by Kate Angell
Joe wasn’t sure whether Dean’s face was sweating or if there were tears in his eyes by the end of practice. Six hours of scratchy material on sunburned skin had to have rubbed him raw. While he hadn’t played up to par, he’d survived scrimmage. He now staggered into the locker room and fell onto the bench, his chin dropping to his chest. He appeared ready to pass out.
“Hydrate, dumb-ass.” Joe grabbed a bottle of orange Gatorade from an ice cart directly inside the door. Drinks were available to the players after every practice. He tossed it to Dean. Dean barely caught it, he was so weak. Joe stood off to the side, waited, while Dean polished off half the bottle. He held up his head, and Joe moved on.
Pax trailed Joe to their lockers. “Fraternizing with the enemy?” he asked.
“People die from dehydration. We don’t need a Triple-A corpse in our locker room.”
“Here, I’d thought you’d gone soft.”
“Hard-hearted as ever. Dude’s on my shit list.”
“I snuck a peek at two coaches’ performance scorecards. Sunburn or not, Dean sucked,” said Pax. “He’ll be pressed to make our roster.”
Joe wasn’t a fool. Dean would heal. He gave the man two days to recover. He’d return stronger than ever, a left field threat.
Sam joined them, sweaty and stripping down. In need of a shower. “Plans for tonight? I’m up.” He left his comment open-ended.
“Parrot Pete’s?” suggested Pax.
Sam wrapped his naked ass in a towel. Slung a second towel over his shoulder. “Pete has two parrots now.” They perched on swings in a long, narrow cage that hung over the bar.
“I hate them both,” said Pax. “The parrots swear like sailors and spit sunflower seeds.”
“Quarter beer happy hour makes up for the cursing,” from Sam. “Your fault that Geraldo dropped seeds on you. He didn’t like being called Gerry.”
Pax grunted. “Like he knew the difference.”
“Parrot spit said he did.”
Pax was slow to agree. “Fine, but we sit at a table, not at the bar. An hour, max. Then we move on to the Blue Coconut.” He glanced at Joe. “Joining us?”
Joe debated. He had two hours before Unleashed closed for the day and Turbo became his responsibility again. He hadn’t signed up for evening care. He needed to hang with his boy. “Not sure, guys. Errands and Turbo take priority.”
“You know where to find us,” said Pax.
His teammates were easy to locate. Bars burst at the seams when the Rogues arrived. Crowds spilled onto the sidewalk. The players kept their fans happy with rounds of free drinks.
His thoughts turned to Stevie. He liked thinking about her. He owed her a new pair of panties. After a dozen phone calls, he’d also located a man who restored vintage carpets. Braided rugs weren’t George Eagan’s specialty, but he’d offered to take a look, late that afternoon. Joe would meet him at the dog day care at four.
He went on to shower, skipped the shave, and dressed. He left the locker room behind Rylan Cates. One foot out the door, and Dean Jensen called to Ry, giving him a thumbs-up. “Initiation. Shaved head tomorrow.”
Rylan’s brow creased in confusion.
Joe nudged the team captain out the door before Ry could address Dean’s concern. “Fine by Rylan,” Joe shouted over his shoulder.
He bumped into Ry two steps out. Rylan gave him the eye. “What’s fine by me?”
“It’s actually better for me than for you,” Joe admitted. He relayed what had gone down earlier. He ended with, “I hate that guy.”
“Yet you lent him shoes and socks and gave him Gatorade.”
Joe’s jaw worked. “How’d you know?”
“I’m here, there, and everywhere.”
Joe believed him. Ry was uncanny. He kept his finger on the pulse of every player. He was aware of their daily and nightly activities—good, bad, or ugly. He reined in the Rogues before management fined them. Joe had always admired the man. Even though Rylan had spoiled his fun on occasion. What Joe considered a “good time,” Ry usually termed “ juvenile.”
Joe shoved his hands in his jean pockets now, and awaited Rylan’s censure. He expected the team captain to put a halt to Dean’s bald head. Ry took his time, finally saying, “Two seasons ago, you followed the trend when my personal assistant and later wife Beth, gave me a haircut and accidentally chopped it too short.”
Joe recalled the moment he’d seen Ry and Halo in the locker room with their asymmetrical cuts. The rest of the Rogues had fallen in step. Joe had gotten a Mohawk. Fans also filled the stadium with irregular haircuts and high spirits. A bonding preseason.
Ry rubbed his jaw, evaluated. “A shaved head will be painful for Dean.”
“Yeah, I know.” No sympathy from Joe.
“Not fair to Dean.”
“We want to be fair.”
“Don’t be a dick, Zoo.” Rylan’s tone sharpened. “You are your own worst enemy. Stop competing with Dean and compete with yourself. Don’t let him distract you.”
“Dean’s close to signing a major league contract.”
“Close, but he hasn’t arrived,” Rylan reminded him. “No one’s handed him an ink pen. Landing on the expanded roster is a long way from starting lineup.”
Joe released a breath. “Thanks, Ry-man.” He meant it.
Rylan ended with, “The front office in Richmond likes you, for whatever reason. I’ve heard Kason Rhodes is a fan.” He left Joe standing in an empty parking spot.
Kason was a legend. He’d played left field prior to Joe. He’d left his reputation on the field. Hard-ass, fierce, a warrior. Once retired, he’d moved into administration. Had been appointed senior vice president of international scouting. He carried a lot of weight, showcasing new, ambitious players. Which meant he also had to have his eye on Dean Jensen.
Joe focused on the positive. He crossed the lot, climbed into his Jag. The sports car fit him tight, like a hug. He needed one. He drove to Saunders Shores, the northern sector of the Barefoot William boardwalk. The two neighborhoods showcased very different lifestyles.
Barefoot William was as honky-tonk as the Shores was high-profile. Waterfront mansions welcomed the rich and retired. Yachts the size of cruise ships lined the waterways. Private airstrips replaced commercial travel. Forbes listed Saunders Shores as the wealthiest resort community in the country.
Joe preferred the carnival rides, amusement arcade, and specialty shops in Barefoot William. Tourists and townies packed the boardwalk during the day. Neon lights flashed at night, and music poured from the many shops. People danced down the boardwalk, free and uninhibited. Many played black-light volleyball on the beach. Glow-in-the-dark Frisbees were thrown along the shoreline. Kisses stolen under the pier.
This afternoon Délicieux was his chosen destination. An upscale boutique for women’s lingerie and undergarments. Joe knew the proprietress personally. Not as a lover, the way she would’ve liked, but as a friend. He parked off Center Street, which divided the two towns.
He left the cracked cement walkway of the Barefoot William boardwalk behind. Strolled the cocoa-brown bricks of the Shores. Here, there were no rickshaw pedicabs, in-line skaters, unicyclists, portrait painters, street singers, musicians, mimes, or vendors hawking hot dogs, nachos, or cotton candy. No one wore swimsuits or beach attire.
The patrons shopping the main city blocks were dignified and stylish. All but Joe. He’d tucked a gray T-shirt scripted with Together We Can Fight Blue Balls into white-seamed jeans. His attire was unsuitable for Saunders Shores, but when had he ever dressed appropriately? Never in this lifetime. He got a lot of female stares, and several suggestive smiles, even from the bejeweled and well-heeled. “A great cause,” one woman whispered in passing.
The owner of the boutique met him at the frosted glass door. Celeste held it open for him. She greeted him with a red lipstick smile and a manicured fingernail touch to his arm. “So glad you called ahead of time,” she said. “I’ve searched my designer collection a
nd found a lovely selection for you.”
He nodded. He wasn’t at all sure what he was looking for. One replacement pair of underwear would suffice—he wasn’t out to fill Stevie’s panty drawer.
The women’s shop immersed him in plush lavender carpet, pastel flowering plants in enormous ceramic planters, racks of lingerie, and mirrored walls. Celeste steered him toward a wide glass table against the far wall. Rows of neatly stacked undies offered diverse styles, colors, fabrics. Had he been shopping for any woman other than Stevie, he would’ve stuck his hand through a leg hole and spun it on his finger. Something held him back. Respect, maybe. He’d yet to fool around with Stevie. He wanted to play it straight.
Celeste stood beside him at the table. “Close your eyes and envision your lady,” she softly said. “Panties give a glimpse into the personality of a woman. They reflect how she’s feeling that day. Sexy, playful, teasing.”
Sarcastic, ornery, ungrateful was how he saw Stevie. She was not “his woman.” Far from it. Turbo had ripped red silk. Perhaps something similar would please her. Or not. He rubbed the back of his neck, strangely ill at ease. Indecisive.
Celeste sensed his struggle. She wanted the sale, and so she gave further suggestions. She held up pairs of panties, and described each style. “Thongs are jaw-droppers, leave little to the imagination. G-strings cause a guy to sweat, show him exactly what he’s getting. Bikinis are flirty, enticing. Boy shorts are seductive, playful. And never devalue the granny panty. Many men get aroused by full cotton coverage. Hidden fantasies.”
“Bikini,” he decided.
Celeste approved. “You can’t go wrong. A safe choice.”
Playing it safe was good with Stevie.
“Fabric?” she next questioned. “Silk, lace, nylon?”
“Silk.” Cool and slick against female skin.
“Color, pastel, solid, paisley, flesh-toned or see-through? ”
Joe went with, “Yellow.”
“Yellow-gold, lemon chiffon, canary, yellow crayon, mellow yellow, sunshine?” she read the color-coded tabs on the panties.
A corner of his mouth curved. “Natural-blond.”
Located at the bottom of the stack. “How many pairs should I gift-wrap?” she asked.
“One.”
Disappointment creased her brow. “Anything else that might interest you?” she inquired.
He looked around, noticed the wedding section. “A bridal thong.”
Her lips parted, surprise in her eyes. “I wasn’t aware.”
“Nothing to be aware of. I’m not getting married.”
She didn’t pry. Instead she shared a selection of the intimate apparel. Her favorites. Blush, cream, peach. Virginal to risqué. He made his choice. “Kiss the Bride.” Designer crystals sparkled on the white low riders. Perfect for the bridal shoot on Saturday.
“Excellent.” Celeste smiled. The high price tag pleased her. “A garter for the lady?”
Joe shook his head. “Got it covered.” Previously purchased. Something blue.
He paid, and Celeste boxed the items separately. Floral gift wrap for the yellow panties. Satin bow, tied and nicely scented with a sprig of berry. The bridal thong was enfolded in silver foil, and secured with gauze ribbon.
The boutique owner linked her arm with his, walked him to the door. “Always a pleasure, Joe.” He kissed her on the cheek. Then left.
He picked up his sports car, placing Stevie’s gifts in the narrow luggage space behind the seats. He then drove to Unleashed. He anticipated seeing her. Even for just five minutes.
He rounded the corner, a block from the dog care. What he saw had him downshifting, cutting the wheel, angling toward the curb. Hitting the brake. Hard. His upper body jerked against the seat belt. Son of a bitch. Once parked, he unhooked his belt, jumped out. He placed himself at the end of the sidewalk. Waved his arms. Wildly. Turbo barreled toward him in a full-out charge.
Stevie huffed and puffed behind him. Clutching a leash, holding her side, calling to the rottie. “Stop” did not faze his dog.
Joe put his thumb and forefinger to the corners of his mouth, whistled. Loudly. Catching Turbo’s attention. The big boy skidded to a halt near Joe’s feet. His sides heaved. He panted heavily, mouth foaming. Joe grabbed him by the collar. Held tight.
Stevie finally caught up. Her face was flushed, her legs so rubbery she could barely stand. Whether from fear or from exertion, he didn’t know. He released his temper on a low growl. “You’ve never had an escapee?” he accused. “Turbo’s on the run.”
Five
Stevie stared at Joe. His expression had been transformed. He looked hard. Annoyed. Fierce. Scary. She barely recognized him. Gone was the genial man who’d shown interest in her. He clutched Turbo’s collar, taking control of the runaway, his knuckles white.
She exhaled. The air leaving her body left her weak. Her legs gave out, and she sat down on the sidewalk. Began to shake. “I-I’m sorry,” she managed.
He came to stand before her. She handed him the leash. He clipped it to Turbo’s collar. Hooked the handle over his wrist. It fit tight. His dog wasn’t going anywhere. The rottie lay on the grass, head on his paws.
Hunkering down, Joe rested his forehead against hers. His breath was warm on her brow. His voice calmed. “I apologize, too. I’m sure whatever happened wasn’t your fault, Stevie. Look at it from my perspective, seeing my dog hauling ass down the sidewalk. He was so far ahead of you, you’d never have caught him.”
“I tried, but I’m no Olympic sprinter.”
“No, you’re not.”
She punched him in the arm, with the little energy she had left. He pulled a face, rubbed his bicep, and pretended it hurt.
She tipped back slightly, noticed he’d relaxed. Relief was in his eyes. Amusement cornered his mouth. “My heart was racing,” he confessed. “As fast as when I’m running the bases at the ballpark or during sex.”
Sex. “That fast, huh?” Her own pulse bumped at the thought.
“The sidewalk was about to end, and Turbo doesn’t have the sense to stay out of the road. There’s traffic.”
“He was chasing a car.”
“What car?”
“A black Nissan. It turned the corner, heading east. You arrived from the west.”
“Why the pursuit?”
Stevie sighed, ill at ease. He would not be happy with her answer. “Let me preface this by saying that Turbo’s continued interest in Etta was one-sided.”
“The bulldog didn’t give him the time of day?”
“Not one second.”
“I’d rather have him play with the poodle, anyway.”
“Princess Pom-Pom avoided him, too.”
“Crap, I’d hoped they’d connect.”
“Connect how?”
“Pal around, maybe. My boy needs companionship. You’re not helping.”
“I’m not a canine matchmaker.”
“He spent the day alone.”
“Hardly alone. There were seventeen dogs on-site to-day. Turbo had opportunities to play. The dachshund Felix followed him around, wanting to be his friend.”
“A wiener and a muscle dog?”
“Felix is a little dog with a big presence.”
“Don’t expect them to bond. Turbo prefers females. He’s a lot like me. We find girls we like, and go after them.”
“A problem in the making,” she stressed. “Dean Jensen picked up Etta early. Turbo pressed his nose to the glass pane on the side of the door and watched her leave. Dean loaded her, closed the door. Turbo went crazy, spinning in circles, whining, barking for her to return. Dean drove off. A pet owner arrived seconds later. Your dog dodged through the man’s legs. Escaped out the door. He took off, tried to catch the car.”
“Dean’s car.” It came out as a disgruntled growl. “You went after Turbo.”
“I exercise regularly, but I’m not a runner.”
“He outdistanced you by half a block.”
“It won’t h
appen again. Promise.”
“I have a solution,” he said seriously.
She was leery. “What?”
“Boot Jensen and his dog. No temptation for Turbo.”
Wasn’t going to happen. Ever. Dean was her cousin. Family came first. “Or Turbo could find a new dog day care.”
“We’re here to stay.”
She’d been afraid of that. They were at an impasse. “We’re getting married on Saturday. I need my groom on the staircase for the magazine shoot.”
Joe went from relaxed to tense in a single second. The idea of marriage rattled him. Greatly. A muscle twitched at the corner of his eye. He tugged at the neckline of his Blue Balls T-shirt, swallowing. A death grip on Turbo’s leash. A flex of his abdomen and thighs. Nice clenching, she admired.
“A designer involved with the photo session delivered three wedding gowns today. My choices for the centerfold.”
He gave an acknowledging nod.
“Two tuxes arrived, as well. You’ll need a fitting.”
“No tux.” Firm and final.
“I Do is a glossy international magazine. They have a reputation to keep up.”
“So do I,” he emphasized. “No formal wear.”
She eyed him. “You’re worn and torn. Unkempt.”
“That’s me.”
He’d need to conform for an hour. “We have an agreement,” she reminded him. “My wedding photo for your dog care and bedroom.”
“Hard to forget.” Short pause. “Why do you want to do the photo shoot so badly?”
She was honest. “Lori and I played dress-up as little girls. Fairy-tale fun. Bridal costumes and our mothers’ high heels. We picked flowers from our gardens for our bouquets.” Fond memories. “I have no desire to get married at the moment, maybe not ever, so the photo shoot is just a lovely chance to pretend again as an adult. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And Unleashed is a unique local business. I wanted to involve Twyla. She’s very dear to me.” Their gazes locked. “Don’t let me down, Joey.”
“I’ll be there, Stewie.” He left it open-ended as to just how he’d show up, though. Uncooperative man. A conniving look crept into his gaze. His tone became cagey. “Trade-off,” he initiated. Panties coming to mind. “I might try on a tux—if you slip on something for me.”