Southern Heat
Parker Kincade
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
About the Author
Also by Parker Kincade
Copyright
Southern Heat
By Parker Kincade
Copyright © 2015 Parker Kincade
ISBN: 978-0-9894407-7-6
No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and e-mail, without prior written permission from Parker Kincade. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy, available at all major e-book resellers.
Thank you for your support.
Editor: Lacey Thacker
Cover Artist: Pickyme
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, places, brands, and dialogues in this book are a product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. This book contains content that is not suitable for readers who are 17 and under.
For Lacey
You amaze me every single day. Thank you for believing in me, and for reminding me to believe in myself.
For Tyler
You surprised me in the most delicious ways. Consider us even.
1
Tyler Brady hadn’t had a summer off since he was six years old.
His memories of being six were hazy, except for the days he’d put on his cleats, grabbed his bat and glove, and hit the dirt.
Tyler remembered his annoyance with the equipment he’d been required to use back then. The guys he idolized, watched play each night on TV didn’t use a tee. Tyler figured he shouldn’t be forced to use one either.
But he hadn’t used it for long. One game, to be exact. The following practice, he’d begged his father to throw him a pitch. Thank God, his dad had agreed. With the coach and his teammates watching, Tyler nailed that fucking ball clear over the dirt and into the grassy outfield.
Tyler shifted in his seat, a smile tugging at his lips.
That was the summer he’d fallen in love.
The rush he’d felt when the ball connected with the bat had almost been more than his six-year-old self could handle.
God, how many hours had he stood in that batter’s box? How many balls had he hit that day to prove to his coach the first hadn’t been a fluke?
Felt like hundreds.
He’d hit balls until his arms were weak and shaking so hard he almost lost his grip. But he never complained. He’d hit pitches until his palms bled and he still hadn’t wanted to stop.
Yeah, Tyler remembered that day. The day his T-ball career had come to a swift halt and the course of his life had been set.
The next twenty summers had been filled with baseball—starting with his abrupt move from T-ball into live pitch and ending when he tore his fucking rotator cuff during spring training.
Instead of helping his team, the New York Empire, get to the pennant, he’d be spending the summer in physical therapy. He could’ve stayed in New York, done his healing in the spotlight. Instead, he’d come home. For privacy. To lick his wounds in relative peace.
Tyler swiped sweat out of his eyes. What had he been thinking? Choosing to come to Arkansas. In June for fuck’s sake. There were days he’d rather have cameras being shoved in his face. Today, in fact.
The temperature hovered around one hundred and five. The mist machines in the beer garden cooled things down a bit. But with temps this damn hot, they were little more than a nuisance.
The baseball game had been underway for over an hour. The local minor team looked good, but they were no match for the opponents. With a score of zip-to-eight at the top of the fourth, the outcome didn’t look good for the homeboys.
At least those guys were getting to play, Tyler thought bitterly.
He rolled his shoulder and winced. His doctors were concerned. He’d been out of the goddamned sling for weeks. The level of pain he experienced varied from day to day. His range of motion was better, but he sure as shit expected to be further along by now. Needed to be further along.
Four years into his contract, Tyler knew his job depended on it. If he didn’t get back on the field this season …
“You didn’t order us a pitcher?” Devon Thatcher slid into the chair across from him.
Pitcher. It was a damn good thing Tyler wasn’t a pitcher. The type of injury he’d suffered could’ve been career-ending had his position been on the mound instead of at first base. What in the hell would he do if he couldn’t play baseball anymore? What would—
“Yo, Ty.” Devon snapped his fingers in front of Tyler’s face. “Dude. Pitcher? Beer? You gone deaf or somethin’?”
Devon’s question pulled him from the slippery slope of his thoughts. Glad for the distraction, Tyler tipped back the beer he’d been nursing.
The warm beer.
“Too damned hot out here,” Tyler said. “Unless you’re plannin’ to drain it the second it hits the table, it’ll be too warm to drink before the second round. And where the hell have you been? You missed the first three innings.”
Devon raised an arm to signal for a server. “I was at the gym. Gotta keep up my stamina in the off-season, ya know? Besides, baseball’s your thing, dude. I’m only here for the beer.” He half-stood and stretched his neck. “There anyone working in this section? I’m melting over here.”
Tyler balked. “Pussy. You should try playing in this shit. At least you get to wear enough gear to protect your pansy ass from frostbite. Until the league starts letting us play naked, us ballplayers have to suffer the elements.”
Devon dropped his elbows onto the table. “Bite my pansy ass, Brady. Need I remind you? You had a choice. While you were suffering heat exhaustion in Little League, I was enjoying the cool confines of the ice rink. Instead of playing hockey with me, you chose a summer sport. I’d say that makes you the dumbass in this equation.”
Since they each played professionally in their respective sports, the question of choice versus destiny was a familiar debate. And one he didn’t feel like rehashing at the moment.
“Yeah, well … I’m the one with a beer.” Just to rub it in, Tyler drained the plastic cup. He had to force himself not to cringe as the tepid brew hit his throat. Feeling ornery, he let out a satisfied ahhh as he placed the empty back on the table. “Who’s the dumbass now?”
“Asshole.”
Some things never changed.
They’d met in the second grade, when Devon’s family moved to Arkansas from somewhere out west—Utah or some shit. Devon had strolled into the classroom as though he owned the place and then immediately took a shine to the girl Tyler crushed on. But instead of becoming enemies, they’d joined forces, figuring it would be better not to make her choose between them. A win-win solution to their young minds. Two was better than one, right?
It was a philosophy that stuck with them—on occasion—even after they realized what it meant to share.
Devon waggled two fingers in the air. Within seconds, a waitress arrived with a tray filled with plastic c
ups.
With a flirty smile, she placed two beers on the table. “You guys want anything else?”
Tyler glanced to the woman’s chest. A skimpy black bra was proudly displayed under her white tank top. And yep, just as he suspected, she arched her back to give him a better look.
He was more of a leg man, but her efforts weren’t entirely wasted on him. He appreciated a nice set of boobs when they were shoved in his face.
“This’ll get us for the moment, darlin’, but don’t go too far,” Devon told her. “I’m awful thirsty.”
She turned her rack on Devon. With a wink she said, “Wouldn’t dream of it, handsome. Drink up. I’ll be back ’round.”
Devon grinned, cocking his head to watch as she sashayed away. “Like shootin’ fish in a barrel.”
“You’re such an ass.”
“Don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful. And talented. And because I’ve got a big—”
“Chip on your shoulder?” Tyler finished for him.
Devon reached for his cup first. Tyler expected his friend to finish it in one gulp, and he wasn’t wrong.
Tyler slid his cup across the table. “Here. You seem to need this more than I do.”
Devon stacked Tyler’s beer inside his empty cup and settled back in his chair.
“Remind me why I let you talk me into this visit? Goddamn, it’s hot.”
“Quit complaining. You’re in the off-season. You’d have made your way here to see your family eventually.”
Devon didn’t confirm or deny. He took a long drink from his cup and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “So, what’s the story? You done for the season?”
Devon knew he’d seen the doctor that morning. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
“What’s Matt got to say about it?”
Matt Talbot was the best physical therapist in the southern U.S., which was the only reason Tyler took half the shit Matt dished out. Well, that and the fact they’d grown up together.
“He says I need to be patient. He’s sending me to another therapist tomorrow. Someone named Mac.”
Devon’s brows arched. “What the hell? He’s dropping you?”
“No, he’s not dropping me. He’s sending me to a massage therapist over in Riverbend.”
“A massage therapist? You’re kidding, right? You don’t need to relax. You need to get back on the field.”
“Thanks for telling me what I don’t already know,” Tyler said dryly. “According to Matt, the guy specializes in working with injured athletes. Says he’s the best.”
The noise Devon made indicated he had doubts.
Instead of voicing his own concerns, Tyler said, “Whatever it takes, man. If Matt thinks my seeing this dude will enhance the work I’m already doing, then I’m gonna do it.”
He had to do it.
Devon bobbed his head in agreement. “And that’s why you’ll be back on the dirt by mid-season.”
Tyler heard the telltale crack of a ball against a bat. He turned in time to see a ball soar over the left-field fence.
“God, I hope so. I’m dying to get back out there.”
“What time is your appointment tomorrow?”
“Two o’clock.”
Tyler’s gut twisted. This Mac dude better bring his A-game. Tyler needed results, not empty promises.
The doc had scheduled another MRI for Monday. He’d tossed around the possibility of a second surgery as though it were nothing more than a minor setback. Which it wasif minor meant the league he’d be playing for if he didn’t get his shit together.
Tyler rubbed his temple. He needed something to take his mind off his recovery. Being at a ballpark, any ballpark, relaxed him. Of course, he was usually on the field, not above it.
Today, it didn’t relax him. It filled him with need. A deep-seated desire to take action. To do something active, physical. To take control of a moment in time as the rest of his world spun out of control.
As though reading his mind, Devon asked, “So, what’s on the agenda for tonight? Wanna go out? Find a little sport? It’s been awhile since we’ve torn up the town together.”
Hell yeah, he did.
“I’m game.”
Tyler decided his stress level required more than just a little fun. In fact, for the next few months, he had two objectives: Get laid. Get well.
He’d done his therapy and workout today, so he couldn’t do much more to advance his second objective until his appointment tomorrow.
That left him all night for objective number one.
* * *
Gabriella Marano slapped her hand against the thermostat.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Her air conditioner had been running ninety to nothin’ all damned day and it still couldn’t keep up. Of course, with the state of Arkansas suffering one of the hottest summers on record, Gabriella should be happy her unit worked at all. At the rate the temps were climbing, she’d be moving to Alaska before the start of July. There was only so much heat a girl could take.
Ninety-three degrees. Inside.
Replacing the current air conditioner wasn’t an option she could entertain no matter how much she would have liked to. Her checkbook couldn’t handle the hit of a large expenditure. It was all she could do to keep the house.
Days like today made her wonder why she even bothered. She loved the place, sure. The location was perfect. Riverbend was a small town. A far cry from where she’d grown up, but she loved the feel of it. Loved knowing her neighbors. Loved running a successful business and being an active member of the community.
The one-story, single-family house had everything she’d ever wanted. Large kitchen with state-of-the-art appliances. Fireplace in the living room set in a natural stone surround. Large master suite plus two extra bedrooms—one of which she’d turned into an office. But the in-ground pool had sealed the deal.
Not that the pool offered much relief these days. The extreme temperatures had turned her haven into a glorified bathtub.
Sweat ran down her spine and straight into the crack of her ass, making her squirm as it trickled down into her panties. The most action her panties had seen in months, she thought sadly.
Gabby mashed the down arrow twice to lower the temperature setting, paused, then hit it a third time for good measure. No doubt her electric bill would give her bank account a seizure, but she’d worry about it later.
Padding on bare feet to the kitchen, she pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and rolled it against her cheeks. She opened the freezer of the side-by-side and pressed her body against the opening. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as the cool air drifted over her.
God, she missed Boston. The salty scent of the waterfront. The nostalgic feel of the shops. The bustle of the Italian restaurant her parents owned and operated.
What she wouldn’t give to be in the kitchen at Marano’s right now. She might sweat, but at least she’d be surrounded by people who loved her.
The shrill ring of the phone broke through the silence. Slamming the freezer shut, she cursed the fact she couldn’t crawl inside until her skin chilled. She jogged down the hallway and into her office, glancing at the clock as she slid into the desk chair, and grabbed the receiver. It wasn’t unusual for her office phone to ring after five on Friday, but in her line of work calls in the evening generally meant trouble.
“Gabriella Marano.”
“Hey.”
She hesitated, certain the heat was playing a trick on her ears. It couldn’t be—
“Gabby?”
Shit. Her ears were working fine. She dropped her head against the back of the chair.
“Are you okay?” The deep, familiar tone used to soothe her. Now it just raked her nerves.
Why wouldn’t I be? I’m sweating like the devil in church and staying home on a Friday night because I’ve got to work tomorrow. And I was just sitting here thinking this would be the best day ever if I could talk to the man who
fucked me over. I’m peachy, thank you.
“What do you want, Roger?”
“I …” Her ex-boyfriend cleared his throat and tried again. “How are you?”
Seriously?
“I’m fine.” He didn’t have the right to ask how she was. He’d given up the right to privileged information regarding her well being, or anything else do to with her, for that matter. When he remained silent, her anger mounted. “Was there something you needed?”
He hesitated. “I’ve got some news.”
Oh, this ought to be good. “Since you work for Channel 7, don’t you always?”
Roger chuckled, missing the snark in her tone. She’d try harder next time.
“I suppose so, but this isn’t work related, Gabby. This is … uh … personal.”
Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I haven’t heard from you in months. Now all of a sudden we’re sharing personal information?”
“I’m getting married.”
Gabby closed her eyes. Swallowed. Fought against the hurt resurfacing to remind her how naive she’d been.
Roger had walked out on her six months ago. No warning. No prior indication their relationship was headed to the toilet.
One day he’d come home for lunch, fucked her on the living room couch, and then told her they were through. No discussion, no looking back. He’d packed a bag and left.
Leaving her feeling used, heartbroken, and confused.
She was less heartbroken than confused now. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I didn’t want you to hear about it on the news. I care about you, Gabby. I thought you should hear it directly from me.”
Without the fog of love clouding her vision, she saw through Roger’s game. He didn’t care about her. The man was working an angle. Gabby just didn’t know what it was. Yet. “Again I ask, why?”
“Because we’re friends.”
Re-e-e-ally.
The heat must be getting to her after all. Coupled with his patronizing tone and nifty little declaration, Gabby was ready to spit nails.
Southern Heat (Game On Book 2) Page 1