Protecting His Assets

by Cari Quinn

  “I’m not pretending anything. I’m saying it was a one-time thing. It has to be. For your sake,” he added.

  “Because you’re the bad boy of the major league?” She shook her head, letting her hand drop from his face. She knew it was a lost cause. He wouldn’t take her comfort yet, if ever. “Sorry to rub your bat raw, but I think I can handle anything you dish out. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  “I never sleep with the same woman twice.”

  “Then you’re overdue, aren’t you?” she asked lightly, unwilling to allow her churning emotions to creep into her tone. That little factoid wasn’t true. It couldn’t be, could it?

  He sighed. “I’d like you to talk to my…partner in the agency. Temporary partner, at least. Not sure how it’s gonna go long-term. The bodyguard agency,” he added when she gazed at him blankly. “His name is Jason Wilder. He’s new to the field too, but we have—”

  “Jason Wilder?” Her voice rose. “Jax Wilder?”

  “You remember Jax?”

  “Sure I do. He was your best friend.” She grinned and slugged Chase lightly in the arm, then immediately rubbed it. Logic—and those vague rumors she’d heard and dismissed—dictated he’d hurt his left arm, but she didn’t know for sure. “Sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “No, it’s my left elbow, not my right. Pretty sure I can still handle a girl punch, anyway,” he said drily.

  “Ass. So Jax’s working with you in your little bodyguard thing, huh? That’s awesome. So what are you going to call it? Deuce and Jax? You know, like Turner and Hooch? Or better yet, Wild Deuce. Or…”

  “Little bodyguard thing? Thanks, ace.” He paused. “Deuces Wild.”

  “Yeah. I was getting there.” She frowned and let her gaze drop to his left arm. She’d tried to talk her way around and through her worry for him, but she’d be popping antacids by the end of the night if she didn’t address the topic. “What happened to your arm?”

  “Typical pitcher’s injury. Overuse, not enough stretching. Getting older.”

  “Huh, you, a defeatist.” He started to release her hand, but she clamped tighter around his fingers. “Never would’ve figured on that.”

  He cursed under his breath. “Defeatist? I nearly dropped you tonight in that dressing room. That would’ve been memorable, right? So instead of trying to hang on, I got between your legs.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Hell of a consolation prize.”

  “Here I thought you just liked being there.”

  Chase brushed his mouth over her knuckles, and her heart threatened to burst out of her chest. “Liked? Try loved.” He gave her that smug little grin that by turns infuriated and aroused her. Sometimes simultaneously. “Never knew how much I’d enjoy being with a commanding woman.”

  Better not to discuss her commands right now, considering she was already starting to get warm all over from the memory. “Are you doing PT?”

  “I have. I will again. Though I don’t see the point. It’s not working. I can take NSAIDs out the wazoo and stretch until my eyes cross and I still don’t know when my elbow’s going to fuck me over.” He shook his head. “At this point, either I live with it or I have surgery. The risks are good with the surgery, but there are no guarantees. Some guys still don’t get back on a mound, you just don’t hear about them as much.”

  “Do you know anyone who didn’t?” she asked softly.

  “Yeah. I do. Damn good pitcher too. He didn’t have the additional nerve damage I do either. And the rehabilitation is extensive. We’re talking months I can’t try to get back on a team. I may end up having to walk away from the game whatever road I choose.”

  “But surgery could get you back on the field? Maybe even better than ever?”

  “I’m a free agent, Summer. No guarantees,” he repeated, finally releasing her hand. This time she let him. He reclined on the mattress and threw an arm over his eyes. The towel gaped, nudging him ever closer to indecency, but somehow she refrained from remarking on it. Or staring.

  Much.

  “What is guaranteed in life? Nothing. So if PT’s not getting the job done, you try the surgery. What’s the worst that could happen?” Worry edged back into her voice, no matter how hard she tried to keep it out. “Could the surgery leave you worse off?”

  “It could. The odds are small, but they’re there. Or it could take me longer to come back from it than they think, and by the time I’m back in fighting shape, no team will look at me.”

  She scoffed. “Big time Deuce Dixon, forgotten that easily? No fucking way.” She rushed on, not giving him time to argue. “You could get better. Those are the odds you need to focus on. If you’re in pain, what option do you have? Do you really want to live like that?” She pushed at his rock hard thigh and smothered an appreciative sigh. Someday she’d get a stack of coins to check out the whole bouncing quarter theory. She’d start with his tight as hell butt, then move on to his entire body. “Do you really want to have to resort to oral sex when a good fuck will do?”

  He dropped his arm and opened one eye balefully. “Resort? Oh, church girl, you disappoint me. Besides, as I recall, you were concerned you couldn’t…take me otherwise.”

  “So I’ll get a dildo. A big one.” She shrugged it off, knowing full well the chances of them having sex often enough to warrant her worrying about his size were slim to fuhgeddaboutit.

  His chuckle made her sigh inwardly. She didn’t want to get off-topic. This was a serious conversation and she had genuine concerns about his health and wellbeing. But from the amusement playing around his mouth, they were done discussing it.

  She gave in and climbed on top of him, playfully straddling his waist. She slid her palms up his still damp chest and started singing “I Love Rock and Roll” in a husky, sleepy voice that wouldn’t win any awards—other than his slow, sexy grin that thrilled her more than any Grammy.

  “Oh, and just so you know, you didn’t disappoint me,” she murmured, keeping her face completely sober until he poked her in the ribs and made her dissolve into giggles.

  He rolled her on her back, and she found herself staring up at him, blond hair tumbled around his head, mouth soft with a smile, while his hard, heavy body ranged over hers. The towel opened more and the hardest, heaviest part of him pressed against her bare thigh, eliciting a moan she couldn’t hide.

  “Sleep,” he murmured, tickling her again, more gently this time.

  “Okay.” Disappointment weighed down the assent, making him chuckle. “Thank you for telling me. Though I’m kind of amazed you did, big stoic guy that you are.”

  “I didn’t want to, God knows. But your safety could be compromised if I didn’t come clean, and I won’t have that on my conscience too. You deserved the truth.” Soft fingertips stroked her cheek. “You deserve so much more than what I did tonight. A dressing room in some crappy club…” He trailed off and shut his eyes as if the thought pained him.

  Well, bullshit to that. Screw keeping her language clean. She’d moved past that when he’d nailed her on her dressing room table. She had bigger problems—like him thinking she hadn’t loved every second of being with him. Wherever, whenever. However.

  Rather than say that though, she chose a question with at least a passing chance of a positive response. “Do you want me to come with you to the doctor?”

  He didn’t answer for so long that she turned her face away. Obviously she’d overstepped. One-time lovers didn’t rate as companions for doctor’s visits. She knew that, but she’d thought that maybe since they were friends, it would be different. Guess not.

  “Why would you want to?” He shifted away, taking his side of the bed. He’d given her pillows, but not himself. “I’ll be fine. You can sleep in. I’ll take you back home after my appointment.” He turned off the light.

  End of conversation. End of them.

  She faked a big yawn and rolled over to face the opposite wall. The gulf between their backs felt about as big—and cold—as the Adriatic Sea, but hell if she kn
ew how to close it. “Okay. Sleep well.” She pressed her cheek into one of her pillows and forced out the rest. “Good luck tomorrow.”

  If he replied, she didn’t hear it before she fell asleep.

  Chase woke to the sound of crying.

  It wasn’t morning yet. Judging from the darkness of the sky outside the window, they had a couple hours yet. He leaned up on an elbow, then swiftly realized that wasn’t a good idea as pain streaked up his arm. Fucking hell. He rolled on his back and stared at Summer, the movement of her shoulders beneath the covers stunning him into inaction. So much for thinking he’d been dreaming about her crying.

  Was this another bad dream? Or was she actually awake?

  Only one way to find out.

  Carefully, he shook her shoulder and swallowed his instinctive desire to bundle her up in his arms. Since when did he have instincts like that? It had to be because it was Summer. His little sister’s best friend, who happened to be wearing his T-shirt and smelled like him and shifted into his embrace without a word.

  She was soft, so soft. And warm. He held her because he didn’t know what else to do. She hadn’t stopped crying and the tears soaked his chest, each of them striking with the force of an anvil.

  Had he done this? God, he hoped not. If he’d fucked things up even worse for her, he’d never forgive himself.

  Her hands crept over his shoulders and wrapped around his neck and he rocked her, closing his eyes and pressing his face into silky hair scented with his minty shampoo.

  A long while later, her sobs quieted and she slipped back into sleep. He stroked her back and stared into the darkness, wondering what demons followed her into her dreams.

  If they had the same faces as his.

  He didn’t let go of her until it was time to get ready for his appointment. Dr. Jensen was delaying a trip to discuss his case, and the good physician remained hopeful that with the right combination of medication and PT, Chase could avoid surgery. It wasn’t going under the knife that made him nervous. The chance of never playing again—no matter how remote—of that avenue possibly closing forever…until yesterday, he hadn’t been ready to make that choice. Now he was closer.

  Being a bodyguard was something to keep him busy. He could handle the muscle end of it when his arm cooperated, and it gave him a focus other than the alcohol he wasn’t drinking and the women he wasn’t screwing. But if he didn’t get his elbow situation handled, he was no use to anyone.

  Especially Summer.

  He glanced back at the bed. Thick waves of dark hair fell across the mattress and her forehead peeked out from under the comforter. He’d given her a couple of pillows and one was under her head, the other clenched tightly in her grasp under the sheets.

  She was better off holding on to that brick of feathers and foam than him. After the previous evening, hopefully she’d come to that realization on her own. Taking her in a dressing room like some baseball groupie was inexcusable. Whatever his reasons, he’d been flat-out wrong. She wasn’t just some cute singer chick he happened to be guarding.

  Now he’d gone so far as to taint those he cared about with his reckless behavior, and he’d be damned if he dragged her down into the cesspool of his life.

  Hell, Cass would kill him when she’d found out what he’d done. In this case, he’d hand her the knife.

  But they could move on from here. They’d both scratched their itches and everything would return to normal. To ensure that, he’d call Jax and set things into motion.

  While his ex-best friend was protecting her, Chase would take the steps he needed to in his own life. Like returning to AA meetings, and this time, actually going inside instead of turning around at the door. The groups he’d found weren’t the problem. He was. And he needed to discuss surgery as a real, viable option. She’d been right. It was time to admit he couldn’t live like this anymore.

  It was also time he backed away from Summer Maitland—for good.

  Chapter Eight

  Much to Summer’s displeasure, she woke to the words “got a situation” and “it’d be better if you could take over.” It took her about thirty-eight seconds to realize she was the problem her lover was working on getting rid of.

  It would’ve been very Sopranos-like, if Chase hadn’t been busy arranging her care—he actually used that phrase, like she was a baby who needed a sitter—rather than setting up her execution. Her chest hurt as much regardless.

  She burrowed her face into the pillow and tried to settle her rampaging pulse. All she had to do was play it cool until he went to his appointment and then she was getting the hell out of Dodge. No more of this not bringing her own car stuff. She’d fallen into some bad habits with him in a few short weeks. Time to rectify her mistakes.

  If he wanted to hand her off, that was fine. No problemo. She didn’t need a bodyguard, period, but since she’d decided to tell her best friend everything, she knew having one would be a part of her life for the foreseeable future. Cass would insist on it, and if she was being honest, she liked the feeling of security it gave her to have someone with her at her shows. She just didn’t know what it would be like if that person was Jax rather than Chase.

  She’d soon find out.

  “Yeah, I have to go. I’ll have her back home this afternoon.” He lowered his voice, and to compensate, Summer deepened her scowl. Awesome. He thought she was senile along with clueless. Before he’d been talking loudly enough to wake the dead, and now he turned down the volume? “You think you can swing by her place, maybe soften the blow a little? I don’t want to get into all of it here.” He chuckled and she dug her nails into her palm while imagining digging his blond hair out at the root. “Nah, man, nothing like that. We’re cool. She’s a great chick. You’ll see. Well, yeah, sure, she can be a little emo. She’s a girl, you know?”

  A growl slipped out before Summer slammed her knuckles against her mouth. Emo? She’d show him emo.

  Forget the hair on his head. Not nearly painful enough. She’d pull out the hair around his dick.

  By the time he got off the phone, after a few more hearty man chuckles, she was ready to spit. But she kept her eyes closed and her form relaxed while she pretended to be dreaming the sleep of the fully orgasmed—a state miles better than fully caffeinated, but much harder to achieve.

  “Hey, sleepyhead.” He nudged her shoulder. “You awake?”

  She mumbled something that was supposed to sound like no, still sleeping but really meant go to hell, asshole.

  “Okay then, get some rest. You’re probably still tired.” Then as an afterthought, accompanied by yet another throaty chuckle, he added, “I did wear you out last night.”

  Nope, not dick hair. Nose hair. Pulled out with flaming tweezers.

  She made a snuffling noise and he shuffled off to get ready. A few moments later, he returned with what smelled like a travel mug of coffee. “Man, you’re really out, huh? I’d wanted to say goodbye, but I guess not. Probably better if you don’t see me when I’m tied up in knots like this. Ah, fuck it.” He blew out a breath then shocked the heck out of her by leaning over to press his warm, coffee-scented lips to her forehead. “See you later.”

  Tears sprang into her eyes and pissed her off. At least they didn’t fall until the apartment door had closed behind him.

  “Sugar.” Screeching that particular curse word substitute didn’t do anything but make her hungry, so she rolled on her back and screamed out her frustration at the ceiling. Why did he have to be so annoying? And so sweet? He’d kissed her goodbye, and God, she’d never wanted anything more than to stay in his warm sheets and wait for him to return. To listen to every detail about his doctor’s appointment before pulling off the T-shirt of his she wore and making him feel better with every inch of her naked body.

  But that was a fairy tale. Little Red Riding Hood had nothing on the yarn they were spinning.

  Maybe he couldn’t decide if he wanted her as a lover or as a friend or as a client, but she could. She wasn�
�t going to risk more than she could afford to lose.

  She sat up in bed and pushed her hands through her tumbled hair. On a chair next to the bed sat the neat pile of her clothes, all nicely folded. On top sat a single foil-wrapped butterscotch candy, the kind he’d slipped her a few times as a kid. Her mom had been militant about her never having sugar and Chase had hooked her up in secret.

  He’d remembered. And that made her sniffle harder.

  A fuzzy recollection of her crying and Chase holding her teased the edges of her brain. Oh, man, had she had one of her dreams again last night? The memories of her father’s death had mostly faded with the passing years, but when she was stressed, they loved to show up in the form of nightmares. That was one of the reasons she rarely spent the night with guys. She hadn’t even thought of that last night though. After her show, then dressing room sex and Chase’s revelation about his arm, she’d been way too preoccupied. And now he’d probably seen her bawl like a baby.

  Yep, that would definitely go miles to proving to him that she was a confident woman who didn’t need care. Maybe he even figured she’d cried to try to manipulate him, rather than because she’d been dazed and half asleep and caught in the memory of the worst day of her life.

  Shaking it off, she stuck the candy in her purse and dressed quickly, not wanting to spend any more time in Chase’s apartment than she absolutely had to. She fished out her phone and dialed a car rental place, then made arrangements to pick up a car two hours later. That would give her enough time to get to a church service—at the same church she and Chase had attended a few weeks ago—then make her way to the car rental place.

  Under six hours later, after drinking enough coffee to hype up a monkey and suffering through a trip home without her trusty GPS, she threw back her shoulders and walked into Triple Scoop. She had on her cute little brown and pink uniform with the short skirt that she’d insisted on buying over Cass’s more sedate choices, and the hot, majorly built guy leaning over the ice cream case to talk to Cass turned and gave her a leisurely once-over. When he glanced back at Cass, she was frowning.