Bad Boys for Hire_Nick_Christmas Holiday

by Rachelle Ayala

  “I’ve nothing against you.” Marcia sidled around the counter to the beer taps. She wasn’t the type to hold a guy from his dreams. Since they didn’t involve her and the situation she found herself in, good riddance. She’d do it all herself, and she had.

  Marcia made eye contact with the businessmen, who obliged by ordering another round of drinks, especially since a couple of groupies had moved from the players to the suits.

  All the while, Brock remained a large, hulking shadow looming under the restroom signs. Out of the corner of her eye, Marcia saw Jeanine serve him a longneck. Minutes ticked by, but he stayed in his spot, solitary, unresponsive to any female or male brave enough to invade his territory.

  Jeanine swung behind the counter and nudged her. “What’s he doing here?”

  “Can’t you get rid of him?”

  “Tried already.” Jeanine tugged at her bra strap. “He looks pissed. Do you think?”

  A shot of panic pumped up Marcia’s pulse. Could he have found out her secret?

  “He can’t know,” Marcia said.

  “Why not?” Jeanine’s eyebrow quirked, and she put a hand on her hip. “Isn’t it about time you let him in on it?”

  “He’ll only hurt her.”

  “Maybe not. A girl needs a daddy, and your father’s too old to be a real one for her.”

  Marcia closed her eyes, breathing in and out, all too aware of the heated gaze burning into her back. “Just so you remember: Bianca is my little sister. My father is her father. I’m her aunt.”

  “So you say.” Jeanine glanced at Brock who lifted his empty bottle. “Looks like he’s not leaving until closing time. Let me find out what he’s been up to.”

  “Go ahead and play him.” Marcia huffed. “I don’t mind.”

  Jeanine primped her hair and tucked a pencil over her ear. “Game’s wide open. I’m onto it.”

  Brock ran his finger around the rim of the empty beer bottle as he studied Marcia Powers, the girl he’d left behind. She was no longer the awkward nineteen year old serving tables on the patio of her father’s bar and grill. A woman now, self-assured and menacing, she cut a mean curve even though she was wearing the standard bartender black shirt and jeans. Her dark brown hair was cropped short around her elegant oval face with the high cheekbones, and her eyes had been frosted, glacial blue, without a hint of the vulnerability and sweetness he once saw in them.

  He glanced up as Marcia’s best friend, Jeanine, leaned against the counter in front of him. Her blond hair gleamed, a little too solid to be all natural, and the beauty mark on her cheek was too flat to be real.

  “Have another one?” She removed the empty bottle.

  “Sure.”

  She pried the cap off a beer bottle, which was beaded with condensation, and handed it to him. “What brings you back to town?”

  “Rattlers invited me for spring training.” He sucked in a healthy draught. “Thought I’d stop by and say hi to the home team.”

  It had been his dream to play in Phoenix, his hometown. Once, long ago, it’d been Marcia’s dream too.

  “How’s Marcia these days?” he drawled as if asking about the weather.

  “Doing good.” Jeanine’s grin was as fake as a child cheesing for the camera.

  “She still holding a grudge against me?” Brock picked at the label on the bottle, playing too cool to let Marcia’s dismissal rattle him. It wasn’t as if he’d done anything that she hadn’t agreed with. If memory served him right, she was the one who’d insisted he put baseball in front of their relationship.

  “Nah, she never thinks about you.” Jeanine settled her elbows on the counter. She tilted her head toward the tables. “See that redhead? She’s been drooling over you since I served you the last beer. Why don’t you go and give her your autograph, sign her boobs?”

  “You trying to get rid of me?” Brock scratched the side of his jaw. “I get the distinct feeling you and Marcia aren’t happy to see me, and that makes me want to know why.”

  “It’s all about you, isn’t it?” Jeanine’s voice took on a decidedly hostile tone. “Why are you back here looking in on Marcia when there are hundreds of bars in town?”

  “Why not? This used to be my hunting grounds.”

  “Hunt somewhere else.”

  “I grew up here. Old man Powers gave me my first job busing tables. How’s he doing, by the way?”

  Jeanine crossed her arms underneath her breasts and heaved. “There’s the internet. Don’t you do any research before barging in here acting like the welcome wagon’s hitched here?”

  “Ah, gee.” Brock unclipped his flip phone from his belt. “An ol’ boy like me don’t have the latest toys.”

  “Seriously? A dumb phone?” Jeanine rolled her eyes. “You really ought to upgrade. See those people over there?”

  Brock turned toward the direction of her gaze. A man and a woman were sitting across from each other, cocktails on the table between them, busily staring into their phones, their fingers moving over the screens.

  “That’s sad.” Brock stood and stretched. “Time to pay old man Powers a visit. He still live on Birch Street?”

  “No, I mean, you can’t. He’s sick. Ill. Wife died.”

  “Mrs. Powers is gone?” Brock removed his ball cap and twisted it in his hands. “When did this happen?”

  “About two years ago.”

  “Tell Marcia I’ll be visiting her dad to pay my condolences.”

  Jeanine ran around the counter and snagged his arm. “Don’t go. You won’t be welcome there. I swear.”

  “You’re right. I should call ahead. They still have the same phone number?” Brock had it memorized so he keyed it into his cell phone.

  Slap. Someone hit his back so hard he coughed. Marcia grabbed his phone and snapped it shut. “My father’s asleep. I’ll tell him you asked about him. Please, leave now.”

  Her icy demeanor dropped his stomach and twisted his gut. He cast for a snappy comeback, but his mind froze. What the hell had he done to make her hate him so much?

  Two heavily built men, bouncers, stood at her side, their muscles bulging under tight v-necked T-shirts.

  Brock dug in his pocket for his wallet. “Marcia, what’s going on, baby?”

  “Your drinks are on the house. Leave.” She stepped forward and bumped up against his chest, jutting her chin at him, her mouth set in a tight line.

  Heat rushed throughout Brock’s torso, and his dick responded to Marcia being so close in his face. That and the honeysuckle scent of her perfume, a sharp contrast to her feisty posture, had him all but ready to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to his cave.

  Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, but he could detect that tell-tale flush of hers, a sign of her arousal.

  Yep, the woman still had the hots for him. If only he could figure up what cat crawled up her craw, he’d have her licking cream from his hands in no time.

  Chapter Two

  Brock straddled his Harley and roared out the parking lot of The Hot Corner. He didn’t need a smartphone or GPS navigator to direct him to Marcia’s old home.

  The temperature in the desert had dropped after sundown, and the wintry breeze stiffened the hairs on the back of his hands. He dipped his bike around a tight curve, spraying gravel. The dusty scent of sage and the volatile resin of creosote energized him as he inhaled deeply. He was home. This was home. The years spent in the muggy ballparks of the deep South dissipated in the saguaro silhouetted landscape.

  Welcome or not, he’d pay his respects to Mr. Powers, a man who’d treated him as an equal, despite the problems and trials of his youth. It was a shame he hadn’t kept in touch, hadn’t known Mrs. Powers was gone, but he’d left town broken, determined to put as many miles between him and Marcia as he could.

  He pulled his bike up the familiar curved driveway and parked it under the juniper bush. Even in the dark, the yard appeared unkempt, the trees overgrown and straggly, the patches of dirt dry and stubbly. T
he porch light was off, and the house appeared unoccupied.

  Brock unzipped his leather jacket and ambled the few steps to the door. The wind chimes he’d made in ninth grade metal class clanged lightly. He smiled and examined the hammered metal sail, the part that caught the wind. He didn’t have to see the indentations to know what he’d engraved: Home is where the Powers are.

  He gave the chimes a rattle and knocked on the door. It was just after eight, not too late, but no one answered. Jeanine was right. He should have called ahead. He dug into his jeans for a pen and a scrap of paper.

  As he was writing his message, the porch light flickered and the front door cracked open

  A child’s voice said, “Pappy wants to know who’s at the door.”

  A girl around four or five years old stared up at him with pale green eyes, large and innocent. Her hair was lighter than Marcia’s lustrous brown, and her skin was light tan, hearkening to Marcia’s Navajo ancestors. But, she had a sprinkling of freckles dotting her nose and high cheekbones over dainty lips and a pert, upturned nose. An instant urge of protectiveness wrapped around Brock’s heart. What was a child so young doing answering the door?

  He lowered his face to her level. “Tell him I’m sorry to disturb him. I’m Brock Carter, an old friend of his.”

  “Okay.” The door shut.

  Brock wasn’t sure if he should wait or not. It seemed he’d disturbed Marcia’s family enough. He rocked on his heels and surveyed the weathered paint and the broken screens. Planks were missing in sections of the porch, and the old swing dragged on a single chain. Mrs. Powers’s happy tole-painted welcome sign hung crookedly under a layer of dust.

  Once again, the door creaked open. Mr. Powers peered bleary-eyed, blinking. “You’ve come back for my Marcia?”

  “Uhm, yes, Uncle Ron. I came to give my condolences for Aunt Nanny.”

  He edged the door wider. “Nanny sent you. I remember now. She always said you’d be back.”

  Brock stepped in carefully. He held his hand out to shake, but Mr. Powers turned and shuffled to the fireplace. He removed a picture frame and handed it to Brock. A lump rose in Brock’s throat at the sight of the Powers family after he’d left. Marcia wore a somber expression and stood to the side while her parents held a baby girl between them.

  “Beautiful picture,” Brock said. “I’m very sorry to hear of Aunt Nanny’s passing.”

  “Her last words were that you’d be back. See? Nanny, you were right.”

  “Yeah, well, Phoenix is my hometown. Can’t believe how much it’s spread since I left.”

  Mr. Powers chuckled. “It weren’t that long ago. Marcia’s missed you every day. And look at this little one. She’s Bianca. See what a fine child she is?”

  Uncle Ron must be really out of touch to believe Marcia missed him, but somehow the pronouncement comforted him and brought a smile to his face.

  “Bianca’s a pretty name.” Brock squatted on the floor in front of the little girl. “How old are you?”

  Bianca plugged her thumb in her mouth and held up four fingers.

  Brock reached to shake her hand. “Nice to meet you, cutie. I used to be a friend of—”

  “My little sister’s supposed to be in bed.” Marcia’s voice cut him off as she enfolded Bianca into her arms. “I told you to leave our family alone.”

  “Now, Marcia dear,” her father said. “Brock came back for you, just like Nanny said.”

  Brock’s ears perked at the second mention of Nanny’s prediction. Had Marcia really pined for him? So much that her mother had comforted her with those words? He studied her as she put a hand on her father’s shoulder.

  Her demeanor went from shooting daggers to a weary smile. “Pappy, you’re tired. Let me get your medicine and put on a movie for you. I’ll get Bianca ready for bed.”

  “No, no, I can wash up Bianca. You talk to Brock. He’s come home.” Mr. Powers led Bianca by the hand and spoke to Marcia, “Go out to the porch. I won’t listen.”

  Marcia turned on Brock like a bull goring a rodeo clown. “Outside, now.”

  She shoved him through the door before shutting it firmly. The touch of her fingers electrified every square inch of his skin, slamming home the effect she’d always have on him.

  Grabbing her wrist, he felt the pulse thundering through her veins as her breath sizzled at the touch and she tried to jerk herself away. He held her tightly, gritting his teeth to control the desire sweeping like wildfire through his body.

  “I came to pay my respects to your mother.”

  Marcia swallowed and blinked. “I’m sure my father appreciated it.”

  But she didn’t, and he couldn’t blame her. Marcia had been close to her mother, more like sisters.

  “What about you? How’ve you been? Your little sister’s darn cute, but perhaps you should tell her not to answer the door.”

  “I’ll speak to her.” Marcia’s mood shifted from pensive to angry, nostrils flaring and eyebrows dipping. “I told you to stay away from my family. Why are you back?”

  Again, she yanked her hand, but he pulled her closer and wrapped his other hand around her shoulder. “Your father said I’m back for you. Why would he say that?”

  She lowered her gaze and clamped her mouth into a thin line. Her eyes closed and she appeared to be holding her breath.

  Brock lightened the hold on her wrist, and she twisted from his grip. Whatever was going on with her, he’d better step back and observe before charging in with his usual bull-in-the-china-shop approach.

  “My father hasn’t been the same since my mother passed away. You shouldn’t pay attention to what he says.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Brock took a step forward, forcing Marcia to step back until she was against the broken rail. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No, nothing.” Her voice was subdued, appearing defeated.

  He hated to see his Marcia Powers so sullen and down, so unlike her spunky, feisty self, that hopeful girl with the big eyes and bigger dreams. The one who’d made him feel like a hero, a champion, larger than life, until it had changed. Suddenly.

  “If you need me, need anything, call me.”

  Abruptly, she strode by him and entered the house. The door shut, the lock turned, and the porch light went out.

  As he stood there, a breeze blew around him and the wind chimes clinked the five pentatonic tones, pure and sweet, the song of first and lasting love.

  “He what?” Jeanine’s voice shrieked high over the phone.

  Marcia threw the blanket off and covered the earpiece, listening to the night sounds of the desert. Had that been the roaring rumble of a Harley?

  Brock had left earlier. She’d checked after making sure Pappy and Bianca were asleep. Peeking out the windows, she scanned the empty front yard and driveway. All was quiet except for the tinkling wind chimes, the ones Pappy refused to throw away because he liked the saying on the metal tab.

  She put the phone back on her ear. “He’s not out there.”

  “That’s good, but did he see Bianca?”

  “Of course he did, but he doesn’t suspect a thing. I was watching him. He seemed charmed about me having a little sister.”

  “True, but what if he digs around town? I mean, I won’t tell,” Jeanine said in a reassuring tone. “But you know how gossip carries around here.”

  “I don’t think anyone cares. It’s not like the ballplayers mingle with the locals.” Marcia dived back to her bed and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Thanks for calling and checking up on me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Sure, not a problem. So, what are you going to do about Brock?”

  “Nothing, absolutely nothing.” Marcia clenched her fist as a wave of heat broiled in her lower belly. What the heck was wrong with her traitorous body? Hadn’t she trained herself to be immune to all manly enticements? Desensitized herself by her repeated mantra against men with great bodies? Convinced herself that physical attr
action was base and superficial, and that strong, virile men were all players to be avoided?

  “What’s Conrad going to think, knowing Brock’s back in town?” Jeanine asked, always the friend who made her face issues head on.

  Conrad Riggins was supposed to be her cure for Brock. A flabby, persnickety man deathly afraid of germs, he had a habit of sterilizing the chessboard and pieces before every game. He was as opposite to ballplayer as she could find. Although his father owned the Rattlers baseball team, Conrad never attended any of the games, preferring brainy activities over brawn.

  “There’s nothing for him to think, seeing as Brock’s not in my life. I told him to leave and he did.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  Marcia could picture Jeanine smirking, while twisting a blond lock around her finger. Her friend knew exactly which buttons to push.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Marcia clamped a pillow between her legs. “Sometimes I can’t muster enough hatred for him. It’s so tiring.”

  “I’ll say. The way he looked at you tonight was enough to burn my bra and panties. So intense and fixated, like he was remembering all the sheets you tore through together.”

  Marcia shut her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. Why, oh why, had she so liberally shared every detail with her best friend?

  “You know,” Jeanine continued, “if you’re really through with Brock, then it’s open season right? You said I could play him, and oh la la, I see a lot of playing with that one. He’s hunkier than I remember.”

  A chill seized Marcia’s heart at the thought of Jeanine having her way with Brock. But then, what better way to get him out of her system than to have her best friend score and dump? Maybe it would teach Brock a lesson or two. After all, he was a ballplayer, traveling all over the country, free and single, a real stud, a power hitter who played third base. What’s to say he wasn’t scoring grand slammers every town he hit?

  “You still there?” Jeanine’s voice rattled the nerves in Marcia’s inner ear.