Bottom Of The Ninth: Bad Boys Redemption: Book Three

by Readnour, Kimberly

  “Get what you need?” The suggestive tone of the little devil himself pulls my gaze in his direction.

  “All good,” I say with a bittersweet smile. Axel has been trying to get me to go out with him ever since we met. But that’s a huge negative. No way will I date a baseball player.

  “Mmm, I bet you are.” His gaze roams along my body as he steps closer, but AJ cuts him off.

  “Get changed, Rodriguez. You’re too much of a goody for this outfit.”

  “Pfft. You’re one to talk. You look ridiculous.”

  “Bullshit. Mr. December will be the most pinned-up pic.” As if to prove his point, AJ puffs his chest—each sculptured plane on display, begging to be touched—and struts to the three-legged stool. The jingle bells ring loudly with each stride he takes, but the annoyance doesn’t seem to affect him. Nope, not AJ. He owns this.

  Jerk.

  Rodriguez lets out a chuckle but concedes. As he leaves to get changed, I hold back a sigh and stare at the ink covering the right half of AJ’s body. It drapes across the shoulder and extends down to his wrist. My mouth waters. Nobody should look this damn delicious. Why, of all the teams that Drake could’ve been drafted to, did it have to be the Philadelphia Phillies, the one AJ plays for?

  “My, my. Whoever said baseball was boring?” Nala’s voice is so low I’m not sure if she’s asking herself or me. She blows out a quick breath and shakes her head as if to orientate herself. “Work. Money. Yeah, need money. That’s what I have to do. Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” My tone sounds off, but I don’t think she notices. She’s too busy staring at the ridiculously sexy elf. AJ has been and always will be the type of guy who gets your panties wet with one smoldering look, but the second his mouth opens, the fantasy dies. Maybe I’m just bitter, but there’s no denying the man is as conceited as they come.

  “Okay, but call when you need help editing.” She grabs her purse just as Axel rounds the corner dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “I’m out.” He walks on ahead to the door, and Nala tilts her head, staring at his ass.

  “Seriously, call me when it’s time to edit. I can look at these beefcakes all day long.”

  I let out a small laugh and agree before facing the elf currently dominating the set. As ridiculous as I made his outfit, I must admit the bastard is pulling it off. AJ’s the sexiest damn elf I’ve ever seen. Criminy.

  That chiseled chin turns toward me at the sound of my shoes clicking against the concrete. The corners of his lips slowly raise into a seductive grin, and my pulse shifts to a faster gear. I puff out a breath. Saving him for last, when we’re all alone, was a bad idea. What the heck was I thinking? Evidently not much, but as the slamming door vibrates through the building and reiterates the fact we’re by ourselves, the problem glows like a neon sign.

  “Did your helper leave?” His deep baritone voice slivers through me and warms areas better left closed for the evening.

  “Um, yeah. Nala needed to get to her paying job.”

  “All right.” His eyes take on a heated look as he drags out the word. “A private session. So intimate.”

  And there he goes, opening his mouth. How can a simple sentence sound utterly sexy, but disgust me? Yeah, saving him for last is a bad idea.

  “Settle down, big boy. There’s nothing private about this.” I step closer to position him. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  “Whatever you say, Cupcake.”

  Our gazes connect, and “Mia” fumbles stupidly from my mouth. Mischief coats his smoky dark eyes as he presses his lips together. My irritation with the use of my old nickname clearly amuses him. The last thing I need to do is give him more ammunition, but I never seem to keep my sanity around this guy. I must’ve been an idiot to think I could have this time. No, I chastise myself, I can because I’m a grown woman who has gotten over the sting of embarrassment a long time ago.

  Frustrated that these lingering issues exist, I switch topics.

  “Congratulations on your career, by the way. I knew you’d make it pro.” I adjust his hat so it hangs more angularly.

  “Thanks. It’s been a crazy ride. Especially these last two years.”

  “Repeated World Series championships is rather impressive.” I tap his left knee. “Here, rest this foot on the peg.”

  “Thanks, but impressive stats don’t buy loyalty.”

  His sharp tone makes me wince. Ongoing speculation has AJ being traded to the Dodgers. And the guy sliding into his spot is none other than my brother, Drake.

  “The rumors are true then?” I pause and dare to peek at him.

  He lifts an eyebrow, and his signature smirk reappears. “About me being a sex god? Yes.”

  Like the mother ship calling me home, my gaze drops to the bulge beneath those ridiculous elf boxers. Warmth floods my face when his dick responds happily. Crap. If he’s this impressive already, I can only imagine what he’s like when he’s turned on. It must be a treat.

  Before I do something stupid like pet him, I step backward. It’s uncharacteristic of me to act this way, but his closeness sends my body into complete havoc. I remind myself, yet again, I’m a grown woman who has nothing but contempt for the man.

  “I meant about the trades,” I clarify after an embarrassing lull.

  “Apparently so.”

  “How do you feel about leaving the team?”

  He grunts. “Shit will work out.”

  Okay. Discussion on his trade talks is off the table. Dropping the subject, I plant myself behind the camera and start snapping pictures. After a few tries, his face grows serious.

  “You’re living in the city now?”

  I nod. “Look to your left and point your chin up just a tad.”

  “When did you move?” he asks before obeying my command.

  “A couple years ago.” It’s more like seven, but I don’t want him to figure out that I never graduated. It’s none of his business, but admitting I dropped out of college is still a sore subject. Also embarrassing, no matter how good of an excuse I have.

  “I had no idea Drake’s your brother.”

  “Yeah. Sorry, I know he can be overbearing.”

  “He’s young, and everything’s still new. It’s understandable that he’s a little wild.”

  Little? That’s putting it mildly. I love my younger brother to death, but that kid’s wild streak is one for the records. No matter how many times I lecture him, he’ll never learn.

  I snap a few more pictures and then tell AJ to turn more toward me.

  He shifts his body and faces the camera, his eyes smoldering as they stare into the lens. I gulp and try to ignore the desire flickering to life. But it’s useless. He’s too damn sexy.

  Click. Another picture.

  Tiny beads of sweat form on my forehead as my inner thighs tingle with need. I shift my weight and try not to let those eyes pull me in farther.

  Click.

  I swear his gaze turns molten, making me question if he can see me through the equipment—as if he has a direct path wired to my thoughts.

  Jesus, this man drips with sex appeal. He’s as delicious as a chocolate ice cream cone, and each melting drop I want to catch with my tongue.

  Good grief, why am I referencing him to food? Maybe, I’m hungry?

  This happened to me back in college. Not the food part but the crazy thinking. One toss of the same sexy look back then had my traitorous body doing flips.

  Click.

  His intensity still burrows into me, and I take a few calming breaths along with a few more shots. I ignore my nipples tightening underneath my shirt and the warmth invading my body. I just need to get through this shoot.

  AJ shifts, and the red suspender strap falls from his right shoulder. I probably have enough material, so I’m essentially done and should call it a wrap. But I don’t. Instead, I’m incredibly masochistic as I step behind him and slide the strap up and over his biceps
and then across his broad shoulder.

  His fingers graze the top of my skin when he reaches to hold the strap in place. The warmth residing in my body heats to a damn inferno. I breathe deeply and try to extinguish the flames, but sandalwood and beach invade my nostrils and brings me right back to Los Angeles. Seven years have passed since I left, but it feels like a lifetime ago.

  I force myself to hide behind the camera again until my heart rate evens out.

  “I-I think I have enough shots.” I turn off the spotlight and unhook the reflective umbrella, but my fingers lose their grip. The device tumbles forward. AJ springs from the stool and catches it before an entire week’s worth of profits falls to the ground.

  “Thanks.” I peer up to him, and my guard slips for a moment. I stand mid-chest, and part of me begs for those strong arms to draw me into that firm protective chest. No! I straighten my back and slide my stonewalled expression into place. I’ve lived with the pain and humiliation of him ghosting me for so long. It’s going to take more than one simple gesture for me to forgive him.

  “I’ll, uh, get changed.” He hands me the umbrella and backs away. I remain stoic until he retreats.

  I’m folding up the last of the tripods when AJ returns. “Thanks for participating. I know we’ll raise a lot of money.”

  “No problem.” Questionable caution creeps into his voice most likely caused by my dismissive tone. But I need him to leave.

  “Okay then, maybe I’ll see you around the ballpark.” I regret the words as soon as they leave my lips. If he gets traded, I doubt I’ll ever see him again.

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  God, no. I zip up the bags in a rush. “Really, I’ll be okay. You don’t have to wait. I know the season is long, so you can leave.”

  He glances toward the window panes. A scant amount of light from the streetlight filters inside. Darkness has descended. AJ drops his smirk as he shoots me a look. “Yeah, that’s not happening. There’s no way in hell I’m leaving you alone.”

  My chest squeezes. I’m short, so I’m always on guard. Walking by someone, I watch for flailing arms or else I’ll get smacked across the face. People who talk with their hands are the worst. They never pay attention.

  Then there are the line pushers. The people who see me in line but try to push past. Uh-uh. Not happening. I will release the wrath of Mia. But my least favorite is standing in pit row, surrounded by dancing bodies. I have to be aware of the large sweaty belly or else, smack, sweat juice straight to the face. True story.

  So, it’s nice to have someone look after me. To protect me. But not AJ. I can’t let my guard down around that man.

  “Thanks. I do appreciate it.” Our gazes linger for a moment. The skin on the base of my neck flushes, the tingling sensation rising to my ears. I clear my throat and drop my chin before I embarrass myself. The tips of his tennis shoes step in front of me, and I tense.

  “Mia—”

  “Grab the equipment in this pile, and I’ll lock up behind you,” I cut him off. I don’t mean to be rude, but I can’t deal with him. Making sure I look anywhere but at him, I heave the camera bag onto my shoulder and try not to be affected by his sigh.

  The awkwardness stretches between us until AJ spots my car, and his chuckle breaks the silence.

  “Will everything fit into this toy?”

  I gasp and eye my little royal blue 500 and then shift my gaze to his souped-up 4x4 diesel truck. Of course, AJ Gonzalez would have a monster truck to go with his big fat ego.

  “Everything fits just fine. My car is perfect for city driving. Thank you very much.”

  He eases the equipment inside and then grabs the camera bag. He’s right though. All the equipment barely fits, but I love this car.

  “I suppose it’s just the right size for you, Cupcake.”

  The nickname was cute eight years ago when I thought I meant something to him. Now, it’s just insulting. I cross my arms and stand there trying hard not to stomp my foot like a disobedient child.

  “My name is Mia, and why do you drive such a big tank if you live in the city?”

  His jaw drops and then he eyes my car.

  “Do you see what’s in front of you?” His hand dramatically swipes across his six-foot-one frame. “There’s no way I’ll ever fit inside this...this toy.”

  “I love my car. It’s practical.”

  “Yeah, it’s something all right.”

  I huff and march toward the driver’s side door. I’m so out of here. Let him get into his overcompensating gas-guzzler and bask in the glory of draining natural resources.

  “Cupcake.”

  I ignore him and swing my door open.

  “Mia.” His authoritative tone causes me to stop and glance over the top of my doorframe.

  “If you’ve been in town all this time, why haven’t you looked me up?”

  This question confuses me because he of all people should already know the answer.

  “Why would I look you up?”

  “To get together.”

  Of course.

  “Really?” I choke out a laugh, but my tone is anything but funny. There will be no getting together. Not then. Not now.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “AJ, you play with enough balls for a living. You don’t need me playing with them too.”

  Not giving him time to respond, I slide into the seat and slam the door. As I throw the car in reverse, I swear his seductive stare I captured so well through the lens skates across my skin. I don’t dare look back. The upper hand belongs to me, and I need to keep it that way. As I pull onto the side street, my stomach does a strange flip. I have a sinking feeling the image of those dark, soulful eyes won’t be so easy to dismiss—not when the memories of freshman year toy with my emotions.

  Chapter Three

  MIA

  Eight Years Ago

  Sadie is going to kill me. I swing the racquetball gear over my shoulder and pound my feet against the concrete in a rush to the Kernette Center. I needed to be there like five minutes ago. The court is reserved, but that doesn’t mean some asshole won’t sweep in and stake a claim. A confrontation over court time is not what I planned for today, but I won’t stand aside. Not when I’m in this mood. If there was ever a time I needed to pound out my frustrations, it’s now.

  Upon reaching the center, I push the thick steel door open—the heaviness a stark reminder of this past year’s burdens I’ve shouldered. The ache in my chest deepens. My phone, buried deep in my bag, still burns from Mom’s conversation. Her intentions may be good, but her poor execution negates any positive she tries to accomplish.

  The distance between us doesn’t help. I’m completely useless. Los Angeles to Vermont, my home state, isn’t a small feat. It’s not like I can drop everything and be there to help her. Twitching my nose doesn’t channel my inner Samantha. It only makes me look like I have allergies. I tried it once when I was ten and wanted my dad to appear. He was running late, a common occurrence, and was going to miss another recital. My dad missed my performance, and Mom made an appointment with the pediatrician. Several skin pricks later, it turns out I’m a mere mortal who watched too many reruns of Bewitched. But, hey, knowing I’m allergic to ragweed is a plus.

  My once strong-as-a-rock mother isn’t handling things well—none of us are. My siblings, Drake and Anna, are left behind dealing with their own demons while Mom tries to deal.

  Mom always gets this way about a month before my sister’s bloodwork. I can’t blame her—Anna has only been in remission for two years—but Mom’s not coping well. Pile on my brother’s antics and not even the warmth of Los Angeles weather can turn my sour mood around. I need to clear my head, and a hollow rubber ball will do the trick.

  As I near Court B, the boing from a hard-hit racquetball reverberates off the walls and draws my attention to the glass partition. My nostrils flare at the guy squatting on my court time. I knew I should’ve cut the phone call short. The campus is too populated
for there not to be a problem.

  Before making a fool of myself, I fumble around my bag for my phone to check the confirmation email. Yep, Court B. I take a breath of encouragement as my body tenses for the impending argument and swing the door open.

  Whoosh.

  I immediately crouch, my heart skipping a beat before galloping as if it was in a race for his life. Jesus, that ball would’ve stung.

  “Whoa, are you trying to get yourself killed?” a deep voice asks. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Me?” My voice squeaks as my heart paces back to semi-normal. I may still be pissed about him infringing on my time, but the near hit to my face scared the fight from me. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that question?”

  He stands there with a blank look, and it takes a second for me to collect my thoughts. Mr. Squatter is Mr. Perfect—at least in looks. I try not to let his dark hair, with droplets of sweat beading off the ends, or the hint of defined muscles peeking from the sleeveless Dri-fit shirt distract my mood. But it’s hard. Not only does the sleeve tattoo on his right arm look so darn sexy, but a sheen of sweat coats his skin and accentuates his coloring which glows the same golden oak stain of my bed’s wooden frame. My bed?

  I double blink and shove those errant thoughts from my brain. I have one purpose for being here, and that’s to jump him. No! To get rid of him.

  “This is my court time. I reserved it, so you can move along.” Jesus, could I sound any bitchier? I think my negotiation skills need work.

  Mr. Perfect raises an eyebrow, and the way he stares at me sends warmth spreading from the back of my mouth down to my core. My body may want him to stay, but I won’t back down. I need this exercise, this therapeutic adrenaline shot.

  He opens his mouth, but my phone buzzes and cuts him off.

  SADIE: Running late. Be there in about thirty.

  Great.