Hittin' It Out the Park (7 page)

But that was only the start. In the fourth inning—his first time at bat—Randy hit a grand slam home run that put the Yankees up by three. Then, when Randy was playing defense at the top of the fourth, he made an unbelievable catch. As soon as the ball was hit, he began backing up, and within milliseconds was at the warning track—the ball only now beginning to curve downward. It seemed that the ball would go into the stands, giving the batter a home run, but Randy made an incredible leap at the fence and grabbed the ball. The hometown crowd went wild, and so did the pitcher on the mound as well as the relief pitchers sitting in the bullpen.

For the remainder of the season, Vare got virtually no playing time, and Jayson Nix and Randy alternated at third base. Randy was batting an amazing .410 and hit an astounding nine home runs in thirty at bat, and the New York media was having a field day. Randy's name was all over newspaper headlines, radio talk shows, and television sports broadcasts. But it was the Yankees home finale that Randy put on his best performance, hitting three back-to-back home runs and committing two steals.

Two months later, Randy—now sporting a well-trimmed buzz-cut instead of a Jheri curl, long sideburns and a light beard that covered his acne, and a razor-thin mustache that gave him a debonair look—stood at the head of a conference room at Yankee Stadium. Danny Archer and the Yankees owner stood with him at the podium as the Yankees general manager announced that the team had signed Randy to a five-year, $120 million deal.

When it was Randy's turn at the microphone, he thanked Almighty God, he thanked his mother, his grandparents, and he thanked the good people of New York who had shown so much support for him. Then he looked at Cheryl, who was standing in the back of the room, near an exit, and took a deep breath: “I also need to thank a woman who has been in my corner since the first magical day we met. A woman who has been with me through my ups and downs. A woman who believed me when there were times I didn't believe in myself. A woman who didn't care how much money I had in my pocket, but only how much love I had in my heart.”

Cheryl's breath quickened as Stephen, who had been handing out press kits to the reporters, suddenly appeared at her side.

“Cheryl Blanton.” Randy walked toward her with a bevy of reporters crowding around him. When he was right in front her, he fell to one knee, and pulled out a beautiful diamond solitaire ring. “Will you marry me?”

Under the circumstances, how could she say no?

*  *  *

The sound of the shower being turned on full blast pulled Cheryl out of her reverie. She shook her head and smiled; since his physical makeover it always took her husband a good twenty minutes to prepare for a shower. First he had to trim the sideburns, then his beard, then tweeze his mustache—it took him almost as long to get ready in the morning as it took her. But it was worth it; the man looked damn good. And she was delighted when the daily speech lessons she encouraged him to take had tamed his diction so much that his heavy Southern accent actually sounded a bit sexy, rather than corny. Yes, she had turned him into a man worthy of being her husband.

And, of course, she looked good enough to be married to a handsome multimillion-dollar baseball star. She turned to look at herself in the full-length mirror. Boobs still high and firm. Stomach still sporting the muscle-tone that made bikinis all the more attractive. Butt and thighs as toned as ever. Yeah, she looked good, she decided. Very good. You would never be able to tell she'd had a child. Luckily, like her mother, she looked years younger than her actual age. In fact, she was able to model for teen magazines, though never for full-body shots because of her voluptuous chest.

But
, she began chewing her bottom lip,
will I be able to pull this off forever? What if Randy finds out that I'm actually nine years older than him? Will he care?

Worse, she thought dismally, what if he found out about the baby she'd given up?

He'd made it clear, from day-one, that he wanted to start a family right away starting with a Randy Jr. And Cheryl was in total agreement. Most people thought that models made fabulous money, but the reality was it was only supermodels like Joan Smalls and Jourdan Dunn who were pulling in ten or twelve thousand for a photo shoot. Sure, Cheryl was averaging a good twenty thousand or so a month, but she was quite willing to give up an uncertain quarter of a million dollars a year to please a husband who was making a contractual $24 million. But they'd been married four months, and she hadn't missed a period yet. Once, when her period was two days late, Randy had run out and bought a pregnancy test, and it almost made her cry to see the disappointment in his eyes when the stick refused to turn blue.

How would he react if he knew that I had a kid, a boy no less, and gave him up? There's no way he'd want anything to do with me, the way he values family.

Her body shivered, involuntarily, though the windows were closed and plenty of heat was coming from the room's ceiling and floor vents.

“Well,” she said aloud, pointing to her image in the mirror, “It's only a matter of time, no need to worry; you are going to give your baby a baby.” She moved to put on a robe, so she could get herself a cup of her favorite coffee—Ethiopian Fancy—but then thought the better of it. Despite not having a child to keep her husband happy, she still knew how to keep him dumb and grinning with lust.

“Hey, babe,” she said, entering the bathroom without bothering to knock. “How about I join you for some post-Valentine's Day shower fun?”

Randy's grin answered for him.

Cheryl slipped inside the shower and stood behind Randy. With an arm wrapped around his waist, she lathered his back with mint-scented gel. She worked her way down to his firm butt, thighs, and calves. While kneeling on the floor of the shower, she gently grasped his ankles, turning him around as she began washing his feet. Ducking her head, she kissed his foot and licked between his toes. The soft moan that emanated from Randy spurred Cheryl to move on to his other foot and lavish it with special attention.

Moving upward, she poured gel into her hand. The tingly sensation of the mint gel along with Cheryl's hand stroke had Randy thrusting so fiercely inside her soapy, closed fist, his dick began to pulsate. Not wanting him to climax too quickly, Cheryl withdrew her hand and said, “Do me.”

Following Cheryl's lead, Randy positioned himself behind her. He soaped the back of her neck, her back, thighs and magnificent ass, and while still standing behind her, he concentrated on soaping up her breasts. Kneading and squeezing them until Cheryl was purring. “I love your big, titties, babe,” he murmured.

One hand caressed her soapy breasts and the other stroked her satiny-smooth ass cheeks. He slid a hand between her thighs and she parted them for him, allowing him access to her plump, slippery pussy lips. His bold caresses made her jerk and shudder as he teased her pussy lips open.

“Do you want me, baby?” Randy asked hoarsely.

“I want you in the worst way.” Cheryl couldn't hide the need in her voice as she spread her legs wider.

Randy let out a grunt as he bent behind her and slid his dick forcibly into her tight, plush depths. He took a deep breath, braced himself, and gave it to her nice and slow. But when Cheryl began pushing back with her ass, wordlessly demanding to be fucked harder and deeper, Randy gave her exactly what she wanted.

“You've got the best dick in the world,” Cheryl proclaimed.

“Damn, you feel good. I don't need nothing else except this tight pussy of yours.”

“Randy!” Cheryl's voice cracked as Randy drove into her. Every stroke of his dick was a hot lash of mutual pleasure. “You're hitting my spot, babe. Making me cum,” she said, choking out the last word right before her body began to convulse.

*  *  *

“Baby, you're too much. I wouldn't be surprised if we made a baby in that shower,” Randy said after he finally caught his breath. “I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I thank God I did it.” A grin suddenly appeared on his face. “And man, that Valentine's Day present. Whew!”

Cheryl giggled and threw a towel at him, then began drying herself with another one. “You should have seen your face when Vonda walked in the bedroom wearing nothing but a big red bow. Priceless!”

“Yeah, you got me good that time, I gotta admit,” Randy said with a laugh. He walked behind Cheryl and grabbed her into a hug. “I never know what to expect from you, Cheryl; you're full of surprises. You got us doing role-playing, having sex in cars, having sex in elevators, in public . . . and now even bringing another woman into our bedroom. Wow!”

“Hey,” Cheryl patted her husband's cheek, “I gotta keep my man happy. You are happy, right?”

“What do you think?” Randy nuzzled Cheryl's neck.

“So, do you think it's something you'd like to do again?” Cheryl asked slowly.

“Well, I mean,” Randy stammered. “Are you serious? You wouldn't mind?”

Cheryl gave a little laugh. “Okay, here's the deal. It's not something I would say we do every day, or even every month, but if you ever find there's a woman you really, really wanna ‘do,' let me know and I'll see what I can hook up.”

“For real?” Randy asked excitedly.

“For real. But,” Cheryl added, “the deal is you can't ever have sex with another woman unless I'm involved. Is that a deal?”

Randy's expression turned somber, and his voice lowered as he pulled Cheryl firmly into his arms. “Baby, I'm not stupid. You don't ever have to worry about me cheating on you.” He gave her a lingering kiss, then looked deeply in her eyes and said in a sincere voice: “Cheryl, you're the woman I love, the woman I married, and the woman who's going to be the mother of my children. I'll never do anything to hurt you.”

March 2014

S
itting up in bed, Sexy scanned her Instagram page, smiling at the selfies she'd taken. She was addicted to posting selfies on her page, and she narrowed an eye as she scrutinized the images. The close-up of her cleavage looked hot, and judging from the amount of likes and favorable comments, her Instagram followers agreed. But there was always a hater. Some chick with the screen name, BeyondBeauty, posted:
You get what you pay for & your low budget tatas don't impress me.

Sexy gazed sneeringly at BeyondBeauty's profile pic, her discerning eyes zooming in on the hater's abundance of obvious, store-bought hair. Quickly tapping the screen, Sexy shot back:
From head to toe, everything about me is authentic and certified. Can you say the same, weave-head?

“Boom! Take that!” Sexy shouted out loud.

On the other side of the bed, her roommate, Emma, groaned irritably and pulled the covers over her head. “Stop yelling; I'm trying to sleep.”

It was one in the afternoon and Emma would probably sleep another two hours or more. Sexy, on the other hand, was a morning person. Even when they partied until dawn, Sexy was awake before noon, no doubt the effect of her structured upbringing. Her controlling and success-driven father always rose at precisely five in the morning and expected the rest of the household to be up an hour later. Her highly organized mother, who was passionate about keeping up appearances, would have fainted if she saw Sexy's current living conditions.

Sexy perused the room and rolled her eyes. After a stupid argument over nail polish remover, Sexy had moved out of Arielle's place and was now crashing with Emma. But Emma's place was a pigsty, with heaps of clothes and other miscellaneous piles of junk scattered everywhere. Sexy tried to keep the place neat, but it was a wasted effort. Emma was an unapologetic slob and no amount of complaining, coaxing, or even picking up behind her was going to change her slovenly ways. Besides, Emma paid the rent, and the lease was in her name, so it wasn't as if Sexy could kick the girl out.

Until Sexy found a way to support herself, she had to deal with her living situation. The home she'd grown up in was an elegant stone colonial in a prestigious suburb, thirty minutes from Philadelphia. Now she was reduced to sharing a crammed, one-room studio in the gloomy basement of an outdated apartment building. The only good thing about living in a dump was the location. Residing in downtown Philly provided a new adventure every day. Being in the heart of Center City was so different from living in her boring, elitist neighborhood in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania.

A hunger pang drew Sexy's attention away from Instagram. She checked the mini-fridge and scowled at the contents. Nothing but old, moldy food. The only items that looked remotely edible were the six hard-boiled eggs that Emma had picked up at the deli yesterday in preparation of jump-starting yet another low-carb diet.

With food on her mind, Sexy changed from yoga pants and a tank top into a tight-fitting club dress, stilettos, and a waist-length jacket. She flaunted her shapely body at every opportunity, and the frosty March weather didn't deter her. She got a kick out of the way men gawked at her each time she exited the apartment.

She sashayed down Ninth Street, heading for her favorite deli. Tires squealed and car horns honked as men whistled at her, trying to get her attention. She ignored the catcalls and kept walking with her head held high, and wearing a smug smile. The way she always caused a commotion, one would think that she was a celebrity. It was a shame she didn't have any talent. Maybe if she made a sex tape, she could get rich and famous and wouldn't have to rely on her parents' generosity any longer. It was something to think about.

Greeted by irresistible aromas when she opened the door to the deli, her stomach rumbled and her mouth began to water. Last night at the party she and Emma had attended, she'd dined on chips and dip and other snack foods, and she was ready for something of substance.