For the First Time (One Strike Away #$)

by Mary J. Williams

  "Really?" Brett's excitement at the prospect turned on a dime. His next slurred words were laced with tears. "I hate to drink alone."

  "So do I. The name, Brett."

  "Bud's? Bug's?" Brett laughed. And the rollercoaster of emotions continued. "Big place. Pretty bottles. And women."

  "Have you ever heard of a bar called Bud's," Murphy whispered to Jordyn. "Or Bug's?"

  Jordyn reached for her phone. Her thumbs flew as she searched the name.

  "Buck's Bar is the closest name I can find."

  "Bingo," Brett called out when Murphy relayed the name.

  "Order me a whiskey. I'll be right there."

  "Okay."

  "Brett. Don't— Shit." Murphy growled. "He hung up."

  "Don't go."

  Murphy had already pulled on his jeans. "I have to, Jordyn. Brett and I met in rehab. I don't know what knocked him off the wagon, but he had the sense to reach out. I can't let him down."

  "Then call Spencer. Have him meet you."

  "One on one always works better." Murphy was in a hurry. But when he saw the concern in Jordyn's eyes, he stopped to explain. "Brett called because he wants help. He trusts me. If I don't go alone, he'll feel ganged up on."

  Jordyn pushed off the sheet. Naked, she scooted to the end of the bed.

  "I've never been to Buck's Bar. But the address isn't in the best part of Seattle."

  "I'll be fine."

  Murphy didn't add that some of his best benders had taken place in bad parts of cities.

  "What about your contract with the Cyclones? Aren't bars forbidden territory?"

  "Management doesn't care if I go in as long as the most toxic thing I consume is stale air."

  "I have a bad feeling, Murphy." Jordyn rubbed her stomach. "Right here. If you don't want Spencer to go into the bar, fine. But he could wait in his car."

  Jordyn wasn't a worry wart. She had a good head on her shoulders. She was reasonable. Logical. If he needed a steady thinker in any situation, Murphy would want her by his side. Yet, tonight she was on edge. Which he understood. However, he didn't have time for handholding and reassurances.

  "Will you feel better if I promise to call for help at the first sign of trouble?" Murphy asked as he drew her into a hug.

  "Is a phone call the best I can hope for?"

  "Yes."

  For a second, Murphy thought Jordyn would cling to him. He should have known better. She took his face between her hands and looked him directly in the eyes.

  "I've grown awfully fond of your face. Don't let anybody mess it up."

  "I'll do my best." Murphy brushed his lips across Jordyn's forehead. The tip of her nose. And finally, her mouth where he lingered for a few precious seconds. "Get some sleep."

  Jordyn snorted. "Right."

  Murphy smiled, willing to concede sleep might be a bit of a stretch.

  "At least climb under the covers and get some rest."

  Once Jordyn was tucked in, Murphy picked up his wallet, his thoughts already on what he might find when he reached Buck's Bar.

  "Murphy?"

  At the bedroom door, Murphy turned.

  "Yes?"

  "I love you."

  Of all the times to drop the bombshell of all bombshells. Murphy wanted to grab Jordyn and shake her. He wanted to hold her close and never let go. He wanted to shout her declaration to the world. Instead, he threw his hands in the air.

  "Son of a bitch, Jordyn."

  Whatever Murphy expected Jordyn's reaction to his words to be, laughter wasn't high on the list.

  "I wanted to give you a little incentive to stay safe."

  With a growl of frustration, Murphy strode from the bedroom. Took half a dozen steps toward the stairs. Stopped. Then, retraced his steps.

  "I love you, too," he shouted. Not exactly how he'd pictured the moment. However, Jordyn looked delighted.

  "You better get going," she said.

  "Women!"

  Murphy was in his truck and headed down the street before he realized he had a big-ass grin on his face.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  THE OWNER OF Buck's Bar should have saved his money on the flashing neon sign. A piece of cardboard with the word DIVE spelled out in black marker would have been about as fancy as the place deserved.

  The mirror over a bar was dirty and cracked. And heaven only knew how often the guy pouring drinks bothered to wash the glasses. On a slow night, maybe every fourth or fifth customer? When the place was full, like now, why bother? The booze would kill whatever germs the last customer left behind. Not that the blurry-eyed patrons gave a damn one way or the other. A man didn't go to Buck's Bar for the niceties. He went there for cheap booze served by somebody who wasn't paid to pass judgment.

  He had probably been in worse places.

  Mercifully, Murphy's memories of his drinking days were sometimes on the fuzzy side. He'd probably been in worse places. However, Buck's didn't inspire him to sift through his wasted brain cells. He wanted to get in and out with as little fuss and muss as possible.

  Murphy stopped in the middle of the sticky, peanut shell-covered floor and looked around. Naturally, Brett wasn't propped up at the bar like a good boy. Why make things easy? His narrowed gaze scanned the shadows of the dimly lit room. Nope. Brett wasn't there. He was about to check the bathroom when he spied a familiar face.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Murphy asked the lone occupant of the table in the back corner.

  "I like to try new places." Spencer raised a glass of beer then had second thoughts when he caught sight of the lipstick-smudged rim. With a grimace, he set down the beer. "Travis and Nick share my thirst for adventure. No pun intended."

  Murphy considered himself fairly quick witted. However, he didn't get Spencer's meaning until he felt a hand on his back. Familiar with how dive bars worked, he turned fists clenched, ready to punch first and ask questions later.

  "Easy, Schwarzenegger," Travis chuckled as he stepped to the side in case Murphy decided to let his fist fly. "We're the good guys, remember? Teammates. Through thick and thin. You're good with the sports clichés, Nick. Toss one in."

  "Hell if I know." Frowning, Nick ran a hand through his dark hair. "Let's win one for the Gipper?"

  "Not your finest effort, but close enough. If we equate Murphy with the Gipper."

  Travis and Nick joined Spencer at the table.

  "Jordyn called you." Murphy sighed. He didn't know if he was pissed or amused. However, after brief consideration, he wasn't surprised.

  "She may have mentioned your whereabouts during a casual conversation with Blue," Spencer conceded with a shrug.

  "Casual conversation? At one in the morning?"

  "When best friends feel like shooting the breeze, time doesn't matter."

  "Fuck the clever banter." Nick didn't try to hide a yawn. "Jordyn called Spencer. Blue called us. Because of some bro-code I didn't write but nonetheless adhere to, I'm here as a backup in case you get your ass in a sling."

  "What he said," Travis nodded.

  If Murphy had been in a better mood, he would have laughed. His friends with their salon cut hair and designer clothes looked more like slumming pretty boys than thugs. However, he knew looks could be deceiving. Nick and Travis came up the hard way where they had to fight for every inch of success. As for Spencer? Though he'd been pampered from birth, in a fight, he wasn't averse to shedding some blood.

  Resigned, Murphy rubbed the back of his neck where tension had settled like the grip of an ever-tightening vise. He was frustrated. And angry. With Brett for obvious reasons. And Jordyn for loving him so much she wanted to make certain he was safe even though he assured her he could take care of himself.

  Murphy knew his thinking was skewed. But the closer the clock moved toward dawn, the less reasonable he became. Arguing with his friends would be pointless. He wanted to find Brett and get out as q
uickly as possible.

  "You guys wait here while I check the bathroom. Hopefully, Brett has already puked up a lung and will be too docile to cause a fuss."

  "I'll go with you." Spencer fell in step with Murphy.

  "Fine." Murphy laughed in spite of himself. "We'll go together like two old women."

  "Another time I would object on behalf of old women everywhere. But I'm not in the mood for politically correct bullshit."

  "Amen, brother."

  Naturally, the bathroom was on the other side of the bar. As they wound their way across the room, a thought occurred to Murphy.

  "How did you guys convince your women not to come?"

  "We simply told them to stay home." Halting in his tracks, Spencer groaned. "What are the odds they did as we asked?"

  "Travis is the math whiz. Ask him," Murphy grumbled. "However, the women aren't in here. Thank the Lord. Which means, they're either safe at their respective homes or waiting outside. In their cars. Hopefully with the doors locked."

  "Son of a bitch." Spencer blew out a hefty sigh. "I'll go out to check."

  "Grab Nick and Travis. We'll all go. Like cockroaches, lowlifes come out at night."

  With Jordyn's safety on his mind, Murphy forgot about his drunk friend. So, naturally, Brett decided now was the time to show his face. He staggered from the vicinity of the bathroom and somehow through a haze of booze immediately caught sight of Murphy.

  "There you are," Brett shouted.

  Change of plans. Murphy motioned for Spencer, Travis, and Nick to leave. He would grab Brett and follow. Unfortunately, drunks could be belligerent as well as unpredictable.

  "Drink time," Brett sang out.

  Brett was on the short side. A good foot shorter than Murphy. One hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet, he wasn't a physical threat. However, the way he smelled could have brought down a charging rhinoceros. Odors wafted from Brett in a combination so foul, the fumes brought tears to Murphy's eyes.

  Sweat. Alcohol. Vomit. Piss. Murphy didn't give himself time to think. He grabbed the collar of Brett's jacket and headed for the door.

  "Hey. Watch where you're going." A burly man complained when Brett knocked into him. Half his drink spilled onto the floor.

  "Sorry," Murphy apologized. He pulled a twenty from his wallet. "Here. Buy yourself another."

  The man, his long, red hair fashioned in a braid and rolled into a bun, stood. He was as tall as Murphy and twice as big around.

  "I don't want another drink. I liked the one I had."

  "Then finish what's left." Brett in tow, Murphy kept moving, one eye on the redheaded behemoth, one eye on the exit. They were almost there. "You can use the twenty to drink a toast to the half that got away."

  The man nudged a guy at the bar. "Hey, Wally. We got ourselves a comedian. Tell Seinfeld here how I feel about funny assholes."

  "Hate 'em," the drunk buddy declared.

  "Damn straight." Red reared back and threw the first punch.

  Murphy ducked. Shit. He'd been so close to getting away without incident. He tossed Brett to the side, planted his feet, and before all hell broke loose, had a clear as crystal epiphany.

  I should have listened to Jordyn's gut.

  ● ≈ ● ≈ ●

  JORDYN TURNED UP the volume on the television. She was alone in her office at the downtown Periwinkle, halfway through her accountant's monthly report. She should have finished by now. Except she stopped every ten minutes to re-watch the Cyclones' mid-morning news conference. Normally, she shunned procrastination at every turn. Today, she gave herself a pass because the faces on the screen were close friends.

  Blue had been born camera ready, Jordyn thought with the kind of pride only a best friend could feel. With deep-auburn hair and cheekbones a model would kill for, she was a photographer's dream. More important, intelligence radiated from behind her clear, gray eyes. She'd earned her place as head of the Cyclones' PR department.

  And as Blue read the prepared statement, she looked as cool as a breeze in May.

  "I want to make something perfectly clear. The Cyclones, from owner Ross Burton down, support Murphy Baldwin. Without reservation. What happened last night wasn't a violation of team or Major League Baseball policy."

  "Damn straight," Jordyn muttered. Facts didn't matter to some people. But Murphy had right on his side. And enough witnesses to back him up.

  "Murphy wasn't at the bar to drink. He received a call from a friend in need, and as any decent human being would, he tried his best to help. In the process, an altercation broke out. However, Murphy didn't start the fight."

  "What about the man who claims Murphy tried to smother him to death?"

  "Asinine question." Jordyn sneered when she recognized Dan Finder. "From an asinine reporter."

  If her expression was any indication, Blue agreed with Jordyn's assessment. However, with dozens of microphones turned her way, she had to play the diplomat.

  "Like everyone else, you've seen the video footage, Dan. The man, who by the way outweighed Murphy by a hundred pounds, threw the first punch. And the second. To keep the peace, Murphy wrestled his assailant to the ground and sat on him until the police arrived."

  "What about the other Cyclone players? Why were they at the bar?"

  Blue pinned the determined reporter with her cool gray gaze.

  "Spencer Kraig, Nick Sanders, and Travis Forsythe were there to support their friend and teammate."

  "A source told me you were there. As were Sanders' and Forsythe's fiancées. Not to mention Jordyn Kraig."

  "Yet you did mention her." Blue waited while the other reporters laughed at Dan Finder's expense. "Your source was correct. My friends and I were in a safe and secure SUV. Out of harm's way."

  "But—"

  "Does anyone have a question?" Blue effectively cut off the obnoxious jerk when he tried—as usual—to dominate the press conference.

  "Was Murphy's blood checked for alcohol?" someone called out.

  "Yes. Murphy not only volunteered, he insisted. The police performed a breathalyzer test on the scene. Which was negative. As were the blood and urine samples he provided."

  One of the few times in life when several negatives equaled a big, fat positive. Jordyn smiled. She knew Murphy was clean. But a little vindication never hurt anybody.

  "Murphy's friend is back in rehab. And his quick thinking averted what might have turned into a nasty brawl," Blue finished.

  "So, Murphy is a hero?" another reporter asked.

  "According to Murphy? No. But between you and me?" Blue paused for effect. "Absolutely."

  As proud as Jordyn was, all she cared about was Murphy's safety. When he'd walked from the bar with only a few inevitable bruises, she almost wept with relief.

  "You aren't mad that I interfered?" Jordyn had asked as she walked into his open arms.

  "No." Murphy kissed her. "Next time you ask me not to go out in the middle of the night, I'll listen."

  "But will you go anyway?"

  "Maybe," he admitted. "Depends on the situation."

  How could she complain? One of the reasons Jordyn loved Murphy was because, to the core, he was an honorable man. If somebody were in danger, he would always do whatever he could to help.

  The replay of the news conference had ended. Jordyn reached for the remote when the local sports anchor's face popped onto the screen

  "We have breaking news from the Cyclones' front office."

  Frowning, Jordyn turned up the volume.

  "The head of player operations has just confirmed that the Cyclones have offered Murphy Baldwin a two-year contract extension. The news doesn't come as a complete surprise. Back in May, the Cyclones received a lot of flak both here in Seattle and across the country when they announced they had signed the ex-catcher. However, Baldwin has exceeded everyone's expectations. What an extension means for the future of the man Baldwin replaced is anybody's guess. But in my opini
on, the Cyclones have made the right move."

  Jordyn switched off the set. She felt numb. Murphy was supposed to retire again after October. After the Cyclones made a run at, and hopefully won, another world championship. But two more years of baseball? The idea wouldn't compute.

  They hadn't made any plans. However, Jordyn had let herself start to dream. She pictured a quieter life. She would run her business. Murphy would have time to paint. They could travel together whenever they felt the whim.

  Now…? Jordyn didn't know what to think.

  Jordyn knew she should call Murphy. She shouldn't jump to any conclusions. The reporter hadn't said he'd signed the contract. Only that the Cyclones had made an offer. But deep down, she already knew the answer. Murphy was a baseball player. His first love, the last few months had renewed his passion for a game he thought had passed him by.

  Murphy had taken his second chance and thrived. She couldn't expect him to walk away when he could still play at such a high level.

  Lost in her thoughts, Jordyn gasped when her phone rang. She didn't have to call Murphy. He'd saved her the trouble.

  "Jordyn. Something's come up." Murphy hesitated. "I wanted to talk to you in person, but I was afraid you would hear before I could get to you."

  Any hope she might have harbored died the second she heard the restrained excitement in Murphy's voice.

  "I heard."

  "Shit. Sorry. I'm sorry I didn't call right away. The offer came out of the blue.

  "Really?"

  "After last night, I figured the goodwill I'd started to accrue would have dissolved like a cube of sugar in the Seattle rain."

  "Very poetic." The chill that settled into Jordyn's bones was a relief. She didn't love the feeling, but anger drained her. If given a choice, she would pick the numbing cold over blazing heat any day. "When you finally decide to retire, you should trade your paintbrush for a feathered quill."

  "You're angry."

  Jordyn wondered if she should worry. The sudden desire to laugh couldn't be good.