Slow Heat

by Jill Shalvis

  There was a pause, then the low, throaty laugh of a man who sounded as if he’d been smoking for two hundred years. “Well, well. Who’s the pretty lady answering my son’s phone?”

  “Samantha McNead,” she said. “Publicist for the Heat.” And your son’s occasional booty call partner.

  “I don’t suppose Wade would be around?”

  “No, I’m sorry. He’s . . .” She didn’t want to alarm him, especially on the off chance he hadn’t seen the game. “Temporarily unavailable.”

  Wade’s father laughed again, heartily. “Darlin’, that boy has been temporarily unavailable all his damn life. Can you get him a message for me? One that he’ll actually listen to?”

  She sincerely doubted there was a soul on earth who could make Wade O’Riley listen if he didn’t want to. “I can get him a message,” she said carefully.

  “Tell him I’m at the bus station. I made the trip, the least he can do is pick me up.”

  “You’re in Santa Barbara?”

  “That I am. Tell him to hurry, darlin’. It’s damn hot out here today.”

  Sam looked across the clubhouse at Tag, who was sitting in a huge leather recliner, playing his Game Boy, quietly waiting for her. That he was quietly waiting for her at all had a whole lot to do with Wade, and the patience and understanding he’d shown Tag.

  She owed Wade for that.

  She took a deep breath. “Wade had a game today,” she said into the phone. “He’s . . . a little busy at the moment.”

  “Yeah.” His father sighed. “He usually is.”

  She pictured an older man, all alone, tired and hungry from his long trip, and her gut twisted. “No, he . . . there was a problem. He—”

  “I know. He’s got things to do, places to go, people to meet. It’s okay. I’ll just . . . wait.”

  “I’ll make sure you get a ride,” she said. “Just stay right where you are.” She didn’t want to leave the facilities now, not without seeing Wade if at all possible, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen for a while anyway. She looked around for someone that she could task with going to the bus station, but she couldn’t put that on anyone without invading Wade’s privacy even further. So in the end, she grabbed Tag and her things, and then she was driving through town toward the bus station.

  Darlin’, that boy’s been temporarily unavailable all his damn life.

  Gage called her again just as she arrived at the bus station. “He’s on the DL. Day-to-day status. Probably only going to be off a few days, but with the slight concussion and those banged-up ribs, we want to be careful.”

  “Is slight the official word, or the real word?” she asked.

  “Both.” Gage was as tough as they came, but his voice softened. “He’s really going to be fine, Sam. You know how it works. The disabled list just gives him a few days recovery, that’s all. I’ll call you when he’s released from the ER.”

  The relief left her weak-kneed. “Does he need a ride?” she asked, even while knowing Wade wouldn’t need for anything. He was a big-ticket player, and the Heat took care of their own exceptionally well.

  “I’ve got him,” Gage confirmed.

  Sam parked at the bus station, and with Tag in hand, she crossed the street, eyeing the benches lined with people. The far right bench had only one man on it, and he stood as she stepped onto the curb. Tall, lanky, and lean, with a weathered face and a mop of gray wavy hair falling over his temple, he looked like a California surfer plus half a century. Contradicting his years, he wore a loud Hawaiian shirt over a set of cargo shorts and mirrored Ray-Bans, which he lifted to the top of his head, leveling a set of green eyes on her, and she knew.

  John O’Riley.

  “Hello,” she said, holding out her hand. “Samantha McNead.”

  “Aren’t you the prettiest publicist I’ve ever seen.” He reached out to shake her hand but his hand was already occupied. He glanced at the brown sack in his fingers as if he’d forgotten the alcohol was there, then shrugged apologetically. “Liquid courage.”

  Sam wondered how he’d pulled off traveling with an open container, but then her gaze shot up the street and she saw the liquor store.

  John took a sip and staggered unsteadily on his feet. “Sorry. My feet aren’t what they used to be.”

  Tag appeared fascinated. “Are you drunk?”

  “Nope. Never.” John tipped his nose down at him. “Are you Wade’s?”

  “No!” Sam grabbed Tag’s hand. “He’s my nephew, Tag.”

  “Well, hello-ooo, Tag.” John tossed his “liquid courage” into a trash bin. “And good-bye, Jack Daniel’s. I’ll miss you.” He sighed dramatically. “That was my last drink. I’m ready for my ride to Wade now, though knowing him, he’s probably ordered you to try to dump me somewhere along the way.”

  Sam didn’t have the heart to tell him that she hadn’t told Wade about the visit at all, or that she was stepping over all sorts of boundaries. She didn’t know how to explain it to herself, much less him. “Do you have a suitcase?”

  “Bus people lost it. Bastards,” he said amicably.

  “Bastards,” Tag repeated gleefully, rolling his lips inward when Sam gave him a look.

  “Maybe we could make a quick stop, darlin’?” John asked Sam. “I need a few things.”

  She had a hundred things to do. A thousand. The first and foremost being checking in on Wade. She needed to report to the news outlets, check on the schedule . . . But she’d started this, she had to finish it. She couldn’t ditch him now. “Okay,” she said. “A quick stop.”

  “So how did Wade talk you into doing this for him?” John asked as they walked to the car. He tripped over the curb and nearly fell.

  Sam quickly locked her arm in his. “I’m just doing him a favor.”

  “Ah.” John nodded and patted her hand. For a quick beat, his easy smile faded, revealing the anxiety beneath. “Nice of you.”

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Mr. O’Riley.”

  “John. Call me John.” He looked into her eyes, his mouth curved. “And I bet you make a good publicist, don’t you?”

  She decided not to comment on that. In her car, John fastened his seat belt and slid his sunglasses back on. “It’s bright in California.”

  Sam checked Tag in the rearview mirror, making sure he had his seat belt on, then pulled out of the lot. “So what brings you to Santa Barbara?”

  “My mule-headed son.” John looked out the window at the ocean on his right. “I need something from him, and though he doesn’t know it, he needs something from me, too.”

  She didn’t want to argue with the man, but the truth was, Wade didn’t need much from anyone. “You mentioned a quick stop?”

  “I need clothes. And cigarettes.”

  “Tobacco makes you sick,” Tag said from the backseat in an I learned this the hard way tone.

  John slid him a look. “You’re a quick one, aren’t you?”

  “The quickest.”

  Sam’s phone chirped. It was Gage again. “He’s been released and is sore as hell, but everything’s okay.”

  She released a pent-up breath. “Is he home?”

  “He will be, soon enough.”

  Sam pulled into Walmart and looked at John. “Is this okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Sam rushed out of her door and ran around to help him before he stumbled again, but he seemed surer on his feet now. “It’s the damn shoes,” he murmured. “The laces get me every time.”

  He was wearing slip-on athletic shoes. No laces. Sam locked arms with him. He leaned on her and grinned. “You’re sweet. Are you Wade’s?”

  “That’s . . . complicated.”

  He sighed mightily. “It always is.”

  “Tag,” Sam said. “Grab my purse?”

  Tag handed it over and they all went inside Walmart, stopping at the McDonald’s first to get John a large coffee to help the sobering up process along.

  Then John settled into one of those motori
zed scooters and took off with a wave toward menswear. Tag hopped into another motorized scooter and would have followed except that Sam blocked his path.

  “Aw, man,” Tag said.

  She occupied him by taking him to the electronics aisle, where she called Wade’s house to no avail as Tag picked out a light saber that made the most god-awful, obnoxious sounds on earth.

  “Stand back, Earthling,” Tag demanded and playfully jousted Samantha in the gut.

  “Ow.”

  “You’re supposed to fall to the floor in agony and die a slow, painful death,” he said with some disappointment.

  “Maybe later,” Sam said. “Let’s go find John.”

  With a sigh, he hit a button and the neon green “laser” telescoped in on itself, collapsing.

  “Cleanup on aisle eight,” said an annoyed voice over the loud speaker.

  With a very bad feeling, Sam craned her neck and took in the sign over aisle eight. Wine and Beverages.

  Crap. “Come on,” she said, bum-rushing Tag over there, where she found three employees mopping the floor and a case of Jack Daniel’s shattered at their feet.

  “What happened?” she asked them.

  One of the employees wielding a mop shook his head. “No one saw anything.”

  Sam dragged Tag up and down the aisles, looking for John. They found him at the checkout. He smiled broadly at them as he unloaded his things onto the conveyor belt. Socks, underwear, another pair of cargo shorts, another brightly colored Hawaiian shirt, and a basketball.

  And two bottles of Jack.

  “I thought you quit,” she said.

  “I did. These are in case it doesn’t stick.”

  Sam nearly rolled her eyes, thinking of course it wasn’t going to stick if he had his crutch readily available, but she bit her tongue. She couldn’t comprehend an addiction of this caliber . . . and it wasn’t really her place to get involved. A thought that almost made her laugh out loud. She was already way more involved than she should be.

  Back in her car, she tried Wade’s house again, still no answer. She called Pace, and confessed what she’d done just in case someone had to locate her body.

  “Problem?” John asked when she’d hung up.

  “No. No problem.” Pace had assured her he’d have done the same thing. Didn’t make her feel any better about blind-siding Wade with his father, even though it’d been entirely accidental.

  “Darlin’.”

  She met John’s gaze, his eyes surprisingly sober now. “He has no idea I’m here, does he?” he asked.

  She grimaced. “Not exactly.”

  “Then what, exactly?”

  “There was a game today.”

  “There’s always a game.”

  “Yeah, but today Wade body-slammed into a fence,” Tag said. “He caught the ball though. It was pretty sweet.”

  John looked at Tag, then back to Sam. “Is he hurt?”

  “Slight concussion and bruised ribs,” Sam said.

  “Take me to him.”

  She understood the sentiment. She just wasn’t sure Wade was going to appreciate it.

  Chapter 23

  Sports do not build character. They reveal it.

  —Heywood Hale Broun

  Once Wade was released from the hospital, Gage drove him back to the Heat’s facilities. Wade moved slowly and carefully into the clubhouse, greeted by his agent and trainers. He heard Gage give a quick statement to the press, and wondered why Sam hadn’t done it. He told himself it didn’t matter that she hadn’t waited to see if he was okay.

  Didn’t matter at all.

  She had Tag to worry about, and . . . and hell, he’d been alone for most of his life, he didn’t need anyone to hold his hand just because he hurt like a mother. At his locker, he picked up his things including his phone and noticed the twelve missed calls.

  “Hey.”

  Wade very carefully turned around, wincing at the movement in both his ribs and head, and found Pace sitting in one of the leather chairs, sprawled out comfortably. But after four years of being together, Wade knew that the lazy pose was deceptive. “Hey yourself.”

  “Word is you’re going to live.”

  “Apparently so.”

  Pace pushed to his feet and came closer, looking him over carefully.

  “I’m not circling the drain,” Wade said. “At least not yet.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  “Gage has a car out front for me.”

  “I have a car, too.” Pace grabbed Wade’s duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder, adding it to his own bag. He opened the front doors of the facility for Wade and waited for him to go out first.

  “You know something I don’t?” Wade asked him, bemused.

  Pace tossed their two bags in the back of his car. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet.”

  Pace didn’t look amused. “I don’t want to pitch to anyone but you, Wade.”

  “Is this going to end in a marriage proposal, cuz I’m not sure Holly—”

  “God, you are such a dick.”

  “Don’t be mad. I love you, too.”

  “Laugh all you want,” Pace said. “But I need you to remember exactly how much you love me when you feel the need to kill someone later tonight. I want you to also remember that if you’re in jail, I can’t pitch to you.”

  Wade’s smirk faded. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Pace didn’t answer as he drove them out of the parking lot and hit the highway. Night had fallen. The moon was sitting on the horizon, a few inches above the Pacific Ocean, casting a blue glow over the rugged mountain bluffs.

  “You going to tell me what’s going on?” Wade asked.

  “You access any of your messages yet?”

  “No.”

  “Your father’s in town.”

  Wade shook his head. “No, he’s not. He’s still in Oregon.”

  “He bailed.” Pace pulled up to Wade’s house. “And here’s the biggie—he’s here. As in inside.”

  Wade stared at the car in his driveway.

  Sam’s.

  The sight of her car gave him a rush, but his brain was feeling a little sluggish from the hit it’d taken earlier. Pain from that, mixed in with the news from Pace, suddenly blossomed into a full-fledged migraine. He opened Pace’s passenger door and started to get out but Pace snagged the back of his shirt. “Remember what I said. Remember I’ll only pitch to you, and that if you do anything stupid, I can’t do that. Plus you don’t want to go to jail. You’d hate being Bubba’s bitch.”