with you, and not inside where I’m supposed to be.”

  I’m fun goddammit!

  “Fine, suit yourself,” he grits out through perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth. Ugh. So good-looking and getting cuter by the minute, damn him. “Maybe you won’t be so goddamn uptight while waiting for your friends and it will be more pleasant for both of us, yeah?”

  “Uptight?”

  “Yeah you’re uptight.” He squints over, shielding his eyes against the porch light. “Hasn’t anyone told you that before?”

  I stand my ground, answering his question with a question. “Why would make you say I’m uptight? Based on what?”

  “Let me count the ways.” He taps on the fingers of his right hand with his left. “I’m on this porch when I could be partying because you won’t stop cock blocking everyone inside. You’re wearing a fucking bear skin rug to a party. You’re drinking water. You admitted to asking for extra credit during class. You won’t stop arguing.” Holds up his hand, wiggling his five fingers. “All signs? Point to uptight.”

  “First of all,” I muster up a deep breath. “Those assholes didn’t even give me a chance to redeem myself before they sent over their henchman. You.”

  “And second of all?” He smiles coyly, the cheeky bastard, leaning his heads against the newel post.

  “Second of all, your friends were lame and not all at funny. They’re lucky they’re athletes, because if not, they’d probably never get laid.”

  The guy snorts. “Somehow I seriously doubt that.”

  I continue ranting. “Their conversation would have bored me to tears—so bloody mind-numbingly dull.” I pause. “Can you imagine what they’d be like in the—”