Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  “So, what’s the problem?”

  “She’s Lola Carradine,” I answer. “And I doubt whatever we end up doing will be uncomplicated and I don’t have time for complicated. I’m here to play ball.”

  “Fuck that, man,” Mack says, groaning. “Listen, you could play great ball in your sleep. So, forget that. You’re gonna kick ass on the field regardless, but I promise, if you find a way to release that extra tension in your shoulders… ease the stress… you’re gonna be fucking MVP.” He says this so matter-of-factly.

  “You sound like Davies.”

  “We talk,” Mack admits and then sighs. “Listen, we joke around a lot, it’s what we do. The season gets long and we spend a lot of time shooting the shit and keeping ourselves entertained when we don’t have games to win. But bottom line is we love this game… we love playing for the Revelers… we love New Orleans. The whole organization is great, so we want to see it succeed. We also like you and we think you’ll have a great career, but Davies and I both see parts of ourselves in you and we just want to help you not make mistakes we’ve made. So, when we give you advice, it comes from a good place.”

  Not gonna lie, I kind of choke up. I’ve had guys over the years give me bits and pieces of advice here and there, but most of that has come from my dad and other coaches. I’ve always come into a team where I’m the one everyone is looking up to, but it’s not like that at this level. Guys like Mack and Davies have literally been there and done that. I look up to them. So, for him to care enough to tell me this shit means a lot.

  “Thanks, man,” is all I manage to say.

  “What’s got you second guessing Ms. Carradine?” Mack asks, switching gears and lightening the conversation back up. “Besides being a distraction?”

  “She’s going to be in L.A. this week for a red carpet… with some actor.”

  Mack hums. “Yeah, that wouldn’t fly for me either. If a chick is with me, she’s with me.”

  “Well, that’s the thing, Charlotte isn’t really with me. We just talk and we’ve been out to dinner a couple times. That’s it.”

  “But you want to be with her,” Mack adds.

  We sit the rest of the flight in silence and I let the conversation marinate, soaking into me. I want to be with Charlotte. The question is: can I handle Lola?

  Once the plane stops on the airstrip, the team files out, bags in hand and boards a charter bus waiting to take us to the hotel. The other nice thing about playing in the majors, no shared rooms.

  The ride to the hotel is quiet. Surprisingly, Mack keeps his word and doesn’t mention Lola… or Charlotte. Davies has been quiet the entire trip, seemingly deep in thought. The two guys I share an apartment with, Jorge and Luis, are occupying the seat in front of me. Both guys have been on the team a couple seasons. We all get along well, but they’re on a different time schedule than me. I hit the gym early for an extra workout, while they stay up late playing video games. But it’s cool… they’re cool, much better than the roommates I had in Des Moines. There it was like we had a revolving door, women coming in and out at all hours.

  I’m not one to judge.

  To each their own.

  But that’s just never been me.

  Sure, I’ve had a few hook-ups, but I’ve mostly just avoided it. Sex means a little more to me than most guys. I’m not a fuck ‘em and leave ‘em kind of guy. Call me a pussy or whatever, but for me, it’s more than just a release. And I’ve had girlfriends over the years, two fairly long term relationships in college. But with each one, they would pressure me for more of a commitment, especially the girl I was dating during my senior year. When talk started picking up about the draft and what round I’d go in, she started asking about my plans and whether or not they included her.

  “In five years, where do you see us?” she’d asked.

  And when I really forced myself to think about it, I saw myself playing baseball, but that was about it. I didn’t see myself with her, not even a year down the road.

  My mom told me when I meet the right girl, I’ll find a place for her.

  I’ve been telling myself that won’t happen until my first love—baseball—is gone. I’ve never felt like I have room for two loves.

  I’m a one-woman guy, loyal to the bone.

  Game one in Sacramento gives us our first road win of the season, but it had nothing to do with me. I grounded out in my first at bat and was thrown out at first. My second at bat was a strike-out, leaving Chan and Martinez stranded on second and third. In the eighth inning, I finally got a good hit, but it was caught at the wall. And then, I let a ball roll right past me in the ninth inning.

  But we won, no fucking thanks to me, and at the end of the day, a W is all that matters.

  “Don’t get down on yourself, Rook,” Davies groans, passing me as we walk to the elevators. “Tomorrow’s a new day.”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, keeping my head down.

  I just want another shower, a hot one, and a bed. It’s been a long day and I’m spent. Last night, I slept like crap, mostly thinking about Charlotte and wanting to text her but trying not to be that guy. A guy I didn’t even know I was capable of being a month ago, especially with a girl who’s not even mine.

  “Tomorrow, Rook,” Mack says, giving me a slap on the back.

  “Wanna head to the bar with us?” Luis asks as we walk down the hall to our rooms.

  “Nah, I’m gonna turn in early, hit the gym early,” I tell him. “Work off some of this tension.”

  Dipping into my room, I shut the door before I have to listen to any of their smartass comments about getting my dick wet. I’m not saying they’re wrong. At this point, I’m thinking they might be spot on, even though I hate admitting it. And I’m a little pissed at myself for allowing my feelings for Charlotte to get this far.

  I didn’t see her coming.

  Didn’t realize she’d be someone I couldn’t forget.

  Wasn’t aware that she’d force herself into my head.

  When I ditch my clothes I changed into at the field and turn on the shower, the hot water is a welcome reprieve, taking my mind off the shit game I played and the girl who’s taking up residence in my thoughts. But the longer I stand there, Charlotte seeps back in… nice and warm, just like always. Warm, brown eyes. Warm smile. Warm hands.

  Last week, we were eating at this hole in the wall place, a table in the back, everyone ignoring us like we were nobodies, and Charlotte was laughing. Her head was tossed back, mouth open, eyes closed—totally in the moment. And then her hand came down and rested on my arm, before she continued with her story about a fan who threw their pants up on stage.

  She thought maybe they were an extra pair… or they had something else on over them. But when she looked out into the crowd, there was this guy, standing in his briefs. The best part is they weren’t boxers or even boxer briefs, they were bright, white Fruit of the Looms.

  I was laughing with her, but on the inside, all I could focus on was the feel of her hand on my arm. It felt good… right. I wanted more—more touching, more of her… more of her touching me.

  The memory has me sliding my hand down my chest to my cock, which is now standing at attention, also remembering how good it felt. For about the dozenth time since I met her, I jack off to a vision of Charlotte. It’s not a full release, but it takes the edge off.

  After I’m dried off and sprawled across my bed, zoning out to a random movie on the television, I grab my phone to see if I’ve missed any text messages or calls. But just like when I first got back to the room, nothing.

  Part of me wants to pull up Safari and type in Charlotte’s name, just to see if anything pops up.

  But that feels intrusive.

  If she wanted me to know something about her life, she’d tell me.

  When my phone dings, my heart skips a beat, thinking maybe Charlotte has ESP and is texting me, but instead it’s Mack.

  Mack: Rook?

  Bo: Yeah?

  Mack: You heard
from your girl?

  I roll my eyes, wishing I’d never confided in him.

  Bo: No.

  Bo: And she’s not my girl.

  Mack: Have you seen this?

  A few seconds later a picture comes through of Charlotte, smiling at the camera, wearing a fucking gorgeous red dress, slit up to her waist. Her hair is up, exposing her exquisite neck.

  The thing that really gets my blood boiling is the guy with his lips on the neck I’ve daydreamed about tasting. His hands are also claiming her waist, pulling her to him.

  They look like lovers.

  They look happy.

  She looks happy.

  Yeah, this is what I can’t do.

  I’m a confident guy, not particularly jealous, but I can’t do this.

  My phone buzzes again, but I don’t answer. I have nothing to say to Mack, so I turn it to silent and place it face down on the nightstand. We have another game tomorrow. That’s what I’m going to focus on. The one thing I can control is me… I can get to sleep, be at the gym early tomorrow for cardio, be prepared for tomorrow… That’s me. That’s who I am.

  But even when I tell myself I’m not going to give Charlotte or the guy she’s with in the photo another thought, it’s a lie. I can’t get it out of my head. I’ll have to thank Mack for that tomorrow.

  Ignorance is fucking bliss.

  Doesn’t he know that?

  I’m also worried about her. I know what she told me about Cody DiMarco—about the drugs and the crowd he runs with and the people she left L.A. to get away from. For her sake, I hope she doesn’t let him drag her down. She’s too good for that.

  Some unknown time later, I’m asleep when I hear a banging on my door. Assuming it’s one of the guys and praying this isn’t some kind of rookie initiation where they have me streaking through the hotel, I climb out of bed and walk to the door.

  Swinging it open, I about swallow my tongue.

  Long legs in fishnet pantyhose.

  A corset barely containing large tits.

  Straight black hair.

  And nothing else.

  “Hey, Bo,” she croons, lashes batting.

  “Uh…”

  “Boys said you could use a little TLC.” She licks her bright-red lips as she lets her eyes roam. “Looks like I’m in for a treat. You’re quite the… package.”

  Oh, fuck no.

  Huh uh.

  Nope.

  “There’s been some mistake,” I tell her, going to shut the door, but she stops me with her foot that I now notice is in a stiletto… a mile high. The kind of shoes you see and wonder how anyone walks in them without breaking their neck.

  “No mistake, baby… no regrets,” she says, her hand coming up and resting on my chest.

  As politely as possible, I remove it and gently push her back into the hallway.

  “I don’t think so,” I reply. “Did they pay you… do you get paid?” I’m not sure how this works, but I’m guessing she’s not standing at my hotel room door for free. “I can pay you, but then you’ve gotta leave.”

  Her seductive act drops and she huffs, placing her hands on her hips.

  “They told me you’d be a hard sell.”

  “Yeah, listen,” I turn to the bar where I’d put my wallet earlier and take out what cash I have. “Take this,” I tell her, placing the bills in her palm. “Consider it a tip… or whatever.”

  She looks at the money and smirks. “You don’t have to,” she says, handing it back, but I refuse it. “Look, the guys paid me. So, don’t worry about it.”

  “No, take it. I’m sure you had better things you could’ve been… doing,” I say hesitantly.

  Her eyebrow hitches and she takes another look, ogling my chest… six pack… and then lingering a little too long at my dick. A few more seconds of that and I’ll need my money back, because she’ll be the one owing me. This ain’t a free show.

  “No,” she says on a sigh. “I’d do you for free.”

  An instant blush hits my cheeks and I dip my head so she doesn’t see.

  Taking a card from her cleavage, she hands it to me. “If you change your mind…”

  I smile, holding the card up. “Thanks.”

  She waves and walks away, and I watch her until she disappears around a corner, waiting for one of those sons of bitches to stick their head out. I can guess who was behind it, but I’d love to know for sure. However, every door remains shut, so I close my door and go back to bed.

  Chapter 10 - Charlotte

  This is exactly what I was afraid of, exactly why I didn’t want to agree to this stupid farce of a date.

  The premiere was fine. It was a typical red carpet event with mics being thrust in my face, while camera flashes burned my retinas. I was a bit confused as to why anyone wanted to talk to me at all because, technically, I was just a spectator. It wasn’t my event; I had nothing to do with the movie. I haven’t put out a new album in over two years. And yet, it seemed like the reporters were frothing at the bit to talk to me, more interested in me than Cody DiMarco.

  But that’s Hollywood—whatever sells.

  Maybe Terry was right and this was a positive move for cleaning up my reputation.

  Sometimes, I really hate it when he’s right.

  Regardless, tonight didn’t go as I’d hoped. What I’d hoped for was going to the premier, taking a few interviews, being seen, and then disappearing back to my hotel room where I’d scrub my face clean, crawl in bed, order room service, and text Bo.

  It’s one thing to show up and answer a few quick questions, give a couple of soundbites… I’m totally fine with that. What I don’t like—no, what I hate is having to put up with bullshit like Cody DiMarco putting his mouth and teeth on me without any warning and pretending to enjoy it. His little whispers about playing nice for the camera made me want to kick him in his balls.

  But there were lots of cameras.

  And they were all trained on us.

  Him, the star of the movie.

  Me, his date and current hot gossip topic.

  Since we left the premier a few hours ago, I’ve been whisked to three parties, had drinks thrust in my hand and drank them because I needed something to get me through this night. But now, here I am, hiding in a bathroom in a club I don’t even know the name of, wishing I had magical powers so I could disappear.

  My head is spinning thanks to the last drink I just guzzled before finding my way in here. The music from the club is a muffled roar. The bathroom only has two stalls so occasionally someone is yelling at me to get out, but I don’t.

  I’m not leaving.

  Because on the other side of that door, down a long dark hallway, there’s a VIP table where Cody DiMarco is sitting with other well-known celebrities and they’re doing lines of coke. I’m not an addict, but I know what it’s like to experience the rush of a high.

  It’s nice.

  For a while.

  But then, you come down, and all the bullshit you were trying to escape is still there and now, not only do you have the normal day-to-day bullshit to deal with, but you have grainy photos leaked of you across the internet. Everyone is talking about how you’re spiraling.

  Will Lola Carradine be the next untimely death? Is she still an addict? Did her drug rehab from ten fucking years ago not work?

  Well, jokes on them, because I was never at a drug rehab. I’ve never been to any kind of rehab. I can say no to any substance, when I want to.

  That’s never been my problem.

  But tonight, already feeling the pressure caving in around me, I want to say yes, just to escape… just for a moment.

  Once the bathroom empties out, I fumble around with my tiny black clutch and pull out my phone. Staring at the blank screen for a minute, I contemplate what I want to do.

  What I really want to do is call Bo.

  I think just hearing his voice would put me at ease, help me think clearer. But it’s late, like really late. Powering my phone up, I note that the scr
een reads one thirty-two.

  Bo Bennett is a good guy. He’s a machine. He wakes up early and goes to bed early. In the short time I’ve known him, one thing I’ve noticed is he’s consistent. Some might say he’s boring, but I say he’s dedicated. He knows what he wants and he’s willing to do anything to get it.

  A part of me wants to be on the receiving end of that kind of devotion. A very large part of me. I’ve never been truly in love before, but I can see myself falling for someone like Bo.

  The other part of me, the unselfish part, wants to tell Bo Bennett to run for the hills. I want to yell at him to run as far and fast as he can, because I know what I am to him. I see it in the way he wars with himself when he’s with me. I’m a distraction. I wasn’t in his plans.

  He doesn’t pick up random women and take them home.

  He’s not a one-night stand kind of guy.

  He’s good.

  And strong.

  And steady.

  And so fucking sexy… and the crazy thing is I don’t even think he knows it.

  Which only makes him more sexy.

  And I want him.

  All of him.

  All to myself.

  But I’m Lola Carradine and I don’t get that luxury.

  Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I lean against the bathroom stall for support and swipe my thumb across the screen, heading for the last text message Bo and I shared—me telling him about tonight. In a way, I was warning him… trying to give him a heads up. Trying to protect him, just in case he’s feeling what I’m feeling. Because I know if I was in his position and saw a photo of him with a random chick, I’d feel hurt.

  I know I shouldn’t do what I’m about to do, but the vodka I’ve been drinking all night tells me otherwise.

  One ring and my heart leaps.

  Two rings and I close my eyes, trying to quiet the thrum in my chest.

  Three rings and I know I should hang up.

  But I hang on, just in case he has a voicemail box that’s set up. Maybe I can at least hear his voice… leave him a message. I lose track of the rings until a sleepy “Hello?” breaks through the line. Breathing heavy, I stare at the peeling black paint on the wall across from me. “Charlotte?” Bo asks a few seconds later, a rustling sound in the background. “Are you okay?”