"They didn't count on the head of the GLBT relations department of a major advertising firm being addicted to gay porn written by straight women, you mean. From what I saw, it's not even clear that the hotel instigated the… Well, I do agree that it can only be accurately described as discrimination."
"That's somebody else's soapbox, honey, and out of my— our— reach. Regardless of its origins, the hotel was complicit. But," Jay David held up one finger and cocked his perfectly-shaved head, "it's not porn. It's erotic romance!"
Andi threw her head back and laughed, a seductive, throaty sound that drew looks from the surrounding tables. "Oh, please! I've read some of those books. Jeff Stryker stars in tamer stuff. Anyway, I still don't see people making actual travel decisions based on this convention controversy. Maybe they avoid one Houston hotel, but that doesn't mean they'll avoid the same chain in Provincetown. It doesn't smell like a boycott to me.
"Besides," she continued, pushing her half-eaten salad to one side and pulling the steaming bowl of soup into its place, "it's all academic. My client will never agree to run a negative campaign against a competitor. It's classless and it'll backfire. Plus, Texas Baptists travel, too. They don't want to risk alienating that segment of their market."
"All your client has to do is work on appealing to my market. Push a little money at them. Special brochures with same sex couples, ads in the right newspapers and magazines, websites. Funnel me some financial assistance, and I'll do the rest. All positive stuff. No bashing, I promise. The ripples—if there are any—won't adversely impact your client any more than the Baptist Press did Starbucks."
Andi looked warily at him over the spoonful of soup she held near her lips. "What's in your back pocket, Jay David?" "Only my ass, sweetheart." "Okay, but play it close to the vest. I'll see what I can do…maybe suggest that this might be a good time to increase visibility in the community."
"That's all I'm asking. It'll work, you'll see. Are you gonna finish that?" he asked, reaching for her abandoned salad with one hand and the breadsticks with the other. "I hate your metabolism. If I ate like you did…" "You'd fuck it off in an afternoon, and you know it." A passing waitress tripped over Jay David's words, nearly spilling the contents of her tray, and Andi delivered a pointy-toed kick to his shin. "Keep your voice down, please! I work in this town."
"What? Just look at you! Most women would kill for your body. I know you only bother go to the gym to hunt. Happy coincidence that you have the Bally's account, isn't it?"
"Indeed it is," Andi agreed. "A girl's gotta entertain herself in the off season, after all. My personal version of try-outs. If a man can't keep up with me in the gym, then he doesn't have what it takes."
"Well, you could always pick up another sport," he teased, motioning for their waiter and holding up his coffee cup when he'd gained his attention. "You'll have to find someone else to teach you about keeping those stats, though. I don't know enough about football to equate it to sex."
"Ugh. I'll pass. There's no elegance to football or to football players. Just a bunch of grunting. It's a brute force sport. I like the psychology of baseball, the endless mind fuck. Baseball players understand the mind fuck better than any other athletes."
"Pardon me, miss," the waiter interrupted to pour Jay David's coffee. Andi turned over her cup in its saucer and scooted it toward him. "I couldn't help but overhear, and I think you're underestimating football players. There's lots more to the game than just grunting."
Jay David grinned and took out his pen to pantomime writing on a scorecard, and she kicked him again. Twisting so that she faced the waiter, Andi dropped effortlessly into predator mode. "I'm sure you're right," she leaned forward to peer at his nametag, offering a view into her blouse, "Robert. I mean, I know there are intricacies to every sport. Are you a fan or, perhaps, a player?"
"Oh, watch out, sug—" His warning was cut off by another kick. "Hey! Lunch with you doesn't usually leave me so bruised. I hate to put a damper on your fun, but we need to wrap this up. We have that meeting in twenty minutes."
"Spoilsport!" Andi shot back, winking at the waiter. A flush crept up his neck as he fumbled in his apron for their tab and placed it on Jay David's side of the table. Reaching across, she snagged it. "My turn."
A few moments later, they emerged onto the sunny downtown street and turned toward their corporate offices. Andi wove her arm through Jay David's as they walked. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?"
He sighed, shaking his head. "I knew it! You slipped him your card—the one with just that cryptic e-mail address on it. He's just a kid, Andi." "Hey, he was serving liquor. That means he's at least twenty-one."
CHAPTER THREE
Andi rendezvoused with ballplayers in plenty of dark establishments. However, the only similarity between them and the place she entered that summer evening was that they served alcohol. The nudity on stage wasn't far off her beaten track, but the lack of a grinding soundtrack to accompany it was.
Of all her lovers, only Brad would want to meet here. Only Brad would dare ask her to meet him in a place not of her choosing. She admired his moxie.
Andi suspected that he arrived well before her and was seated in a dark corner, watching her entrance. His team flew in from Detroit while she was still at the office, and they had a rare day off. Their series against the Sox started tomorrow evening, and Brad wasn't pitching until Sunday. The rare five o'clock start was being nationally televised by ESPN and would wrap up the three-game visit. She preferred it that way. Although Brad was more emotionally stable than the other starters she knew, she'd rather not deal with him if his recent luck held to form. According to Jay David, the last three times Brad pitched, he'd limited the opponent to two runs. Yet in none of the three had his teammates managed to score that many in his support, and he had three losses to show for his effort. That had to sting.
One of the dancers onstage lifted a strobe light and began to spin as the poet described the effects of a thunderstorm on the verge of loosing a tornado. As a flash illuminated the audience, Andi saw her target. He sat against the wall, as she had suspected. And he wasn't watching the performance. He was watching her.
She smiled briefly and started to walk toward him, struggling to conceal her excitement at seeing him again. He was one of her favorites; in some ways her absolute favorite. Brad did as much to stimulate her mind as he did her body, and her body felt no lack of attention when the Royals came to town.
As Andi watched, a waitress approached his table and deposited two drinks. It was hard to say whether he had anticipated her arrival or just worked out a signal with the staff, but she appreciated the effort regardless. She slid into the booth next to him, sipping at the dark concoction in the martini glass. It was delicious, powerful, and eyeopening with a kick to it that included more than alcohol.
"It's the espresso," he said in a sideways whisper, his eyes once again on the stage. "Black Martini. There's a bar in San Diego that serves them. Premium vodka, Kahlua and espresso. Damn good. The only thing I miss about the National League as much as batting." The dancers finished as the poet's last stanza rang out, and after polite applause, Brad returned his attention to her—where it belonged.
"Damn it, Andi. Every time I see you, you've grown even more beautiful. How do you manage that?"
She took a slow sip of her drink and paused, brow furrowed as she searched for an answer to a loaded question. Unlike most men, he waited patiently for her reply, genuinely interested in her answer. She knew Brad wasn't above giving idle compliments if they served a purpose, which really meant they weren't idle at all. Being smaller in stature than most professional athletes, he more than made up for any disadvantage with his mind.
"Well, I have to give complete credit to good genes, a wholesome Midwestern upbringing, and my health regimen. I get regular facials," she quipped, grinning at the double entendre, "and I never miss an opportunity to ride. Speaking of which, why are we wasting time here? Don't tell me you're into this
form of…art." She spat the last word, revealing her disdain.
"I'm expanding your horizons," he teased as he ran the backs of his fingers along her jaw line. Her eyelids fluttered, and she experienced a momentary annoyance at her loss of composure under his touch. "Give it a chance. Have I ever steered you wrong?"
Rather than admit to an external influence of any kind, especially from a lover, Andi's innate rebellion surfaced. "You've never steered me at all. I'd just rather be fucking. That's all I'm saying." She cringed inwardly at her bitchiness followed by a conciliatory last sentence. Being so easily provoked revealed tiny chinks in her emotional armor, and she knew Brad would catch it. He missed nothing—on the field or off. No signal was too subtle. "Besides, my horizons are expansive enough."
"Temper! Temper! There's no need to be so defensive." Though his voice carried an amused tone, his expression betrayed the desire simmering just beneath the surface. He dipped an index finger into his drink and brought it to her lips, painting them with the libation before leaning in for a kiss.
Andi opened her mouth to welcome his tongue, and her body overtook her mind. She resented the fact that he could turn her on in such a visceral way at any time, in any place. It made her feel weak, and she loathed weakness—in herself or others.
His self-confidence attracted her while his arrogance repulsed her, the line between the two qualities a moving target where Bradley Moreno was concerned. His bearing, his education, and his attitudes flew in the face of several stereotypes, providing a contrast that Andi found alluring in spite of herself.
"Let's get out of here," he spoke into her mouth as they broke the kiss. "Now."
"What's the rush?" The edgy need in his voice fueled her, gave her the added will necessary to resist his.
Brad grabbed her hand and yanked it beneath the table, placing it on the fly of his jeans. She could feel the heat of his growing erection through the denim. "This," he growled. "This is the rush. You want it?" "Yeah," Andi lifted her drink and downed the remainder in one swallow, "I want it—but I want it harder." She stood and, without turning to see if he followed, walked toward the exit.
She resisted the urge to look in the mirror that hung behind the bar. To do so would be to give in to her doubt, and she had already dealt with enough of that for one day. Emerging confidently into the heat of the July Chicago evening, she strode to the curb and flagged down an oncoming cab. Tires squealed as the driver swerved hard across traffic.
When the taxi pulled to a stop, Andi waited. As she expected, Brad stepped in front of her and opened the door. Andi held back her smile, stepping into the cab while deliberately avoiding eye contact with him. She couldn't help noticing the little smirk on his lips, but it didn't spark any extra rebellion in her. Everything amused Brad. Most people who grew up in his rather desperate circumstances carried the bitterness and distrust of the streets into their new lives—but not Brad. The major thing he retained from his childhood was the sense of joy. The one that made a cheap orange Popsicle as wondrous as the most expensive crème brûlée.
That joy came through in sex with him, too. Her sides were as likely to end up sore from laughter as her thighs were from clenching. But, laughter wasn't what she wanted from him at the moment. Tonight, she wanted to be fucked, not fussed over or teased with feathery touches.
Waiting for him to slide in after her and give the cabbie their destination hotel, she reached behind his neck and grabbed a handful of dark, curly locks. She pulled his lips to hers and he responded, his arms snaking around her waist and pulling her off the seat.
She let him use his strength to please her and then reminded him who was in charge by catching his bottom lip between her teeth and pulling back hard. His breath caught, and she tasted his blood before he swallowed it. He didn't complain, though. Instead, he pushed her against the corner of the cab and bored into her until she had to let go to breathe.
His hand slid up the underside of her leg, and he squeezed her ass tightly as the cab stopped in front of the team's hotel. As Brad paid the fare, Andi crossed the sidewalk and strutted into the lobby, turning into the hotel bar. She smiled as she saw a bartender she recognized.
"Hey, Jack. Do me a favor? I need a bottle of Absolut, a bottle of Kahlua, and a couple double espressos. Send them up to…" And let her words trail off and waited.
"Room eight twenty-four." On cue, Brad gave the answer over her shoulder. "And a couple of martini glasses and a shaker, also, if you don't mind." "Not at all, Mr. Moreno. Glad to. On your room bill, sir?" Brad nodded and turned toward the elevators as Andi slipped beneath his arm and snagged his hand to pull him along. She glanced back at the bar, and Jack gave her a wink and a smile that was half flirt and half promise. He was attractive enough, but another one of Andi's rules was avoiding assignations with hotel staff of any kind, male or female. Too many possible issues, not only in her entertainment but in her work. It was bad enough some of the teams stayed in her clients' establishments. No use adding more complications to that possible mess.
Brad didn't wait for the elevator doors to slide closed before pressing Andi against one mirrored wall and assaulting her mouth. Another couple started to follow them into the car, but opted to wait for another after seeing them. She returned his kiss with fervor. He tasted of the coffee and liquor with salty undertones, as if he'd been tossing back a few bar peanuts while he waited for her to arrive—or maybe it was just traces of his blood. She felt the knot on his lip from her earlier bite and ran her tongue over it. He winced when she nipped at it again.
As a recorded voice announced their arrival on the eighth floor, Brad pulled away and brought a hand to his mouth. "You're in rare form tonight, woman. What's gotten into you?"
"It's been a rough week, and I don't want to think. Just take me, fuck me hard, and we'll get along famously." She placed the palm of her hand over his zipper again and added, "You got a problem with that?"
Narrowing his eyes and tilting his head to the side, he studied her. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but when the elevator doors began to close, Brad thrust his arm between them and gave a nonchalant shrug. "Nope. No problem at all."
His tone of voice—or, perhaps, his attitude—caused Andi to hesitate, and she remained in the elevator as he stepped off. He spun around when he felt her absence, a frown forming a small crease between his eyebrows. "Coming?" She stared at his outstretched hand, paralyzed, her libido warring
with her emotions. The battle had no clear favorite. "Andi?" His shoulders slumped when she raised her eyes to his. "Look, I'm sorry I'm being so cavalier. I had a rough week, too. But I know what you want, and I really do want to give it to you. What I want, if you care to know, is to—just once—make love to you."
Andi didn't know the outcome of the inner battle until the words left her mouth. "I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding someone else to make love to." She said the words in the same way she said art just a short while earlier. "Hell, there were half a dozen flighty little morsels in the lobby just waiting for the chance to snag a prime piece of…"
"Whoa!" Brad held up both hands, palms out. "Where did that come from?"
Andi punched the button for the lobby, her anger rising. "I'm going home now, Brad. Don't call me again this series. I won't answer if you do."
Once again, the elevator doors began to close, and once again, Brad halted them with his arm. "There won't be another series, Andi. I'm almost certain I'm gonna be traded…"
"But…" His words didn't make sense to her. Since the Cubs were in the National League and the White Sox in the American, every major league team eventually came to town. "To Chicago," he finished. Andi's eyes widened and her hands flew to her mouth, annoyance forgotten as she betrayed her weakness for the young pitcher. However, she set her own rules, and she abided by them. No local players. No more Bradley Moreno.
Taking a step forward, she melted into his arms. "Make love to me," she whispered. "Please."
CHAPTER FOUR
Andi sat restlessly as she waited for Eric. The All Star break had been too long, especially with all the extra emotional baggage she still carried around from the weekend with Brad. She broke so many of her own rules that night she lost count. The fact that she wasn't sorry about it just made things more difficult. Incredible sex, but not in the way she thought it would be.
It looked like Brad was right about the trade, too, which didn't surprise her given his attention to detail. The rumors started flying when his General Manager and the Cub's GM were spotted together at a restaurant during All Star weekend. Andi knew from her talks with Brad that he would be a free agent at the end of the year, and the Royals knew he wasn't coming back. That meant he was going somewhere. Andi fully expected Brad to be in Chicago before the end of the month.
She shook her head and downed the rest of her drink. A good hard fuck would stop the melancholy thoughts, she reassured herself. It was sheer luck Eric's team was next on the schedule. He always gave her what she needed.
Andi heard the room start to buzz and looked up. Eric often created a stir when he walked into a bar. At six-foot-four and two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle, he would've stood out regardless. His fame only increased the attention.
Eric Olson was her most notorious playmate. Originally from Montreal, the press dubbed him 'Olson Golden' due to his Nordic good looks and wicked fastball. Those traits combined with his attitude made him a natural star. Eric was a closer, a pitcher used as a specialist to finish a game when his team was leading and needed those last few crucial outs. It was an all or nothing responsibility, where the man on the mound ended up a hero or a villain. Not every man could deal with the pressure, especially the unavoidable failures. But Eric was as remorseless and nearly as fearless on a baseball diamond as he was in bed.
She considered giving him up in the middle of his messy divorce, since dodging photographers was not her idea of a good time, but she was glad she changed her mind. Eric tested her sexual limits. Big, strong, and insatiable, he provided as perfect a match for her physically as Brad did intellectually.
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