by Marti Shane
“All-stars?”
“That’s it! They were in D.C.” She sat down the bottle, tucking her legs back beneath her on the couch. “Jake pulled him off some slut in the back of an SUV.”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“Because he told Mitch to,” Mick filled in. “He thought Mitch had because you guys broke up, but then recently-”
“He found out I didn’t know.”
“Small fucking Universe.” Mick tapped her glass to Sam’s. “I like Jake more than I already did, but now everyone knows but you and that’s not cool.”
“Everyone?” Sam needed a tally. She didn’t like people hiding things from her. Especially this.
“The four of us.” Mick’s finger twirled a circle, alluding to their small circle. “And Jax.”
Sam curb-checked her anxiety. There wasn’t a social media explosion or tabloid-frenzied scandal to deal with. Mitch was starting pitcher for the Red Sox and had just won his first World Series. The world had moved on, her break-up private and old news. Jake did her a solid. Mick nudged the phone closer.
“You got your head on straight?”
“Who was she?” Sam stalled.
“That’s your ego talking.” Mick rolled her eyes. “She was a slut, obviously. They were in the back of her SUV in the parking lot of a bar. Do you really care who she was?” Mick was right. Sam wanted to measure up, know who was worth throwing it all away for.
“What a dick.” She picked up the phone.
“Atta girl.” Mick sank into the pillows. Sam stood, pressing Send. “Don’t let him waste your time, we’ve got orgasms to talk about,” Mick called to her back as she walked to the balcony. As the phone rang, she fought back the faintest ray of hope. She wasn’t as disposable as he made her feel. Ashamed she needed that confirmation from a dickhead like Mitch, she shoved the insecurity way down deep.
Chapter Eleven
Jake stared down the paneled door, Sam’s phone gripped in his hand. Time to face the music. Good intentions had gone to shit and his confession got sabotaged this morning when he walked in on Sam. He had every intention of telling her about Mitch the minute he got back to Promise, but when he found her sprawled out in his bed it all went to hell. Heaven was more like it. Soon enough she’d find the outgoing call on her phone. Not his finest moment, but he didn’t regret it.
Tapping the bronzed knocker, he swallowed back his anger. Mitch was the fucking bad guy here and now he had to be the one to break Sam’s heart.
“Hey Slugger,” Mick greeted him. She wore a knowing grin, blue eyes as wild as her platinum curls. She stepped aside, inviting him in and setting down her half-empty glass on the foyer table. There were stacks of envelopes, the small cards that come with flowers. “I’ll take that.” Mick gestured to the garment bag hooked in his fingers. Handing it over, he bent down for Sam’s bag in the middle of the floor.
A flash of fluorescent caught his eye in the small waste-basket. He put the words together, only partially visible from the crumpled paper. What the fuck? Notice to vacate. Shit. The telling signs flashed in his head: Sloane selling her business, the medical bills alone had to be staggering, Harvard. Hell, Sam didn’t even own a car.
Boxes lined the wall, but nothing appeared packed away. The mantel was full of pictures and prized possessions he wanted to explore. The building was old in the most prestigious way. High ceilings with handcrafted molding and doors that were over a century old. Taking in the living space and glancing down the hall, he guessed the unit was about two-thousand square feet. The two oversized sofas didn’t match the price tag, which he put at about a million, but they practically invited you into the space. The pillows were tossed around, a bottle of wine and glass on the rustic coffee table.
This place made sense for two career women. Location made it accessible and safe with no maintenance. Pictures were propped on every surface. He imagined they populated over the years because none of the frames matched. He wanted hours in here with Sam. He wanted the story behind every picture, every trinket and most of all…the boxes.
Mick took Sam’s bag from him, dropping it by the couch, checking her cherry red pedicure after kicking it aside. She was long and lean like Sam, but less curvy. Her legs were bare in her frayed denim shorts, her t-shirt hugging her petite waist.
“Cal-State?” He read her t-shirt, his chest tightening at the thought of Sam moving so far away.
“Close to Hollywood. Thought I might get lucky.” She shrugged and rounded the peninsula to the kitchen. “Drink?”
“You gotta beer?” he asked, looking around for Sam.
“Doubt it.” Mick opened the fridge, hardly anything inside. “Nope, just wine.”
“Pass.” He stuck to beer and bourbon.
“Travis said you guys took the skis out.” She made conversation, too far off-topic for him to ask about the boxes.
“We did.” He tried a smile, laxing the tension in his jaw. “Pretty sweet paint jobs you put on ‘em.” She took the compliment with confidence, her smile reaching her eyes.
“Sam wouldn’t be a Marvel character.” She gestured to the balcony door, where he could make out her shape pacing back and forth with a phone to her ear. His heart thumped against his chest, hoping to hell that wasn’t Mitch. He didn’t want to start with I was going to tell you. That needed to be Mitch’s fucking line.
“You coming to the pumpkin festival?” Mick distracted him. “Sam invited you, right?”
“She did,” he said, hoping like hell he was still invited after that call. “Who’s she talking to?” he asked, a little too eager.
“Jealous much?” Mick snickered. Yes. He was jealous for the first time in his life when it came to Sam. Probably not the best thing to say to Ms. Shovel Club. She sauntered over to the white phone on the wall, slipping into her shoes. She pressed a button, sliding the receiver under her curls to her ear.
“Hey lover. Can you call me a ride to The Royal? Sam’s using my phone.” Popping the top from her Chapstick, she smoothed it over her lips as she listened to the response. “Ten minutes?” She capped the red tube, tucking it back in her shorts. “You’re the best, Charlie.” Placing the phone back in the cradle, she looked impatient at the balcony door. Crossing the dining space, she gave the glass two firm knocks. Sam stopped pacing and Mick must have mouthed something through the door.
Making her way back to the counter, she picked up her wine. She peered up over the rim of her glass, taking a short sip. Jake shifted, uncomfortable, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was too anxious to sit and was having a hard time standing still.
“Are you like psycho jealous, or just sexy possessive jealous?” she asked. All of the above, he thought if she was talking to Mitch.
“Depends on who she’s talking to.”
“Mitch.” The single syllable made him want to crawl out of his skin. What part of ‘I’ll rip off your pitching arm and beat you with it’ did that fucker not understand? Blood rushed his ears, hairs all over his body standing on end.
“Whoa.” Mick slammed her glass to the counter. “Psycho jealous.” Shifting her body between him and the balcony door, her serious gaze was on his hands. They were balled into fists at his sides, every muscle in his body tense.
“You don’t understand,” he heard himself say, voice tight with rage.
“Actually, I do.” She waved a hand in front of his face. “Dial that shit back.” She poked a finger at his chest, eyes boring into his. “Now,” she demanded, her petite frame somehow taking up all the space around him. He sucked in a deep breath inflating his lungs to their max capacity. Shit, he was freakin’ wired. Mick stood her ground, supervising the inhale-exhale until his arms and hands went lax. Damn, this wasn’t him. He wasn’t this hot-head who had to be talked down, and he’d never lay a hand on Sam.
“She okay?” he asked, rubbing the tension out of his nape.
“It’s Sam. She’s always okay.” Mick schooled him in a condescending tone. “
She called him to tell him to leave her alone.” She pulled her finger from his chest. “You’ve got a lot to learn about Sam.” Her words sank in as he stood rubbing his chest. Damn, he was going to have a bruise.
“She’s got enough to deal with.” He growled towards the glass doors, willing her to hang up the phone.
“Exactly,” Mick agreed, picking up her wine. “It’s one phone call.” She held her fingers to her ear in the shape of a phone. “Mitch, I’ve gotten through the last few months without you. Thanks for the flowers, now fuck off.” Waving her finger, she gestured to all of him. “Stop this bullshit or you’ll be the next call.”
The glass door slid open, Sam’s eyes wide when she saw him.
“What’s the verdict?” Mick asked. “Am I activating the Shovel Club?” Jake surveyed Sam’s features, signs of tears or anger nowhere to be seen as she closed the space between them. Rising up on her toes, she offered a kiss in greeting. Her lips were soft but swift, leaving a taste of wine.
“Hi.” She smiled, brushing her fingers through his freshly trimmed hair. “You got a haircut.” He grinned stupidly, her fingers against his scalp soothing. Pulling her to him, he dropped a kiss on her head.
“So?” Mick prompted. “What’s his deal?” Sam’s laugh resonated through him, her hand wrapping his back as she tucked herself into his side.
“Mitch wants his ball back,” she told Mick, green eyes glancing up to his in warning. His molars locked together, biting back any response.
“His ball?” Mick held out her hand for her phone. “What is he, twelve?”
“Twelve kinds of pissed off.” Sam laughed. “I guess he rubbed Otis the wrong way.”
“Oh, that ball.” Mick touched the tip of her nose. Jake knew exactly the ball in question. He scowled at it every time he ate at Sloane’s. His first strike-out in the majors, which was admittedly worth a pretty penny now that he had a world series under his belt.
“What’s he want you to do about it?” He chanced the question, checking his anger. What a fucking asshole. He found out Sloane passed and his priority is his fucking ball?
“I’m not doing shit.” Sam shook her head. “He gave it to me for Gram to display it. Otis will give it back. He’s just being Otis.”
Jake still felt a little star-struck, hearing Sam reference Otis Smithfield like he was family. He could hear Mitch’s arrogant mouth, not surprised he pissed the guy off. He was pissed off. Suppressing the need to demand she tell him if he called again, he cleared his throat. Her hand patted his back, appreciating his restraint.
“Have you talked to Otis since…” Mick asked tentatively. “I should’ve invited him to dinner tonight.”
“Just to let him know she passed. He dropped by this morning according to Jimmy.”
“I’ll call him.” She stepped around the peninsula, Sam meeting her half-way. They hugged in the most genuine way, no air kisses for these two. “I love you,” Mick whispered, kissing Sam’s cheek. “See ya at dinner.” To his surprise, she hugged his neck. It felt natural, making him want to hug her back. Sam gave him a smile, her eyes shiny with tears. Mick finished her goodbyes, Jake holding Sam close as he locked them inside.
“We’re going to dinner?” he asked, not sure how much time they had. He was coming clean, timing be damned.
“Mick and her parents are at The Royal. You’re invited.” She held out her palm. “Do you have my phone?” Reaching into his back pocket, he handed over his guilty plea. She tapped into settings, putting a passcode in place. Tossing it to the side table, she put a hand on her hip. “The next time you feel the need to threaten Mitch, do it from your phone.” So, the little prick did tell on him.
“He- ”
“Don’t care,” she interrupted, her hand covering his mouth. “Don’t ever use my phone again,” she said, emphasis on every word. Pulling her hand from his mouth, he started to explain.
“Sam- ” Her other hand clamped over his mouth.
“My brother put his life into his business. Clients will walk away if they think we’re not protecting their information. My phone is off limits.” Bossy Sam was turning him on. “Nod your gorgeous thick head,” she demanded. He complied, knowing she felt the smile under her hand. She called him gorgeous, and still wore her sexy boss face as she lowered her hand.
“Is this the same phone you left in the Jeep?” he countered, challenging how well she protected the phone.
“I have a concussion.” She smirked, tapping her head.
“You won’t be the only one if Mitch keeps calling you,” he warned. Her lips thinned, annoyed. He didn’t care.
“You need to cool it with him. I’m serious.”
“I’m serious. He stepped out on you and he’s too chicken shit to own up to it.” The words flung from his mouth, no way to shove them back in. Her smirk was gone, face somber but not surprised. “Now he’s harassing you about a fucking baseball and you want me to cool it?” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“Feel better?” she asked, the confession one she’d been expecting.
“He told you?”
“He assumed you did, but I guess you thought I was too fragile to take the news.”
“You were,” he argued, the position not setting well with his opponent. Sam’s eyes widened, her lips parting on gasp. “You just woke up after crashing your car in a lake. Yes. You were a little fragile.” Irritation peaked into plain pissed off.
“So, your solution was to threaten him and then tell everyone but me?”
“My solution was to tell you right now. Dammit!” He shoved both hands in his hair, sealing his lips shut and needing a place to pace. Sam was perfectly still, arms crossed still and a distant stare. After what seemed like an hour, she unfolded her arms. Her bare feet topped his boots one by one, making them almost eye level with her standing on his feet. His hands found her hips, helping her balance.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against his lips. “I’m pissed off at the world, not you.” Her lips hovered his expectantly, needing his acceptance before rewarding him with a kiss. He wanted to take it all away. The cards stacked on the table, the eviction notice at their feet, and the stress of dealing with it all. She didn’t need him to, she was obviously strong. But it wouldn’t keep him from trying.
Chapter Twelve
Sam crossed the lobby balancing on four-inch Louis Vuitton’s for the first time in months. Jake had his palm at her back, keeping in step. He was the perfect height, still taller despite the heels. The man cleaned up nice in his collared button down and trousers that hugged his muscled ass.
“You look beautiful,” he said, a lazy smile on his handsome face. Her cheeks stung, blooming pink for him. He leaned in, pressing his lips to her hair. His aftershave smelled like pure sin mixed with his masculine scent.
“I think I might miss the beard,” she said, admiring his clean shave. He smoothed his hand over his chiseled jaw, something she ached to do. “You’re almost too handsome to look at.”
“Almost?” A dimple flashed in his right cheek, smile brighter than the thousand crystal chandelier overhead.
“Almost.” She laughed, the sound bubbling out of her from deep inside.
“Hi Sam.” The hostess greeted her, a wine menu already in hand. She wore black from head to toe, hair pulled back in an immaculate bun and lips tinted a shade of red with no gloss. Sam nodded in greeting, hoping to skip any condolences from her staff. “Mr. Jaeger.” The hostess smiled at Jake, long eyelashes giving away her full body sweep.
“Evening.” Jake’s response was polite, his hand making small circles on Sam’s back.
“This way.” The hostess turned on her heel, flustered and smoothing her hair.
Sam glanced up at Jake, his eyes fell of humor as he wiggled his thick brows.
“Almost,” he teased. Sam knew she’d have to get used to it, but she didn’t have to like it. His grin told her he liked her a little jealous which she needed to learn to hide. The Royal’s five-sta
r service was bustling over the Friday night crowd, Jake turning the heads of more than one table as they passed by.
The hostess led them to the back of the restaurant. Three floor-to-ceiling partitions separated the space. Water trickled over the natural stones catching the light. Jake paused, his fingers brushing the stone. She liked how he marveled at craftsmanship, true to his trade. “I want one of these.”
“I don’t think they’re for sale,” Sam said, laughter coming from the table nearby. Jake joined in, his deep chuckle rumbling from his chest.
“I guess it wouldn’t fit in my truck,” he joked and gave them a wave before falling back in step. A large table nested between the waterfall and wall of windows, all the men in her life sliding out their chairs and standing.
“Here we are.” The hostess paused, her hand outstretched toward her chair. “Can I bring you a glass of the house red?” Sam nodded.
“And a bourbon, neat.” She ordered for Jake, already in conversation with Nick. They didn’t shake hands, Nick guarding his ribs with his arm. Her stomach sank seeing the bruises on his neck and face. Remembering his hand pinned to her chest, the car smashing into trees sounded loud in her head.
“You look good,” he said as she stepped closer. Inspecting the swelling over his eye, she kissed his cheek, afraid to touch him.
“I’m great compared to you.”
“I feel better than I look.” He played it off, hand nursing his side.
“So he says,” Curtis said from over his shoulder, his hand gripping Nick’s shoulder and guiding him back down to his chair. “Sam.” He greeted her and stretched a hand out to Jake. “Curtis.” The shook hands,
“Jake.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Travis said from across the table, Jake looking more identical to Jax than he had. They both did a double-take, his bushy red beard no longer there.
“You prettied up, man.” Jake’s hand left her back, giving Travis his full attention. She enjoyed watching them embrace in a quick bro hug, both scrubbing their clean-shaves.