Hardball (5 page)

Not that dad would count to twenty-four and be disappointed, but I liked all my players in position.

Hello. I’m checking on the glove. Any word?

Lord help me. Was it him?

I rushed to my work purse and fished out the card Dash had given me. The numbers matched. It was him.

Not yet. We’ll find it. I have a thing with the gym teacher tonight. I’ll ask him if he saw anything.

A thing?

I froze. A thing. He was asking. Why? And why had I said
a thing
in the first place?

An event at the Petersen.

I hit Send just as his message came in.

Sorry. Wasn’t prying. I typed before I thought about it.

How could texting be so awkward? I felt unbalanced. Should I wait to answer? Not answer at all? Soothe him immediately? What was the difference? I wedged my foot into the gold shoe with the six-inch heel, nearly falling over.

I get it. Sometimes I’d like to put a cock in my mouth

Wait. What?

That can be arranged

No! I meant to hit the backdoor butt

Crap! Was my subconscious doing the typing?

backdoor

Goddamnit! Back-space not knees

What? And button not nuts

Butt

Not butt

For the love of…

Are you still there?

Still stuck on the cock in the mouth

Kill me now

Autocorrect has a new fan today

I laughed. I had no choice. It was that or die of shame, and since I hadn’t meant it, and he knew I hadn’t meant it, I was going to live.

See you at the Petersen

See you at the Petersen?

Oh. My. Fucking. God. Jim had better not have a problem with me talking to Dashiell-motherfucking-Golden-Glove-move-like-the-wind-hit-like-Tyson-with-a-body-like-a-Renaissance-god Wallace because I was going to see him and stand next to him s-o-c-i-a-l-l-y. My face tightened into an excited grimace I hoped to the good green gods I didn’t make in front of him.

I looked in the mirror again. Hair. Check. Makeup. Check. Dress. Body. Heels. Check, check, check.

How would I stand?

One heel out? Lean on a hip? How would I laugh? Big smile? Titter? Belly laugh?

No. Not that.

The mirror didn’t like that.

“Peanut,” Dad called from the doorway, two rooms closer than I expected.

I tipped a little as I buckled the second shoe and righted myself, dropping the phone to my side as if I were a preteen hiding what was on the screen. “What?”

“The guy’s here. The
schlamiel
you’re not interested in.”

Dash

A librarian in slacks and a bright yellow hoodie wearing sensible black flats on the winter grass of a park field. No makeup. Glasses. Baseball clutched in un-manicured fingers.

Not my usual, to say the least. But I could see her body under the clothes, and the way she went off-balance when she pulled a kid away from a collision with another one had a certain sexy grace. Her voice didn’t screech. Her laugh was like a purr. The first thing I imagined was pinning her under me, holding her hands over her head, immobilizing her while she came. My fingers had tingled when I handed her back the ball. Weird.

Then the glove was gone, and I immediately knew I had to contact her myself. Just to check. To see if I’d lost my mind. I didn’t like glasses or T-shirts. I preferred women who were finished. Polished. I hadn’t gone for that type since I was eleven.