by Holley Trent
“I’ll take you up on that.”
She turned back to her friend, and Evan kept walking, muttering, “I just bet she will.”
“Tease,” Bart said.
Evan shrugged. “Not really my type.”
“Since when weren’t brunettes your type?”
“Come on, man. I’m pickier than that.”
“Sure you are.”
“I don’t know how I picked up the team ho reputation.”
“I can explain it to you, if you’d like. Basically, it involves your zipper coming down in every new city the team travels to.”
Evan would always disappear for a couple of hours after dinner and make it back to his motel room just in time for curfew. Bart hated sharing rooms with him. Evan always came back smelling like cigarettes and some woman’s cheap perfume. The cigarette stink—that he could tolerate—but the women he sometimes brought back with him?
No fucking way. There was nothing hot about listening to a woman whimper as Evan plowed into her. They were all so fucking desperate. They’d let him fuck them right there with Bart in the room, with no regard that the old motherfucker was trying to catch a few hours of sleep.
The only hot part was Evan putting them out after they came, walking back to his bed with a still-stiff dick, and plopping onto the covers naked as a jaybird. He’d lie there and play with his phone, and Bart would fall asleep watching Evan’s cock deflate.
No, he wouldn’t miss that at all.
CHAPTER TWO
Bart walked through the open double doors with Evan still at his side. They parted ways in the atrium, then stopped and turned to each other.
Bart crooked his thumb toward the lobby. “My room wasn’t ready when I checked in. There was some kind of mix-up. They let me keep my bag in the storage room and told me to hang out until they could get me a key. I’m going to go get it.”
“Oh. I’ll go with you. Maybe you can follow me up to my room and rub this burn out for me.”
“Hell no.”
“Why not?”
Bart shook his head and walked through the archway. A new clerk was on duty. Great. He’d have to waste a bunch of words explaining the mix-up. He hated dealing with customer service types. For some damn reason, he always managed to be the victim of inconvenience.
Evan caught up to his side. “Come on, man. I don’t want a stranger digging her knuckles into my flesh. I need to be able to support myself. By legal means, you know. I’m not good at anything but baseball.”
Bart doubted that was true, but kept his lips clamped as he approached the counter.
The clerk moved over, and pulled her lips into a genial smile. Nice lips. Pink and lush and probably soft.
Dainty.
Dainty had never done it for Bart.
“I apologize for not being able to greet you by name,” the clerk said, broadening her smile as she looked from Bart to Evan. “I usually work days, and would have met you this afternoon.”
For fuck’s sake. Bart nudged his mask up. “Barton Lock. I’m only half checked-in, I guess. My room wasn’t ready at four when I got here.”
“Good thing I got here at six,” Evan mumbled, and turned. He leaned his back against the high counter and crossed his arms.
“I do apologize for that, Mr. Lock.” Her fingers flew over her keyboard as she queried her computer. Her lips pursed.
Bart rolled his eyes preemptively. What now?
“That’s curious. Did the afternoon clerk note any sort of issue with the room, or did you have a delayed match?”
“I don’t know anything about the match, beyond the fact that whoever it’s supposed to be is apparently missing in action.”
“Well, you do have an assigned match. You agreed to share a room?”
He nodded. He’d figured even if he and his match had zero chemistry, they could keep the room. He was used to sharing, anyway. No need wasting money on a single.
“Your match has checked in. Oh, I see. There was an issue with the room. The balcony door wasn’t properly closing. They shifted you to the red level.”
“Which means what?”
She straightened her spine and cleared her throat as she pulled a keycard sleeve from a drawer. “Well, white rooms are standard for most Den guests. Couples go in, and we rarely see them for the rest of the event. Red rooms are for more transient encounters. Folks on that level tend to leave their doors open, if you catch my drift.”
Yeah, he caught it all right, and didn’t like where that drift was going.
Fuck, how could anyone get any sleep if other guests are answering the call of the wild all night?
Evan gave him a nudge. “Come on, it’s not that bad. I got put up there, too.”
“Figures you’d be on the bordello level.”
“Very funny, asshole.”
The clerk coded Bart’s key and handed it over to him. “I’m really sorry for the inconvenience. Should you need anything from room service during the night, just call down. I’ll make a note in your room’s log to waive the fee.”
“I doubt I’ll be needing anything, but thank you.” He opened the card sleeve and studied the room number before tucking it into the pocket of his slacks.
She picked up her phone. “I’ll just call the bellman to get your bag.”
Bart groaned. “Look, that’s really not necessary. It’s just a duffel. I can carry it myself. Just point me to storage, and I’ll grab it.”
He fished the little luggage stub out of his shirt pocket and pushed it across the counter.
She peered at it and tipped her head toward the room to the immediate right of the counter. “This way.”
She tottered out from behind the counter in sky-high stilettos and a tight pencil skirt that made her look like a walking clothespin. As she passed in front of them, Bart caught Evan’s gaze falling to the round bubble of her ass.
He should have expected it. Evan couldn’t help his raging must-put-my-dick-in-that hormones. Bart had been the same way at twenty-four, though a hell of a lot more discreet. Nobody was out back then, so he’d had no choice but to keep his encounters private. The same held true for his past dalliances with women. They were no one else’s business.
The clerk unlocked the storage room door, scanned it for the appropriate tag, apparently, but Bart didn’t need to wait on her. He walked straight to the corner where his faded burgundy duffel was crammed onto the shelf. It was pretty fucking easy to recognize with the cawing bird screen printed onto the canvas and REEDSVILLE ROOSTERS in bright white letters along with his jersey number.
“Goddamn,” Evan said from the door. “One of these days, you gotta buy some real luggage.”
“Why bother? I don’t go anywhere except away games.”
“You need to get out more.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
They cleared out of the luggage room and Bart walked pointedly to the stairs, ignoring the clerk’s wish for him to “have a sinful night.”
He and Evan bounded up the stairs and turned at the landing. “Which floor?” Bart asked.
“Next one. Really. You gonna come rub this shoulder out for me?”
“The last time you asked me to rub your back, I did it, and then you complained about the bruising for three days. I don’t want to hear your mouth.”
Or imagine shoving his dick into it.
“You know I was just busting your balls. You’re heavy-handed.”
“Yep.”
They paused at the landing.
Bart studied the decorative metal plaque on the wall that indicated the directions of room number ranges, and went left. “Good reason to play baseball and not arrange flowers for a living.”
“True. Hey, my room’s down this way, too. We’re probably right next door to each other in the section for people supposed to be on the white floor.”
“Maybe your roomie’s in now.”
“Could be.”
“Maybe you can get her to rub your back.”
&n
bsp; “I—I want you to do it.”
“Right. And I’ll leave the door open so all the folks walking by know you’re screaming for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with sex.”
Bart slowed, shifted his bag to his left shoulder, and fished his keycard out of his pocket. Eighteen.
He stopped in front of the room to his left, took a deep breath, and pushed the card into the slot.
Please don’t this guy be talkative. He didn’t want to talk, but didn’t really want to fuck, either. He just wanted to sleep off this ill-advised trip and plot his early retreat back home. Like hell if he was going to sit around twiddling his thumbs while Evan swiveled his dick in anything moving. He got enough of that shit during the regular season.
“Wait,” Evan said.
Bart turned and watched the other man nudge his mask up, and pull his own key from his pocket.
“This is—this is my room.” He chuckled nervously. “That can’t be right.”
“Of course it’s right. I always get the customer service fuck-ups.” Bart jabbed the key into the lock again. When the little indicator light flashed green, he pushed down the handle. “I’m not dealing with it right now. I’m going to lie down, maybe take up that clerk’s offer for some free room service, and ignore anyone you bring back to the room. Don’t even ask about a threesome, because that last one went over so fucking well.”
Evan didn’t respond, but probably knew it was pointless to do so. He had, after all, apologized after it was over.
Bart shouldered the sticky door open and tossed his duffel onto the empty luggage stand in front of the bathroom.
Evan’s suitcase lay open near the bed, and as always, his clothes were already scattered across half the room.
For fuck’s sake.
Bart sat on the edge of the bed, poised to pull off his pinching shoes, and paused at the sight of a wadded scarf on the dresser.
White, just like his ring’s stone.
“Evan, whose scarf is that?”
Evan stood next to the duffel and just stared at Bart.
“Whose scarf is it?” Bart repeated, now standing.
Evan swallowed. “Mine. It’s mine. I forgot it.”
Bart turned his ring around, stared at the iridescent white stone, and fixed Evan in his gaze.
The other man shifted his weight. “I—there must have been a mistake, Bart. Like you said. A fuck-up.”
“Yeah? What did you ask the matchmaker for?”
Evan shrugged. “I—I dunno. I left it kind of open-ended.”
“Bullshit.” Bart had talked to that woman, Ms. Gibson. He’d ignored her calls for two weeks when she’d tried to reach him to ask follow-up questions. That woman was exacting. The term open-ended probably didn’t exist in her vocabulary. “What’s going on, Evan? Don’t fucking lie to me.”
An uncertain smile pulled at Evan’s lips. He crossed his arms and he tried, and failed, to enact a cocky stance. He looked like he just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “It’s no big deal,” he said in a voice with a weak scoff. “What happens here, stays here. Bart, I just…”
“Oh, fuck this. We are not having this conversation.” Bart headed for the door and grabbed the handles of his duffel on the way past.
Evan put himself in front of the door. “There are no more rooms, Bart. They’re full up.”
“Move.”
“Where are you going to go? You think you’re going to get a flight out of here tonight?”
“I’ve slept in my fair share of airport terminals before, and I’ll do it again if I have to. My life ain’t been a pampered one, kid.”
Tight-lipped, Evan moved away from the door and swept an arm toward it. “Go ahead, then.”
“Great. I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”
“I’ll do the same for you.”
Bart shook his head as he backed into the hallway. “I don’t care if you do. Tell everyone, if you want. It’ll make my decision to go back that much easier. Half the league either knows or suspects that I sleep with men, and I’m tired of keeping my life under wraps. What guy my age hasn’t been married at least once, huh? Or at least shacked up with someone? Fuck baseball. Hell, fuck everything. I’m done.”
He turned on his heel and had moved approximately one step down the hall when he was tugged forcibly toward the door.
Evan pushed him back into the room and closed the door.
If he’s raring for a fight, he’s going to get one.
Bart dropped his bag and got into the other man’s face. He never would have been thought he’d be in this predicament—having to intimidate a man he considered a friend—but this wasn’t a game.
A lump traveled down Evan’s throat, and he brought his dark brown gaze up to look into Bart’s eyes. “I’ll—I’ll do whatever you want, Bart. Just don’t go.”
CHAPTER THREE
Evan’s words seemed to have taken Bart by surprise, which was just fucking fine, because they’d shocked the shit out of Evan, too.
Bart narrowed ice blue eyes at him and crushed Evan’s collar in his fist, tugging him closer. “What?”
Well, he’d said it. He wasn’t going to take it back. He did mean it. Sort of.
“Anything, Bart. Whatever you want.”
He hoped Bart wouldn’t take him up on that. Evan knew he had limits, but he just didn’t know what they were yet. The thought that it would be Bart helping him figure that shit out was terrifying. He’d be lying to himself if he said that he’d never thought of Bart in a sexual capacity. That was a daily fucking thing, but he hadn’t ever went there. Hadn’t even hinted at it. Bart was hands-down the best catcher Evan had ever played with, and they might have already ruined their rapport just by standing there in the room together.
And he’d just offered the other man an open-ended proposition.
“You don’t strike me as the desperate type,” Bart said. He released his grip on Evan’s collar and backed away.
Evan cleared his throat and rubbed his sore Adam’s apple. “I’m not desperate.” Not for sex, anyway.
“Then what are you doing here? At the Den? You get more ass than anyone in the league.”
Ass. Right.
Was that a limit for him? It was one thing to get tugged off by another man or to get sucked by one while semi-wasted, but he’d never explored sodomy—drunk or not.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Bart said. “You’re working out lies and trying to figure a way out of this. This ain’t you stumbling in late from curfew again, kid.”
On reflex, Evan’s hand found Bart’s crotch and gave his big balls a twisting squeeze. “Call me kid again. I fucking dare you.”
Bart hissed and grabbed Evan’s wrist. “Let go of me, or I will break every bone in your pitching arm.”
The steely glint in Bart’s eyes said that, yeah, he’d do it, so Evan let go.
“Tell me now why you’re really here,” Bart said. “And don’t tell me that the matchmaker must have made a mistake.”
Her mistake was putting him with someone he knew. Why couldn’t it have been any other man but Bart? What made her think they were so compatible off the field?
“Maybe I’m just here to see what I like, all right?” There. Sometimes honesty was easy.
“And you thought you couldn’t tell me that? If you were worried about discretion, I could have hooked you up with any number of men. Clint could have, too.”
Evan shook his head and walked to the dresser. He lifted the lid on the ice bucket and said a silent prayer of thanks to whoever cared that it was full. He plucked a few cubes of the cold stuff into a crystal glass and uncapped the fifth of gin he’d smuggled in.
“Don’t drink that,” Bart said. “You don’t think straight when you switch to hard liquor. Can’t even fucking walk straight.”
Evan splashed a bit into the glass. “An inch of booze is not going to have me walking into walls.”
“You want a drink? I’ll go get you a cola.”
“It’s one drink. One stinkin’ drink.”
“And how many did you have at the bar before I showed up?”
“Thr—two beers.”
Evan sucked at lying.
Judging by Bart’s narrowed eyes and pinched lips, he didn’t buy it. Damn, that look. That look was scary enough when he had his catcher’s mask over his face, but full-on like that made Evan want to call home to his mama and apologize to her for being a terrorizing little shit for all those years.
“All right. Damn.” He recapped the bottle and walked to the bed. Given five minutes or so, Bart would start bitching about the mess. He always did.
Evan picked up his scattered articles of clothing and tossed them back into his suitcase.
“How long are you staying?” Bart asked.
“Just until tomorrow night. I gotta be back on the mound on Tuesday morning.”
Bart grunted, moved to the bed, and sat on it. He nudged his loafers off by the heels and lay back. “Okay. Great. Look, I’ve just got to close my eyes for a little while. I’m exhausted, and for some reason unbeknownst to me, I have a headache. If you need me to move, just tell me.”
Evan couldn’t think of any reasons he’d make him move. It wasn’t like he was bringing anyone else back to the room. Not now that he’d seen Bart. Surly asshole or not, the guy set a high bar. He’d always figured if he were to be with a man, he’d want a man like that.
But…a man like that wouldn’t want him.
“All right.” Evan opened the television cabinet and grabbed the remote control from the top of the set. Tossing it from hand to hand, he looked over at Bart.
He lay with one arm slung over his eyes, and breathed through parted lips.
A movie played in Evan’s mind of him sliding his cock between those lips. Bart didn’t do anything gently. He’d probably suck Evan so hard that he’d explode, not spurt. Bet he wouldn’t swallow it, either. He’d leave Evan to clean up his own mess, and Evan would probably be honky dory about it.
He exhaled and pushed his hair out of his eyes.
Was he really going to pretend this was like every other time he and Bart had shared a room?
He sank onto the armchair near the balcony door and turned on the television. He couldn’t pretend even if he wanted to, and he had a thought that would probably end up biting him in the ass if he acted on it.