by Natalie Wrye
Chapter 3
SEVIN
Saturday afternoon
My body is still on Chicago time.
This morning’s early morning flight back to Arizona took a lot out of me, and even after I’d slipped on that now-familiar white Chicago Cougars uniform, stepped onto the field out into that Arizona sun, everything felt, well, off.
My ex-PR agent Kayla was on the case of my alleged paternity, but that wasn’t enough.
I had a feeling I was being suckered, summoned into some Hell dimension by a potential one-night-stand out for money. And it didn’t help that, on Kayla’s advice, I was using her current crisis management firm to represent me—some shadowy organization only known in certain celebrity circles to make media scandals basically disappear.
And now I was one of them. One of those scandals.
I tried my best to focus on this hot afternoon’s game. I did.
But a line drive in the sixth inning had me beat. My busted knee twitched in ways it shouldn’t have in a base run in the seventh, and by the eighth, I was in sloppy form.
I’d avoided an ass-chewing by Coach when all was said. But barely.
Ten minutes after the Milwaukee Bruisers sent us slumping back to the locker room with a score of 5-4, I peel off that sticky uniform, wishing I could peel off the rest.
Peel off this paternity bullshit. Peel off the niggling thought somewhere in the back of my mind that maybe it isn’t bullshit at all…
I slap my baseball cap into my locker, listening to it crash.
“What’s shaking, Sterling?” The nickname is almost like a taunt today. “Still bummed about the sixth inning?”
The disappointment must be all over my face. I barely glance up.
“What’s up, Saw?”
“Other than my cock?” My old college teammate and current Cougars second baseman chuckles. “Nothing much. Just wanted to check on you. See how you’re handling everything since the injury.”
“Basically eating shit for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But that’s nothing new.” I pray that my teammate can’t see the tension that’s been racking my body for the last day and a half. I exhale. “Hey, man. In case I didn’t tell you enough before the game, I’m sorry. About your foot, I mean.”
“Eh.” Sawyer brushes it off, unruffled as ever. “I only need it to walk. Or run. Or punt that baseman who broke it into oblivion. At least one of us is going to win that pennant this year. Because you are going to win it, you know.”
Am I? Every part of my life feels uncertain these days, especially my baseball career. I close my eyes, thinking of the problems waiting for me back in Chicago.
Me. A father.
The two words don’t even go together. Luckily, Sawyer saves me from my thoughts.
“Tell me that you’re not going to let a little knee twinge keep you from taking the Cougars to the playoffs.”
I smile. “Like hell I will. Especially after the beating I want to give the Bruisers this season.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs, rubbing his shoulder. “They really had our number today. They squeezed by with a win. One or two runs. Every damn time.” He hesitates as if thinking about today’s loss. “I figured you might want to celebrate.”
I feel my brows scrunch. “Celebrate? A loss? And…tonight?”
“Hell no. Thursday. Or Wednesday night, if you prefer. Either way, we have plenty of time to head back to Chicago and put that new penthouse of yours to good use.”
Chicago. Back to arranging a sit-down with this “agency” or whatever. These fixers.
Back to getting to the bottom of what is quickly becoming the biggest pain in my ass.
“Jesus Christ,” I grunt at Sawyer. “Do I even want to know what kind of ‘celebration’ is going through that thick head of yours?”
“Depends on which head you’re referring to.” A wicked tinge enters his rough tone. “Just thought we might throw a little shin-dig while we can, to commemorate you being back in action. For a minute, we all thought you might not even make it to spring training season.”
I scoff. “For one, Saw: I didn’t become the number one draft pick my rookie year, last year’s Golden Glove recipient, and a two-time MVP of the National League to let a banged-up knee keep the Cougars from the season we deserve. And for two: Shin-dig? You? You’ve never thrown something as small as a shin-dig in your life, Sawyer.”
“Okay, okay,” he corrects. “It’s a full on fucking rager. But you don’t understand, Sev. The Playboy Anniversary Party is downtown at the Century Club next weekend.”
“And?”
“And I’ve convinced three out of four attending playmates to attend our party first.” I hear the grin in his voice.
I shake my head, my eyes closing as I listen to the music, losing myself in it. “Technically, I had no knowledge of it, so it isn’t ‘our’ party. And if we were to even try, then I’m sure my spinster of a downstairs neighbor who sees fit to block any cock within in a five-mile radius might have something to say about that.” I grunt. “Guess I have you to blame for her wrath with your regular houseguests, huh, Sawyer?”
“Who, me?” My old friend blinks innocently. “It’s not my fault, Sterling. I didn’t choose the bachelor life; the bachelor life chose me. And apparently no one is choosing that irritable downstairs neighbor of yours. Or she wouldn’t be so damn cranky all the time because someone else is getting some.” He pauses. “I have an idea: Why don’t you knock on the old bird’s door then? Introduce her to your famous Sterling—”
“‘Silver Cock’?” Can’t believe the nickname, nine years old, is still with me. Only today, the moniker seems more mocking than anything.
Sawyer laughs out loud again, his chuckle long and raspy this time. “I was going to say ‘smile.’ But since we’re on the subject…” He trails off, his voice lowering with mischief. “What if she’s hot?”
“What if she’s old?”
“That’s why they invented the term ‘cougars,’ Sevin. She could be both.”
“I highly doubt it. The woman’s anus is tighter than the banana hammocks you used to wear in college.”
“Hey,” he counters, indignation swirling in his tone. “Don’t knock the Speedos until you try them. And the old girl might not be so uptight if she met you. Hell, the fact that her anus is so tight could be a plus, if you know what I mean.”
He laughs again, and I remember what it was like when I still attended parties, had friends. When baseball hadn’t consumed what was left of my life.
I shut my locker, noticing that we’re some of the last players left. I grab my towel. “Hell no, Saw. Not this week. Not yet. I’m not in the mood for any parties. Any police. Any bunnies.”
My hardheaded teammate starts to protest, but I’ve already ended the conversation. Stripping to my naked skin, I wrap the towel around my waist, heading for the showers.
The long hallway there is quiet, almost eerily so.
The sensation of being watched slivers up my spine, and I spin slowly on my heel, glancing over my shoulder at the emptying space around me, half-expecting some paparazzo to shove a camera in my face.
Because fuck, I can’t stand living like this.
I’m paranoid. About this whole paternity deal.
The fluorescent lights beating down over the tiled floor only heighten my awareness, and I try to rein in the adrenaline still beating through my pumping heart.
Now alone inside the tiled shower, I twist the overhead faucet on, turning the heat on as hot as I can stand it. My head falls under the faucet’s spray, my dark hair splaying across my forehead, and I slam a hand to the wall, bracing myself.
The pent-up frustration inside my body still has found no relief, even after the game, and soon I find my thoughts on the beautiful brunette from the elevator.
Hazel eyes. Dark hair. Full and kissable mouth.
It was a deep, dark pleasure to watch that mouth fall slightly open when she first saw me, to watch the corners tug upwar
ds when I made her laugh.
A set of lush bangs tickled across her long, thick eyelashes, and I battled my impulse to brush the strands aside and feel those lashes flutter under my kiss.
If she recognized me from those dumb magazines, she never let on. But for the first time in a long time, I longed for someone to notice me, to look at me in all the ways I’ve avoided since the pressure of this trade to Chicago started breathing down my neck.
Maybe chatting up a neighbor in the elevator wasn’t exactly my brightest idea, but I couldn’t help it.
Seeing that soft cotton cling to the elevator brunette’s tanned, smooth skin was enough to send my synapses spiraling into ‘stupid-dom.’
Her hair smelled of honeysuckle and sin. Her tiny body was tight and curvy in all the right places. For an agonizing second under the shower, I wonder how curvy that body is underneath the warm fabric.
Naked, my body still shredded from the game, I somehow muster up the strength to reach for my now-hardening cock. It only takes a few slick strokes of the damned thing before its certified steel, and soon I am pumping myself to the thought of finding out just how soft this elevator Emily woman is, of discovering all the sensuality hidden in those shy hazel eyes.
Goddammit, I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this hard. And I’ve had many opportunities over the past few weeks.
Thoughts of trapping my elevator co-conspirator between those steel double doors, of sinking my hand into her silky hair as I lower my head to suck on the skin beneath it, I am panting hard, almost to the brink of orgasm.
I stop myself before it’s too late, my body tense and tingling from holding in my release. I barely manage.
Jacking off in locker room showers isn’t exactly my style, and I sure as hell don’t want to make it a bad habit.
I don’t need more reasons to despise myself. God knows I have enough of those already, and strangely, the only thought that helps me forget right now is her.
EMILY
Saturday night
I can’t get Sevin out of my head. And no pair of mental pliers will do the trick.
I should recuse myself from his case, I know. The conflict of interest is too great.
But the thought that Stephan is letting me lead this case, the thought that he’s giving me the opportunity to prove myself, is enough to stop me from ruining yet another weekend night, and instead of reaching out to my current (rather intimidating) boss, I type a text to my old one, hoping Violet Keats, New York’s most ambitious attorney, will tell me what to do.
Or at least give me a hint of advice.
I’ve never needed it so badly.
If Ben was right, then I do have Stephan’s confidence. But I’m not so sure that I should.
Especially after everything.
Knowing where Sevin lives, that he’s my neighbor, is bad enough. But how would the ex-district attorney feel if he knew that Sevin and I secretly hate each other? And if he knew the reasons why?
Would he balk, knowing we had met? Would he consider it a victory?
Would he chalk my hesitation up to some sexist idea of womanly wiles? Or he would chastise me for interacting with Sevin enough to soak my Bugs Bunny-patterned underwear?
Maybe so.
Maybe it’s best to keep the tiff between Sevin and I a secret.
Cross-legged on my couch in a simple tank shirt and shorts, I try to pry the thoughts of Sevin, secrets and either one of our underwear out of my mind, even as I type on my laptop, knocking out another late night of work on Sevin’s case.
I wish I could keep my mind on just that: the case…instead of the man the case surrounds.
Interestingly enough, these days, he is the only man on my mind. Especially after ending my fling with Jason.
Tonight’s text to the flakiest asshole in the Midwest, breaking our “situationship” off, was well-deserved, and even though, I know dumping Jason is the best decision I’ve made in weeks, there’s still this annoying thought that maybe—just maybe—I’m still in over my head.
With work. And with the newest man in my life.
My client.
Despite a year in of hard work, family law, in some ways, is still foreign to me. Knee-deep in paternal rights statutes, I somehow manage to find my stride by the time midnight rings around.
When my phone pings beside me, I barely hear it.
I figure it’s just another MyNeighbor message from Nina, my neighbor bragging about securing a new parking space when I get a message—a private one—from the tenant of Penthouse 1A.
There’s no picture, only a name. The same name I’ve been secretly trying to put out of my mind for the past day and a half.
My breath catches in my throat.
Sevin:
So, this is how you use this app, huh?
I wait several seconds before responding, hating how excited I feel.
Emily:
Yup. Pretty much. Told you it’s pretty boring.
His response is just as quick, leaving no doubt that he’s writing back just as fast as I am. I squirm on the couch, uncrossing my legs.
Sevin:
Not now, it isn’t.
He waits a second before writing more.
So, when does this trash talk begin?
Emily:
What trash talk?
Sevin:
You know what trash talk. Who’s taking theirs out on time. Who isn’t. Which person is letting their pup shit all over the hallway carpet.
Emily:
I can save you time on figuring that one out. It’s mean old Mrs. Headley.
Sevin:
Ahhh, I guess she’s the one who’s been calling the cops on me, then.
I swear on everything I love my heart stops in my chest. I hesitate writing the next words.
Emily:
Calling the cops? Mrs. Headley?
Sevin:
Yeah, I mean, you’re on the floor beneath me, aren’t you?
He keeps writing, and I read in horror, my pulse ticking up by a more hectic beat.
I don’t know how these damn apartments are numbered. But I do know there are two ‘penthouses’ on my floor and whoever lives beneath me doesn’t exactly think of me as Mr. Rogers. And to think, I’ve even been helping take care of that damn hallway cat.
I laugh out loud, typing back doubly fast, relishing the small flutter in my belly. I clutch my phone closer.
Emily:
You must be talking about Felix.
Sevin:
Felix??? What kind of a name is Felix for an animal??
Emily:
Felix. Felix the Cat. He’s a cartoon. And that cat that hangs out in our hallways looks JUST like him. All black fur. Big eyes. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Felix the Cat?
Sevin:
If it ain’t Garfield or a guitar-playing feline named Josie, I don’t know him. Or her.
Emily:
Come on. There are so many good cartoon cats out there. You’ve gotta know a few…
There’s Tom from ‘Tom and Jerry.’ Sylvester the Cat. Garfield, of course. The Cheshire Cat. Pretty sure I can name a dozen others.
Sevin:
Excuse me for not being a cartoon freak.
Emily:
Are you calling me a freak, Mr. Elevator Reservation?
Sevin:
If the fur fits…
Emily:
I’ll have you know that it took years of watching mindless television to get this good at trivia that only six-year olds care about.
Sevin:
Fair enough. When I was a kid, music was mine. I thought I’d grow up to be the next Jimi Hendrix-incarnate. Turned out I can’t play guitar well enough to lick the bottom of Jimi’s guitar pick.
Emily:
Jimi Hendrix? Aren’t you a little young to be listening to Jimi Hendrix?
Sevin:
You’re never too young for the classics. Jim Morrison. Janis Joplin. The Beatles. Pink Floyd. The Who. I have the
ir entire catalogs on vinyl.
Emily:
My, aren’t we stuck in the sixties.
Sevin:
Name a better decade.
Emily:
The nineties. Gave us alternative rock gold.
Sevin:
Or, as I like to call the nineties—a thinly disguised crude attempt at copying the sixties’ classics. And I’m happy to show you the error of your ways… If you can brave the elevator long enough to come up and take a listen sometime.
My heart leaps in my throat, forgetting where it belongs. I start typing back.
Emily:
I’d need a key to access the elevator button to go to the penthouse.
Sevin:
Well, what do you know? I happen to have one…
I have spring training games all this week, but Wednesday night’s an entirely different story. If you’re free, of course.
Several seconds pass as he writes another response, making my body prickle all over.
Sevin:
What do you say?
The smile on my face—the one I force with my neighbors like Nina—is real this time, and it spreads with abandon as I start to type back to the man I told myself I’d stay away from.
But as I begin tap-tapping on the keyboard, the damn square phone starts vibrating beneath my fingers, revealing a name I never see on the screen.
Stephan.
I can’t pick up fast enough. I force a cough. “Stephan? Hello?”
“Emily.” It’s a statement, not a question. “How are you?”
I know he doesn’t even want to know the answer, but I tell him, anyway.
“I’m fine. Great, actually. Working hard on the Sevin Smith case.”
“Great.” His voice is silk over steel. Soft, yet deceivingly hard. “Because Sevin Smith is now one of our premier clients. The Cougars organization is one of our best customers.”