by Mindy Klasky
And he listened to her. He clutched his own fingers tighter in his orange-stained jersey; she felt the movement ripple up his arm, through his shoulder, into the tight line of his clenched jaw. But he turned his head to the side, brushing his lips across her palm. And then he stalked off toward the locker room, not looking back.
Zach’s voice was steady as he said, “You’re not supposed to be down here.”
“I was just leaving.”
He let her take three steps before his voice shut her down. “Don’t do this, Lindsey.”
She whirled back. “Do what?”
She thought he might back down if she confronted him directly. But he didn’t. Instead, he sighed and shook his head, looking more like their father than she’d ever seen him before. “Take some time for yourself. Figure out what you want. Don’t go jumping in to some new relationship before—”
“Before what, Zach? Before I’m ancient and dried up and grey?”
“You’re twenty-five years old, Linds. You’ve got time.”
Dammit! She wanted him to react. She wanted him to get angry. She didn’t want him to sound all calm and understanding and logical. “I’m a big girl, Zach,” she said. “I can do whatever I want to do.”
“Yep,” he agreed. “But I don’t want to be the one to pick up the pieces.”
“Have I ever asked you to pick up the pieces?” She heard the shrill edge in her voice, the frantic bite of anger. Consciously, she dialed back her tone, applying all her skill as an actor, everything she’d ever learned about sounding sincere, about projecting certainty and calm and control. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me. But I promise you, I’m fine. I’m doing exactly what I want to do. When I want to do it.”
Zach nodded, just like he believed her. “Great.”
His acceptance threw her. She made herself straighten her shoulders. She raised her chin. She knew how to convey confidence to the very last row of a theater, when she put her mind to it. “Fine,” she said. “Thank you for treating me like an adult.”
He started to say something. Started to reach out, too, like he was going to tug on her hair, the way he’d done ever since she’d worn braids and gotten in his way when he was racing his bike up a ramp on the driveway. But he stopped himself as if he knew she’d bristle at the old, protective gesture. Instead, he jutted his chin toward the end of the hallway. “Go on,” he said. “Get out of here.”
“I’m going.”
“And if security catches you down here again, you’ll be banned from the park.”
Yeah, yeah. She thought the words, but she didn’t say them. Because she knew Zach had his limits. She’d pushed every one of his buttons, and she’d won this round. It wasn’t often she could say that about the world’s most over-protective older brother. She was going to revel in her victory.
~~~
Less than twenty-four hours later, Ryan found the note on his locker. Two words: “See me.” And the initials Z.O.
He glanced at the giant clock on the wall, safe behind its wire screen. Two hours before batting practice officially began. No excuses. He took the elevator up to the executive offices.
Ormond looked up from a stack of paperwork, as if some sixth sense had told him Ryan was approaching. “Close the door,” he said, climbing to his feet and walking around his desk. Ryan obliged, and then he crossed the office, planting his feet like he was stepping in at the plate against the league’s hardest-throwing closer.
“Leave my sister alone,” Ormond said, each word steady and even.
“Lindsey isn’t a child.” Ryan’s fingers wanted to curl into fists.
“No. She’s a woman. A fragile woman who had a terrible shock a week and a half ago. On top of a bad one two years ago.”
“She’s not as fragile as you think she is.” There hadn’t been anything fragile about her—not the night she drove away from her disastrous wedding, not the night she’d wrapped herself around him underneath the pier. Even last night, in the locker room—sure, she’d ended up crying, but she’d been the one to get things going, to sneak into the clubhouse, to lure him into the laundry room.
Lindsey was messed up—two different men had been shitty to her, and that director wasn’t doing her any favors, telling her she wasn’t good enough to even try out for the role she wanted. But she wasn’t the china doll her brother made her out to be. Far from it.
Ormond shifted his weight. “You don’t get a vote, Green.”
“But Lindsey does.”
“Fine. Let me put it this way. Cut it out with my sister or your father’ll be out on his ass with the Satellites.”
Ryan had expected Ormond to throw his best pitch. But he was amazed by the steady flame that kindled in his gut, by the grim defiance that buckled around him as he realized this battle wasn’t going to disappear any time soon. “You wouldn’t do that,” he said, pretending a certainty he didn’t feel.
“Try me.”
“My father’s a great hitting coach. The Satellites are lucky to have him.”
“Your father coached a Little League team and helped out at your high school. He’s literally out of his league down there.”
“The Sats’ record improved the second he got to work.”
“The Sats got back from a killer road trip.”
Ormond met his eyes. That was the same steady gaze Ryan had seen on the baseball diamond for years, the cool analysis that guided skittish pitchers through tough at-bats, that led the team season after season, inventing new ways to compete, new ways to win.
“Don’t test me, Green. Lindsey needs to get back on her feet. She has to get her life straightened out, without another asshole jerking her around. Leave her alone, and your father keeps his job. It’s that simple.”
Ormond took a step back, sending a message as clear as day. He was dismissing Ryan, showing he was in absolute control—of this meeting, of the team, of Lindsey’s life. “Now get your ass downstairs and suit up,” he said.
And Ryan obliged.
But as he tugged on his cleats, he told himself he wasn’t about to concede to Zach’s demands. He yanked the laces tight and vowed he’d get his way.
He’d call his father tonight, first thing after the game, warn him to buckle down. And then he’d get to work himself, getting a hell of a lot more creative about how he spent time with Lindsey.
Because if there was one thing he’d realized, standing there in that air-conditioned office, with the mahogany desk, and the pictures of Rockets Field framed on the walls, it was this: Ryan wasn’t leaving Lindsey. And there wasn’t a goddamn thing her brother could do about it.
~~~
Another fucking error.
Last night, he’d played like shit. He’d thought he could leave Ormond’s office, head down to the locker room, suit up for BP, and everything would be fine. But he couldn’t get his head in the game. His practice hits popped up, scorched foul, went anywhere and everywhere he didn’t want them to go.
The actual game was worse. At the plate, he went oh for four. He couldn’t catch up to Hernandez’s fast ball, and he was left looking like a goddamn cartoon rabbit, wrapping himself into a spiral and screwing himself into the ground.
Maybe it was the muscle he tweaked in the small of his back that made him commit the sixth-inning error. He took a crappy path to the two-out ball, turned around and lost it in the lights. Just like a fucking rookie. The inning went on even as he cursed himself. Paton ended up throwing another eleven pitches before he got the last out, and the Rockets’ pitcher was out of the game, no decision.
And tonight wasn’t any better.
Yeah, he got two hits, but he was left on base both times. And right there, in the bottom of the eighth, he committed another error—he got to the ball, no problem, got it in his glove. But his throw to Marshall was three feet over the guy’s head, and another run scored.
All because he couldn’t focus on the goddamn game. All because he kept fighting the urge to look up at
the owner’s box, to find Ormond, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. All because he was thinking about the phone in his locker, wondering if Lindsey had called, worried about what she’d heard regarding the audition and the fucked-up waitress job.
He hit the showers after the game, ignoring the reporters who hounded him for a quote. He let the water beat down on him, scalding hot, telling himself he was treating his tight hamstring, not trying to punish himself for tanking both games.
Back at his locker, he took his time checking his phone. A couple of emails. A dozen texts. Voicemail from Dad, following up on his warning from the night before. Dad said the Sats had played a great game; he was settling in, hitting his stride.
Nothing from Lindsey.
She was a grown woman, he’d told Ormond. She could make up her own mind. But it looked like he was well and truly fucked, because he’d really thought she would choose him.
It didn’t matter. It couldn’t. The Rockets were in contention this year. He didn’t have time for a woman, couldn’t take the distraction. Hell, his piss-poor showing the last two days proved he couldn’t follow his dick and play professional ball too.
His foot was heavy on the gas pedal all the way home. And that made him think of Lindsey, opening the throttle on the drive to the beach. Shit. He was a basket case, as sad as any pimple-faced high-school kid pining after a girl who didn’t know he was alive.
But Lindsey knew he was alive. She’d just chosen not to deal with him. She’d decided to listen to her brother, to do what Zach said was right. And as much as Ryan wanted to argue that her decision was wrong, that Zach was wrong, he wasn’t going to get the chance. He had to respect Lindsey’s decision. He had to let her protect herself, had to let her heal after what that Will Templeton asshole had done at her wedding.
He’d gotten it down to a chant by the time he turned onto his street. Lindsey was right. She could decide. He had to accept, because Lindsey was right.
He pulled into his driveway, automatically swerving wide of the car parked on the street by his mailbox. He wound down the path, under the pine trees, through the overgrown brambles that gave him the privacy any professional ballplayer craved. He thumbed the garage door opener, automatically coasting over the smooth red brick that curved in front of his house.
And he stopped dead when he saw the naked woman standing on his front porch.
~~~
Lindsey’s heart ricocheted against her ribs as the Ferrari’s headlights swung into view. With an actor’s instincts, she knew she was standing center stage, pinned in the double spotlights. Part of her mind screamed at her, begging her to duck behind one of the white columns. She should kneel down and scoop up the dress she’d carefully folded, the shoes she’d lined up, as neat and orderly as if she’d been in a doctor’s office. She could throw herself off the far end of the porch, hide in the bushes, wait until the car lights shut off and she could escape into the darkness forever.
But that’s what a good girl would do—if a good girl had ever been crazy enough to stand on a man’s front porch, stark naked in the summer night, waiting for him to come home and find her. Forget about good. Forget about bad. Lindsey was a strong and independent woman, and she was doing exactly what she wanted to do.
The car sighed to a stop. The driver’s door opened. For one terrifying second, Lindsey realized Ryan could have brought someone home from the game—another one of the players, some woman he’d picked up outside the stadium, anyone.
But that was only adrenaline talking. It was after midnight, and the Rockets had lost. They had a morning flight scheduled; they were heading up to New York. Ryan wouldn’t be bringing anyone home.
Telling herself the tsunami in her belly was just a form of stage fright, Lindsey put one hand on her hip. She used the other to toss her hair over her shoulder, running her fingers through the loose dark waves. She pasted on her good smile, the one she knew carried to the back row of a theater, and she watched Ryan walk to the bottom of the porch steps.
“Welcome home, Hotshot,” she said, using all her skill to keep her voice easy and light, to squash the nerves that tried to vibrate her voice to tatters.
Ryan planted his feet and crossed his arms over his chest, staring up at her with frank approval. “Let me guess. You just stopped by to sell me some Girl Scout cookies.”
She leaned forward, purposely sticking out her chest, and she curled her index finger, urging him forward once, twice, three times. She pursed her lips and tilted her head so she was looking up at him through her eyelashes. She knew him, and she liked him, and she wanted to seduce him. But when he grinned up at her, she realized she was seducing herself.
She wasn’t a child any more. Not after Will. Not after losing the role of the Itsy Bitsy Mouse. Not after Darryl had told her—just that afternoon—that he wanted her in a grey wig, wearing a fat suit and puffing on fake cigarettes as she waited tables for his pre-show cabaret.
She could have gone home and comforted herself with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. But she’d realized instead that she wanted something a hell of a lot hotter than ice cream.
She still hadn’t answered Ryan. She walked down the three steps, conscious of his gaze on her as she took each step. She stopped six inches in front of him, and she said, “I’m not selling anything. But you’re the one I want to give something to.”
She wasn’t expecting his arms to be so tight around her. She hadn’t planned on the force of his body, wrapping around hers. She didn’t count on his hands being so hot, so needy as his fingers clutched her hair, pulling her close as he crushed his lips against hers.
The shock of that kiss echoed through her body. It chased down her arms and tightened her fingers, making her pull him even closer. It tightened the long muscles in her thighs, forcing her up on the tips of her toes, driving her toward his broad chest.
As his tongue teased hers, his hand swept down the ladder of her spine. Executing his silent command, she arched against him, moaning at the back of her throat as the cotton of his shirt scraped across her nipples.
She almost backed away then. The sound of her need embarrassed her—more than standing naked, more than drinking in his kiss. That moan was base. It was raw. It was something she hadn’t planned, hadn’t counted on, and it terrified her in a way the rest of this role did not.
But she felt the way he responded to her. His arms tightened around her, and one palm flattened against her bottom, fingers curling in to bring her even closer.
No. Not her bottom. If she was standing here, naked and commanding, she could use another word. Ryan was gripping her ass, shifting his hips to frame hers. She felt the heat of his erection, hard and ready, pressing his jeans against her belly.
He shifted his mouth from hers, painting a line of kisses along her jaw. She shuddered as the tip of his tongue found the hollow beneath her ear. He set her on fire as he nipped at the sensitive skin, as he sucked away the quick sparkle of pain. His teeth closed over the lobe of her ear, tight enough that she gasped, and his hands settled on her hips as he whispered, “What’s the plan here, Killer? Are you coming inside?”
Part of her wanted to rip his clothes off, right then and there. She wanted to force him down to the ground with her, to feel the flagstone path, hard and rough and punishing against her back. She wanted to roll over him, to take him with her, to end up crushed beneath him on the grass that spread beside the walkway, cool and dark in the starlight.
But another part of her knew she wanted things to last longer than that. She wanted lush carpet and a soft bed—no bruises, no pain to pull her away from this night she’d given herself.
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, and she was rewarded by Ryan’s soft laugh. He pulled her up the steps then, folded one hand across her belly and crushed her to his chest as he worked his key in the lock. Then he was pushing the door open, covering her mouth with another breathless kiss, somehow guiding them both inside in a more graceful choreography than she could ever have mapp
ed on her own.
He turned to close the door, and she acted before she could think. She pushed him back against the gleaming oak panels, pressed his shoulders against the door and kissed him with an urgency that pulsed through her entire body.
She needed to feel more of him, more than his mouth, more than his hands. She tugged at his shirt, ripping it free from his jeans, and he laughed as she fought to tear it over his head. Her hands spread flat across his pecs, measuring his ragged breath. Her palms tingled with the energy of him, as if he were some electric wire she couldn’t control, couldn’t maintain.
She needed to do something with that energy, had to release some of that force, so she skimmed her fingers down his sides and felt the muscles that covered his ribs. He sucked in his breath when she flattened her hands over his abs. The sound sparked a laugh deep in her throat.
He was breathing hard, like he’d just raced to the warning track and caught a game-ending fly ball. She slipped her fingers inside the waistband of his jeans and settled her knuckles against the dark line of hair that led the way to his belt buckle. “Oh God, Lindsey,” he moaned, and she realized why her own involuntary sound had been such a turn-on for him.
He wanted her. Here. Now. Not in some sort of abstract way, not like playwrights, crafting the perfect language of seduction, not like a groom promising to forsake all others till death they did part. She’d set this chaotic train in motion. She’d told him she wanted his body, and he was answering her with every shuddering breath in his body.
She undid his belt, pulling the leather fast and tight before she released the metal prong, before she tugged down his jeans. She slipped her hand inside his shorts and closed her palm over the hard, hot length of him.
No. Not length. She held his cock.
She almost faltered at the hard word, at the naughty word, at the word she never said. But he bucked against her fingers, eager, ready, and his own hands scrabbled at the elastic waistband of his shorts, pushing them down. He kicked away his jeans and boxers, short, sharp gestures, like an animal fighting to be free. When his cock pulsed hard against her palm, she tightened her fingers in reflex.
