Sliding Home

by Carly Keene

  I shrug again. I’m not about to tell him I was feeling nostalgic. “Just felt like it. Where are you heading?”

  “Home.” He jerks his head toward Blue Stone Apartments. “Over there. What about you?”

  “Home,” I say, and then without meaning to, I add, “My apartment’s over on Hamilton.”

  “That’s not far,” he says. “Hey, want a snow cone?” He nods toward the food truck there for the game. “It’d cool us down. My treat.”

  I’m drawn. “Too much sugar,” I say with regret.

  Justin laughs, and takes me by the arm. “They’ve got sugar-free flavors. Come on.”

  Five minutes later, we’re sitting at a picnic table in the shade of a maple tree on the edge of the ballfields, eating flavored ice. I get orange-vanilla, and he gets Grapeberry. I try not to laugh, because his lips have turned a fabulous shade of purple. They’re beautiful lips.

  “So tell me,” he says, and takes a giant bite of snow cone, “why you hate baseball now.”

  I make a face. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does.” Then he smacks his hand to his forehead. “Ow! Ow! Brain freeze!”

  I don’t mean to laugh, but I do. It just comes spurting out. By the time he’s got his eyes open again, I’m calm, though. “Sorry.”

  “Well, it’s not like you can actually help a brain freeze,” he says, philosophically. “You just gotta wait out the pain.”

  I don’t mean to say it, but somehow I do. “My dad left.”

  Justin blinks.

  “See, that was our thing, baseball. We watched it together on TV, and sometimes we went to live games. He coached my softball team when I was little. He taught me a lot.”

  “And then he left?” Justin asks softly.

  “I was sixteen. He and Mom had been fighting a lot, and then one day I came home from school and he was just gone. All his clothes and his stuff, you know, and his car was gone. No note or anything. Even when Mom filed for divorce and hired a PI, we couldn’t find him.”

  “Wow.”

  “He’s been gone ten years and nobody’s heard a word from him. Not a birthday card, not a Christmas present—nothing.”

  He’s silent a minute. “That would hurt,” he says finally. “That would hurt a lot. Are you the only child?”

  I nod.

  “Wow,” he says again. Then he meets my eyes. “You deserve better than that, you know. He’s the problem, not you.”

  I know this is true. But sometimes it feels like it isn’t the whole truth.

  Justin puts his hand under my chin and lifts it. “Truth. Olivia, you really deserve better.”

  Tears sting my eyes, and so I miss it when he moves a little closer. I only notice when his beautiful mouth is centimeters from mine and I’m looking right into his dark eyes. He’s so close, and so gorgeous, and so . . .

  . . . so good at kissing.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Justin

  It’s definitely not the kind of first kiss I expected.

  It started out sweet. Reassuring. Olivia was really vulnerable with me just now, talking about her dad leaving the family, and I only wanted to show her that she mattered, that she was worth loving.

  Then our lips touched, and within seconds all I can think is that I need more of her. When the tip of her tongue grazes my top lip, it’s all I can do not to groan and tumble her onto the grass. Her hands are warm in my hair, her cheek so smooth under my palm. My nose is full of the vanilla-flower smell of her, with hints of a deeper female musk that makes me want to dive deep into her. My dick is instantly full-mast in my pants, and I’m trembling from the effort of holding back. There’s an argument going on inside me.

  Brain: you’re in public, slow your roll.

  Penis: fuck that

  Brain: you’re surrounded by grade-school girls.

  Penis: srsly, fuck that

  Brain: and their parents.

  Penis: fuck it, I need to be in her right now

  Brain: NOT COOL DUDE

  Penis: like right NOW

  Brain: you’re gonna get arrested

  Brain: are you even listening?

  Penis: nope

  Goaded by my awareness that people are surely watching us, I pull back, hating to lose the warmth of her creamsicle-tasting mouth.

  Olivia is panting, her full breasts heaving with each breath, and she looks as disoriented as I feel. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to get so out of hand. In public, I mean.”

  She shakes her head, gathering her composure. “No, it’s—I’m okay. We’re good.” She stands up, stumbling one step. “But I should—I should go. Lots to do today. Busy day.”

  “Me too.” I reach over and hold her wrist, gently. “Will you wait for me after the game? I’ll help you clean up, and then we can talk some more.”

  Penis: fuck talking, get naked

  Brain: Shut. Up. You’re not making this any easier.

  Olivia nods. “Yeah, after. After the game. Thanks for the snow cone.”

  “No prob.”

  Then she’s gone, practically fleeing across the grass on her bike to the nearby Greenway trail, and I have to sit still on the picnic bench and think about algebra and filing my taxes and washing the dishes until my stupid dick calms down and I can get up and walk on without alarming all the softball mamas.

  My normal game-day activities go as planned. I have a healthy lunch before my warmup, and I spend time visualizing great fieldwork and consistent, accurate batting. But it seems like every other minute, I see Olivia on the backs of my eyeballs. I feel the shape of her cheek in the palm of my hand, and I remember the taste of her mouth.

  This woman.

  I want her so much. I want to make love with her, yeah, but I want more. I want to make a family with her—to be her family.

  I’ve had plenty of practice in keeping focused on baseball, but I’m having a rough time tonight. I don’t see her before the game, and I keep wondering if she’s watching, and I can’t concentrate.

  I have a decent game: nothing spectacular, nothing awful. By the seventh inning, there are rumors all over the dugout about a scout for the triple-A franchise being here tonight. Nerves might be why we blow the lead, because all of a sudden the bats go dead and none of us can get a hit, and our fielding is generally sloppy and panicked. The Pulaski Yankees walk away with the game, not by being great but because our game effort sucks.

  I shower and ice and put on civvies. I eat another one of Olivia’s fajita wrap sandwiches and one of her butterscotch-chip blondies. Damn, but this woman can cook—and this is just sandwiches and bar cookies. Imagine if she was cooking a sit-down meal.

  I shake my head in amazement.

  Then I hear the rattle of the janitor’s cart outside the room, and light voices. I go open the door for Mr. George, who’s cleaned up at the stadium for the past twenty-one years.

  He’s talking to Olivia, both of them smiling. “And then that little gal stuck both those fat little hands in her cake and put a double handful in her mouth! Her mama tried to stop her, but the rest of us were just laughing fit to die.”

  Olivia’s head tilts back and her laughter bursts out. “Did she enjoy her presents?”

  “Oh yeah, yeah. ‘Course, I don’t know how much a one-year-old really cares about presents anyway,” he says, shaking his gray-haired head. “Oh, thanks, Maddox. I was just tellin’ Miz Olivia here about my grandbaby’s birthday party.”

  “You got pictures?” I ask. I always ask.

  “Sure and certain.” He pulls his phone out and fiddles with it, finding his Facebook page. “There. And there.”

  “She’s a cutie,” I tell him, because she is. And the twinkle in the toddler’s eyes makes me wonder what Olivia was like as a baby, with her dad around to dote on her. Then I repeat the phrase, looking at Olivia. Her cheeks flush, and she’s hiding a smile as she turns to start loading up her utility cart. “Here, let me help.”

  “Oh, it
’s fine,” she says, but I don’t listen. I dump leftovers into the trash and gather her serving plates. “Where next?”

  “Exec suite,” she says, and rolls her eyes. “It was not fun up there tonight. Those guys hate to lose. Mr. Kelly’s usually there to watch the game, but he’s out of town this week and Mr. Cronk was snarky all evening, making dismissive comments about the players.”

  I haven’t dealt much with the owners, but I hear the scuttlebutt. People tend to like Kelly, who played baseball in high school before he got into construction and grew his company so successfully that he could invest in part-ownership of a baseball team. But Cronk’s generally regarded as an entitled snit with inherited money, the scion of a large real-estate developer, who likes to impress people by throwing cash around.

  “Sorry,” Olivia says guiltily. “Probably shouldn’t have told you that.”

  I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s get you all packed up and then we can blow this popsicle stand.”

  I stand on the covered concourse for a minute, just soaking in the stadium. It smells like hot dogs and beer, popcorn and sunscreen, sweat and excitement. I’m really feeling my age tonight. It’s been a good run with baseball, I think, and then, I wonder what it might be like to do something else for a living? I can cook. Some, I amend. But I might like it.

  Then I follow Olivia into the freight elevator and she hits the UP button.

  “Did you want to maybe do something this evening?” she asks. “Watch a movie, or maybe just get a beer at Corned Beef & Co?”

  My dick jumps inside my jeans. “That’d be great. Whichever you like.”

  She smiles at me, and I have to fight off memories of that kiss. Incredible woman.

  Upstairs, she clears and cleans the tables in the executive suite, while I’m on my knees, stacking platters on the bottom of the utility cart. I hear footsteps.

  “Well, well, O-liv-ia,” a man says. “Looking awfully delicious in those tight pants tonight, honey.”

  I stand up. Mr. Cronk is too close to Olivia for my taste, leering at her, and she looks frightened.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Olivia

  Mr. Cronk’s voice startles me. I hadn’t been talking much to Justin—I was too nervous, since I’d been so bold and basically asked him on a date—and I was trying to hurry the cleanup. He says something suggestive about my pants.

  I whip around, alarmed, and he reaches right over and slaps my hip. “How about it?”

  “How about what?” I’m stunned. Granted, he usually talks right into my boobs instead of my face, but he’s never been this forward. I sniff experimentally. Yep. Bourbon.

  “Wanna have a go on the table?” Cronk says. “Come on. Big fun in the executive suite.”

  He hasn’t let go of me. “Please stop touching me, Mr. Cronk,” I say, and try hard to look past him for Justin. I can’t. I try to slide to one side, but the table has me blocked in.

  “Sweetheart, with tits like that it’d almost be a felony not to get a handful.”

  I block his other hand. “Let me go.”

  “Come on, honey, I know how much you want to keep this contract. I’ll put in a good word for you for next year.”

  I can’t believe he’s doing this to me. Anybody could walk in—but Mr. George sweeps from top to bottom, so he’s done on this floor, and I’d bet that the security guards aren’t due on their rounds for some time. Cronk is a lech, and he’s drunk right now, but I’ve never thought he was stupid. I don’t want to say Justin’s name and maybe put his job on the team in jeopardy.

  “That’s illegal,” I say, and my voice is high and fearful.

  “Sure is,” Justin says from behind Cronk, and Cronk actually jumps.

  “The fuck?” he says, turning around fast. I duck out from behind the table and go toward the door, noticing that Justin’s typing something rapidly on his phone. “Wait. Don’t you play for me? Martin?”

  “Maddox,” Justin says, with emphasis. “Justin Maddox, number 18. Third base. I’ve played for the Rowdies for four years.”

  “Not any more,” Cronk says viciously.

  I gasp.

  Justin laughs. “I just sent video of the situation a few moments back to my agent.”

  “You recorded me?” Cronk’s incredulous. He makes a swipe at Justin’s phone. “That’s illegal!”

  “Not if it’s in a public place and one party to the conversation consents,” Justin says. “In Virginia, anyway.” He looks over at me. “Did I have your consent, Miss Wilson?”

  My chin comes up as my courage rebounds, and Justin smiles at me. “Absolutely.”

  “Give me that!” Cronk snarls, grabbing for the phone.

  Justin shoves the phone deep into his pocket. “I already sent it. It’s in the cloud now and you can’t destroy it.”

  “I’ll sue! You’re fired! She’s fired!”

  Justin laughs out loud. “Fine. If we’re fired, you are ruined, buddy. I’ll bet your wife won’t appreciate this video one bit.”

  Cronk gasps. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” Justin asks, calmly. “I’m pretty sure I would. Come on, Olivia, let’s get your stuff. It’s yours. Even if he’s fired you, I bet he’d have to have the stadium manager’s approval on any changes like a catering contract. They could break the contract, of course, but that takes time and legal fees.”

  Cronk sputters, then stalks out.

  We gather the rest of my stuff, and leave hurriedly. We wave to the security guards on the way out. Justin stops by the locker room and grabs his stuff.

  “You don’t seriously think you’re fired, do you?” I ask, worried.

  “I doubt it,” he says. “But I might just quit, you know.”

  “But—”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about a new career. Need an assistant?” He smiles at me.

  He follows me home, saying that he just wants to make sure I get there okay. He helps me unload the cart.

  I feel weird and floaty and safe, in the aftermath of the adrenaline rush. I was super-not-turned-on by Mr. Cronk, but since then? I want to touch Justin. I want to kiss him. I want his hands on me everywhere. I want his body on me everywhere.

  “Justin?”

  He looks at me, his dark eyes unreadable. “I guess you would like to be alone, right? To think about what jerks guys are.”

  “No! I mean . . . Stay. Please.” I touch his arm. “I didn’t say thank you.”

  “It’s not necessary,” he says gently.

  “It is. Thank you, Justin.”

  “You are more than welcome.”

  “Stay,” I say again, and this time I reach up to kiss him. He actually stumbles back a step, pulling me with him, so that we pin him against my kitchen wall. There’s an answering thump on the other side, from my neighbor, and I gasp out a laugh before I fall right back into his mouth, kissing him like he’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

  Because he is. I love the taste of him. I get chills from the feeling of his hands on my waist, on my back, sliding down to my upper hips. I slide my fingers into his soft hair and hold him close. I kiss his throat, nearly dizzy from the smell of his body wash and his skin. He whispers my name, and I shiver. “I’m burning up,” I whisper back. I’m sweaty and shaky and I do not fucking care. He doesn’t seem to care anyway, unbuttoning my chef jacket and tossing it on the floor behind me.

  “You smell good,” he says, nuzzling my neck and down to the neckline of my tank top.

  “I’m sweaty.”

  “You smell like a woman,” he says, and tugs the neckline down to kiss the very tops of my ample breasts. I almost swoon. He holds me up, then lifts me. “Where’s your bedroom?”

  “End of the hall.” I have one second of panic, and then, as with my sweat, I don’t care anymore. It doesn’t matter. His back, though: “You’ll hurt yourself!” I warn.

  “Nope.” He walks with me, hurrying, then deposits me on my bed, bending to pull
off my professional clogs and my black socks.

  Stinky feet? Never mind.

  He kicks off his own shoes, then hesitates with his hand on his jeans waistband. “We don’t have to. I don’t want to rush you.”

  “Rush me,” I say, and then I laugh, unbuttoning my black chef pants and kicking them off. I’m lying on my bed in a pink tank top and my industrial-strength bra and the cotton granny panties that are the only thing that don’t ride up under those damn uniform pants, and I’m sweaty with stinky feet and greasy hair still in a bun, and he’s looking at me like I’m dessert.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice,” he says fervently, stripping off his jeans and navy tee. “I want you so much, Liv.”

  My mouth waters at the sight of him. Abs for days. Biceps for weeks. Long thick cock in his boxers for a fucking month. I sit up and reach, and he lets me touch him through the fabric, shuddering.

  “Will you take your hair down?” he asks, voice low and hoarse. “I want my hands in it.”

  I nod, and pull out my hair clip, then the elastic band. My hair is ridiculous, thick and wavy enough to frizz in humidity, but I like the feeling of it down my back. Justin’s eyes go very dark, looking at me with my hair down, and he gives himself a little squeeze through his boxers. “Jesus, Liv, you are so fucking sexy. This sounds really creepy after Cronk, tonight, but he’s right about you being irresistible. I’d never make you do something you don’t want to do, and I know I’m repeating myself, but—”

  “I want you,” I interrupt.

  He nods, then turns to fish through his jeans pocket for his wallet. He pulls out a strip of condoms. “I thought I’d be prepared.”

  “Good,” I say, because I haven’t been with a guy in so long that I wasn’t prepared for this. It’s not going to stop me, though. I want him too much.

  I pull my tank top off, then fiddle with my bra hooks. Never mind that it’s pink, it’s not one of those lacy, flimsy things skinny girls wear. It’s got enough underwire in it to probably serve as a weapon if necessary, because it takes that much to support the girls. No guy should have to unhook it on his own. It comes loose and my boobs spill out, and Justin takes a deep, appreciative breath.