Playing the Field

by C. J. Pinard

  “You already paid your debt. It’s time for you to get out and pursue your baseball career.”

  I chuckled a little. “Baseball isn’t a career. I’ll be a washed-up has-been by the time I’m 30.”

  Samantha huffed and walked out the door.

  The buzz of my phone broke me out of my memories. I had a text from Miranda:

  Hey, player. I’m craving pizza.

  I laughed. I’ll be right over. Take-n-bake or hot and ready?

  Miranda: I don’t care. Bring beer.

  Damn she was so frickin’ cute I couldn’t stand it. I found the website to a local takeout place and placed an online order.

  I was so glad it wasn’t my reserve weekend.

  Chapter 7

  Our dates had been magical. Some were intense, like the amusement park, and some were low-key, like chilling at her house watching movies. Tonight was one of those dates.

  “Your pizza, your majesty,” I said, bowing with a flourish of my hand, the hot, steamy pizza box perched on my palm as I stood on her porch stoop.

  Miranda giggled and took the proffered box, using her other hand to grab me by the T-shirt and pull me into her house. I gave up no resistance at all.

  She set the box on her kitchen counter and pulled down two blue glass plates and a thick, clear glass with a handle. There was a logo etched on it. I looked closer to see it had the prison logo on it, and laughed to myself. Pointing at it, I asked, “Souvenir?”

  She snorted. “Consolation prize is more like it, for putting up with the bullshit at that place.”

  I laughed. “I really need to hear more about your Orange is the New Black job.”

  She shook her head with a smile, plucking a bottle of Blue Moon from the 6-pack I’d also brought. She tipped the beer stein sideways as she poured the booze into it. I watched as the foamy head dissipated, and she began to pour more, until the bottle was empty and the glass was brimming.

  “Two questions,” I said, pointing at the glass. “One, where did you learn how to pour like that? And two, why am I drinking beer from a glass?”

  I wasn’t about to tell her I didn’t drink. Not yet. I’ll just sip from it for tonight.

  She set the beer down and pitched the bottle into a nearby trashcan.

  “One, I used to be a waitress, and had to double as a bartender most nights, during my college years in San Diego. Two, who says the glass is for you?”

  I laughed at her witty answer. “Okay, you have a point.”

  She opened a beige wood kitchen drawer and pulled out a bottle opener, popping the top and handing me the bottle. “Bottoms up, player.”

  I tipped the bottle to my lips, but before I took a swig, I asked, “You drink beer from a mug, really?”

  She wiped foam from her top lip. “Hell no, I hate beer. I’m a wine drinker. But I can tolerate this crap if I have pizza.” She indicated to the now 4-pack of Blue Moon.

  I chuckled and grabbed her hand with my free one, leading her into the living room. She picked up the remote and fumbled with it until she found a popular movie while I loaded two plates full of pepperoni pizza onto them.

  As I sat, I spied the dollhouse in the corner of the living room. There were Barbies and other dolls piled around it.

  I looked at Miranda. “Where’s Ashlyn?”

  Miranda’s pizza was paused at her mouth. “At my parents’. Why?”

  I lifted a shoulder and let it fall. “No reason. Just thought I could say hi to the little princess.”

  Watching her bite back a smile before attempting to delicately shove a slice of pizza into her beautiful mouth made me smile. She was trying to be ladylike, but I could tell she just wanted to just inhale it. It was damn refreshing to be with a woman who wouldn’t order a salad and water on dates or not eat in front of me. I’m not one of those dickheads who wanted to a date stick figure with boobs. I liked my women healthy with some cushion for the pushin’ on their ass and hips. Miranda had plenty, but it wasn’t unattractive; it was hot and made my dick twitch in my pants if I stared too long at her curvy backside.

  Samantha was one of those women who would hardly eat or drink in front of me. Her drink of choice when we went out was champagne. Need I say more? I didn’t want to think about her tonight. I had a gorgeous blonde with a personality to die for and a body to match sitting right next to me. I swiped my thoughts of Sam from my brain, and before I knew what I was doing, I had hold of Miranda’s plate and was setting it on her glass-top coffee table.

  “Hey, I wasn’t done,” she protested, her eyes trailing the plate until they eventually met mine.

  My eyes bored into her amber gaze and I rubbed the top of her hand with my thumb. “My queen.” I paused for a minute. “Next time I come over for a night of chill, I want Ashlynn here. I’d like to get to know her better.”

  I watched closely as a war seemed to wage behind her eyes. Her first look was a whirl of pure, sappy admiration, followed by a quick flash of uncertainty, finally finishing with a firm gust of hardness and defensiveness. I didn’t like that look, but what bothered me more was how quickly I was able to gauge each emotion as it crashed through her eyes like a hurricane.

  “I’m careful who I let my daughter meet,” was her only response.

  I laughed a little. “Ashlynn’s already met me, Miranda.”

  She nodded and swept her long, thick hair to the side, letting it rest on her shoulder. “I know. I’m just still very cautious.”

  Now, that, I could appreciate. But on the flip side – did she think I was some Johnny on the Spot who was gonna breeze in and out of life and leave her when I was done using her up? Her eyes were still boring into me, a questioning challenge seeping out of them.

  “I’m not put off that you have a child, Miranda. I hope you don’t think that.”

  She visibly swallowed, and I watched as the lump traveled down her throat. Then she squared her chin and her face took on a haughty look. “I hope not. Because Ashlynn and I are a package deal.”

  I chuckled, wrapping my arms around her shoulders, drawing her into me. “So you’ve said,” I murmured into her ear. “That night at the gym. I haven’t forgotten.”

  She seemed to relax a little, her body softening against me. What kind of crap had this girl been through that she felt so damn defensive?

  “Miranda.”

  She didn’t look at me. She seemed to be looking at the half-eaten pizza on the plate now lying on the coffee table. Anywhere in the room but at me.

  I used my left hand to gently grip her chin, forcing her to look at me. “Miranda,” I repeated. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I don’t play games, as much as you think I do.”

  Now she was staring at me, her honey-colored gaze matching my aqua one. Slowly, she nodded and I watched her body relax. “Okay, Jace. Okay.”

  That was odd, I thought, so I decided I was gonna push my luck. I leaned down, my lips sealing slowly over hers. I heard a guttural groan leave her mouth and enter mine, and the hand around her shoulders began to slowly drift down.

  Confidently, I slipped my tongue past hers, and a breathy groan expelled from her lips, which just made me harder. I felt the silky slide of her tongue matching mine and I gripped her hair at the scalp at the back of her head, drawing her closer to me. I used my other hand to run a light caress across her jawline. I felt her hands wrap around my back and up my shirt, the smooth flat of her palms running up the rigid planes on the muscles of my back. This girl was turning me on more than anyone I’d ever been with and I had to suppress a groan as she continued to kiss me.

  Slowly, my hand traveled down from her face to her neck, using my index finger to slide it across the cords of her neck, then down to her collarbone. I felt her shiver when I caressed the upper part of her chest, and this was when I broke the kiss and used my lips to follow the same line my fingers had just traveled. With my left hand still in her hair, I tilted her head back and with a sleight of tongue, my mouth found its way to her neck, then her coll
arbone, running gentle kisses along it as I felt her shiver again. A hard breath escaped her beautiful, swollen lips and involuntarily, so did one from me.

  I whispered into her mouth. “God, Miranda, you’re so damn sexy. What are you doing to me?”

  I heard her laugh a little and pull her head up. She used her finger to bring my face back level with hers and she looked at me in the eyes again. “You don’t know how much you’re turning me on, Jace,” she whispered, lust glazed over her pupils. I wanted to take her into her bedroom and ravage her body until we were both spent, but that little voice in the back of my mind said to wait. My pants were straining at the zipper of my jeans and honestly, it was becoming uncomfortable, but I just kept telling myself she was worth the wait. So as I stared into her glossy eyes, I brought my lips down to hers again and wrapped both arms around her shoulders, pulling her into me as tight as I could. Her supple breasts felt like heaven against my hard chest, and I almost lost it when the strap to her tank top slid down, exposing a tanned, freckled shoulder. I immediately dipped down to plant kisses on it, my fingers lingering on that felled strap.

  When Miranda fisted my hair and then raked her nails through buzzed hair on the back of my head, I almost lost my load in my shorts. Her touch sent shivers racking through my body. I pulled away, breathing hard. “If we don’t stop, I’m gonna disrespect us both and clothes will come off, defiling this sofa we’re sitting on.”

  With a wicked gleam her in eye, a half-smile twisted up on her lips. “I definitely would not object to that.”

  Oh, my freakin’ God. “You can’t say things like that, princess… I mean, my queen. You just can’t.”

  She frowned momentarily at me calling her a princess, then the confident mask was replaced with a flirty grin. “I suppose we should watch this movie.” She jerked her head toward the TV.

  I grinned, then sighed. “I suppose.”

  We finished the movie. She walked me to the door. I kissed her again with all the passion that was still burning inside of me, and then got into my Mustang and left.

  Boring date? Some may say so. Not me. I felt like a lovesick teenager, a stupid grin on my face on the entire drive home. What was this girl doing to me?

  ***

  “I’m sorry, you can take that if you have to,” I offered after Miranda mentioned that her friend Cara was calling.

  “No, it’s ok, I’ll call her back. She’s probably calling to vent about how much she misses her ex.”

  I raised an eyebrow, even though she couldn’t see it. “Really? She’s not over that Army guy yet?”

  Miranda released a sigh. “I guess not. Can’t really say I blame her. They were pretty hot and heavy all summer. I just can’t believe he dumped her like that. I thought for sure he was into her. But I guess not. Guess she was just a way to pass the summer until he got deployed.” She paused. “They’re all the same, those servicemen. They want a woman to keep them warm at night, but at the end of it all, they aren’t willing to give back. They just leave and expect their girlfriends to wait around for them. To be there for them when they need someone to talk to or a shoulder to cry on. But they’re not in it for the long haul. It pisses me off, really.”

  This sudden change and attitude in her had my hackles up, and I actually started to feel a little angry, but I didn’t lash out at her. Instead, I asked, “Why do you think all military men are like that? Because they aren’t, Miranda. Really.”

  I heard her sigh and switch the phone to the other ear. She was at work and I knew our conversation was limited. But it was also a Friday and I knew she probably wasn’t doing much at her prison desk job.

  “Because, Jace. I’ve dated some in the past. Down in San Diego. They are all dogs. They have a girlfriend in every city, even if they have a wife at home. They know they’ll never get caught, and they use it to their advantage. Especially the Marines. God, they’re hot – but they know it. I dated this guy Chris. Damn what a dog. But he was so hot…”

  This made me bite back a grin, as I looked around the barracks I was currently sitting in on my weekend duty. A few of the guys were on their computers, one was reading a book, and one was texting furiously on his phone. She may have a point. I’ve met plenty of Dawgs over the years – and yes they have done the things Miranda has said. But not all of them. The Marines were in my blood, and I’d defend them to the end.

  Death before dishonor.

  I heaved out a fake laugh. “Miranda, you need to chill out. Have you no respect? Military men have very stressful jobs, especially during deployment. They need support and love while overseas.” Now I was laying it on thick, testing her, trying to get a rise out of her. It was making me laugh on the inside.

  “Jace. Come on. I know all this. Why are you defending them anyway? Someone in your family in the service?”

  I snorted. “You could say that.”

  “Who? One of your brothers?”

  I took in a deep breath. “I gotta go, baby, duty calls. I’ll call you tomorrow. Skype, maybe?” I asked.

  “Baseball business or computer business?”

  I chuckled. “I’ll never tell.”

  “You’re so mean to me,” she said, a pout evident in her voice.

  Laughing again, I offered, “You can spank me later for it.”

  I heard her beautiful laugh and smiled myself. “Goodbye, player.”

  “Goodbye, my queen.”

  I disconnected the call with a smile. But when I thought back to our conversation, a frown etched my lips. How in the hell was I gonna tell her I was in the Marine Corps reserves without her running scared? And what military a-hole had hurt her so badly that she felt so strongly against dating one?

  Fuck me.

  Chapter 8

  With my rifle by my side, my ears perked to attention when I heard the sound of a child’s cry. My heart pounding, I looked at the guy sitting next to me and my eyes grew wide.

  “Do you hear that?”

  Connor Billings, a kid who’d only been in the Marines less than two years, looked back at me with alarmed blue eyes. “Yep, I do.”

  Seeing his fear, I placed a confident mask over my face that didn’t match the terror in my gut. “Let’s go check it out.”

  He nodded, jumping off the truck and following me, rifle in hand. We trudged through the sand and around the huts of the small village we were parked outside of.

  As we made our way around to the narrow street between the homes, I saw a small child, no more than four or five years old, standing in the middle of the street. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl, its black hair pulled back into a rubber band and wearing the filthy rags most of the impoverished children of Fallujah wore. When the child spotted us, it ran away, bare feet pounding over the gravel and sand as it ran past houses, almost seeming to be running away from the town.

  This confused me. I looked at Billings and he shrugged, following me as I walked fast down the street. Onlookers stared at us with our rifles drawn but I paid them no mind. I did briefly wonder why these people didn’t help the orphaned child who’d been crying in the street, but there was no time to dwell on that.

  As the child continued to run, a flash of light caught my eye as the sun glinted off the thin, clear wire that was poorly hidden in the sand right outside the village.

  Oh, my God, it was a tripwire.

  “No, stop!” I screamed, breaking into a full-blown sprint as fast as I could while carrying a rifle and heavy pack. I pumped my arms and legs rapidly, Billings yelling behind me, asking what we were running toward, when a sudden fire exploded in front of my eyes, temporarily blinding me. Heat as hot as the sun blazed into my face as we were both blown back a good ten feet, landing on our backs in the sand. I gasped for air, as it had been sucked out of my lungs.

  The poor child hadn’t stood a chance, the instant death a small mercy in the big picture of the hideous war that, at that moment, I wanted no part of.

  Once I found my breath, I screamed in frustration
and grief.

  Blasting upright in my bed, drew my legs up to my chest and slammed a hand against my mouth. I don’t know if I’d been crying out in my sleep, but the walls in this apartment were paper thin, and the last thing I needed was my neighbor, Mrs. Applewhite, knocking on my door again.

  I couldn’t count the number of times she’d buzzed my bell before 8 a.m. still in her floral housecoat, asking if I was all right, claiming she’d heard screams or yells coming from the apartment. Instead of bullshitting her, I’d shot straight, telling her I was a war vet and sometimes I had nightmares. But the disapproving look in her eyes always discouraged me.

  “But you’re a baseball player. I’ve seen you in them uniforms,” she’d say, her beady brown eyes scrutinizing me, calling me a liar without the words actually leaving her lips.

  “Mrs. Applewhite, I’ve told you. I was in the Marines. I play baseball now.” I wasn’t in the mood to explain the reserves to an 80-year-old nosy neighbor, who was probably just lonely and bored, but trying to do the right thing.

  I flipped the covers back, swinging my legs over the bed as I got up and went into the bathroom. Flipping on the light, I squinted at the harsh assault on my eyes and turned on the taps. Cold water pooled into my palms as I splashed it on my face. My eyes slid to the medicine cabinet, and I slowly opened its mirrored door, the prescription for Diazepam staring at me in the face. It would be so nice to just take a drug and be knocked unconscious and be able to sleep like the dead for a few solid hours like a normal person. As I rolled the prescription bottle around in my palm, I contemplated twisting its white lid off, dry-swallowing a capsule, and going back to bed. After all, that’s what the drug was for, right? To help me sleep? To let me get some rest away from these vivid memories manifesting themselves as nightmares?

  As I stared at the bottle, I realized that they were no use. Sure, I’d sleep, but the dreams would continue, and in the morning, I’d awaken in a drug hangover, and that was something I just didn’t need.