by Megan Ryder
Jason sipped the twelve-year-old, single malt scotch to create distance from the words stabbing his soul. If only the whiskey could dull the pain of his trashed career. “Is there anyone else? Anyone at all?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. If Scott hadn’t sighed, Jason would have thought they had been disconnected. “I’m going to lay it on the line. Two years ago, teams would have been lined up for you. A Gold Glove. A batting championship. You had it all. Since then, your shoulder injury severely limits your worth. A first baseman post rotator-cuff surgery is a risky option. Most players retire or are never the same. You know this.”
“Yeah, but it’s fine now. Healed and strong. I took the time off. Did the rehab. Even the doctor said it’s solid.” He sipped his scotch, wishing he could ignore his reality, the one he had spent too many months diving into drink to avoid. “That’s not the only thing, is it?”
“Karma’s a bitch. I told you years of partying and rumors scare teams off now. Especially after the Senate hearings on steroids.”
Jason slammed his fist on the table, almost knocking over the glass and shaking popcorn out of the bowl on the table, the familiar bolt of anger still stinging after a year. The people in the booth next to him gave him an alarmed look. He inhaled deeply and exhaled as a former lover, a yoga instructor had taught him.
Slightly calmer, his voice was lower when he finally spoke. “I never took steroids. No one could prove it. That damned Senator Kendall and his witch hunt, all for his own publicity.”
“That certainly didn’t help. Teams are gun shy. They don’t want an injured player with bad press.”
“No one wants me.” He let the bitterness strangling him lace the words.
“No.” Scott paused, clearly unsure how to proceed. “The Knights need an experienced player and a first baseman. It’s not a great contract, but it’s a start. No matter what happens, if you keep your private life clean, bat in the 300s, and field your position, you’ll be in a better place for next season. Maybe even back on top.”
Scott’s voice took on a note of pleading, as if saying it over and over would make it real. Based on the past year, nothing could change his reality.
“The contract is insulting. I’m worth far more than a lousy million. It’s a contract given to journeyman utility players, not a proven major leaguer.”
“Do you really have a choice?” Scott’s words bit deep, reminding Jason of the mess he’d made of his life. “You’re lucky to be offered anything at all.”
“Damn it. You know I don’t. My money’s gone, stolen by that weasel of an accountant. I have my pride, Scott.” A pride he would have to choke down if he wanted back into the game he loved. Or watch his career head to the showers like a worn out has-been, with no fanfare, no celebratory victory runs, no applause. Just a long, slow, solitary march down the tunnel into forced retirement and to a walk-on role at old-timers’ day. If he was lucky. At this point, being a greeter at Walmart was more likely.
“You can’t afford pride,” his agent quietly reminded him.
Pride dictated that he reject the offer. Practicality warred with pride, telling him that playing the sport he loved was more important and accepting the offer was his only choice, especially if he wanted to have a roof over his head and food on the table. But the insults and comments he was sure to hear from players and commentators would be worse than a bad hop right to the crotch.
He took a deep swallow of his scotch and let good judgment control his words for the first time in his life. “Get the details, and set up the meeting. I’ll be there.”
“Jason, watch yourself. Everyone is concerned about your image.”
“I’ll grab something to eat then go back to the hotel. To sleep. Alone.” He clutched the phone, its edges digging into his palm. “There are no groupies hanging around me anymore. Nothing to see. No one to do.” He snapped the phone shut and slouched in the booth. Resentment wafted out in waves, scattering the locals, who steered clear of him, the odd wary glance or suspicious look the only attention he received.
He had to accept the offer. It grated on him to let the team dictate his private life, like a teenager with the parents out of town. He glanced around the dim bar, more from habit than any real interest. His ego taunted him to find a playmate and blow off some steam, prove he was in charge of his own life, not some pencil-pushing general manager. Prove he still had something people wanted, even if it was only sex, because his fame, fortune, awards, respect were all gone. No one wanted him for anything, not even a lousy endorsement selling Viagra.
The crowd parted. An auburn-haired siren, perched on a barstool, sipping a real drink, not a white wine spritzer or something feminine, one of those frou-frou drinks. A real woman. A woman who dared him not to look.
He never could resist a challenge.
As if sensing his interest, she turned sideways on the stool and crossed one knee over the other, her legs going on and on and on, ending in a high heel that could have doubled as a weapon.
Damn. His groin tightened and pressed against his jeans.
She was not the typical barfly, not for this dive. Even though she was in jeans, they were too new and the blouse too high-class, too expensive, too perfect for this mostly blue-collar bar. The patrons recognized quality, judging by the half-hearted, lame pick-up lines being served to her like yesterday’s bread. Her auburn hair was twisted up into a knot, a few tendrils tickling a long, creamy neck. He wanted to loosen that rich hair, feel it cascade over him, bury his face in her neck, and inhale her subtle perfume.
Stupid. Fantasizing about a woman after being told specifically not to get into trouble. He passed off the interest as a by-product of a year-long celibacy. Too bad his rebel side thumbed its nose at being controlled.
The woman deliberately loosened a button on her blouse. She licked her lips, a come hither look in her eyes. Lust slammed him deep in his groin and he felt a stirring that had everything to do with things he should not be doing. Yes, he still had something, sex appeal, the one thing he never lost.
She would be perfect to forget his lousy life.
*
She met his gaze and flicked a couple of buttons open, displaying more than a little cleavage. Whoa. What a look, sex and sin all rolled into one hot stare. The room temperature rose several degrees. “Yum,” she murmured, not intending anyone to overhear, but she should have known Sophie, her conscience, heard everything.
“Yum, the drink or yum something else?” Sophie followed Stacia’s gaze to the back of bar.
“Yum. Tall, dark and, most importantly, not my regular type.”
“What are you doing, Stace?” Sophie groaned. “I know I said to open up a little. But this?”
“It’s time for this good girl to cut loose. Just once, I don’t want to make decisions. Just one night. I know we talk about a one-night stand all the time, but tonight, it’s my night.”
A man next to her swiveled on his stool to look at her through bleary eyes, not too drunk to miss her declaration. Clearly, he had been here awhile, judging by the slight sway in his posture and the shake in his hand bringing the beer to his mouth. He grinned, the typical drunken how-you-doin’ pick up grin and opened his mouth.
“I’ll stop you right there, Randy,” Stacia interjected, not willing to patronize the local drunk. “We’ve been over this. Not interested. I’m flattered, but no thanks. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever.”
He shrugged and turned to the woman on the other side, who swayed almost as much as he did, but seemed flattered at the attention.
“Okay, that’s it. You’re cut off.” Sophie snatched the glass away from the bartender before he could set it down then moved it out of reach. “A one-night stand is the last thing you need. As of seven o’clock tonight, you’re unemployed, remember?”
“Not unemployed. Just no assignment. You’ve been suggesting this for years. I wasn’t ready back then.” Stacia grabbed the glass and took a healthy swallow. It w
as time she took control of her life, if only for one anonymous night.
“Now you are?” Sophie frowned, looked more like a headmistress at a girls’ school than her best friend. “I meant to start with some flirting, some conversation. Not tonight. Impulsive isn’t who you are.”
“Maybe it should be.” Stacia continued to study the man in the dark corner, heat building deep in her belly, anticipation growing, along with a reckless excitement.
“Maybe it’s the four Southern Comfort sours talking,” Sophie insisted, her words growing more strident.
“Does it matter?” She leaned forward slightly, displaying more than a little cleavage, exposing a hint of lace.
“You’re not really considering this are you? Crap, you are.” Sophie grabbed Stacia’s shoulders and turned her around. “This is the alcohol talking. You’ll regret this in the morning on top of your already crappy day.”
“He looks lonely. Maybe he could use some Southern comfort.” Stacia glanced over her shoulder, her eyes fixed on the corner booth. She slipped off the stool, and straightened her clothes, opening her blouse to hint at the cleavage exposed. A moment of nerves had her pausing. This was completely out of her comfort zone. What if he laughed at her? What if he wasn’t even looking at her? What if he took her up on her offer?
She fiddled with the buttons again, uncertainty holding her back. “How do I look?”
“Like you’re looking for sex.” Sophie smiled then smacked herself. “Not what I should be saying right now. This is still a bad idea, Stace.”
“Perfect. Wish me luck.” Stacia grabbed the drink from the bar and walked toward the back booth, hips swaying in what she hoped was a provocative manner. His stare was bold and he assessed her frankly. A feral smile crossed his lips, promising wicked fun and plenty of orgasms, if she wasn’t burned by the heat. Her steps faltered and her mouth dried. She took another sip of her drink to steady her nerves.
“Wait. Right now? How about something to eat, or another drink?” Sophie called after her, and then muttered, “Like she needs more alcohol in her system. Wait for me!”
Stacia ignored her friend, drawn by the magnetism in the stranger, all doubts erased by the promise in his gaze.
Chapter Two
Jason leaned back in the booth and sipped his scotch, as the woman from the bar made a path for him. The woman was pretty enough, a killer body revealed by skin tight jeans, thick wavy auburn hair that had caught his attention earlier, and sexy green eyes laser focused on him. A few seconds later, she stood next to the booth, a hint of challenge in the tilt of her chin.
“Anyone sitting here?”
He obligingly slid further into the booth and gestured next to him. “You are, darling.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?” she almost purred.
“You came over to me, darling. So I’m thinking things are looking up.”
She pressed her leg against him, heat burning through the denim, reminding him of his year-long celibacy. His cock stirred, awakening a hunger deep inside. A slow, sensual burn spread from his groin in anticipation of the possibilities ahead. The perfect recreation before signing his fucking degrading contract tomorrow, selling his life, his career, and his soul. But for this one last night, he could do what he wanted.
A blonde woman slid into the booth on his other side, pinning him between the two women, her eyes shooting daggers at him. It had been awhile since he’d had two women, but the way the second one was skewering him with her gaze, he doubted she was on board with a threesome. Stranger things used to happen with groupies. But he wasn’t that guy anymore, at least not after tomorrow. Had to pay the fucking bills and if it meant sacrificing his pride, he’d do it for one last shot.
The first woman frowned at the second, and then pasted on a big smile and held out her hand to him in an oddly formal gesture. “I’m Stacia. And you are?”
Shaking hands. Not your typical beginning to a one-night stand but nothing about this evening was usual. He shook her hand. “Jason. So what’s a gorgeous woman like you doing in a place like this?”
The blonde snorted. “Seriously? Is that your best line?”
“Sophie.” Stacia shot her a warning look. “Ignore her. She’s appointed herself my keeper.”
He leaned back and cocked his head. “Do you need a keeper?”
She lowered her eyes and a small smile played about her lips. “No.”
He glanced over at Sophie, her protectiveness palpable. Definitely no threesome tonight. The perverse side of him, and Stacia’s teasing side, brought out a playful attitude. He bent toward Stacia, slipped a hand around her shoulders to toy with the auburn tendrils that had been calling him since he had first seen her. She shivered but leaned into his caress. He stage-whispered in her ear, “Your friend doesn’t seem to agree. So, what are you doing here?”
Her laugh rang out, sending an unfamiliar feeling through him. Happiness?
She ran her fingers lightly up and down his arm, warming his skin. Heat shot straight to his groin. “You mean besides talking to you? Well, I saw you sitting all alone and I thought you might like some company.”
He studied her for a long moment. A warning pushed through the sensual haze, almost as if his agent was sitting on his shoulder, halo, and harp and freaking wings, whispering, “You don’t have a choice. You need this contract. Don’t be stupid.”
He shoved the image away, blocking out the words, needing to do something bad for him before being forced to do something good for everyone. But the caution remained, the memory of past lovers and their media interviews.
What was her angle? She didn’t seem drunk. She didn’t seem to recognize him either. Maybe this situation was exactly as it appeared—a woman, interested in a man, with a slightly psychotic bodyguard. He glanced at Sophie. She hadn’t said much, just sat there, arms folded across her chest, waiting. He decided to play along, the devil considerably lower in his anatomy pushing his advantage. “I always like pretty women for company. What did you have in mind?”
Stacia took a deep breath, an answering heat flaring in her eyes. “Dinner, then we’ll see how things go.”
At that moment, a cell phone rang on his left. Sophie dug through her bag, pulled it out and looked at the screen. “Damn. I have to go.” She glanced between the two of them, suspicion clearly warring with the need to leave, hesitation written in every tense line of her body. She tugged her lower lip and narrowed her eyes. Stacia twisted to see the television set, some politician on the screen. Her eyes clouded for a brief moment, almost too quick to catch, but Sophie also leaned forward, eyebrows furrowed and he knew he hadn’t missed it.
A strong hand gripped his thigh, just above his knee, on his left. He winced as Sophie’s fingers dug into the muscle through the denim. He turned and a flash almost blinded him. “What the hell, lady? What is wrong with you?” He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the dots behind his eyes.
Sophie put her mouth next to his ear, speaking low enough for only him to hear. Her Southern accent, that may have sounded sweet to some men, blasted heat at him, and definitely not the sexual kind. “You hurt her, you bastard, and you deal with me.”
He arched his eyebrow at Stacia, then back to Sophie. “She looks old enough to make her own decisions.”
“Not the point, buddy. She’s doesn’t need anyone like you taking advantage of her.”
Stacia swiveled back from the television and frowned. She slipped her hand below the table, then caressed his thigh dangerously close to his crotch. He grinned and put his arm around her. “I think she can handle herself.”
Feeling waves of animosity wafting from Sophie, he saluted with his glass and downed the remainder of the scotch. After so much effort to discourage him, he suddenly wanted to know more about Stacia.
Sophie scowled at him, glanced at her watch and said, “I have to go. Dinner with the parents. You okay?”
Stacia leaned into Jason, laying her head on his shoulder with a big smile. �
�Just about.”
Her friend snorted. “Remember, I have your picture.” She slid out of the booth, hitting him with her briefcase hard enough to be deliberate, and stomped off, with only one backward glance at Stacia. “Call me tomorrow.”
Stacia sipped her drink. “She’s a little protective.”
“A little? More like a mama bear looking to maul me. Any particular reason why I’m on her hit list, when you came over to me?”
Stacia pulled away from him and reached for the drinks the waitress so thoughtfully replaced. “It’s been a rough week, well, year really. I’ve neglected my social life and I thought it was time we get reacquainted.”
Bingo! She was crazy. That made a lot more sense, more like his usual type of woman. “Is that what tonight is all about?”
“No, I’m just tired of being the good girl, the responsible one. It’s time I cut loose and enjoy life. Other women see what they want and go get it. Why can’t I?”
He nodded, unsurprised. Her response was so typical, it was a stereotype. Good girl wants to go bad just once, cut loose with the bad boy. And he was definitely the bad boy in the script. Normally, he would have cried off, uninterested in being used for a fling. Dealing with the tears and recriminations the next morning from the sweet, innocent flower was a major turn-off. His cock definitely was not interested in walking away from Stacia, no matter what the risk was, or the morning-after tears. He could always leave while she slept.
Deciding to play along with the fantasy, he cocked his head. “And what do you want?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” She glanced up at him from under her eyelashes.
He pulled his arm back and took a deep sip of his scotch. “No offense, darling, but I’m not in the market for a woman right now. My life’s in the crapper and I can’t afford any other complications.”