Cleat Catcher (The Cleat Chaser Duet Book 2) (40 page)

I stood. “Thanks, Nikki.”

“You’re welcome, sweetie. Good luck. I really like the way you two look together, and she was so happy when she talked about you. She hadn’t been like that—well, ever. Not even with you-know-who.”

That last bit boosted my confidence a bit after Nikki had practically ripped my heart out. The challenge for me would be not blowing up for being charged with someone else’s crimes. If I could manage that, I could get her back. Well, if she talked to me.

Nikki led me out the front door, and we said our goodbyes. I hopped in the truck and dialed Kyrie’s number. It went straight to voicemail.
Shocker.

“This is Kyrie, leave me a message. Unless you’re a
player
.”
Beep.

The end of her message had me stuttering like a buffoon. “Um-um, hey, it’s me, again. Look, I get you don’t want to talk to me, for whatever reason you have. But I think I deserve more than being ignored. If you need more time, that’s fine. But can you send me a text telling me when we can talk, so that I at least have something to hold onto? I’m dying over here.”

My hand slipped and I hit a button. There was a voice. “Do you want to save this message or record a new one? Answer yes or no.”

“Yes, wait which question am I responding to?”

“Do you want to delete this message?”

I was trying to leave a heartfelt message and maintain my thought process and this recording had me on the verge of blowing a gasket. “What the fuck? No.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand that.”

“Well open your goddamn ears then, motherfucker.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t understand that.”

“Look, douche. I’m trying to tell the woman I lo—like, that I need to talk to her. And you’re—”

“Saving message. Goodbye.”

The line clicked dead. I sat there with a blank stare, catching my eyes in the rear view mirror momentarily.
Did my conversation with the machine just get tacked on to the end of that voicemail?

I tried to call again and it went straight to voicemail once more.

“Fuck!” I beat my phone on the dash, more times than I was proud of. It may have been broken. I didn’t check.

Looking out at the road, I decided there wasn’t anywhere to go but home. I picked up my phone, and, fortunately, it still seemed to operate and the screen was crack free. My personal photos whipped across the screen as I searched for the one I wanted, the one I’d snuck the first night I met her at the restaurant. I had to see her somehow.

I sat for a moment and stared at her eyes, hair, and smile. Though I wanted to defend myself by telling her I hadn’t done anything wrong, I knew that wasn’t entirely true. If I could take back all those meaningless nights full of even more meaningless hookups, I would. But I couldn’t. I sighed and gave her another long look before turning the screen off and heading to my place.

K
YRIE

I
SAT AT
my desk, my eyes going over the same sentence in the same email about fifty times, my brain registering nothing of what I’d read. I kept seeing flashes of Easton’s easygoing smile, his arm draped around this blonde or that brunette. It was all so familiar—a player getting as many notches on his bedpost as possible. Too familiar, really.

I forced myself to stare at Tessa’s correspondence and actually comprehend what she was telling me. Flinging myself into my work had saved me last time my heart took a beating. It could do the same again.

“Fuck.” I finally read the entirety of the email and wished I hadn’t. She wanted me to fly to L.A. for an interview with the youngest daughter of some nightmare reality TV family known for sex tapes and plastic surgery. When I’d signed up for
Teen Sparkle
, it was supposed to be a stepping stone. With assignments like this, it was turning into an albatross hanging around my neck. No publication would take me seriously if I kept writing pieces about flash in the pan Hollywood wannabes.

I sighed and rested my chin on my hand. My eyes wandered to the orange scone
someone
had set on my desk before I’d gotten to work this morning. That
someone
being Nikki. She knew I was a sucker for carbs. Sliding the pastry over, I admitted defeat and took a bite. It melted in my mouth, the orange glaze sweet and zesty on my tongue.

“Gotcha.” Nikki leaned against my doorframe.

“Are you a baked goods ninja?” I asked through a mouthful of scone.

“Maybe.” She smiled and took another step inside, testing the waters.

“I’m going to put a bell around your neck if you keep that up. But you can come in. You’re forgiven for introducing me to hot, sexy, baseball player scum. Just don’t let it happen again.” I couldn’t stay mad at her, especially not when I’d already devoured half of her peace offering.

“About that—”

“I mean, I almost let him stick it in me. All the way. Not just the damn tip.” I licked the glaze off my fingers and took a swig from my coffee cup emblazoned with the letters “HBIC,” a gift from Nikki, of course.

She took her usual spot on my desk, her sassy red skirt riding up to reveal some black thigh highs.

“Are you fucking someone in the office?” I pointed to the lacy edges of her garters.

“No, this is for Braden later. He wanted to play naughty secretary.”

I laughed and brushed the scone crumbs from my light pink top.

“Easton came to see me over the weekend.”

I stopped brushing and my eyes rounded in surprise. “What?”

“He was desperate to find out why you won’t take his calls.”

I pressed my lips together, trying to hold in my anger. “And what did you tell him?”

She pressed her palms down onto my desk and stared at her knees. “The truth. That you were hurt before and that we saw the pictures of him being Captain FuckaHo.”

“Go on.” I couldn’t tell if I was angrier with Easton or with her for talking about me behind my back.

“He said those photos were taken months ago, long before he met you.”

“So?” I bit out. “Is that supposed to prove something?”

She looked at me through her lashes. “Yes. I think you know it does. I searched for any recent photos of him. There are none. He hasn’t been whoring around over the past week at all. Not since he met you.”

“One week doesn’t prove anything, Nikki.”

She tapped her nails along my desk and seemed to be wrestling with what to say next.

Her reticence made me fidget in my chair. “I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words. Out with it.”

Her gaze was frank as she lifted her face to mine, no more subterfuge. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think you’re being fair.”

I flinched, stung by her words. “Why are you taking his side? You know what happened with—”

“Yes, I know, Kyrie. I was there, remember? I held you night after night as you cried your heart out. I was there every weekend with you, having Netflix marathons and scouring celebrity gossip rags. I was there. Remember?”

God, I was such an asshole. Nikki was right. She’d always been there for me, always had my back. She was my rock after the breakup, helping me sell my wedding dress and explain the situation to wedding invitees. I couldn’t have gotten through the humiliation or the hurt without her. “Yes, I remember,” I said quietly as my eyes watered.

“I’m your girl. You know this. So when I say you aren’t being fair, it’s not without those considerations about the past, okay? But I really think he deserves a shot. He’s not the same as you-know-who. I wouldn’t have hooked you up with him if I thought they were anywhere near the same.” She leaned over and squeezed my shoulder, her friendly brown eyes glittering with tears. “I love you. But I think you’re wrong about him, and I think you’re going to regret passing him up. That’s all I wanted to say.”

“I love you, too.” I stood and hugged her.

“Jeez, I need implants,” she said and pressed me harder against her. “I want Braden to feel this every time I hug him.”

Grady, from the mailroom, walked past my door pushing his cart. Then he backed up and stared, a goofy grin overtaking his face as he watched the two of us embracing.

“Um, Nikki,” I whispered.

“Yeah, bestie with the chestie?”

“There’s a creeper on your six.”

“Is it Grady?”

He pretended to put some mail in the cubicle across from my office. The
unoccupied
cubicle.

“Yeah.”

“Squeeze my ass. Give him something to dream about.”

“Seriously?”

“Do it,” she urged into my ear.

“Fine.” I reached down and squeezed her butt.

Grady’s eyes widened and he hurried away, his dick likely pushing the cart for him.

“He’s gone.” I pulled away from her and shook my head. “You are insane.”

“You loved it, slut.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and hopped off my desk. “I’ll see you later. I need to work on my article for the next edition.”

“Oh, no. What did Tessa assign you this time?”

“This one may be my all-time fave assignment. It’s supposed to be about the new cultural norm of girl-on-girl action amongst teens.”

I sank into my chair and cocked my head to the side. “I’m pretty sure our readers’ parents won’t find that to be a cultural norm.”

She laughed. “I told Tessa it was all the rage. She believed me. So now I’m thinking of calling my piece ‘Dancing the Clitterbug’. You like it?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Out, you beautiful, insane woman, you. I have a baseball player to apologize to. Hop on down the bunny trail. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Tell Easton I said hi.” She blew me a kiss and disappeared out my door.

I reached for my cell phone, but my desk phone rang before I could pick it up. The number popped up on my phone’s digital screen, and I recognized it.
Style and Substance
. I squealed and then forced myself to affect a nonchalant tone.

“Hello, this is Kyrie.”

“Please hold for Ms. Froggart,” a woman’s voice chirped into my ear before the line went silent.

I shot up, stretching my phone cord to a perilous degree, and slammed my door closed. Once I sat back down, the line clicked.

“Ms. Kent?” A woman’s voice, thin and high. Graciela Froggart, the editor in chief of
Style and Substance
.

“This is she.” I tried to keep my tone even, despite my ears getting hot and my hands turning cold as ice. Nerves.

“I’m calling about your resume and writing samples. I’ll just cut to the chase. Your resume is perfect, your credentials spot on, and your last piece on this pop sensation Justin what’s-his-name was mechanically excellent.”

My heart swelled at her words, but it was tempered by the feeling that a “but” would be located at the end of her sentence.

Right on cue, she added, “But, your writings lack a certain
je ne sais quoi
.” Her French was heavily accented, probably perfect, and I was totally screwed.

“I’m not sure what—”

She continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Though I wasn’t impressed with the heart of your writing thus far, I see talent. I want talent on my team. But, a diamond in the rough is still rough and nowhere near as valuable as a polished, glittering gem. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Maybe
. “Yes.”

“Good. I expect a new, multifaceted piece from you within two weeks.”

“Thank you—”

The line went dead. I dropped the phone into the cradle and stuffed my freezing hands under my arms. I turned her words over in my mind like a coin—
heart
,
multifaceted piece.
The Justin piece, and all my other pieces for
Teen Sparkle
were mostly fluff, but I never thought they lacked heart. Then again, I hadn’t taken the fluff pieces seriously, only doing what I needed to in order to please Tessa.

“God.” I pulled out my hands and covered my face. Had I sabotaged myself by dreaming at the
Style and Substance
level but not following through at the
Teen Sparkle
level? I already knew the answer. Yes.

I sat for several minutes, running through my options. I didn’t have many, and I was certain an article on the reality TV stars of L.A. I’d been assigned wasn’t going to pass muster with Graciela Froggart. I would need to write something else, something that would catch her interest. All I had to do was figure out what that something else was.

I took a deep breath and picked up my cell phone. I needed time to think about how to impress Graciela, but there was something I could do right then that would smooth over another area of my life.

I ran my thumbs along the screen.

I’m sorry for judging you the way I did. Can I make it up to you with dinner at Sal Antonio’s? Tonight? Meet you there at eight?

After I hit send, I rested my chin on my crossed forearms and stared at my phone. Easton was probably at practice. Maybe he was doing laundry. Perhaps he was with his sister at a doctor’s appointment, or saving orphans, or putting out a fire on a school bus—doing anything but ignoring my text the way I’d been ignoring his.