Hittin' It Out the Park (2 page)

Cheryl whirled around and found herself face-to-face with Jackson. “What are you doing here? Get offa me,” she snarled, yanking away from him.

“I should do exactly that, but I'ma do your little uppity-ass a favor.” Jackson gripped her by the arm and propelled her to the back of the store and to the ladies dressing room. “Now get in there, and unload.”

“What?”

Jackson stepped closer to her and said in a low voice.“You little idiot. If I saw you putting those dresses in that bag, you think I'm the only one who did? And even if no one else did, the security alarms would have gone off as soon as you walked out the door.”

Cheryl looked at him without saying a word, and disappeared into the dressing room. Jackson was waiting for her when she came out.

That's when he made the proposal.

“I know I left you and your mom in a bad way, so let me help you out,” Jackson urged. “Look, the cat is offering ten stacks, but I bet I can get him up to fifteen. He's got lettuce like that. We'll split it.”

I hate him. He ruined our lives. If I had a gun I'd shoot him,
is what she said to herself, but out loud she could only exclaim: “Fifteen thousand?”

Jackson nodded. “I think I can get that much out of him.”

“And what would be your split?” she asked suspiciously.

“I'm not greedy. I wouldn't even ask for any of it, but I'm in a little bit of a jam, too.” Jackson acted as if he was giving it some thought. “How about I take two thousand, and you keep the rest?”

Cheryl's eyes narrowed. “I don't trust you. How do I know you won't keep the whole thing?”

Jackson grinned.
“Moi
?” he said, pointing to his chest. “You don't trust
moi?”

Cheryl sucked her teeth and started walking away. Jackson quickly grabbed her arm again. “Look, you might not trust me, but I trust you. So how about this? The guy pays you, then you give me my cut. Okay?”

Man
, Cheryl thought, with thirteen thousand she could pay off the back rent, buy school clothes, and maybe even pay for her mom to go into some kind of rehab program. But, still, she wanted to save herself until she got married. But, wow, thirteen thousand.

“Now, here's the thing,” Jackson said, interrupting her thoughts. “If we're going to get him up to fifteen thousand, there're a few things you're going to have to do.”

Cheryl's eyebrow and suspicion rose. “Things like what?”

“Well, you're fifteen, right? The younger the cherry, the more men are willing to pay. You're kinda flat-chested, so if you would, well, shave down there, we can probably pass you off as a twelve-year-old.”

July 2013

“Would you care for another martini, ma'am?”

Cheryl Blanton leaned her head slightly to the right, and gave a tiny pout, as if the tuxedo-clad drink waiter's offer warranted serious thought. She finally gave a small one-shoulder shrug, and lifted a long-stemmed glass from the solid gold tray he carried.

“Thank you . . .” Cheryl quickly glanced at the metal nametag on his chest, “Henry.” She flashed a quick smile designed to make the older man's heart flutter. “I probably shouldn't, but I'm so bored I might as well get intoxicated.” She took a small sip from the glass before giving him a quick wink. “Don't let me get to the point of having to be carried out, okay?”

“I'm sure you have
nothing
to worry about, ma'am.” Henry smiled, bowing his graying head as if she had bestowed a thousand-dollar tip upon him rather than a simple off-handed comment. “I can't imagine anyone as beautiful as you being bored very long.” He gave another quick nod before backing away into the crowd.

Yeah, well, I hope you're right, 'cause I don't know how much more of this I can stand.
Cheryl twirled the drink in her hand and watched the olive do a slow spin, then glanced at her watch. Twelve-thirty. She released a deep breath and looked over toward the corner where she'd last seen her escort. She hadn't wanted to come to the baseball All-Star party at all, but Stephen had insisted.

“Come on . . . you never come out with me anymore,”
he had whined.
“And besides,”
he added, when he saw Cheryl was still unmoved,
“there's going to be a lot of celebrities and millionaires there. You never know what you might catch. And wear that short, white lace number—show off those long bronze-colored stilts, honey.”

Cheryl snorted remembering his words. Celebrities. Yeah, Alyssa Milano and one of the Russian chicks from
Dancing with the Stars
were the only personalities she'd spotted so far. As for millionaires, well, there were none there that she knew or recognized. Besides, there were probably two gold diggers for every possible-millionaire at the party—and she wasn't in the mood to be pushing someone aside to get to a man whose wealth she wasn't sure of.

Stephen was right about one thing, though: the white lace mini was certainly getting her a lot of attention. And it wasn't only her legs that were getting admiring stares. There was something about the combination of the soft texture of her dress, the temperature in the room, and perhaps her naturally sexual nature . . . but even the slightest breeze made her nipples harden. Looking down, she carefully arranged her long brown hair to cover her 36-Ds.

The drink waiter, Henry, squeezed past her again, and she gifted him a full-tooth smile, and inwardly laughed when he almost bumped into someone because he was smiling back so hard.

Feeling a slight tap on the shoulder, Cheryl turned to face a tall, gorgeous woman wearing a low-cut, skin-tight, gold minidress that left nothing to the imagination. “Oh, de-year!” the woman said in a voice obviously meant to sound haughty. “Flirting with the hired help again, are we, dah-ling? But then class does always find its own class, doesn't it?”

Cheryl struggled to keep a grimace off her face. “No harm in being pleasant, you know.” She paused and gave her adversary an up-and-down look. “But then, again, I'm sure you
wouldn't
know, Sheila.”

“Shay-EE-lah.”

Cheryl let out a tingly laugh. “If it's spelled Sheila, it's pronounced SHEE-luh. Like a female kangaroo.” She looked down at Sheila's midsection. “Which is kind of fitting, seeing how noticeable
your
pouch is in that dress.”

“Oh, puleeze! This dress is from Armani's—”

“From Armani's summer line,” Cheryl interrupted. “I know. I wore it for him at his runway show at Paris Fashion Week last September. But believe me, it doesn't suit you at all.” She lightly tapped Sheila's stomach with her Versace gold clutch bag. “So, I'm guessing the rumors I've been hearing about you moving over to plus-size modeling are true. I understand you can make quite a lot of money.” She slowly batted her almond-shaped eyes before adding, “And Lane Bryant is always looking for fresh faces, though Ashley Stewart is also an option.”

“Cheryl, you can be such a—”

Cheryl rolled her eyes and sighed. “Sheila, if I throw a stick, will you leave?”

Sheila kept a smile on her face as she looked Cheryl in the face and in a honey-coated voice said: “I'd love to continue this conversation, but I've actually spotted someone worth talking to. So, Cheryl, darling, fuck you.”

“Of course, honey, and please do feel free to come back and kiss my pretty ass anytime,” Cheryl replied, just as pleasantly, twirling her fingers in a ‘bye-bye' fashion.

“Slut!” Sheila said, turning around to walk away.

“Ghetto-ass bitch,” Cheryl said as she did.

She watched as Sheila sashayed across the room, stopping to strike what she probably thought was a provocative pose in front of a short, but dapper, man who looked to be in his sixties. Having overheard the man talking about the possible ramifications if Yankees third baseman Alex Rodriguez was suspended for steroid use, Cheryl knew he had some kind of professional connection with baseball. Probably a former player, she had figured.
Okay,
Cheryl thought, watching Sheila play with her hair,
obviously she knows he's a millionaire.
She watched in amusement as the man glanced at Sheila, then turned and walked away without saying anything. She wanted to walk over and laugh out loud in the woman's face, but looking at Sheila's hurt expression, she couldn't bring herself to upset her further.

Cheryl started scanning the room, looking for Stephen, wondering—again—how he could possibly think hobnobbing at one of the Major League Baseball's All-Star parties was going to help him land the job interview he wanted. He needed to face the fact that while his family loved him, his friends adored him, and Cheryl, herself, simply cherished him, it would likely be a cold day in Hell before he was hired as a press agent for a major sports franchise. And especially not a media-conscious team like the New York Yankees. Too bad they didn't live in San Francisco, she thought as she started walking toward him. She shook her head. No, he wouldn't even stand a chance of getting hired there.

She waited until the balding middle-aged man with whom Stephen was talking walked off before poking her friend in the ribs and asking, “How's it going, baller?”

Stephen snorted and waved his hand. “Girl, please, I got this.”

Cheryl gave a quick glance from side-to-side before stepping closer to Stephen and saying in a low voice, “Hey, hey, hey . . . what did we talk about on the way over here?”

Stephen's perfectly tweezed eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

“Did you or did you not say, ‘Girl, please,' a moment ago?” Cheryl said, pinching his arm.

“Yes, and . . . oh right!” Stephen rubbed his bicep. “Well, it's no big deal. I doubt anyone heard.”

Cheryl placed her now empty martini glass on a nearby table and started straightening Stephen's tie. “Well, let's hope not. Even people who may accept the fact that you're gay may not like you acting like a queen.”

Stephen sucked his teeth. “Oh, come on. Saying, ‘Oh, girl,' is not acting or sounding like a queen.”

Cheryl shrugged. “Not to me . . . but why give someone arguing against you getting the job more ammunition?”

“Interview, Cheryl, interview. I'm merely trying to get an interview at the moment.”

“Girl, please, you know you're getting that.” As soon as the word left her lips, Cheryl's hands flew up to her mouth as if to try and force them back in. Eyes wide, she looked up at Stephen, whose amused smile quickly evolved into full-out laughter.

“Now, see, honey, I don't want any more lectures from the likes of you!” Stephen said, finally. “Gonna tell me I can't say, ‘girl,' and then you turn right around and call me
girl
.”

“All right, all right, I messed up. So, how's the brown-nosing going?”

Stephen leaned his head to the side and smiled. “All insults aside, I'd say I've done very well.”

“Oh?” Cheryl raised an eyebrow.

“Yep.” Stephen grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to Cheryl, then took a sip from the other. “I've been invited to a meet-and-greet at Yankee Stadium next week for the communications director.”

“You go, boy!” Cheryl said excitedly. “How the hell did you swing that?”

“Cheryl, girl, you're not going to believe it, but—”

“Eeek!” Cheryl couldn't hold back a scream as freezing liquid spilled over her left shoulder and down the front of her dress. She whirled around, fists balled, expecting to face a smirking Sheila, but instead found herself looking up at a skinny copper-complexioned man with a bad case of acne and a Jheri curl. She blinked her eyes to make sure they were working right. Yes, it was a Jheri curl that he was sporting, even though it was 2013—more than twenty years after that style had played out.

“Oh, Miss, I'se so sorry!” Mr. Jheri Curl spoke, jarring her from her nanosecond stupor. “I was walking and someone musta bumped me, and kinda hard. I hope I ain't hurt ya.” His Southern accent was so heavy it was hard to understand him at first.

“Hurt me? No. Soaked me? Yes,” Cheryl huffed, almost stumbling as she backed up into Stephen.

“Damn, man. What? You blind?” Stephen grabbed a linen napkin from a table and went to start dabbing at Cheryl but suddenly stopped. “Yo, I mean, what? Did you want to take a picture or something?”

When Cheryl followed Stephen's eyes, her irritation quickly turned to indignation. The cold drink had plastered the short, white lace dress to her body, making her look like a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest, and if Mr. Jheri Curl's expression was any indication, she was the winner, hands down. Her head flew up high, and her back straightened as she took a deep breath, causing her breasts to rise, and heavily heave. Eyes narrowed, she stared at the gaping man. “Oh? I suppose you think this is funny?”

“Huh? Oh! No, ma'am. I'm really very sorry,” Mr. Jheri Curl sputtered. “For real. It was an accident, ya know, like I said. Someone bumped in ta me.”

“Well, you ruined her dress,” Stephen interjected.

“I'll be glad to pay for it,” Mr. Jheri Curl quickly responded.

Cheryl's hand slowly made its way to her hip. “This dress happens to be an original Dolce and Gabbana. It cost about three thousand dollars.”

“For that little bit of material?” Mr. Jheri Curl's head jerked back. “Get outta here.”

“It's called high-fashion, you Lionel Richie wannabe,” Stephen snapped.

“Yeah, well, I call it someone sold you 'bout thirty dollars' worth of cloth and thread for a hunnert times the cost.” Mr. Jheri Curl shrugged. “But anyways, I weren't speaking about buying a new dress; I was speaking about paying ta get it cleaned.” He turned to Cheryl. “Miss, I don't know how many times and how many ways I can say I'm sorry, but I'll pay for the dry cleaning. It can't be but so expensive what to get cleaned.”