Sighing, Peter set his Gibson down next to him and raked a hand through his disheveled hair. Nothing was calming him because he’d never experienced this mixture of feelings before. He was standing on a precipice of a world completely unknown to him, and it was making him panicky.
Turned out that knowing he was going to have to stop playing ball soon and actually not playing were completely different things. The former he’d handled with finesse. The latter was making him a fucking mess. He felt ungrounded and directionless.
Grabbing his guitar, Peter went to the table and pulled out a chair. For the next hour or so he lost himself in his music, able to strum the instrument gently enough that his shoulder didn’t object too terribly. And it helped. It helped a whole lot to find his center in something that he loved.
But he was still feeling moody when the phone rang at just past eight in the morning. Pinning the Gibson to him with his bum arm, Peter reached across the table and snagged his cell. “Hello?” he asked, wondering who could be calling him so early.
It was the doctor’s office needing some more information for his upcoming surgery. Putting on his polite hat, he gave the nurse the requested information and asked a few questions about recovery time. Once he was reassured that it was only a few days and then he would feel back to normal, he was just about to hang up when Leslie came into the room.
She was rubbing her eyes and yawning like a sorority girl after her first frat-house party. Kind of looked like one, too, with her lopsided, messy ponytail and oversized sweatshirt. Except for the bangin’ curves. That was all woman.
“Thanks, Joan,” he said into the phone. “I’ll swing by sometime this morning and get those forms signed.” With that he hung up and took another good long look at Leslie.
“What’s going on, Peter? I heard you talking about a surgery. Is your shoulder going to need it after all?” She had her head in a cupboard looking for coffee.
He hoped like hell not. The doc hadn’t even wanted him to wear a sling. “Nope. Something else entirely. The shoulder’s going to be right in no time.” Maybe if he said that out loud enough it would come true. “I’ll be back in action for the World Series, don’t you worry.”
She leaned out from behind the cupboard to smile at him, and surprise overtook her gorgeous face. “You wear glasses.”
He scrunched his nose and made a funny face, feeling a little embarrassed. She was the first to see him in them. “You got me.”
Her smile cranked up a few degrees and went flirty. “Very nice.”
Yeah? Huh. Maybe he’d keep them.
Leslie pulled out a bag of fair trade, whole bean Columbian and went about making her preferred morning drink. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Fine.” Not so much, really.
She slid him a look as she measured out water. “You were pretty loopy last night. Do you remember anything?”
His gaze locked with hers. Yeah, he remembered. He remembered every damn thing. Especially what he’d said to her and, he blamed it all on the Vicodin. It was the only explanation for why he’d say something so stupid.
But he wasn’t going to let her know that he knew. Way too embarrassing.
He stared at her levelly. “Nope. Not a thing.”
LESLIE HIT THE brew button on the coffee maker and glanced outside at the snow-covered backyard, soaking up the peaceful sight. She wasn’t sure if she believed Peter or not. The unflinching way he was staring at her was misleading because she knew that he could play his cards really close to his chest. When he wanted to, he could make his eyes so cool and remote that it was jarring. Like he was this detached observer always watching. Whatever he actually felt was anyone’s guess.
Still, she really wanted to know if he remembered what he’d said to her last night. Those words had kept her up tossing and turning far longer than she wanted to admit. “Really? You don’t remember the selkie, the kissing?”
Something flickered in his guarded eyes, and she could tell by the way he shifted and began picking at his guitar that he did in fact remember something. “I recall something like that. But I’m lousy on pain meds, girl. My memory is fuzzy.”
She cocked her head and studied him, noticing the strain on his lean and rugged face. His complexion was pale, too, and every once in a while he flinched when he moved his bad arm too much picking the strings.
“Are you on any now?” If he wasn’t he should be.
“I’ve taken ibuprofen.” His head was down and he was picking out a tune, humming along occasionally.
That’s right. She’d forgotten his aversion to prescription meds. He never took more than was absolutely necessary. Which meant that he had been in some serious pain last night. Maybe he really didn’t remember much of anything.
Leslie poured a cup of Columbia’s fresh-brewed finest and added some organic half-and-half she’d found last week in the fridge. Though she very much appreciated the high-quality food he kept stocked in his kitchen, now she looked at it all a little differently, knowing how he’d grown up. It was no doubt compensation for the time he’d spent as a kid going hungry.
“Do you keep all this fancy food around because you didn’t have much when you grew up?”
Peter turned his head slightly to look at her and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth at the sight of his amazing eyes framed by those black glasses. The man was so effortlessly sexy. It would be annoying if she didn’t enjoy the view so much.
“I guess I never really thought about it, but yeah. You could say that, I suppose. I spent more than a few nights eating only a slice of cheap white bread because Pop had pissed all our money away on booze.”
Because her heart was aching for the little boy with a crap-ass upbringing, she made a funny. “I’ve always thought your growth was stunted.”
Humor sparked in his blue eyes and he let out a low laugh. “Not where it counts, princess.”
She couldn’t resist. “And where is that, Peter?”
He stopped strumming and pinned her with a look that went hot and a little hazy. “If you weren’t so hell-bent on winning this bet you could come over here right now and find out.” A slow, wicked smile upturned his incredible lips. “In fact, you could just come over here and find out, period.”
It was tempting. Really, really tempting after last night. The way he’d made her feel without even trying still had her reeling. And the things he’d said . . . whoa.
She replied flippantly, “Or, you could simply agree to play at the club and we could forget this silly bet altogether.”
The sun had made its final ascent into the sky, or at least Leslie assumed it had as she admired the view outside. Snow was still coming down steadily and the sky was heavy and overcast. She couldn’t actually see the sun.
Turning back to Peter, she caught him staring at her with hard, unreadable eyes. “I don’t play in public, Leslie.”
“Then why did you even agree to the bet in the first place?” she asked, instantly frustrated and crossed her arms, still holding the coffee mug.
He went back to strumming his guitar, dismissing her, and it got her back up. “I knew I wouldn’t lose.”
Oh he did, did he? That capped it, now she was officially angry. He thought she was just that easy? “Wrong, Kowalskin. You’re going to be performing, guaranteed.”
A sound that was suspiciously like a snort of amusement came from him and she bit her tongue to keep from saying something mean that she’d regret later. “I don’t think so.”
A hard ball of mad formed in the pit of her stomach. She ignored the tiny skittering fear that said he might be right. “What the hell is your problem with playing guitar in public anyway?” she burst out, exasperated. Not liking to play in public was the same bullshit excuse he’d been telling her for two years and she was tired of it.
She wanted the real truth.
He stopped playing abruptly and hissed painfully when he jarred his shoulder. The glare he shot her was withering. “It�
�s none of your goddamn business.”
But it was her business if she was going to get her life back. “I deserve to know.” Her hand shot to her hip and she took a sip of coffee as a way to direct and diffuse her energy. God, the man had a way of pissing her off like no one else.
“You don’t deserve any such thing. But knowing you, you’ll keep hounding me until I go insane, so fine, here’s the truth: I won’t play in public because it’s very, very personal to me. It’s mine, my heart, and I don’t share it with random fucking people.”
That shut her up. Briefly. “But you play all the time at barbeques and gatherings with the team.”
She watched him grab his guitar and hold it to him like it was a shield for protection. “They’re not random.”
Leslie puffed out a breath, totally frustrated. The guy had an incredible talent. It deserved to be heard and seen. “This doesn’t make any sense to me at all. You’re a professional athlete. You play a game that entertains people. How is singing any different?”
He looked her dead in the eye. “It’s my soul.”
Her mouth opened and nothing came out. Snapping it shut, Leslie tried to think of something to say and came up blank. Mentally scrambling, she finally blurted, “You’re willing to play at the club if you lose the bet to me, though. I don’t understand. Why then did you agree?”
Peter stopped playing and stared her down with cold, remote eyes. “It’s all about my dick, baby.”
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
HE WAS SUCH an asshole.
Peter shoved his arm through his coat sleeve and swore when his shoulder objected painfully. He deserved it, though, for being such a prick to Leslie. For the rest of the day he’d felt like a douchebag for the crummy things he’d said to her. And all day he’d done his best to avoid his conscience, but to no avail.
Now here it was, pushing two in the morning on a snowy October night, and he was on his way to Hotbox to apologize to her. Apparently his conscience had decided that it couldn’t wait one more hour until she was off work and back at his place. Which just figured. His inner good boy always had bad timing.
Hopping in his FJ Cruiser, Peter was one the road and pulling up in front of the nightclub less than twenty minutes later. From the outside the place wasn’t much to look at, just a big square industrial brick warehouse. But on the inside was a whole different story. Since Leslie had taken over management it had changed a whole lot, going from a wreck to Denver’s hotspot for killer live music. The woman had an ear on her and a way of showcasing unknown bands that went on to do big things eerily fast. It was one of her many gifts.
Peter knew that if she was so determined to put him in the spotlight, it meant he had something special too. And he thought it was great she felt that way about him.
Playing baseball was what he did and he was damn good at it. It was how he defined himself, how he saw himself. And he’d found a home with the Rush and loved being a part of such a close-knit team. They were all more like a big family—the only family he’d ever really known, honestly.
But music, music was who he was.
Whether he liked it about her or not, Leslie saw that truth in him. And she pushed. She pushed like a frigging bulldozer to get him to share it with the world at large, believing that it was his duty to share his gift with every-damn-body.
He completely disagreed. Writing songs, singing and playing his guitar—that was for him. So why he’d agreed to perform in her club specifically for the bet sure beat the hell out of him. He didn’t even understand it, so how could he explain it to her when she’d asked?
He couldn’t. But that didn’t mean he had to be such an asshole about it. Then again, that was pretty much his M.O. Corner him and push him about his feelings and he lashed out verbally. It wasn’t one of his more admirable traits. And given that he wasn’t feeling too upbeat about the state of his life at the moment, put together the whole thing was a recipe for disaster.
Peter checked the time on his black leather bracelet, which doubled as a very discreet wristwatch. The bar was just closing. He’d thought he’d get there sooner, give himself a few minutes to prep. Crap.
Mario, the over-muscled bouncer, had just stepped out to lock the front door when Peter hailed him. “Hey, man. Can I get you to hold that for me?”
Catching sight of who was hollering, the enormous ex-bodyguard smiled and pushed the door back open. “For you I will, Pete. How’s the shoulder?”
He stepped inside on the landing and replied, “It’s been better.”
Mario slapped him on the back with a smile and nearly sent him flying over the guardrail. “Recover fast, man. The Rush need you back yesterday.”
Didn’t have to tell him. “I’m working on it.” From his perch on the raised landing, Peter surveyed the now empty place. “Is everyone already gone?”
The bouncer nodded. “Leslie’s in her office, but everyone else just left. It went dead the last hour with the weather and she sent us all home. I was just locking up. What can I do for you?”
Peter shook his head, grateful that he’d indulged in an extra dose of ibuprofen earlier. The man was ridiculously large and his backslap had nearly dislocated his shoulder again. He probably thought he was being gentle too. “I’m good. I just came by to have a word with the boss lady.”
Mario locked up the front and they climbed the steps down to the main floor of the building before making their way across the hardwood to the hall on the other side. Once there the bouncer continued toward her office. Peter stopped him. “Hey man, why don’t you head on out? I’ll see to it that Leslie gets to her car safely.”
The bouncer cast a quick glance down the hall. “Sounds good.” He smiled. “The lady won’t be expecting me home early. This will be a nice surprise.”
Mario wished him a good night and went out the back door, muttering with a frown, “I thought I’d already locked this.” Peter waited until it shut behind him and then secured the latch, not wanting to be disturbed. He had some apologizing to do and didn’t really want any witnesses. Or interruptions. But mostly witnesses.
Once that was done he turned toward the hall and was about to walk down it when he heard a shuffle and a noise coming from Leslie’s office. What was that girl doing? Rearranging furniture?
Shrugging it off, he had just taken a step when he heard a muffled scream and something crash to the floor. His heart started pounding hard and something like fear lodged in his throat. “Leslie? Leslie, are you okay?”
Another crash came from her office and this time along with her scream he heard, “Stop it!”
He sprinted down the hall and slammed her door open in a heartbeat, his injured shoulder completely forgotten on the rush of fear and adrenaline. Inside he found Leslie sitting on the floor, a table lamp shattered next to her and her potted bamboo plant broken, dirt scattered everywhere.
And stumbling toward her with a crazed look in his eye was Seth.
Rage flooded Peter and he grabbed the bartender by the back of his shirt, bellowing as he yanked, “Don’t you dare, motherfucker!”
Seth flew through the air, slammed into the wall, and Peter was on him instantly, ramming his fist into his face. Seth’s nose shattered from the force of the blow and began bleeding profusely, but Peter didn’t stop. He couldn’t see beyond the red haze of fury.
“I just wanted to touch!” the bartender wailed and swiped at the blood pouring down over his lips, cradling his busted nose. “I love her!”
“You crazy bastard!” Leslie cried out as she scrambled to her feet. She was shaking, but he didn’t think it was from fear.
Her eyes shot daggers at her employee and she ran toward him, clearly intent on doing bodily harm. Peter grabbed her around the waist and pulled her in tight, effectively stopping her. But she swung out a leg and almost connected with Seth. “How dare you come in drunk and cop a feel on me! You’re not even allowed here after hours!”
With blood running between his
fingers and down his arm, Seth looked up at them both with unexpected loathing. “You’re a bitch.”
Peter let go of Leslie and yanked Seth up by his collar, so full of white-hot fury he could barely see, and slammed his fist into his solar plexus. Seth doubled over, gasping for air, and just as Peter was going to punch him again, Leslie made a sound like a choked back sob.
He whipped his head around toward the sound to find her wiping at a cut on her hand, and the sight of her blood pushed him over the edge. He snapped. “How dare you touch my woman!” he shouted and spun back around.
Seth was gone.
His footsteps were fading quickly down the hallway. Then the back door creaked open and slammed shut. Fuck.
Peter was about to go after him when Leslie stopped him with a hand on his arm. Shaking, adrenaline and rage a thundering, furious concoction inside him, he looked up from her slender, bleeding hand. “I’m going to kill that son of a bitch.”
“Let him go,” she replied. “I’ll call the cops and file a report. I’ve got all his information, Peter. They’ll find him.”
“Not if I find him first.” He couldn’t think. Couldn’t reason. His blood was pumping and a primitive, primal need to protect her overrode all else.
Panting, Peter raked a hand through his hair, swore, and gave her a very thorough once-over. Other than the wound on her hand and messy hair she looked all right. Definitely less shaken up than him.
But her office was a mess. How much had happened before he’d arrived? “I hope you hit that bastard in the head with your broken lamp,” he muttered, grabbing desperately for a measure of control.
Leslie smiled at him in a way that had the anger subsiding a little and said matter-of-factly, “He kept trying to grope me, so I threw it at him.”
That’s my girl.
“Then I slipped on some potting soil and fell on my ass. That’s when you came in.”
“Are you okay?” he asked, realizing the question was more than a smidge belated as his brain started functioning again. Not much, but enough to remember to ask.
Throwing Heat: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel Page 11