Night Games (The Storm Inside #6) Page 3

  Not even drop-dead sexy ballplayers.

  “I wouldn’t say a word,” she whispered. “The man is hot and I know how you feel about—”

  I cut her off with the wave of my hand. “Not happening.”

  “Okay.” She sat back and sighed. “I could use a night of no men anyway.”

  That sounded interesting. “Are your fictional boyfriends giving you fits again?”

  “Yes and no. The book I’m working on right now is that fantasy book I can never seem to get right.”

  I’d read a few chapters on my vacation a couple of months ago. It was really good but missing something, and since I’m not a writer I was absolutely no help. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I better. My agent mentioned the concept to my potential new editor and she was apparently very interested.”

  “And how are the negotiations going?” Zoe was about to sign a major book deal. She’d been an independent writer up until this point, and doing pretty well for herself, when she got a crazy idea and locked herself up in her bedroom for two weeks. When she came out she had written two books unlike anything else in her backlist. The current negotiations weren’t if the books would be sold to a major publisher, but how high into the seven figures they would offer.

  My best friend was about to be as famous as anyone else in this hotel and it was scaring the hell out of her.

  She blew out a slow stream of air. “I think we’ve reached a deal.”

  “And?”

  “I think I’m going to take it.”

  “Then why do you look so confused?”

  I noticed a little shake to her hand as she brushed her hair back from her face. “I know this is real but it doesn’t feel like it. I swear any second now I’m going to wake up and this will all have been a very sick dream and I’ll still be sitting in my bedroom tapping away at my keyboard, daydreaming of the day I don’t have to worry about money.”

  I pinched her arm. Hard.

  “Ow!” she howled.

  “See? You’re totally awake.”

  “And you’re mean.” She rubbed the spot that was already red.

  “Don’t worry. It won’t cause permanent damage.”

  She made a face and turned her voice high-pitched in an imitation of me. “I know because I’m a super famous surgeon to the stars.”

  Not the stars. Just some pretty amazing athletes.

  “I SWEAR HE LOVES THAT CAT,” I whispered to myself as I scrolled through Wes Allen’s Instagram account for the third time. I was marginally disturbed by my own behavior, but he was kind of mesmerizing. So many shirtless pictures showing off his gorgeous body. The cat was adorable, too. And the combination? Yep, that’s how I wound up on round three.

  Zoe and I had a fantastic dinner and June managed to show up in time for dessert so we got a lot of much needed friend time in. But it also meant I saw when Wes left with his arm draped over a very pretty brunette. It should have turned me off. It should have ended my desire to know more about him.

  And yet, it didn’t.

  I spent my morning downtime mildly stalking the man over every social media account I could find. His Instagram was definitely his drug of choice but his Facebook was very informative about more than his abs and his cat. For one, the man loved the game. Genuinely loved it. He had an extensive memorabilia collection and regularly posted about the philosophy and nostalgia of the sport instead of the wins and stats.

  And then there were the videos.

  I think that was what did me in. Not just the short videos on Instagram and Facebook, but the longer ones on his YouTube channel. Wes Allen was funny.

  And enigmatic.

  And there was a charm to him that was downright irresistible.

  Basically, he was the sexiest man I’d ever met—and we hadn’t actually met yet—something I was working on fixing immediately now that I knew June had a direct connection to Wes. She’d even patched up his ankle the weekend before. Our eventual meeting was only complicated by the fact that June was very obviously in denial over how much she was still in love with Wes’s best friend and agent, Roman St. James.

  I was still completely alone in the conference room so I slipped out my ear buds and hit play on Wes’s latest “Try Not To Laugh” video with Roman.

  Welcome to my latest edition of Try Not To Laugh. In this episode Roman and I will be doing voice-overs of my greatest outtakes. It’s okay to laugh, ladies. I’ve done some stupid shit.

  Wes and Roman—who was also very handsome, I might add—sat across from each other at a simple brown table. Between them sat a television with a frozen Wes in full catcher’s gear. The black background made the focus entirely on the two men and the television screen.

  Roman went first.

  The scene was from an afternoon game against the Mariners. Wes was sweaty and covered from head to toe in orange clay. It must have been one hell of a game. He sat in a crouch behind home plate. Roman began to narrate.

  Shoo fly. Wes swatted at a fly buzzing near his mask. Shoo fly, don’t bother me.

  Two plus one equals four. Wes was giving signals to the pitcher against his thigh.

  Shoo fly.

  Shoo fly!

  The hitter bunted and Wes dove for the ball, missing it and chasing it across the infield. The runner at third took a chance and went for home plate. Wes dove back, missing the tag, then threw his mitt and mask before jumping up and down in frustration.

  All the while Roman’s voice grew higher and higher pitched.

  Shoo fly. Damn fly. I’ll get you, fly. Get back here! Die, fly! Die!

  Wes kept a stone face the entire time, only his eyes widening and lighting up as he fought back his laugh.

  Now it was his turn.

  In this scene Wes was on second. It was a night game and he was much cleaner.

  Your fly is down. Wes said to the second baseman.

  I’m not buying it, Allen.

  Even from a distance the camera caught his breathtaking smile. The way the uniform hugged his gorgeous body barely held a candle to that smile. It was a million-watt stunner that made my heart skip a beat.

  Seriously. Your fly is down.

  The second baseman still didn’t look. Instead he crouched, ready as the pitcher threw the ball, his pants clearly open.

  The batter hit a grounder that went just to the left of the second baseman. He dove for it and came up with the ball, but his pants had busted open. He threw the ball to first and hitched up his pants, shooting Wes a glare as he stopped on third with an even bigger, sexier, cockier grin.

  I told him his fly was down. True story.

  Roman grinned but didn’t laugh. He did however, shake his head and sigh. Only you, Wes. Only you.

  Wes shrugged and gave me another smile that made my panties just that little bit wetter. The way his eyes lit up and pinched at the corners, the way his dimple popped in the middle of his cheek . . .

  I was infatuated. There were no two ways about it.

  But it would be a simple infatuation to get over. All I needed was to meet him, bang him, and move on. Heck, if I didn’t tell him my name or where I worked we might never cross paths again. I could get him out of my system without any trouble at all.

  In the next clip Wes got into a chest-bumping, shouting match with a batter. I didn’t even listen to Roman’s high-pitched commentary. I was too caught up in the pure masculinity of a pissed off Wes Allen. He was genuinely angry, but not in a macho way. Whatever had happened between him and the batter, it wasn’t his ego that was bruised. As his teammates backed him away, Wes kept yelling and pointing, his eyes wild, the vein in his neck throbbing. Then he pushed out of their grasp and made another lunge for the batter, Ryan Alvarez.

  I knew the reputation of Alvarez but had never met him. He was a sleazy pretty boy who was great at hitting home runs, but nothing else. He didn’t play because he loved the game, he played because he could hit and make money.

  Based on the way Wes was going at him
, Wes didn’t like that about him one little bit.

  “You don’t want to date him,” June said over my shoulder.

  I jumped out of my skin, yanking out my ear buds. “Who said anything about dating.” I clicked my phone off and tossed it back into my purse.

  “Well, whatever it is you’re planning, don’t do it.” She moved to the chair beside me at the conference table. “He’s a great guy but he’s also nothing but trouble.”

  “That makes no sense. How can someone be a great guy and trouble?”

  “How do I explain this?” she sighed. Today June was dressed a little more formally in a blouse and slacks. Her blonde hair hung in loose waves around her shoulders. She was pretty and athletic, and managed to go between dressed up and dressed down with an ease I envied. “Wes Allen will drive five hours out of his way as a favor for a friend, he’ll stay up all night to keep you company when you’re sick, but he’ll also forget to pick you up from the airport and ask his best friend to sleep with a strange woman just so he can get laid, too.”

  I grinned. “And by ‘best friend’ you mean Roman?”

  She blushed. “Yes.”

  So she was a little biased but she also had some valid points there. Not the kind that would affect his ability to have a one-night stand with me, but the kind that would be red flags if I wanted anything more.

  Which I totally didn’t.

  “He sounds sweet.”

  “He is,” she agreed, “when he doesn’t need something. He’s a complete asshole otherwise.”

  “Some might say that about me.” My dislike of people rarely led me to be nice to anyone.

  “You’re not an asshole. You’re bitchy. There’s a difference.”

  No, no there wasn’t. At least not in this case. I had zero tolerance for anything, I disliked incompetence, and generally avoided people because they weren’t worth my time and effort. “None of this matters because all I want to do is consume his sexy body. Based on your description of us both, if he’s amenable, we’ll bang and move on, no questions asked, no hurt feelings. Mostly because we lack them in the first place.”

  “You have feelings.” She gave me one of those looks that made me super uncomfortable because it was like she was looking into my soul. “You have those deep, twisty feelings that are so strong you have to keep them carefully protected. You say you’re an asshole who doesn’t feel but what you really mean is that you’re a super sweet woman who feels too much. You’re my best friend so I know these things.”

  That was not what I expected to hear.

  At all.

  I mean, I had my suspicions that June, and maybe even Zoe, had spent enough time around me to know I was more bark than bite, but damn. June said the hard stuff I didn’t like to think about at all.

  Like the fact that I felt a lot. Way more than I was comfortable feeling. It was easier to keep my circle small than to try to learn how to navigate a world full of people who wanted pieces of me. I learned that lesson the hard way when I was a teenager.

  “Fine. I have feelings. That doesn’t mean I can’t bang who I want to bang.”

  “You can totally bang Wes if that’s what you want to do. I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I was just giving you some friendly advice.”

  “Noted. Now tell me something useful.”

  She rolled her eyes just as the rest of the medical staff streamed in. “I guess it will have to wait until dinner tonight.”

  4

  Wes, present day

  Her favorite coffee was still in my pantry.

  I was standing naked in my kitchen, holding the pantry door, staring at the black and gold bag as it sat on my shelf, mocking me in my failure.

  It had been a week since our wedding and things had not been going my way. I had four games to play in two cities. And neither of those cities were anywhere near Carrie. My coaches were pissed at me for disappearing midweek, plus I missed practice. Apparently they didn’t believe I was sick. It might have had something to do with not seeing the team doctor and not being in my condo. And pissed coaches ride your ass like a drunken cowboy on the longest ride of his life.

  It had been a hell of a week.

  But I held onto a tiny bit of hope that it might actually work in my favor. Carrie needed space. Space I most definitely didn’t want to give her. Life and work had forced that separation and while I didn’t like it one little bit, I was pretty grateful.

  Well, for everything except the being apart part of it.

  I grabbed my usual shitty coffee from beside her pretty bag and made a mess of making coffee.

  My phone vibrated on the counter somewhere between the coffee grounds I scattered all over the surface, and the bananas I was about to house.

  ZOE: Are you coming to the party?

  Was I coming to the party? How was that even a question? June was throwing Roman a surprise wedding reception. Of course my ass was going to be there.

  ZOE: Don’t be you. If you push Carrie she’ll gut you.

  It was too early and I was too tired to interpret text messages. I peeled my banana and ate it in two bites as I watched the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean. My condo was high enough to give me an unobstructed view each and every morning—something I usually took advantage of. I really loved my floor to ceiling windows and morning was my favorite time of day.

  I poured myself a cup of heaven and dialed the tiny demon pixie as Snickers curled up on my shoulder, purring.

  “Why are you calling me?” she hissed in a whisper.

  “Because texting is confusing.” I scratched behind his ears.

  There was silence and some weird noises, followed by a door slamming. “I was with her. The least you could do was give me a heads up you were going to call so I could find some privacy. You have the social skills of a Neanderthal.”

  She always pronounced the end of the word “tall” instead of “thall” like it was spelled. And I always gave her a hard time about it. Because I liked giving everyone a hard time about everything.

  “I’m not a Neanderthal. I’m tired.” I put a lot of emphasis on –thall.

  She sighed. “Dude. Just because I actually took some anthropology courses in college doesn’t mean I want to debate the pronunciation of the word with you every single time we talk. Let. It. Go.”

  “There’s an ‘h’ in the word, Pixie. Say the ‘h’.”

  “Well, since you’re more interested in being a dick in the morning than knowing more about your wife I guess I’ll go back to my brunch.”

  Brunch? It was barely seven. “Stop. Talk.”

  “She’s a mess, Wes. I’ve never seen her like this.”

  That hollow spot in my chest caved in on itself. “Explain.” I sounded like a frog.

  “She’s not talking. If I ask her a question she’ll answer with the least amount of words. She’s holding everything inside. She’s angry, short tempered, and . . . ”

  I didn’t like the way her voice disappeared at the end of the sentence. “And?”

  “Sad. She’s sad, Wes.”

  Because of me. I made her sad. “Why?”

  “Do I really need to explain this to you, dumbass? You married her, remember?”

  There was a possibility the phone in my hand was about to crumble into a thousand tiny plastic pieces. That’s how hard I was gripping it. “I know the big, bad why. I’m asking if you know anything more specific.”

  “Oh.” It was a quiet, sympathetic answer. “You’re smarter and sweeter than we give you credit for.”

  Which was nice and all but . . . “Do you know?”

  “Not really. I keep trying to draw her out. Honestly, she has never been one to get overly personal. Sure, we all know about her fun nights out, but nothing deeper. It’s like she uses her stories to distract us from asking anything else.”

  It was exactly why Carrie was so talkative. I knew this much. “It’s like you’re a romance writer or something.”

  She snorted. “You’re one to know!”


  And that was my cue. “Call me if you have any plans that actually make sense.”

  “Whoa, there cowboy! Slow your roll. I told you to leave her be for a reason.”

  Whatever her reason was I didn’t want to hear it. Because if I heard it and it made sense I wouldn’t be able to follow through on my plan to do the opposite of leaving her alone at the party. “Goodbye demon pixie.”

  “She’s raw. And when Carrie’s raw she lashes out.”

  “Then we should talk.” It was probably the most reasonable thing I’d ever said, even if it was totally selfish.

  “I don’t think talking at your best friend’s surprise wedding reception is the best place for that.”

  Stupid Zoe with her excellent points. I was going to ignore it. “Thank you for the warning. I will be careful and I won’t upset her. I promise.”

  “Okay.” Then she huffed. “But I do have one more quick question.”

  “Get it over with. I have breakfast to eat.” My coffee was gone and my stomach was growling so loud I was surprised she couldn’t hear it over the phone.

  “Which one of my books is your favorite?”

  “Goodbye, pixie.”

  SHIT. Shit. Shit.

  Roman was going to kill me. Like, actually kill me this time. That was the thought that kept burning a hole through my brain as I paced back and forth across his pretty office-with-a-view at Bancroft Sports. Sometimes having your agent also be your best friend was a huge convenience but other times . . .

  Well, lets just say today I was not excited about the combination. I didn’t need my agent right now. I needed the guy who’d been my brother for the last ten years.

  Honestly, I couldn’t remember a life without him. Sometimes when I looked back at my childhood I could have sworn Roman was there even though he wasn’t. That’s just how completely we’d become friends—and the cool thing was that it was pretty instantaneous. We met and that was it. We immediately started getting into trouble together and we’d never stopped.

  Oh, sure. Roman was the serious one of the two of us and he’d only gotten more adult since his wife, June, came into his life, but we were still a pair to be reckoned with when I could convince him to come out and play.