by Shey Stahl
Paled white face and wide eyes find mine. “I, uh… we can take her car.” She points to Nahla.
Yep. Theory confirmed. Oh my God, why am I doing this?
I hand Nahla the keys to my van. “We won’t fit in your car, so let’s take the van.”
She agrees, reluctantly, mumbling about never wanting to drive a minivan in her life but changes her mind when she’s inside it. “Oh, cool. The doors open and close by themselves?”
“Yep. And there’s a mini-fridge in the console.”
Her eyes dart to the console. “I might have to get one of these.”
I sit in the passenger side, Remi and Sadie in the back, when I realize the pie is in my lap. Crap. I hand it over my shoulder to Sadie. “Here. Put this somewhere away from me.”
Nahla starts the van, and the second the radio kicks to life, the dashboard lighting up, my eyes burn, tears surfacing, for reasons I don’t know. Maybe it goes back to speedballing. I don’t know if I’m on an upper or a downer, or maybe a combination of them both.
What I do know?
Me and these mom jeans glued to my ass are ready for a changeup.
The battery includes two baseball players, the pitcher and the catcher. A pitcher and catcher from the same team are known as “battery mates.”
SYDNEY
Rula Bula is an Irish pub bar on the ASU strip, which means it’s popular for college kids. Seeing how I’m with two of them, I shouldn’t be surprised they chose it, and I’m not in any mood to complain. As long as they serve me a drink, I don’t care at this point.
The second we walk inside, I realize that I shouldn’t be here. I think, and don’t put much weight on this, but after twenty-five, you steer clear of shit like this. I will say there’s a live band so it makes it slightly more enjoyable.
“This is a college bar,” Nahla notes, standing next to me looking like she, too, is regretting this.
“No, it’s not.” Sadie pulls us forward. “It’s fine.”
Once inside, I see that it’s not a college bar but I don’t see a single person over twenty-three. Aside from me and Nahla.
“Relax,” Sadie adds. “You’re not even thirty.” And then looks at Nahla like she wants to shove her foot in her mouth.
Nahla about bitch slaps my sister and shoves her. “Hey, asshole. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Sadie waves her hand around. “You know what I mean.”
“Bitch, no, I don’t. Got something against being thirty?”
In a panic, Sadie points to a booth. “Let’s drink.”
Within minutes, Remi disappears, and I can’t say that I’m all that sad to have her gone. Every time I make eye contact with her, my throat does that thing like it’s preparing to puke or close up. I’m not sure which one. “I’m not cool enough to be in here.”
“Why?”
“I’m wearing mom jeans.”
Sadie laughs out loud. “Look, baseball players.”
“What? How do you know?”
“That one marked my scorebook once.” She points to one at the bar with his hat on backward.
“Ha. Cute.”
I know a thing or two about baseball players. Remember? My dad was a head coach for years. There’s a group of them near the bar, one getting far more attention than the others, and if I had to guess, he’s the biggest asshole of them all. There. I said it, and I’m not taking it back. Baseball players are assholes. I’ve never met one that wasn’t conceited and only thinking of themselves. I dated one, and only one in high school, and he was constantly cheating on me.
Ha.
I’m running up a tally of cheaters, aren’t I?
“There’s a lot of baseball players here tonight.”
“That guy is the pitcher for ASU.”
I roll my eyes, wishing I could breathe a little easier in these jeans. “Looks like he’s working on his curveball now,” I note, watching him shake his head when a girl asks him to dance.
Sadie leans in closer and points at the kid again. “Word is, he threw 105 tonight.”
I whip my head around toward her. “No way. That’s the major league record for the fastest pitch.”
She smiles. “How do you even know that?”
“That’s not the point. I know shit. I’m older than you, and I’m wise.” I tap Sadie on the nose.
There’s silence among us for the briefest of moments, and I scan the crowd. In the corner, there’s a live band playing Dropkick Murphys songs. Tucked near the entrance is a bar with wooden stools. Scattered throughout the establishment are growlers on display and a fireplace. Out the back entrance is a patio where groups have gathered.
A week ago, I had to pick out my husband’s casket and was barely able to keep my grief under control or what my life was about to become. Now look at me. At a bar, with his mistress, and drinking tequila like it’s fucking water.
“Where’d Remi go?” Sadie takes the shot in her hand, tips her head back, and downs it.
“I don’t know.” I sigh, nervousness working through me. I down the shot in front of me, too, having no idea who brought them to us and then slam it back down onto the wooden table. It makes a ping against my wedding ring. It’s then I realize I haven’t taken the damn thing off. “You know the worst part?” I stare at the ring as if I’m talking to it and then lift my eyes to Sadie and Nahla.
“Are you talking to us or your ring?” Nahla giggles. She’s a giggly drunk. Laughs at everything. It’s such a change from her usual hard demeanor that I always wonder what her true personality is. My dad once told me you can tell a lot about a person when they’re drunk because it takes down their shield they have up.
“I can’t ask him anything. I’ll never get to look him in the eye and make him tell me why the life we built together meant so little to him that he had to fuck another woman. For a year! That’s not even a ‘whoops, sorry, honey, it just happened. I was drunk one night, and she fell into my lap. My dick sprung up into her vagina. I had no choice.’”
“I’m sure that’s not how it happens,” Nahla points out. “Ever.”
“Whatever.” I wave my hand around, smack Nahla in the face in the process, and continue my rant. “They had a relationship. That shit was intentional. It’s worse than him not paying our bills. I’m… sick. Physically fucking sick that I didn’t see it and let that man manipulate me for ten years.”
Sadie throws her arm around me. “I could have told you he was a manipulative asshole when he wouldn’t let me live with you. He didn’t want me knowing what the fuck was up with him because you bet your ass I would have uncovered it.”
Nahla leans forward, her tits pressed against the table and her shot of tequila on her white blouse. She missed her mouth. “It’s weird that Remi came with us, isn’t it?”
I slap my hand on the table again. “What’s weird is that you know her.” I point at Sadie. “And didn’t realize she was fucking Collin.”
“Okay, hold up.” Her posture straightens, and her brows pull together. “Don’t blame me. I barely go to that class, and I’ve seen her maybe a handful of times. And I never had a conversation with her.”
My shoulders slump forward, and I have to adjust the waistband of my jeans because they’re digging into my belly button. “How did she know where we lived?”
Sadie leans in, trying to talk over the live music. “She said her friend Audrey told her.”
“Audrey Hanley?” My breath catches, and I stare beady-eyed at my sister. Of all the fucking fucks.
“I don’t know….” Her voice trails off, and the realization hits her too.
“Your nanny?” Nahla asks, joining the conversation.
“You mean my ex-nanny. She quit last month, remember?”
Sadie slurps a drink a guy handed her. No question as to what’s in it. Just thanks the dude and starts drinking it. Children. “Oh my God. What if Collin was fucking her too?”
Nahla takes the drink from Sadie. “You don’t even know what�
�s in that. And stop talking like that. I’m sure he wasn’t fucking the nanny too.”
“Well, you don’t know.” Sadie attempts to retrieve her drink. My sister, she’s completely enthralled with drama. “We didn’t know he was humping Remi until she showed up.”
Sadie’s a psychology major but always wanted to be a detective. Seeing how she never attends class and has very little motivation outside of a drummer’s cock, my little blue-haired sister is stuck investigating the lives of others. Which, to her defense, is probably exactly why Collin wouldn’t let her move into the room above our garage. He didn’t want her knowing his shady as shit schedule.
“He could have a string of women we don’t know about.” Sadie gasps at her profound discovery. “And they’re just going to keep showing up at your door.”
“Okay, stop.” Nahla covers Sadie’s mouth. “You’re freaking her out even more.”
Nausea rolls through me. I can’t hear any more of this. I need to be drunk—black-out drunk. Most women might want to get even after they find out their husband had been cheating on them. I didn’t want to even the score, but I do want to get drunk and forget.
“I’m going to get a drink.”
Another term for a fastball. “This pitcher is throwing heat.” “That pitch was a heater.”
SYDNEY
At the bar, I spot Remi again. She’s dancing with one of the baseball players that are loud and obnoxious.
Curious about her, I watch them dance and quickly come to the conclusion that though Remi is dancing with him, she’s drowning her sorrows in the distraction of the one holding her ass in his hands. I imagine being young, she probably didn’t know any better, and when an older man started treating her good, she fell for him.
I also wonder what the fuck did she see in Collin? Did she get the charming side of him I hadn’t seen since before Tatum was born?
Did he love her?
Did she love him?
Had he planned on telling me?
Ugh. Just, fucking ugh!
Turning around, I face the bar and order three shots of tequila, a Jägerbomb, and two dirty martinis. I might drink all of that myself before I return to the table.
While I wait, I notice the pitcher everyone has been gathered around tonight. He’s constantly had someone in his face since we came in.
College baseball players are treated like royalty on campus, which also explains why they’re so big-headed. College is their first taste of the big leagues where everyone worships them. Though a small percentage make it into the majors, it doesn’t stop women from trying to score with them. Like Sadie said: it’s just another run in their scorebook. For both players involved. Usually. There are exceptions, I’m sure, but I’ve yet to meet one.
The pitcher for ASU, I can’t get a clear view of him in the dim lighting, but from what I can make out, he’d rather be anywhere else tonight. I’ve watched him turn down at least ten women so far.
Waiting for my drink, I become strangely focused on him. He looks… familiar? I’ve seen his face before, but I can’t remember where.
Leaning against the other end of the bar, he slides his hat around backward, his attention shifting to mine, and we make eye contact.
Shit. He caught me staring.
To prove my point that he caught me, he winks and smiles.
Again, I stare at him as if I’m trying to figure out how I know him. Grocery store? Is that the kid that bags my groceries and tries to take them to my car every time? No, he’s a blond. This kid has brown hair. Hmm. What about the boy who mowed our lawn a few times? No, no. He was something like fourteen. This guy’s clearly in his twenties by the scruff. Wait, no, some fourteen-year-olds have facial hair.
Oh, what the shit. Why does it even matter? Where the hell are my drinks?
Still, I can’t shake it. Something about this guy jogs my memory. I’ve seen him before.
Trying to distract myself from him, I rock my hips to the beat of the music pulsing through me. He’s probably young enough he doesn’t even know who the Dropkick Murphys are. And that in itself should tell me to stop checking him out. But I don’t because I’m stuck. Literally. There are so many people waiting at the bar that I’m pinned to it as he makes his way over to me. Yep. He starts moving.
He’s coming over here? No way. Quick, act not interested. Or annoyed. That’s what I’m supposed to do, right?
I swear on all things holy, or baby Jesus, that if he tells me that he too was in a relationship with Collin, if that’s what’s up, I’m fucking out of here. I’m taking Tatum to Seattle, and we’re starting a new life as gypsies. Because I’ve always imagined that’s where gypsies might live.
It’s slow-motion until he gets to me, and if it wasn’t for the pounding in my chest, I’d think it was some kind of dream where I’m stuck on an island with one of the guys from Magic Mike. I don’t care which one—any of them.
Two more steps.
One.
I don’t have to look over, but a smile tugs at my lips, and my cheeks turn the color of my red panties.
College boy sets his glass down on the bar and bumps his shoulder into me. At first, he doesn’t say anything, and I’m caught up in the hum of electricity between us. Our elbows touch and the hairs on my forearm spring to life. I bet they’re even swaying toward him, like those funky sea serpents when the water moves and they’re arms flow with it. Okay, I know they’re not its arms, but I’m too drunk to remember what the actual word is. My point is, they move with the current. That’s what this guy does. He moves your arm hairs toward his.
Swallowing over the confusion and the amount of wine and marijuana in my system, I hope that my brain stops working before I actually speak to this kid. Thankfully, he’s the first to say something.
Leaning in, he whispers in my ear, “How was your coffee?”
Shit on a shitsicle. Well, if it isn’t college coffee guy. I’m not disappointed. I turn my head, and our faces are inches apart. “That’s how I know you!”
He smirks and watches me carefully, his eyes darting to my lips. College coffee guy is actually standing in front of me looking just as adorable as he was when he so kindly bought my drink. “At least you remembered me. Must have made a lasting impression.”
“That you did.” I try to act casual and not quirky. “Are you recognized a lot?”
His eyes hold mine, and flashes of neon light up the side of his face. “More than I’d like.”
“Sounds like there’s a story behind that.”
He laughs, his expression guarded. “Not an interesting one.”
I blow out a breath I’ve been holding. I’ve never met someone that made me so curious yet so completely uncomfortable at the same time. And not necessarily in a bad way. “Thank you, by the way, for the coffee.”
“My pleasure.” He does that thing where he licks his lip.
“No, no.” I wave my hand in his face, trying not to lean in and press my lips to his. My blinks come slower and slower. “Don’t do that.”
His brow arches. “Do what?”
“Lick your lips. It’s suggestive.” I can’t help it, but I find myself staring at his lips. They’re perfect and pouty, and I want them on every square inch of my body, making me forget everything that’s wrong with my life at the moment. I bet those lips could do so much for me. “That whole sexy-lip thing.”
“You think I’m sexy.”
I wave my hand around. “No, I said you were doing something sexy.”
“Well…” He leans his weight into the bar and smiles at the bartender as he delivers my drinks. “They’re my lips, so that makes me sexy.”
By the look on his face, he’s totally hoping I’ll thank him in other ways. I hand the bartender the cash that Nahla gave me. A wave of sadness hits me because I can’t even buy myself a drink at this point, and I have no idea if, in the next month, I’ll have a place to live. “Uh, yeah, so are you even old enough to be in here?”
“I’m twent
y-two.”
“No fucking way.” Nervously, I play with the plastic straw in my drink and face him full-on. I don’t have to look down to know my boobs are providing an ample amount of cleavage. All that surrounds me is his penetrating gaze, the overly loud music, and the clank of bar glasses. Even with all that noise, I can still hear my heartbeats vibrating my ears at his proximity. “Let me see your ID. I don’t believe you.”
He grins, laughter on his lips, smooth and deep, and the sound alone makes me want to curl up into his arms, press my ear to that space between his pecs and then ask him to talk so the vibration can tickle through me. “Are you carding me?” His face furrows as his gaze drifts over my face.
My cheeks are pink and warm. “Fuckin’ right I am.” I let go of the straw and hold out my hand. The way he holds his posture, his stance, that unwavering self-assurance of his appeal radiates from him. I hate to admit it, but this kid, he knows exactly what he’s doing trying to knee-weaken me. Fucker. “Hand it over. I need proof.”
He sobers to a smartass grin. “Of what?” His body shifts closer, the muscles in his biceps peeking out as he reaches behind him for his wallet. “That I’m legal before you take me home? I’m getting mixed signals. First you say I’m sexy, and then you card me. What next?”
For some reason, I push my hand into his chest, and it feels like warm stone beneath my fingertips. I bet his entire body is hard and sculpted with lines. There’s no dad bod here. “You’re awfully confident there, buddy.”
“Proof that I’m legal.” He slaps his ID on the bar. “Now, let’s talk about how sexy I am.”
Cason Jarrett Reins
Born December 2, 1995.
Blue eyes, 6’2”, 205 pounds.
I gaze up into his beautiful eyes with pretty lashes. “How do I know this is real? Fake IDs are popular among you college boys.”
I’m given another wink before he takes a drink of his beer. I watch with fascination as he licks his lips again and the roll of his throat as he swallows. Fuck, he makes drinking beer hot too! “You’re gonna keep me on my toes. I like you.”