Bottom of the Ninth: Seattle Skookums Baseball (Game On in Seattle Book 6)

by Jami Davenport

  Rounding on Paisley, Al snagged a barstool and sat on it, tapping his toes on the rungs. “Sell yourself.”

  “Sell myself?”

  “Yeah, why should we hire you? The kids are a bonus, so we’ll get back to their added value later.”

  Paisley’s head was spinning. What the hell was this guy talking about? A job? Or something else?

  Zeke was no help. He gaped at Al, indicating Al’s reaction was a surprise to him, too. Zeke cleared his throat, and Paisley saw him shaking his head at Al. Zeke’s face turned red when he realized she’d caught him red-handed.

  Al was the one to sell. Zeke had already made his decision. He didn’t want her here.

  Al glanced at his cell. “You have sixty seconds. Go.”

  Was this guy for real? Paisley stood up straight and proceeded to sell Al on her many attributes. “I’m ambitious, organized, and punctual. I have an eye for decorating and a passion for antiques. I’d love to transform this house into the showplace it once was, while organizing Zeke’s life into manageable bits, allowing him to concentrate on baseball, and only baseball. Oh, and I’m a kick-ass cook.” She beamed at Al, patting herself on the back for finishing in under sixty seconds.

  Al beamed back, an almost evil glint in his gray eyes. Picking up her résumé from the counter, he pushed up glasses smudged with fingerprints. His lips moved with lightning speed as he read. She was halfway there. Al seemed to like her, while Zeke stood a few feet away, hands on hips, legs slightly apart, and scowled. Things were not going according to his plan. Al put down the résumé and grinned.

  “She’s perfect, Zeke. Just what you need.” He whipped out a checkbook. “How much?”

  “I—uh, uh.” Paisley blinked a few times and shot Zeke a questioning gaze.

  Zeke leaned his butt against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, looking as grumpy as her grandfather after he’d run out of cigarettes.

  Al shrugged in dismissal of his client and scratched out something on the check, handing it to Paisley. “Is this enough?”

  Paisley stared at the generous four-figure check, and her mouth dropped open. “This is for me?”

  “That’s an advance of one week’s salary.”

  “One week,” Paisley stuttered.

  “It’s not enough?”

  “It’s plenty.” She hadn’t seen this much money in a month’s salary.

  “You’re on a one-month trial. The three of us will review after that. We can discuss the particulars later, such as expectations, duties, etcetera. We’ll also run an extensive background check and require you to sign a nondisclosure agreement. Zeke is a big name in baseball with a squeaky-clean reputation to protect, and we protect that reputation zealously.”

  She’d bet he did.

  “This is good for you, Zeke. I can see it now. Nice guy of baseball takes in homeless woman and her three kids and gives her a second chance.” Al’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he spun this story to his client’s advantage.

  “I really don’t need—” Zeke kept shaking his head, looking slightly shell-shocked.

  Al snorted. “You need this. Trust me, my friend. You really need this.” He clapped Zeke on the back and sprinted toward the door. “Gotta go. Have an appointment with a couple rookies. I’ll call later.” He winked at Paisley over his shoulder.

  And he was gone, leaving Zeke and Paisley sizing each other up like two prizefighters suddenly forced into a last-minute bout.

  * * * *

  Zeke couldn’t find the words to explain the cacophony of emotions clashing inside him. He’d invited Al to help him out of this mess. Instead, the rat bastard hired Paisley on the spot after a five-sentence interview. Since when did Al do reckless stuff like that? He’d done it to yank Zeke’s chain and further Zeke’s spotless rep as a do-gooder with a heart of gold. But Al knew the truth. Zeke’s heart was as black as Vegas during a power outage, and just as corrupt.

  He couldn’t have Paisley here. Al had to fix this. He ran outside, stopping Al just as his agent reached his car.

  “We can’t hire her.” He skidded to a stop in front of Al.

  “I just did. She’s cheaper than the cleaning service, and I have a good feeling about her. You know me, I go with my gut.”

  “This is crazy. You don’t know a damn thing about her.”

  Al smiled his predator’s smile. “But I will. In a few hours, I’ll know more about her than the federal government knows. Just trust me, Z. She’s perfect.”

  “For what?”

  “You.” Al tilted his head and cocked a brow in the direction of the house.

  Zeke shot him a scorching fuck-you glare.

  Al grinned.

  Zeke didn’t.

  “What the fuck are you doing, hiring her?”

  “Weren’t you going to?”

  “No. Uh, yes. Uh, I don’t know.” Zeke ground his teeth in exasperation. “This a bad idea.”

  “It’s perfect.” Al’s wheels were turning.

  “She is not a promo op.”

  “Let me be the judge. This situation has feel-good publicity written all over, assuming she doesn’t have a criminal record or something worse.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you think you two might get a little friendly? That would dispel those gay rumors.”

  “They’ve pretty much faded into the background,” Zeke countered. “Just because I don’t date much doesn’t mean I’m gay. Besides, I don’t give a shit if people think I am.”

  “Except you’re not. Now you have a live-in girlfriend with children. Perfect for a family man like you.”

  “She is not my girlfriend, and I’m not a fucking family man. I detest the only family I’ve ever known. My nice-guy image is only that, and asking me to fake being a family man is taking it too far.”

  Al’s calculating smile dominated his face, those well-oiled wheels continuing to turn. “Your brothers called me. They want a meeting.”

  “And you told them what?”

  “That I’d talk to you.”

  “No. No. And hell no. You tell them to stay away from me, or I’ll have them arrested.”

  “That will look really good in the Seattle news, won’t it?” Al had him there.

  “You know how I feel. Take care of it.”

  Without answering, Al got in his car, saluted, and left. The bastard had a devious plan, and Zeke needed to watch his back.

  Beware of agents with agendas.

  Shit. Crap. Damn.

  He was going to kill Al, and it wouldn’t be the first time.

  Why couldn’t his fucking brothers leave him alone just like they had years ago when he’d needed them most?

  Yeah, that was him. The forgotten brother. The inconvenience. The unwanted child. The pain-in-the-ass little brother who hadn’t been a pain in the ass. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to be the perfect son and brother in hopes someone would love him.

  No one had, and no one did.

  And now he flat out didn’t give a shit. His give-a-damn was busted, and his family could no longer hurt him. They’d ceased to exist the night his sister Karen had died.

  But then, so had Zeke.

  She’d been the only person who’d ever loved him, next to his mother. Now they were both gone, leaving Zeke with no one but himself. One thing his dysfunctional win-at-all-costs childhood had taught him was what didn’t kill him made him stronger, and he was one strong son of a bitch. He didn’t need anyone because he had it all—fame, fortune, good looks—and to hell with the rest of the world.

  Of course, his public persona projected the exact opposite—a nice guy who didn’t party, supported numerous charities, and came from a good, hardworking family. What a crock of shit. His agent deserved the millions he skimmed off the top of Zeke’s sizable salary for spinning lies so effective the media and fans actually believed them.

  He trudged into the kitchen to find everyone, except Sadie, dancing around the room to their own rendition of some repetitively obnoxious pop
song sung by an equally obnoxious boy band.

  Sadie watched him as if she expected something from him. He looked away, somewhat off-kilter, and annoyed because a little girl could upset his balance.

  Paisley’s brilliant smile irritated him, as did the kids’ cheering. She was the real deal, and her sunny disposition was already wearing on him. Her attitude mirrored his public personality, only hers was genuine, and his was bullshit.

  He didn’t need or want a live-in fake girlfriend and her munchkins.

  He didn’t know this woman one damn bit. She could be a crazed fan who would use the entire situation to sue his ass off, or a stalker who’d slash his throat in the night. Even if she was just a freeloader he’d never get rid of, it was no good.

  But she was a damn good cook, and his kitchen was pristine, and—

  She was smoking hot. The woman of his fantasies. A dream girl.

  He wiped his brow and adjusted his jeans after making sure no one was paying any attention to him.

  He wanted her.

  In his bed.

  Vertical.

  With legs spread.

  Fuck.

  He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them, every pair of eyes in the kitchen was staring at him.

  Chapter 4—Batter Up

  Zeke slumped on the bench in front of his locker room stall deep in the bowels of Skookum Field. Batting practice had been a bust. He wasn’t playing any better now than he had in Arizona at spring training, and the season started tomorrow.

  His new teammates and management scrutinized his every move but said nothing. He’d caught a few of them rolling their eyes and muttering not-so-complimentary words to each other.

  He knew what they thought. He was overpaid, overhyped, and one more bad choice in a string of bad choices made by the Skookums head office. The team had a rep for picking up players coming off bad seasons, paying them too much money, and hoping they’d return to their former glory in a Skookums uniform. So far, the team had struck out on every one of its gambles.

  Seattle was the place baseball players were sent to bury their careers, not even getting a proper funeral in the process. In with a bang, out with a whimper.

  Zeke refused to allow his career to die a slow death at the hands of the screwed-up mess that was the Skookums. He was a fighter. His abusive father had taught him that much. He’d fight to the end, because without baseball Zeke was exactly what dear old Dad said he’d be: a worthless loser not worthy of the air he breathed and the space he inhabited.

  Playing baseball had never been about the money, though he had piles of it. He’d cared about his reputation and his career. He cared about what people thought of him, even though he wished like hell he didn’t.

  “Jesus, Z, you’d strike out hitting a T-ball.” Manuel Crusos, the starting catcher, stood over him, his face a mixture of disgust and resignation. Manny had been drafted by the Skookums. The poor guy didn’t know anything but the mediocrity bred within this baseball park.

  Plastering a friendly smile on his face, Zeke looked up. “Just getting warmed up, Manny. I’ll be hitting them out of the park come the opener.”

  Manny shook his head, muttered some Spanish, of which Zeke understood enough to know his words weren’t complimentary, and walked away.

  Fernando, Zeke’s longtime buddy, sat down next to him. “Don’t let him get to you. He’s as frustrated as the rest of us and looking for a scapegoat.”

  “He’s not getting to me,” Zeke said tightly. “If that’s the best he’s got, he needs to ramp it up a bit.”

  Nando laughed. “Yeah, he’s not a good trash-talker. Now that one—” Fernando pointed at a tall, wiry redhead leaning against his locker talking to some rookies. “He’s one to watch. He’s the team prankster. The best of the best.”

  “Good to know.” Zeke frowned, sizing up Rex McKey. He hated pranks, but he played along like the good sport he truly wasn’t. He knew how it worked in the clubhouse. If the guys sensed they could get to you, the pranks escalated.

  “Have you heard from them?”

  “Fuck, yeah. They’ve been calling and texting me, wanting to get together. I told them to go to hell.”

  “Maybe you should meet with them, hear them out?”

  Zeke shot Fernando a glare that would’ve reduced a lesser man to a shivering, cowering mass. His friend just sighed and changed the subject. He’d been there before.

  “So what’s the house like?” Fernando asked with more than mild curiosity.

  “I’m going to have Al call all the B-movie producers he knows to see if anyone wants to rent it out for slasher films.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse.” Zeke leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His temples throbbed.

  “How so?” Fernando was intrigued.

  “It’s also home to a Carrie Underwood look-alike housekeeper and her three rug rats.”

  “What? Seriously? Kids? Little kids? And you?” Fernando knew the real Zeke, and he appeared incredulous.

  “Yeah, seriously.”

  Fernando threw back his head, erupting in laughter. He laughed so hard, his face turned red and tears ran down his cheeks.

  “Shut up,” Zeke grouched, but it was too late. Several teammates wandered over to check out what Fernando found so hilarious. The jerk filled them in, and they all started laughing. Zeke forced himself to join in, even though he didn’t find the situation funny at all.

  The team captain, all-star center fielder Edwin Rivers, stood next to him. “No shit? So much for bachelorhood, buddy. And here I was going to ask you to party with us tonight.”

  Zeke rarely partied, but tonight he needed to get out of that house and away from the interlopers. “She’s an employee. That’s all. Sure, I’ll go. I could use a good time.”

  Edwin shrugged. “Whatever works for you. The Puget Pub downtown at seven o’clock.”

  “New guy buys drinks,” Manual added as he walked away scratching his crotch.

  Zeke shook his head. “Not the way you guys suck down liquor. I might as well pay for IVs.” He’d observed them at spring training.

  “You can afford it, hotshot. I’ve seen your salary.” Rex slapped him on the back.

  * * * *

  Paisley checked the time again. It was eight o’clock. She’d fed the kids and sent them into the living room to read. She was grateful they were mostly self-entertaining, though sad the reason had more to do with them having been neglected by the adults in their lives than with a good upbringing.

  Zeke hadn’t come home, and she fretted about that, even though she tried to think positively. He couldn’t call her because he didn’t have her number, not that he would. He didn’t answer to her, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit to being a little disappointed. She’d made a big dinner of lasagna, green beans, garlic toast, and her mouthwatering chocolate fudge cake.

  With a resigned sigh, she put everything away in the refrigerator. She hustled the kids downstairs to their empty apartment and helped them get baths and ready for bed. She’d use a portion of her advance to buy some cheap furniture somewhere. Right now the only thing she had was the mattress and a couple of old lawn chairs she’d procured from the deck.

  She put the kids to bed, read them a bedtime story, and went back upstairs since the only TV was up there. Zeke’s eighty-some-inch, ultra-mega-HD TV made her feel as if she could walk right into the scenes on the screen and become a part of that world.

  Not a bad thought, considering the hand life had dealt her lately, but she had the kids to protect and nurture. They depended on her, and she wouldn’t let them down.

  Paisley startled awake hours later and let out a scream when she saw a dark figure standing over her.

  “Shhh,” the figure said. “It’s okay.”

  Like hell it was okay. She’d be damned if she’d stay quiet while some asshole raped her or tortured her or did whatever intruders did to helpless women. Not that she w
as helpless. She was a fighter, but he was much bigger than her.

  “Paisley. It’s me. Zeke.” The figure shook her gently. She raised a hand to slap him before his words sank into her sleep-muddled brain.

  Paisley stopped her hand before it connected with his skin. Heat burned her face and she ducked her head in embarrassment. “I’m so sorry. I was watching a murder mystery on TV, and I—”

  “It’s okay,” he said. She smelled beer on his breath, and she tensed, fearing the worst. Most of the men she knew were mean drunks. Cases in point: the kids’ father and her dead sister’s husband.

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “I had a beer or two,” he admitted. “I’m not a big drinker.”

  She relaxed a little and studied his face in the light of the lamp. He looked pretty sober to her, and she was, unfortunately, something of an expert on that subject.

  “Are you okay?” He gazed down at her, concern gentling his blue eyes. He brushed a strand of hair from her face.

  She nodded, mute with amazement over how good his simple touch felt. Their eyes met. The heat in his gaze warmed her core and pooled between her legs.

  She wanted him, too. Badly. She touched his hand, and her lips parted in silent invitation without any conscious effort from her.

  “Are you sure?” He closed his eyes for a long moment, as if fighting some invisible battle with himself. He opened them, and a tight smile slashed through his handsome features.

  “Yes,” she said, answering a different question than the one he’d originally asked. She had no willpower, and worst of all, she didn’t give a shit. She wrapped her fingers around his hand and gave a tug.

  He didn’t need any additional encouragement. He knelt down in front of the couch and leaned into her, his mouth only an inch from hers. The faint scent of soap he’d used earlier mingled with the beer. He smelled like a real man should smell. She only needed to close a one-inch gap and their lips would touch. She sighed and gave in.

  His lips felt like heaven in a pure male package. Hard yet soft, wild yet controlled, wanting yet resisting. When he ran a tongue over her lips, she opened for him. Their tongues began an age-old ballet, mating like she wanted their bodies to mate. His big hands, warm and rough, slid against the bare skin inside her T-shirt. She moaned and arched into him, begging him to keep going.