Playing without Rules
Rachelle Ayala
Amiga Books
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“A heartfelt ride through tough subjects that pull at your heartstrings!” - Corissa Palfrey
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Copyright © 2015 by Rachelle Ayala
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real events or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All trademarks belong to their respective holders and are used without permission under trademark fair use.
Cover design by Rachelle Ayala Publishing, LLC
Contact Rachelle at http://rachelleayala.me/author-bio/contact/
Join Rachelle’s mailing list at http://eepurl.com/lR5kv
Get updates and chat with Rachelle at her Reader’s Club: https://www.facebook.com/groups/ClubRachelleAyala/
Praise for Playing Without Love
“Secrets, lies, and a grand slam love that will knock you out of the park.” - Racquel Reck
“Sweet, heartbreaking, and ultimately uplifting story about the redemptive power of love.” - Jill Blake
“What an amazing heart-wrenching book on second chances and hidden secrets. Brought tears to my eyes and it’s about self-redemption and finding a way through it all when you don't think you can.” - Rebecca Austin
“An incredibly passionate and beautifully rendered story of a love so stubborn and determined that it conquers even the most devastating of obstacles.” - Amber McCallister
“Are you destined to follow your parents footsteps? .. Can you heal coming from a broken home? ... Does the strength of love you feel for someone have the power to change what might be already written within your blood? Read Rachelle’s Playing without Rules to find out all about Marcia and Brock's story.” - Debbie Rosa
“Wonderful, heart-tugging story of second chances, romance, mistakes, and family love.” - Chantel Rhondeau
“A heartfelt ride through tough subjects that pull at your
heartstrings!” - Corissa Palfrey
“This story is amazing. It will break your heart to help you trust someone you loved the most.” - Jessica Cassidy
“With honesty, sprinkled in with hope, Ms. Ayala shows that it’s possible for one to overcome a troubled past and have a happily ever after” - Temitope Awofeso
“The games we play as men and women to hurt one another are so true to life in this story, but when the foundation of a relationship is love, the relationship is going to prevail.” - Brandi Pletcher
“Another great work, Ms. Rachelle! It gave me that roller coaster feeling. From curious, hot and bothered, to crying a river and happiness. Two thumbs up from me!” - Edmarie Daal
“Absolutely intense and lovely from the beginning until the end. Loved it!” - Vera Neves
“A story on love gone wrong, family issues and abuse that would make you appreciate life and people you love more.” - Lindsay Medina
“Loved this deep love story of overcoming the cycle of domestic violence.” - Tiffany Kennedy
Dedication
Survivors of domestic abuse who strive to break the cycle and come out victorious.
Chapter One
“The thing about ballplayers is they’re players.” Marcia Powers twisted the stem of a maraschino cherry around the tip of her tongue and eyed the swaggering baseball players descending on her bar, The Hot Corner, in metropolitan Phoenix.
“You should be thankful for spring training.” Her business partner and best girlfriend, Jeanine Jewell, adjusted her stance at the counter to best position her bounteous breasts. “Keeps the tab rolling and the money flowing.”
“Not to mention the groupie traffic.” Marcia sniffed, but cleared her face in time to smile and take orders from the men in business suits idling at the bar. Their attention was split between the ballplayers and the women. Probably scouts sizing up players for pre-season trades.
The traffic was definitely good for business and made up for the dry times. Phoenix was the spring training home to fifteen off-season baseball teams. It hadn’t always been this way, but the dry spring weather and lower real estate costs than California made Arizona attractive enough to draw the franchises as well as provide affordable games for locals and tourists alike.
Marcia passed a tray of girlie cocktails to Jeanine who sashayed past the businessmen to the booth bubbling over with blondes and booze. Jeanine, ever the flirt, bent low in front of the players’ roving eyes. Leers from the men and sneers from the babes followed in her wake.
Jeanine would have her fill until the ballplayers moved back to their major league cities, collecting one-night stands like baseball cards. Somehow, she was impervious to being hurt. From the moment the umpire yelled, “Play Ball!” in the opening game to the closing fireworks show signifying the end of spring training, Jeanine played: infielders, outfielders, pitch and catch with an occasional trainer or coach thrown in for good measure.
“So, who’s in your field of dreams?” A deep, throaty voice drawled so close to Marcia’s ear she almost dropped the whiskey tumbler she was polishing.
Her breath hitched as she jerked around in time to see Brock Carter’s leer dissolve into a grin. “What the hell are you doing sneaking up on me?”
“Ordering a drink, and it’s good to see you again.”
It definitely wasn’t good seeing him—a troublemaker and heartbreaker—especially since the heart he’d trampled on was, at this moment, beating to break out of her ribcage like an excited puppy leaping for a doggie treat.
“I thought you were traded to the minors, what was that team again?” Marcia hoped her voice wouldn’t give away the urge she had to leap over the bar counter and either punch him in the balls or sock him one in the kisser—ruin his action for any other female stupid enough to be sucked in by those misty green bedroom eyes and smooth downhome Southern drawl.
“Minor setback.” He cracked his knuckles and licked his lips. “But I’m back in a big way, and somehow I knew I’d catch you right here, where it all started.”
Arrogant dick. As if he’d known she’d never leave town, never live the dreams she had years ago before her father’s retirement required her to take over the bar, never have the ideal family she’d pictured with a husband manning the BBQ and children playing in the pool.
“Order your drink and get it over with.” She didn’t want to be rude to customers, but Brock Carter was in a different league altogether. He’d certainly filled in since he left town years ago. Sandy-colored hair poked from under his baseball cap. His freckled face was more rugged, sporting a manly cleft while his muscles strained solid under his practice jersey.
Brock shifted his weight, still leaning over the counter, his forearms flexing. “Buy you a screaming orgasm.”
Marcia swallowed as unbidden images of just how hard she and Brock had strained over and under and around the sheets threatened to undermine her outward calm.
She desperately scanned the tables for Jeanine. Her friend would put Brock in his place—give him a polite nod before shooing him off. She knew what damage Brock had done and why Marcia could not ever let him know her secret.
“I take that as a ‘yes.’” Brock pinched her elbow.
Marcia jerked away from the counter as if she’d touched an electric fence. “Take your screaming whatever and drink it yourself. I’m working.”
His bushy eyebrows lo
wered, Brock’s chin took that stubborn set she knew only too well. “What’s with you, Marsh? I would have thought five years was enough for you to get over whatever snit you had against me.”
“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’s not like he’d done anything that she hadn’t agreed with. If memory served him right, she was the one who 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 screen.
“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.” Jeanine grabbed his shirt. “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 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. The 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 seventh 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.”
The 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? And who’s child was she? Mrs. Powers would have been in her early forties, so it was still possible.
Playing Without Rules: A Baseball Romance Page 1