Going All the Way (Knights of Passion Book 1) (12 page)

Jason stepped out of the small office and restrained the urge to slam the door. Called to the manager’s office like a kid in school. It was the second time that week that he felt like a failure, an idiot, a child. And he hated that feeling. It was just another sign of how far he had fallen. Two years ago, everyone would have rushed to his aid, excusing him, defending him, not assuming Jason was to blame. Now, he had no credit, no one to take his side.

God help him if Stacia ever found out.

*

Nice job with his new teammates. Nothing like making friends and influencing people
. His thoughts were morose as he sipped a beer in the hotel bar. The bartender slid a steak under his arms.

“Water, please. Thanks.” He didn’t need any more alcohol dulling his senses. One beer was enough.

“Oh, my God! Jason Friar! It’s been years.” A shrill, female voice echoed through the bar.

A niggling recognition danced at the fringes of his brain. He slowly turned around just in time to catch the woman who threw herself at him, kissing him passionately.

Holy shit. Danielle. Or Debbie. Or Sue. What was her name?

Shit, that’s the last thing he should be worried about. He should be getting her away, not trying to remember her name. A flash caught his eye. Goddamn vultures. His old buddy, Stan, sat in a corner booth with members of the traveling press corps.

Stacia was going to kill him. Since when did he care?

S
tacia sat on
a dais in front of the capitol building as her father stepped up and put his hand on a Bible, his words garbled and disjointed. She tried to stand, but her feet were planted on the ground, butt firmly in the chair, as she watched the disaster unfold. At the end, he turned and glowered at her, his finger pointing at her.

“It’s all your fault.”

She jerked awake, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across her body. A binder crashed to the floor, papers scattering around her. She lunged for her laptop before it slid also. She struggled to catch her breath, trying to figure out her weird dream. Her cell phone buzzed,
Hail to the Chief
, the theme for the President of the United States, which was her father’s ringtone.

Realization dawned.

She grabbed the phone and clicked it on. “Father.”

“Where have you been? I had to call you twice.”

His thoroughly put-out tone made her cringe; the familiar urge to apologize welled up in her and the words were out before she could catch them. “I’m sorry. I was sleeping.”

It was after eleven at night, but her father never cared. He expected everyone to be available at his convenience, never mind their own lives.

He grunted, clearly not happy or pacified in the least. “I hear you have a new client. I told you I would find you a place.”

She grabbed the remote and turned down the volume before settling back against the pillows. “I thought it was best to step away from politics for a while.”

“So, you went to sports? Anastasia, I raised you for something higher, better than…than something so bourgeois, so blue collar.”

She smothered a laugh. “And politics is cleaner? Please.”

“It may not be cleaner, but it’s noble. Making our country a better place to live.” His high and mighty tone lent a preachy quality to the same old speech she’d heard for most of her twenty-eight years. She was so tired of the bullshit.

But it never mattered. She never mattered. Only the job. Always the job. And she was sick of it.

“Agree to disagree. What do you want? It’s late and I have a lot of work to catch up on.”

“So, you were sleeping? Hmmm. Anyway, I want to discuss this latest job. I don’t feel it’s the right position for you.”

“For me or for you? Are you afraid I’ll be tarnished by working with an athlete and, by default, you’ll be tarnished?”

“I’ve made it very clear how I feel about athletes and the drugs they abuse. I’m the head of the Senate committee on steroid use, for God’s sake. Having my daughter work with one of them, well, it negates my entire position, makes me a laughingstock of the Senate and weakens me.”

Her mind flashed to her father and his study, from where he was probably calling her. He undoubtedly was still wearing a suit from the day or a tuxedo if he’d had an event to attend that evening. His attire would be immaculate. His posture stiff and unbending, much like his values and opinions. Everything in its place, neat and tidy, all according to plan. His gaze would be sharp, cutting deep into flesh and bone with just a glance, clear through to your heart.

There was nothing weak about Senator Kendall.

“Well, just tell everyone that I’m your big disappointment. It won’t be far from the truth.” If he felt this way about her working with Jason, imagine what he would say if he found out she had slept with him? A rebellious part of her wanted to tell him, to see if she would finally get a reaction from him, more than duty.

“Don’t be melodramatic, Anastasia. I’ve contacted your boss about an alternative, more acceptable form of employment.”

Before she could fully absorb his words, action on the television caught her attention. “Oh, hell no. No. No. No. No!” she chanted, her voice rising with each word. She grabbed the remote and turned up the volume, dropping her phone in the process. Her father demanded her response, but she was fixated on the screen, on the image of Jason Friar pinning a reporter to a locker and obviously threatening him.

“Oh, nonononono,” she moaned again, despair punching her in the gut. What the hell was he thinking? He’d promised! Did he have a death wish or something? Or was he just another man who didn’t give a damn about his impacts on other people, on her?

She grabbed the phone. “I have to go. And Don’t. Call. Michael!” She clicked it off without waiting for a response, cutting off the sputtering at the other end. She would pay for cutting off her father but right now, she had bigger things to worry about. Mainly, Jason Friar’s meltdown in Detroit, as the lovely sportscasters on ESPN were calling it.

I’m going to kill him.

*

“
This
is how
you fix his image?”

Cole slammed a newspaper down on the desk, pushing aside other papers and rocking the coffee cup.

Stacia lunged, catching the cup before it toppled over, but a portion of the coffee spilled out and burned her hand. She sucked the base of the thumb, trying to ease the stinging, then she looked up at the red face of Cole Hammonds. She dried her hand and picked up the sports section.

Jason Friar Back to His Old Ways?

Crap. Jason was sitting in a hotel bar and some very young thing was clinging to him like his baseball jersey. God, she hoped the girl was of age.

“Well?” he demanded.

She studied the picture more closely. “He doesn’t seem like he’s enjoying it. Maybe he was pushing her away.”

“Please.” Hammonds snorted. “No one would push her away. Not even me.” He slammed the door and sat in the chair facing her desk. “Is this too hard for you, Stacia? Is Jason Friar too difficult to manage?”

She froze, icy tendrils of fear spreading from her heart. “You asked me to work with him four days ago. What did you expect? A choirboy singing Alleluia in the church choir?”

“I expect results. Not this.” He pointed to the picture again. “After the fiasco with the media announcing his signing, I was willing to cut you both some slack. He was a star and not used to being baited. Sports are very different than politics. Is this job too big, too different for you to handle?”

Stacia tried not to let his words sting and she sat stone-faced, hoping he couldn’t see how much he hurt her.

“But you need to get serious. This is business, big business.”

“I have plans—”

“I don’t care about your plans. I only care about action. Now, hustle your little butt out to Detroit and fix this mess.” He heaved out of the chair and turned for the door.

“I think they’re leaving Detroit today and going to Kansas City. I can meet the team there on Tuesday,” she said quietly, thankful she was seated because there was no way her legs would hold her.

He paused and scowled at her, eyebrow raised. “Really? Humpf. Well, hustle out there and impress upon him the terms of his contract, got it?” He slammed the door on his way out.

She clenched her hands into fists, and bit her lower lip, concentrating on breathing. In and out. In, then out. In. Out. Once her heart had finally stopped racing and her hands weren’t shaking anymore, she picked up the phone and dialed the extension for Maggie, Miranda’s assistant.

“Can you make me travel arrangements to Kansas City?”

A
nother day, another
stadium. New fans, same old media, same old chants. He used to love going to new stadiums. They all had their own charms. The Green Monster in Boston. Yankee Stadium Bleacher Creatures. The friendly confines of Wrigley Field with its ivy-covered brick outfield wall. The water next to the Giants’ ballpark. And the waterfall in Kansas City, his next venue to fail in.

The whirring of the pitching machine warned him of the pitched ball. He swung and launched it into the net. Would have been a fly ball out, nowhere near deep enough for a home run. The machine whirred again. He swung the bat and hit a grounder into the net.

“Damn it.”

“Don’t you think you’ve been hitting long enough?” A soft voice behind the fencing masked the sound of the machine, but he swung anyway, in rhythm with the machine. He missed. “Strike three, I think.”

He grimaced at the machine. Didn’t take her long to get here. He had hoped for a couple of days before he had to face her. A couple of days to show he didn’t need her guidance. A couple of days to get his swing back. A couple of days to prove to himself that he didn’t want her with every breath he took.

“So, you’re picking up some baseball lingo now. Good for you, Stacia,” he replied without turning around. He swung and launched the next ball into the net. Another fly ball out. Damn it. The machine powered down and he whirled around. “I wasn’t done.”

Stacia emerged from behind the fence into the batting cage. Her pale blue business suit hugged her curves, the v of the blazer displaying a tantalizing bit of lace arrowing down into the cleavage where he had spent many hours just a week ago. Another color of lace, not black like that night. How much lace did she have? He wanted to get to know each and every piece of it, on and off of her. He followed the lace down to her skirt, fitting snugly around the smooth round derriere and stopping just short of her knees. There was nothing special about the suit, nothing sexual, yet his cock stirred and he regretted wearing the cup for batting practice. He shifted slightly adjusting the plastic into a tolerable position, but if she stayed, he couldn’t expect to remain comfortable for much longer.

She stepped in front of the button controlling the machine. “You are for now. You’ve been at this for over two hours. Don’t you think you’ve had enough practice?”

“Not even close,” he growled. “Not until I feel the swing coming back.”

She tilted her head and studied him for a long moment. “The swing looked good to me.”

“Thank God you’re not the hitting coach.” He reached around her, brushing her hip, and punched the button and waited for the ball. The whirring started, but nothing came out.

“Guess the machine is tired too.”

Jason snarled at the machine then at the balls scattered around the batting cage. He stalked outside the cage and grabbed a tee. He placed it at the plate and perched a ball on it and swung – hard. It went straight – line drive out. His shoulder twinged, reminding him of the surgery less than a year before.

“Well, that was smart,” she commented, rested against the wall, ignorant of her suit and the possible grime she was picking up. “Maybe you’re trying too hard.”

He leaned on the bat and scowled at her. “Really? And what would you have me try? Deep breathing out of my freaking eyelids?”

“Don’t be silly. That was a movie. I seriously doubt anyone can breathe out of their eyelids. But the deep breathing is a good idea, like meditation. It’ll help you relax and feel the ball.”