by Ney, Sara
We both walk past the security booth, and I nod to Karl, the guard, slowing my gait on the way to my car since I can’t actually get into it. I need her to get to her car first and drive off so she doesn’t know I’m a liar.
Her gait is confident, her gaze trained on the horizon, not on her phone, as she scans the parking lot, key fob for a luxury SUV in hand. Nice wheels. Nice legs. Smart mouth.
With a glance over her shoulder, she meets my eyes before she grasps a pair of sunglasses and slides them on, opening her door and climbing inside. She spares me no second glances after that—not a single damn one.
Rude!
Shuffling my feet like a loser, I meander my way back from pretending to get something from my car, nodding again at Karl, who has his head sticking out the side of the guard booth.
“You sweet on Ms. Westbrooke?”
“Who?”
“The young lady you were just with—that’s Thomas Westbrooke’s youngest. Don’t see her around here too often, but Ms. Hollis sure is a nice young woman.”
My eyes stray to the departing vehicle, its blinker on to take a right-hand turn out of the parking lot, apparently carrying the general manager’s daughter. Which makes her the team owner’s granddaughter which makes me look like a giant asshole.
Jesus H. Christ, I just hit on the GM’s daughter.
Thank god she doesn’t know who I am or I’d be a dead man…
2
Hollis
“You sure the guy hitting on you at the stadium was Buzz Wallace?” My best friend Madison reaches across the counter and nabs a French fry, digs around in the brown paper bag, and stuffs three in her mouth at once.
She was scrolling through her phone on my front porch when I got home, waiting for me to feed her dinner like a stray cat, wanting to have a quick chat—mostly to mooch off me, since she always seems to be broke—utterly bored. As usual. I’ve known Madison since college and she’s always been the girl who has to be entertained, has to be busy. Never settling, forever restless.
She’s restless now, leaning over my kitchen counter, stealing the food I was too lazy to make. I grab a fry too and chew. Suck the salt off my fingers and crook an eyebrow.
“Yup, I’m sure it was Buzz Wallace.” Trace Wallace, his biography online said. “I got curious, so I looked up the roster online. He’s such a douche.”
“But he’s so hot,” she argues, filching my cheeseburger to take a bite, the melted cheese oozing out the side. I scowl, grabbing it back out of her hand.
“Get your own! If I knew you were going to be here when I got home, I would have gotten you one.” The burger isn’t big enough to share when I’m this hungry. “Go make a frozen pizza,” I snip.
“I don’t like the loaded pizzas you buy.” She sniffs, sneaking more of my dinner. Madison isn’t a meat lovers, all the veggies, and extra cheese kind of girl like I am; she’s more of a Margherita type. Thing is, if I make a frozen pizza, she’ll eat that too—regardless of her protests.
“So, back to this guy—he was hitting on you?”
“Probably not on purpose. I feel like a guy like that cannot help himself. It’s like word vomit to him. He would have hit on me if I had a paper bag over my head, was hunched over, and walked sideways.”
Madison rolls her brown eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. Why wouldn’t he have hit on you? You’re gorgeous, happy—practically oozing with charisma.”
Oozing? “That’s the cheese from this burger.”
“I’m being serious.”
“So am I. He didn’t even know my name, and here he is asking me on a date.” So there.
My bestie isn’t buying that argument. “Um, hello—if some guy hits on you in a club, the chances that he knows your name beforehand are slim to none. Cut the guy some slack.”
I rest a hand on the counter. “Madison, you know what I went through with Marlon—I am not dating a player. Or a player.” Ha!
I hate calling Marlon Daymon my ex “boyfriend”. We dated for scarcely three months last spring, but I had thought he was fantastic. Tall. Athletic. Funny. So, so funny he charmed the pants off of me the minute I was introduced after a Chicago Steam game I attended. He came up to the stadium suite to schmooze with my father and I believed every word he spoke when he opened those pouty lips of his.
My mistake. Marlon Daymon is a conceited. Spoiled. Liar.
“Not all men are like that. It’s not your fault he turned out to be a total fucker.”
“Thanks, that’s really sweet of you to say, but I should have known better. Most of those guys are playboys.”
“Okay, but some of them aren’t.”
“Um…” I disagree. “Maybe not, but Buzz Wallace is. Hello, he dates supermodels and actresses—not girls who work at publishing houses and read books for a living.” Nerd alert! “A professional baseball player is not my speed, Madison. You know this about me.”
But they are her speed and that’s why she’s so desperate for me to date one. I hear about it nonstop, and I wish I were into men who are into themselves, but I’m not.
I had that desire sucked right out of me when my last love interest wanted nothing more than his golden ticket to the owner’s suite. I was simply a pawn to him.
My phone rings, vibrating on the counter, and I flip it over.
“Oh, it’s the silver fox!” Madison enthuses, hopping up and down like a hyper toddler.
“Stop.”
I hate when she calls my dad a silver fox; it’s gross and weird.
I set the phone back down. Dad can wait.
“See what he wants!” she pushes, nudging it toward me. Poking the green talk button, forcing the video call on me.
“Hi Dad.”
My best friend leans in to see the screen. “Hi Mr. Westbrooke!” She says it in a slightly smarmy way that has me swatting at her to quit it.
Shut up! I mouth with an eye roll, strategically shifting the camera away for a moment. “Sorry about that, Madison is here.”
Dad clears his throat, unsure about how to reply. He’s not great with young adults, and he certainly has no idea how to act around my best friend—not when she hits on him every chance she gets.
His throat clears again, all business. “Earlier when you were here, I forgot to mention the commission-sponsored fundraiser this upcoming weekend. All proceeds go to fight human trafficking, and I have a ticket for you.”
I groan. That is one of the world’s worthiest causes, but I’d rather go to an actual meeting to learn more about it than spend an afternoon in a room full of fake people at a fundra—
An elbow hits my gut. “She’d love to go, Mr. Westbrooke. Will you be there?”
Jeez Louise, she’s full-on flirting with my father.
“Er, no. I’ll be out of town, but I can have my secretary send over the ticket.”
“Can you send over two tickets?” Madison’s eyes are wide and hopeful. “Then she can take a date.” Me, she mouths with a wink.
Dad hesitates, not one to be strong-armed by an interloper who isn’t even part of the family, and he’s never been overly fond of Madison. “I don’t know—can you guarantee you’ll get Hollis to attend?”
No! I mouth, stepping away from the phone and crisscrossing my hands frantically in the stop-no-no-no signal. I do not want to attend!
My whining and gesture do not work.
“Of course I can, Thomas. You leave it to me.” Judging by the look on his face, it hasn’t escaped his notice that she’s just used his actual name and not called him Mr. Westbrooke, a breach in etiquette he won’t forget any time soon. Old fashioned. Stuffy. Stuck up—just a few words that describe my father.
“Dad, it’s kind of you to offer, but really, I—”
Madison pulls me into her, covering the phone with her right hand. “You are going—we are going. Do not ruin this for me. I am single, dammit! You are single, and there will be single guys there.”
Is she nuts? Going to a fundraiser for a seri
ous human rights organization to pick up dudes? I cannot with her.
I resist, though I know it’s pointless—she will win this argument, like she always does, because I have nothing going on this weekend and she knows it, and she’s going to drag me there whether I want to go or not.
“Right, exactly—you know who is going to be there? Marlon. He’s at all those freaking things because he is an ASS kisser,” I hiss. “I don’t want to risk running into him.”
“Don’t be such a pussy,” she hisses back. “Suck it up. At some point you’re going to have to see that piece of shit, and wouldn’t you rather have me by your side when you do it?”
“No! God no, you’ll make it worse. I don’t need you stabbing his eyes out with a fork in public.”
“At least I wouldn’t stab his dick.”
The sound of a throat clearing has us both looking down at my phone—down at my father’s bright red face.
“Oh shit.” Madison laughs.
Oh shit is right.
“I’m still here,” Dad somberly intones. Unamused. Unimpressed.
Your dad is so hot, Madison mouths.
I could kill her.
“Send over the tickets, sir. We’re going to that fundraiser.”
I hate my best friend sometimes.
3
Trace
There’s a lot to be said for being attractive.
I would know, because I’m handsome.
I can’t control what my face looks like—it’s not my fault I’m so damn good-looking. At least, that’s what my mom always told me when I was growing up. Then again, she told my brother the same thing, and he’s not even half as gorgeous as I am.
I swing my car around and put it in park so my asshole brother can climb in; he loves riding together to visit our parents. No idea why. I suppose it’s because he’s one cheap son of a bitch and loves saving the gas money.
Tripp earns more than I do by almost double; he can afford the quarter tank of fuel it takes to get to Mom’s, but does he ever volunteer to drive? Fuck no.
“Get in, bitch, we’re going shopping,” I tell him as he squeezes his large body into my luxury sports car. It was my first stupid purchase after I signed my contract with the Chicago Steam, but it wasn’t my last. Car. House. The diamond watch glittering on my wrist, casting prisms throughout the interior of my car.
“Shopping? I thought we were going to Mom and Dad’s,” Tripp says, buckling himself in, not trusting my driving. The guy is one of the worst backseat drivers on the planet. Such a nag.
“We are going to Mom and Dad’s. Stop being so literal—I was making a joke.”
Not nearly as good-looking, and not nearly as clever—my brother doesn’t think anything I say is funny, and I’m hilarious, just ask me.
“Is True going to be there?” Tripp’s referring to our younger sister as he shifts in the seat of a car that realistically doesn’t fit either of us in it comfortably. Too tall, too broad, too big for this boxy, compact sports car.
“No, Mom said she’s got something going on. Packing to go out of town or something like that.”
Our sister works in athletics, too, as a junior agent for a management company, and she spends a lot of time going on recruiting trips with scouts. It’s baseball season at the university level and we haven’t seen True in weeks.
“Maybe we should FaceTime her later—make sure she’s alive.” For all the grumbling and bitching he does about us, Tripp sure has to know what we’re doing all the damn time. He’s not even that much older than we are, the three of us each only a year apart. Boom, boom, boom, our parents banging us out within a four-year period.
Literally banging.
“I wouldn’t worry about True. She can take care of herself.”
Tripp grumbles. Crosses his arms in a huff because I’m disagreeing with him. Stares out the window. “Can you make sure you come to a full stop at all the intersections? You almost gave me a damn heart attack last time.”
We go to our parents’ place almost every week if we’re around and not playing ball. In fact, each of us just got done with work.
I play baseball, Tripp plays football, and we bought our parents’ house together. That fucker over there in the passenger seat tried paying for all of it, but I found out and wedged my way in—no way was I going to let him lord that shit over me the rest of my life. Oh, and I bought them each new cars. Then dipshit over there bought them a cute little lake cottage, but then I went and got them a Jeep for the cottage.
The list goes on and on—not that we’re competitive.
It’s just that I’m better. He simply won’t admit it.
I give my reflection a once-over in the rearview mirror and adjust it at the same time.
Approaching the intersection he’s suddenly sooo concerned about, I rev my engine, listening to it hum and purr—like my last date did when I made her come.
That thought makes me chuckle as I roll through the stop sign to piss my brother off, and it does, just as I knew it would.
“What the fuck did I tell you, man! One of these days you’re going to get pulled over, and your popularity isn’t going to get you off.”
“Ha!” I laugh. “You said ‘Get me off.’”
He glares, clutching the brace bar above the window. “You’re an idiot.”
“You are.”
“You are.”
“I just said that—you can’t say it.”
“Make me,” he mutters, glaring out the window, grasping the bar tighter.
Yeah, we argue like we’re twelve. So what?
I give him a sidelong glance, slowing my speed to appease him. “You’re not actually worried I’m going to get us killed, are you?” The truth is, I’ve never been pulled over for speeding, or breaking any laws. Have I broken them? Yes, but they were only minor infractions. Anyway, I would never do anything illegal. Not on purpose. And the truth is, I am a conscientious driver—just not when Tripp is in the car. He is way too easy to needle.
“Just watch where you’re going.” He doesn’t look over at me.
“How about not telling me how to drive if you’re not going to do it yourself.”
“I’m your guest,” he pops off, still staring out the window.
“You’re a pain in the ass, that’s what you are.”
In the reflection of the glass, I catch him rolling his eyes and do a brake check, causing Tripp to lurch forward.
I snicker.
Ha!
Too easy.
“Knock it off!” His irritation is palpable.
“Then quit ignoring me and I won’t have to beg for your attention.” My eyes are glued to the road in front of me, even though I like to pretend I’m hardly paying attention.
“You’re so annoying.”
I mean…he’s not wrong.
* * *
“Can I get you boys anything while I’m up?” Mom worries around the kitchen, hovering like a hummingbird, fussing over her babies.
Me. I’m the baby.
“Ma, sit—you don’t have to fetch us everything. Tripp will get it.” I kick my brother’s shin beneath the table and he flinches but doesn’t rat me out. She’d yell at us both, no matter who did the kicking. “Go help Mom.”
Tripp levels me with a hard stare then rises, retrieving the tray of glasses our mother has set out, and the pitcher of iced tea. Bashes me in the back of the skull with the platter and smirks. “Whoops, sorry bro.”
Sorry my ass.
I glare, jostling him with my elbow, digging it into his ribs when he leans to set the whole thing down. “Knock it off, asshole,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.
“Make me.”
“Boys.” Our mother shakes her head, still not ready to rest, or be idle—this is how she is whenever we come by, excited to have us home. Wanting to feel wanted by the two sons who want for nothing. Need for nothing.
Nothing but an orgasm with no strings attached and a beefy taco afterward.
Mmm-mmm delicious.
I lick my chops, mouth watering, reaching for a glass. Grab the pitcher away from my brother as he goes to reach for it. “Loser.”
“Boys!” Mom scolds again, a secret smile tipping her lips.
We might be monsters, but we’re hers and she loves having us home. Granted, we take up all the free space with our giant bodies, but we kind of always have, hitting our growth spurts early on and filling out by the time we were juniors in high school.
Man-children she’d call us because even though we looked like grown-ass adults, we still acted like kids.
Still do.
“So, what have you two been up to besides work?” Dad asks, coming from the office off the kitchen. His thick mustache twitching, he pulls a chair out and plops down next to us.
Dad’s not nearly as big, not nearly as tall—we get our height from Mom’s side of the family, Tripp and I each measuring in at over six foot three and over two hundred sixty pounds.
“Practicing. Hanging out with Harding.”
Noah Harding is one of my teammates, the shortstop on the Chicago Steam, and my best friend. He has a sweet house with a huge pool and—more importantly—a fully stocked kitchen. I don’t know where all the food comes from because I doubt he does the grocery shopping, but I’m not complaining.
“Just hanging out with Noah Harding?” Dad’s brows go up.
“Working on one of the properties I just bought. Would be going quicker if this shithead would help me.” Over the past few months, I’ve been flipping houses, investing some of my income in properties that are run-down. Fixing them up, selling them for a profit. I’m on my third one. “It sure would be nice if I had a partner.”
I glare toward my brother and resentfully stab at the potato salad on my plate.
Tripp rolls his eyes. “Bet you’re still doing that matchmaking thing. You could get paid to do that, like that woman on television who matchmakes for millionaires.”
The fuck, Tripp! Does he have to blab everything?
Apparently so.
“What matchmaking thing?” Mom begins setting a casserole on the table and I take it from her; the ceramic pan must weigh ten pounds.
