by Laudat, Reon
“He’s giving us some time alone.” George tapped the bowl of his pipe with a finger. “I hardly see you at all these days. How about we go a few rounds of one-on-one? Winner gets the first slice of pie. Loser gets to watch, then do the cleaning.”
“Make it-take it?” Mitch felt his muscles relax.
George nodded, pressing out the smoldering contents of his pipe with the stamp-sized thingamajig he removed from his pocket. He rested both on the tabletop.
“You’re on.” Mitch smiled, and then came to his feet, still dribbling the ball. His father followed him to the rectangle of asphalt with the basket hoop. “Age before beauty.” Mitch passed the ball, enjoying the companionable vibe between them.
Mitch still had misgivings about his father’s mellow demeanor. What had Travis said to him? But did it matter? He’d go with it. George had reached out to him for once. Mitch was grateful for that.
George made a clean basket from the three-point mark. He went in for a second with Mitch shadowing his moves. George quickly faked left, then shot from the right to score a second shot. Mitch did not hustle or play his best defensive game. The goal wasn’t winning— just basking in this rare no-hassle time with his father.
When George scored his third basket, he crowed, “C’mon now, Mitchell. I know you’re not going to let an old man whip your behind.” George’s maneuvering became increasingly aggressive as he elbow jabbed Mitch’s ribs.
“Just letting you warm up.” Mitch lifted his hands high over his head to block a shot when George shoved him so hard Mitch’s ankles wobbled before he regained his balance. George fouled as if he had something to prove. Mitch could wipe the asphalt with him. Really school him on the ways of if-it-ain’t- rough-it-ain’t-right street ball, but he refused to turn what was supposed to be a nice game of one-on-one into another metaphor for their dysfunctional relationship.
“Guess you’re about as good on the court as you are on the career front, huh?” With excessive force, George butted his hip against Mitch’s and made another shot. “I use the term ‘career’ loosely, of course.” He smiled, but that all-too-familiar edge crept into his tone.
Mitch’s demeanor frosted over. He knew more swipes would follow. Why had he hoped for something different this time? He knew what was next so he’d beat him to it. “So I guess you’ve seen my latest piece: ‘Man Coughs Up Twenty-Pound Hair Ball’?” Mitch said, all fake grin and false bravado. “My personal favorite. Or how about this one, ‘Screaming Banshee Evicted from Frank Lloyd Wright Home’? ”
George grimaced and shook his head.
Mission accomplished. Mitch knew as well as anyone how utterly ridiculous his International Inquisitor and Weekly Tale Tattler assignments were, but would it kill his father to give him a damn break every now and then? He wanted to share his efforts to switch to mainstream journalism, but announcing that he’d actually landed the job would have a greater impact. He’d wait and try his best to ignore his father’s insults in the meantime. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t get the best of him on the court. Mitch swooped in like an NBA superstar and took possession of the ball. For the next few minutes, he swiftly fancy-footed around George and scored point after point to win the game. By the time Travis returned, the tension between Mitch and George had settled in for the rest of the afternoon.
Mitch, who had lost his taste for steak and pecan pie, tossed Travis the ball. “I’ll catch you later, man.”
“Wait, you’re leaving already?” Travis went to him as he headed for the gate.
“Yes and you know why.”
“But…”
Mitch lifted a hand to cut him off. “I know what you were hoping to accomplish, and I love you for trying. It’s on me now. I know what I have to do.” Mitch watched their father, still shooting baskets.
“At least take some of this food home with you.” Travis led him back inside the house, where he wrapped and packed up enough steak, grilled corn, and pie for several meals. “You all right?”
“Yeah,” Mitch replied, though his insides knotted. “You go on back outside with Dad.” Mitch gave Travis a reassuring slap on the back.
“I scored great tickets to the next Reds game. Road trip? Next week?” He opened a drawer in his island and removed an envelope containing the tickets and passed Mitch one.
Mitch couldn’t make out the date. He’d check it later. “Maybe. When I get back.”
“Back from where?”
“What’s with all the questions? I’ll call you later.” Mitch took his food and left.
Chapter 5
“Grrrr,” Jaimie ground out as she brought her trot on a treadmill down to a brisk walk. “I could’ve strangled him!” A dose of endorphins usually lifted her mood. After leaving Shangri-La she’d bypassed the Butler County Bee newsroom for a pit stop at Spunky’s Funky Gym. But after a forty-five minute jog, her emotions still boiled over. She didn’t like the effect Mitchell Malone had on her. He had pressed, no jabbed, her darn buttons like no stranger had before.
“He really has you going.” GinaMarie, one of her closest friends, strolled into her cool down on a neighboring treadmill after taking in Jaimie’s recount of her run-in with a rival. “What does he look like?”
Jaimie didn’t respond. It was pointless rhapsodizing about Mitchell’s sexy honey-brown eyes. And his body. Lord, that body! Lethal and more than enough to drive any woman to distraction. She lifted the towel from the treadmill’s console and looped it around her neck. “He’s an arrogant, sexist jerk. I should’ve told him just where he could shove his ‘baby’ and ‘sweetheart.’ So what difference does it make what he looks like?”
“Oooh-la-la.” GinaMarie’s glossy black curls bounced. “Looks that good, huh?”
“Geez, I don’t know. I guess he’s all right…if you go for that type.” Ninety-nine percent of the female heterosexual population with half-decent vision would.
“If he’s gorgeous, there’s a chance all this heat is not just because he pissed you off. Maybe you want him.”
“Ha!” Jaimie scoffed.
“You want him,” GinaMarie replied matter-of-factly.
“And I hope he got a real bad rotisserie-chicken sunburn today, running around half naked! Yeah!” Jaimie reached for her plastic water bottle to take a drink. “And I doubt that I’m his type anyway,” she muttered. “I’m sure he’s that too-cool-for-school sort, who prefers the uber sexy, babelicious kind.”
Jaimie plucked at her gray sweatpants and oversized gray T-shirt mottled with sweat circles, definitely in stark contrast to the scraps of leopard-print GinaMarie wore. “I can see him going for you.”
“My dance card is full, and you’re too hard on yourself. I don’t have anything, you don’t have, but you’re always so busy hiding yours. Friend to friend, you could stand to tweak the gym attire.”
“I come to the gym to work out. This is functional workout wear.”
“So the rest of your wardrobe couldn’t possibly use a little more flash, sass, and razzamatazz. And for the record, fanny packs are for old ladies, tacky tourists, and Girl Scouts during their cookie drive.”
“It’s practical.” Jaimie didn’t mention that it also had great sentimental value. It was the last thing her father had given her before he died. He’d purchased it for their last family camping trip. “Besides, I don’t believe in wasting a lot of money trying to keep up with every fashion trend that strolls down the runway; that’s all.” Though she was a sucker for sexy lingerie, her choice of undies was certainly none of GinaMarie’s business.
“Well, nobody can rock those matronly separates quite the way you do,” GinaMarie teased.
“Okay Gucci’s hoochie, but remember, a designer label on a too-tight, too-short, too-skanky outfit doesn’t make it any less tight, short, or skanky. “
“We’re the same size; feel free to borrow my clothes anytime you want to spice up your love life.”
“And you’re free to borrow mine when you’re ready to be taken
seriously.”
GinaMarie flapped one hand, breezily dispensing her version of whatever. “I don’t think you should write off…What was his name again?’’ She pressed the button to stop the rolling treadmill belt.
“Mitchell. Mitchell Malone.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you so hot and bothered over anyone.” GinaMarie stepped off the treadmill to stretch on the floor. “Correction. I’ve never seen you this hot and bothered over anyone.”
“I am not hot and bothered! Must I look at every man I meet as a potential opportunity?”
GinaMarie chuckled knowingly, pretzeling her torso left, and then right in a thorough stretch. “Aaah, that feels good.’’ She scissored her legs as far apart as physiology would allow before easing her face down until her nose was just a hair from the floor. She rolled over on her back and performed her Chinese splits move that made the guy jogging on a nearby treadmill zip backward and crash into the sissy squat rack.
GinaMarie smiled and winked at Jaimie.
Envy bubbled inside Jaimie. Whether it was her adventures in the sack (marathon fellatio) or the latest wacky exercise class (extreme shot put, anyone?), GinaMarie loved to brag about her superhuman prowess. While Jaimie was the cardio queen, her own joints would snap, crackle, and pop like Granny Mac’s if she attempted anything beyond the basic warm-up stretches or bicep curls with the lightest rainbow-colored dumbbells. “You’re a chiropractic nightmare.”
“Careful, that green is clashing with your gray.”
“If the good Lord meant for me to touch my toes he would’ve put them on my knees.”
“You’re awfully snippy today.”
Jaimie joined GinaMarie on the floor. “So? Isn’t everyone entitled to having a bad day? This one is courtesy of Mr. Malone.”
“I like this feisty side of you. All fired up. The two of you…” She snapped her fingers. “It’s on!”
“We didn’t exactly part on good terms.”
“With both of you going after the same story, your paths will cross again. No telling what could pop off then.”
Jaimie narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, I’d like to ‘pop off’ his knee caps.” She folded into an unexceptional hamstring stretch. Mitchell had induced these malevolent thoughts. Proof that he was nothing but trouble. And the last thing she needed was someone turning her cool head and blowing her chances of getting that Reuben Richardson exclusive. This had to work out. Her family counted on her. Her younger sister needed help supplementing her academic scholarships and government grants. No way was Jaimie going to let Kendal sink into debt with student loans or try juggling a load of classes and a full-time job as she had. With night courses squeezed between two work shifts, it had taken Jaimie twice as long as most people to earn a bachelor’s degree. And the constant fatigue had affected her GPA. Then there was their grandmother to think about. Granny Mac, who recently moved into Kendal’s old room, brought her cantankerous disposition, Bruce Lee DVD collection, pint-sized hound from hell, and the balance of her medical bills not covered by Medicare with her. But with a position at the Examiner Jaimie could make it all work. Her mother, Sharlene, had been too scattered and irresponsible to hold on to any job for long after Jaimie’s father died almost a decade ago. The life insurance had been poorly managed until Jaimie took over the role of money manager. A huge responsibility for a girl of 17, but she’d quickly honed an impressive knack for stretching a buck. After college, she’d become the primary breadwinner.
“Hey, you want to see Mystic Sensations with me and Tricia tonight?” GinaMarie asked as she gawked at a tall, buff guy who sprinted by. “We’ll grab a bite first, and then head over to the jazz club on the riverfront.”
Jaimie stood to balance on one leg for a quads stretch. “Uh, well, I don’t know if I can make it. I’ll have to check my planner.’’
“Here we go again.”
“I’ve just been a little busier than usual, that’s all, with my job and freelancing on the side.” But Jaimie had also spent most nights at home watching Lifetime movies, playing Scrabble, and refereeing childish spats between Sharlene and Granny Mac. The pair couldn’t agree on the color of tap water if their lives depended on it. They’d squared off in an ongoing war of in-law wills since Jaimie’s mother and father swapped “I do’s.”
GinaMarie would not drop Mystic Sensations. She trailed Jaimie to the women’s locker room. “C’mon, it’s about time you got out of that house and had some fun with people your own age. You’ll dry up baby-sitting your mother and Granny Mac every night. When was the last time you got out? And Tricia’s last Mary Kay party doesn’t count.”
GinaMarie believed Jaimie’s dedication to family bordered on obsession.
“Hey, this Mr. Malone might be there,” GinaMarie added.
Jaimie turned the dial on the combination lock and a mental image of her towel-clad rival flashed. No. No. No. Now was not the time to get distracted by titanium abs and pecs and…
GinaMarie waved a hand before Jaimie’s face. “Hey, where did you go just now?”
Jaimie blinked and opened the locker to remove her gym bag. “I know where I can’t go and that’s to see Mystic Sensations tonight. I’ve got to get up early tomorrow to head up to Grundieville.”
“Eww.”
Jaimie checked her watch and dropped on the tiled floor to remove her cell phone from her fanny pack stashed inside the gym bag.
“Don’t tell me. Checking up on your folks again?”
Jaimie made the fifth call home that day. “You know how they are.” She tapped the number; her mother answered after the first ring. Granny Mac had left for a prayer meeting at the church so Jaimie had time to shop. “Hey Ma, do you need anything from the grocery store? I’m making a stop there, but I’ll be home in time to play cards before we pop in a movie. And oh, don’t forget to take the chicken out of the freezer.”
“You’re cooking, too?” GinaMarie rolled her eyes.
Jaimie tapped off her cell phone and tucked it away. “What?”
“You treat those two like children.” GinaMarie stopped yanking a sweatshirt out of her own gym bag. “So you’re going to Grungy-ville tomorrow.”
“Grundieville. Now, now, be nice. There are good, hardworking people in Grundieville.”
“Reuben Richardson. Right?”
Jaimie stood and removed her damp sweatpants. “You’ve got it.”
“I’m surprised that man hasn’t had you arrested for stalking.”
“Believe me, I can think of a dozen things I’d rather do. But Grundieville is the site of this big four-day paintball tournament. Word has it Richardson signed up.”
GinaMarie peeled out of her tiny leopard crop top.
“Grown men and women will get decked out in camouflage duds and carry toy air guns. They’ll run around like raving lunatics splattering each other with paint pellets.”
“Can you stand the fun?” GinaMarie said dryly as she jiggled the handle of her locker. “Well, at least it’ll get you out of town and a much-needed break from the family for four whole days.”
“As bad as I need this shot at Richardson, I’m a little nervous about leaving Ma and Granny Mac alone for that long.
“What about work?”
“Wrapping two comp days for overtime around the weekend.”
“Cool beans. Well, better find a cage of carrier pigeons if you want mobile communication.”
“What?”
“I hear consistent, solid cell signals in those parts are almost nonexistent.”
“I just hope the house is still standing when I get back.”
Chapter 6
The next day, Jaimie caterwauled to the radio as she guided her Focus along a small curving two-lane road. The crystalline day, perfect for a road trip and a new opportunity to latch on to Richardson, made her smile. Just what she needed to put that Shangri-La fiasco behind her.
The highway leading to Grundieville had been thick with traffic. Patches of flat, barren f
ields, and monotonous billboards provided few distractions. She’d found the plotted back roads virtually traffic-free and scenic. The paintball adventure required an extra punch of confidence. Her knowledge of the game was limited to what she could glean from brochures, but how hard was an adult version of Capture the Flag? She shrugged off all niggling doubt, cranked up the radio, and tapped out the beat on her steering wheel.
Just up the road a tall broad-shouldered man caught her attention. There was something familiar about him so she slowed the car to match his purposeful, long-legged stride. Her passenger side window descended. “Mitchell?”
He stopped, sucked in a deep breath, and stood there, relief washing over his handsome face.
“What happened? Why are you walking?”
“My car conked out on me. She ran out of gas.” Mitchell stepped closer to her Focus. Sweat beaded on his smooth skin, darkening the armpits of his green short-sleeved shirt.
“Is that so?” she asked with a lilt as her lips curved into a smile. She took far too much pleasure from his mishap, but she knew exactly where he was headed. So much for her hot Richardson tip. “Well, Grundieville is about what…eighteen, nineteen miles up the road here? Hmmm, let’s see, walking at a nice clip, you might get there just before dusk.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I know you're not headed to Grundieville for the tourist attractions. I'd aid and abet the competition if I helped you out,” she teased, knowing full well she didn't have it in her to desert him. “But if you ask nicely, with lots and lots of cream, sugar, and cherries on top, I might, just might, be persuaded to reconsider.”
“Forget it.” Mitchell clenched his jaw and resumed his march onward, too proud for his own darn good.
“If you'd rather walk...” Jaimie gunned the engine. Well, as much as one could gun an old Focus. Her rear tires kicked up a cloud of dust as she took off. About a half mile up the road, she checked the rearview mirror. Mitchell had stopped in his tracks, shaking a fist at her. She jammed the brakes and shifted to a zippy reverse until the car flanked him again. “Forget something?”