Despite the banshee comment, my heart does a flattered little pirouette. Still, he did call me a banshee. “Why would you assume I’d say yes?”
His mouth quirks. “You want to see a baseball game on Friday? Red Sox at White Sox.”
“I don’t go to baseball games.”
“You don’t go to dingy old pubs or children’s sporting events, either. Or so you say.”
“I—” I suppose that’s true. “Well, fine.”
“Fine?”
I lift a shoulder. “Did you want me to say no?”
“I thought you might. With the one-time thing. And your banshee psychosis.”
“Stop saying banshee. And it’s just a baseball game.”
“It’s a date,” he informs me.
“It might be if you buy me a hot dog.”
“I’ll get you a hot dog. Don’t you dare wear a Red Sox hat.”
“Red’s my color, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I’ve noticed.” He digs his truck keys from his pocket. “I’ll meet you in front of the stadium. If you’re wearing something inappropriate, I’m not going to give you your ticket.”
“Just be grateful I show up.”
He grins at me, unfazed, and I return to Susan’s car and climb in, Dorrie snoring softly in the passenger seat. Eli follows us out of the parking lot, then waves before turning in the opposite direction and driving off. I watch him disappear in the rearview mirror, considering his comment about all the things I don’t do. I don’t attend softball games, I don’t go to the pub. I don’t go to baseball games or date IT guys, either...
Do I?
Chapter Seven
The next night I get home from work shortly before eight, and sigh as I kick off my shoes. I take three steps in and halt when I see a body on the floor. “Susan?”
She’s lying on her back on the very expensive merino wool carpet in the living room, warm light from the sinking sun washing over her face, eyes closed peacefully. “Hey,” she replies.
“What are you doing here? Again?” On the rare occasions I see my sister, it’s usually in this position: prostrate on my living room floor, hiding from real life.
“Would you believe I was exercising?”
“Sure.” I grab a bottle of water and join her. “Have you been home yet?” She’s still in her scrubs, dark hair pulled back in a stubby ponytail. We have the same facial features, but hers are dark where mine are light. Growing up people joked she was the bad child and I was the angel, but opinions have been reversed in recent years. Never mind the fact that Susan spends 90 percent of her life at the hospital, 7 percent hiding at my place and 3 percent with her daughter.
She drags a tired hand across her eyes, mascara smudged at the corners. “Any minute now.”
I notice the cell phone resting on her stomach, the screen rapidly filling with new messages. “What is all that?”
“My spies.”
“What?”
“It’s from the hospital. I ask them to keep me updated.”
“On?”
“Everything. I don’t care how experienced they are, you can’t count on people to do your job. Or theirs, in most instances.”
I blow out a huff of air. Susan knows about my mandatory holiday; it doesn’t mean she’s particularly sensitive. “I hear you.”
But she doesn’t hear me, tapping something furiously into her phone. Finally she drops the thing and turns her head. “Esperanza said you took Dorrie to her softball game.”
I groan. “It was painful.”
“What’s her team name? The Losers?”
“Close enough. You haven’t been to a game yet?”
“What’s the point?”
I shrug. “There isn’t one, I guess.”
She sits up. “Do you want to go out with someone on Friday? His name’s Doug Frey. He’s an anesthesiologist.”
“Is he hot?” I ask, before remembering I already have plans. “Actually, I can’t,” I say abruptly, interrupting Susan’s unconvincing nod. Whenever someone asks her out she tries to pawn them off on me, brandishing her battered copy of Chicago’s Finest as bait.
She looks at me shrewdly. “Why not? You have to be out of the office by seven. What else are you going to do?”
“I’m going to a baseball game.” I try to sound casual, like I’m not looking forward to it, but the truth is, I am. “Red Sox at White Sox.”
She squints at me. “I don’t care what color socks you choose to wear. Just go out with Doug. Maybe he likes baseball.”
“I’m going with someone.”
“Ugh. Not Haines again. The man’s not going to leave his wife, Caitlin.”
“I know that. I wasn’t expecting him to. And no, it’s not Haines. It’s...someone else.”
“Athlete?”
“No.”
“Politician?”
“No.”
“Professor?”
“No.”
She looks around as though seeking inspiration, then comes up empty. “Those are your types.”
“He’s not my type. He’s just a guy. We’re...passing time.”
“Passing time?”
“Yes. I have free time, and he’s getting over someone. It’s convenient.”
“Are you sleeping with him?”
“Once.”
“How was it?”
My thighs clench instinctively. It shouldn’t be the best sex I’ve ever had, but it was. “It was memorable.”
“Who’s he getting over?”
I tell her about Kent and Stella and she whistles sympathetically.
“Well, good for him. You’re a catch. If he wants to make someone jealous, who better than Chicago’s Finest?”
“He’s not making her jeal—”
“Caitlin,” she interrupts. “He’s making her jealous. But who cares what his reason is if the sex is good? You’re using him, he’s using you. Everybody’s happy, I assume?”
I strongly disagree with her word choice. Nobody’s using anybody. I’ve been accused of that a thousand times in the past, and sometimes it’s true, but it’s not now. However, all I say to Susan is, “Yes. Everybody’s happy.”
She scratches her temple. “And one of you wears white socks, and the other one wears red? Is that a sex thing?”
“They’re baseball teams.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You need to go to one of Dorrie’s games.”
“Maybe in the fall,” she mutters, punching something into her phone.
“The season ends mid-August.”
Her lips curl in a distracted smile. “Even better.”
* * *
“You’re late.”
I turn to find Eli right behind me. The words are flat but he doesn’t look angry. He’s wearing shades and a White Sox hat, matching jersey, shorts and sneakers. There’s a sweatshirt fisted in his hand, a concession to the storm clouds hovering on the horizon.
“Sorry. Traffic.” It’s Friday night and I’m ten minutes late, but there’s still fifteen minutes before first pitch.
He nods, and though I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, I feel them move over my body, clad in shorts and a fitted White Sox T-shirt I’d picked up earlier in the day. “You have any Red Sox paraphernalia on you?” he asks.
“No.”
“All right.” He hands me a ticket. “Let’s go.” The slight press of his fingers on the small of my back guides me into the dwindling lineup, and we’re soon inside, winding our way past kiosks and shops selling team merchandise, the fried scent of various concession foods reminding me he’d promised me a hot dog. “You hungry?” he asks, dipping his head to speak into my ear. It’s still crowde
d up here as people filter into their seats, and I feel the heat from his body against my back.
“Starving.”
“What do you want?”
The question makes my stomach flip, but not in hunger. I’m surprised by the sudden yearning, the “you” that wants to roll off my tongue, the instinct to press my body into his and answer very inappropriately, given our very public surroundings. Somehow I manage to say, “A hot dog.”
Eli laughs. “Right. You want a beer?”
“I’d better not. Just water.”
“Okay. I’ll get drinks. Grab the seats.”
“Aye-aye.”
He smirks and leaves, and I slowly make my way through the throng of people and down the concrete steps. Eli got good seats, on the end of the twelfth row behind home plate. I’m nearly there when I hear someone call my name, and glance over to see a very handsome face grinning at me from row twenty on the opposite side of the steps.
“River,” I exclaim, startled. He smiles and stands, picking his way over legs and feet to meet me in the aisle, hugging me briefly. He smells incredible, and somehow manages to look even better out of his three-piece suit. His linen pants and fitted T-shirt cling to his perfectly toned body, and a pair of designer sunglasses rests on top of his head.
“Look at you,” he says, smiling in a bemused sort of way as he scans me up and down. I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen anyone from the office—hell, the entire building—outside work before, and never while wearing sneakers. “I didn’t know you were a fan.”
“This is my first game,” I admit.
“Who are you here with?”
“Um, a friend. You?” I glance past him to the equally handsome man sitting next to River’s now-vacant seat. “Is that your brother?”
He nods. “His name is Alex. He’s visiting from Florida. I told him he could only come tonight if he cheered for the home team.”
“I’m under the same orders.”
“From that guy?” He nods at something over my shoulder and I turn to see Eli waiting next to our row, looking up at us. He’s removed his sunglasses and I see his eyes shift to my face, expression unreadable.
“How’d you figure that out?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Every guy in this place has been ogling you, but only that one’s been staring at me.”
“Maybe he thinks you’re handsome.”
“Of course he does.”
I laugh and so does River. “I’d better go.”
“See you in the elevator.”
I head down the stairs to join Eli. We’ve got the two seats on the end, and he steps back so I can sit first.
“Friend of yours?” he asks casually. He sticks my bottled water in the cup holder, and does the same with his beer, then waves to get the attention of the nearby hot dog vendor.
“He works at Chicago’s Finest,” I tell him. “He organized my feature.”
“Ah.” He’s not meeting my eye.
“Do you think he’s handsome?”
He turns. “I beg your pardon?”
“He said you were looking at him. Is it because he’s handsome?”
“Is that what you think?”
“I think you liked his linen pants.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “I think I’m done buying drinks for girls who’d rather talk to other guys.”
“What about hot dogs?”
The vendor arrives and Eli asks for two hot dogs, passing me one along with a clump of napkins. He studies me thoughtfully.
“What?”
“Did you and River ever...?”
“Ever...?”
“Ever fuck?”
I swear I can see the word as he says it, lower lip flexing beneath his teeth with the f, the shift of his throat for the guttural k. And even though the question’s kind of rude and most likely none of his business, it still turns me on that he wants to know. That he’s got the nerve to ask. “No,” I say, biting into my hot dog. “Would it bother you if we had?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
“Because I don’t want to repeat history. I don’t want to be someone’s second choice.”
I think of River, flawlessly beautiful from head to toe. Perfect on paper, and in person. And yet with two weeks of nothing to do looming in front of me, he’s not even a blip on my radar. The only man I’ve thought about since meeting Eli is Eli. “You’re not,” I tell him. I watch from the corner of my eye as he studies the field while the players take their positions, a faint flush rising in his cheeks, like he’s pleased. “Are you blushing?”
“I’m trying to watch the game,” he says primly. “You’re going to have to go home if you can’t stop talking.”
“Thanks for the hot dog.”
He folds his hand into a loose fist and lightly bumps my knee. “Anytime. Now shut up.”
Things aren’t looking good for the home team. They’re down 7—0 in the top of the sixth, and the storm clouds have moved in overhead, casting ominous shadows over the field. The couple in front of us has already given up and gone home, and I can see other people around the stadium doing the same. I’m tempted to join them.
A fat raindrop lands on my leg and I watch it trickle down the side of my thigh. “Maybe we should go.”
Eli looks at me, aghast. “What did you just say?”
“They’re losing, it’s going to rain. Let’s go.”
“Real fans don’t give up, Caitlin.”
“I’m not so sure I am a—”
He covers my mouth with his hand. His skin is surprisingly hot, given the chill in the air. “Don’t say it,” he orders. “Maybe you don’t know a lot about sports, but winners never quit.”
“I know a lot about sports.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I bet I’ve played more than you.”
He harrumphs like an old man. “If you say so.” When I don’t respond, he looks down at me. “Fine. What have you played?”
I tick them off on my hand as I count. “Softball. Tennis. Swimming. Soccer. Field hockey. Track. Badminton. Basketball.”
“Jesus. When’d you have time for all this?”
I shrug. “Growing up. I was captain of most of the teams, too.”
“Of course you were.”
“What’d you play?”
“Baseball. Football.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Did you ever win?”
He laughs in spite of himself. “Yes, we won. Let me guess—you brought your trophies and medals to Chicago, and display them in your living room?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything.”
More rain. It’s not heavy, but the drops are fat and cold and one smacks me right in the forehead. “Can we go now?”
Eli pulls off his cap and sticks it on my head. “Stop complaining.”
“I’m cold.”
“Do you want me to buy you a coffee?”
“No.”
He’d stored his folded up sweatshirt between his lower back and the seat, and now he yanks it out and drapes it over my lap. “Better?”
“Is the score still 7—0? Then—” The Red Sox batter hits one over the centerfield wall for a two-run shot. “No,” I finish.
“Do you give up on your guilty clients?”
“I have no guilty clients.”
He smirks. “Watch the game.”
The rain holds off until the eighth, when it turns into a heavy drizzle that hangs in the air like a veil and clings to the fine hair on my arms. The score is 9—1 and things are not looking good. From what I can tell, the only people holding out hope are
Eli and a couple of drunk guys seated near the third base line. A chill sets in and my teeth start to chatter, and when Eli notices he casually slings an arm around my shoulders and tucks me against his side. His body is like a furnace, and every part of me that’s in contact with his skin slowly warms.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“It’s 9—1,” I whisper. “Nothing’s okay.”
“It ain’t over ’til it’s over.”
“Eli. It’s over.”
He flicks the brim of my—his—hat, and water flies off. “Just a bit longer.” I shiver again and watch the White Sox turn a double play. “You really want to go?” he asks reluctantly. “I’ll go. You don’t have to get sick.”
I do want to go, but what I say is, “It’s almost over. We might as well stay.”
He rubs my arm. “Thank God.”
There’s no miracle comeback. The score is still 9—1 and the stadium is half-empty when the game ends. Eli takes back his wet sweatshirt but lets me keep the hat as he steers me out of the stands and down to street level. The skies have opened up and it’s raining hard. “How did you get here?” he asks, raising his voice over the rain and the swarming crowd. It’s dark and the ground glistens with growing puddles, highlighted by passing cars and streetlights.
“I took a cab. You?”
“I’m parked a few blocks over. Kent works in this area and lets me use his spot. Come on.”
He grabs my slippery hand in his and tugs me along strangely quiet side streets until we get to a gated parking lot for a building that’s too dark to identify. Eli waves to the guard in the booth and we slip inside the empty yard, where Eli’s parked right in the middle. He jogs up to the truck and opens the passenger door, helping me in. I’m too wet and cold to think of the last time I did this, but Eli’s obviously remembering as he goes around to the driver’s side and gets in. He looks me over, eyes lingering on my wet T-shirt-covered breasts, nipples pebbled against the fabric, perfectly obvious thanks to the overhead light.
He tears his gaze away and starts the truck, turning on the heat and aiming the vents my way. The vehicle’s new enough that it warms up quickly, then almost instantly switches from soothing to sticky and uncomfortable. “Ugh,” I groan, pulling my shirt away from my chest with a squelch.
In Her Defense Page 8