Moonshot (32 page)

A meeting with Pepsi finished, my cell phone was out, an email begun, when I stepped off the elevator, into the parking level, my Range Rover waiting, a navy tank of luxury.

I stopped short, the note stuck in the driver’s window, tiny and white, like cocaine, deadly in its draw. I unlocked the door, pulling the paper out and palming it, and then stepped into my truck, unnoticed. I unfolded it quickly, spreading it out on my lap.

Same place. Envelope at the desk for you. Now.

The handwriting was tight; the pen used was running out of ink. I wondered when he had written it, how many minutes I had wasted, sitting in that conference room, negotiating sponsorship details and discussing trivial items.

Same place.
The hotel we had walked into, a random stop on a Bronx street. I didn’t have to go. I could drive by it and get the name. Call the front desk and have them give him a message. Drive back to the house and wait for tonight’s game.
I have a hundred more ways to make you scream my name and all of them are filthy.

I texted Tobey.
Going to run errands. I’ll be home in a few hours.
Then I shifted the truck into reverse.

I knew it was wrong. But I was only human.

I didn’t notice the car that followed me.

95

Room 908. I didn’t check out the view, I didn’t examine the furnishings. I opened the door, dropped my jacket and purse on the floor, and saw him.

He stood by the desk, a phone to his ear, and he turned, his eyes skating over me before he spoke into the receiver. “I have to go.” He dropped the phone and turned to me, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater and walking toward me, a stalk that turned into a rush, his collision with me one that had his hands in my hair, mouth rough against my own, his body warm and hard. There was the brush of a finger against the bare skin of my cleavage, then he yanked, pulling my blouse over my head, my hands frantically unbuttoning my pants, working them over my hips, my heels kicked off, his eyes dark as he watched. Then he was pulling at his own shirt, red fabric lifting to reveal line after line of perfect abs, his muscles so beautiful, so strong, so capable. I ran my fingers up the side of his stomach, marveling at the definition, his hand shoving my touch lower. “Take it out,” he gritted, pushing on my shoulder, his sweater hitting the floor beside me.

“On the bed,” I said, starting to stand, his hand assertive, keeping me in place.

“No. Right here, Ty. In front of the mirror. Pull out my cock and wrap those perfect lips around it.”

I glanced beside me, noticing, for the first time, the full-length mirrored doors of the closet, the woman in the reflection, half-crouched, her lips swollen, hair everywhere. My breasts half hung out of the top of my bra, my hand gripped his pants, my other on his belt. His body towered over mine, dominance over subservience, our eyes meeting in the mirror. I didn’t recognize that reflection, the wild look in my eyes, the urge I had to reach down and touch myself, to relieve the throbbing need there.

I watched his face in the mirror. Watched his hand as it settled on the back of my head. I turned away from the reflection, my knees hitting the carpet, and pulled down his zipper. Reached inside and pulled out his beautiful cock. I stared it at for a full heartbeat, wrapping my fingers around his girth, as it stiffened in my hand, his growl of words pushing me on, his fingers biting into my shoulder as he spoke. “In your mouth. Please. Before I lose it.”

I let go, my hands settling on his thighs, their muscles tensing under my touch, a million bucks of talent right there, yet nothing compared to the organ they led to. Just two weeks ago I had it, a taste I still hadn’t recovered from. I knew what it could do, knew how it felt, the places it could take me. I leaned forward, my mouth hovering over its base, and exhaled, my hot breath coming out slowly as I moved down his length, it twitching, bobbing against my lips. Chase’s hand tightened on me, but I didn’t stop, didn’t rush, my tongue taking its time as it darted out, tentative, then stronger, my hands staying on his thighs, my mouth exploring the veins of his shaft, the ridge of his head, the thick knot of muscles at his base. When I finally took him in, as deeply in my wet mouth as I could, sucking down the length of him, he cried my name. Whispered a string of unintelligible words as he thrust into my mouth.

I closed my eyes. Cleared my mind. My world dark, the only thing that existed was our connection. My palms, flush against the warm iron of his thighs. His push in and out of my mouth, my tongue against the underside of his cock, the taste of him, the sounds of him…

“Being inside your mouth is better than I fucking imagined, Ty. God, I love how you suck my cock.” He bent forward, the angle of his cock changing, and undid my bra, the weight of my breasts suddenly hanging free, my loose bra now one more piece of maddening arousal, the lace of it brushing against my nipples with every thrust of him down my throat.

He suddenly brought me to my feet, pulling from my mouth, his hands on my arms, lifting me up, the bed suddenly underneath me.

Everything the same as before, all of the elements, yet everything was different. He was rougher, wilder, his control questionable, his take of me more of a gorge than a savor. He stripped me of my thong and spread my legs, his fingers slow and careful, running along every part of me, pushing inside, then over my clit, before his tongue took over. Every other sexual experience, my knowledge of the world, dimmed when he put his mouth on me. I clawed at his scalp, I dug my heels into his back, I lost the ability to speak, every piece of me tuned to the swipe of his tongue, the cover of his lips, the heat of his mouth. Inside me, against me, along the most sensitive places. I whispered his name, then screamed it, over and over, my orgasm harder and harder … waves of pleasure building until everything in my body was liquid and everything in my world was lost, then he moved up and pushed himself inside, and everything was found.

“So much happened in those final weeks leading up to the 2015 World Series. With Chase Stern on the team, everything was finally coming together. But with Ty getting involved with him … everything was also falling apart. Of course the fans didn’t know that. The fans, hell,
everyone
, thought that this would be the year. The year that we won. The year that everything in New York returned to normal. And it kind of was. Just not in the way that everyone imagined. Certainly not in the way that I’d imagined.”

Dan Velacruz,
New York Times

96

Chase,

If I leave him now, he will release you, and we will lose the Series. I can’t do that.

Ty

It said something about my marriage that Tobey hadn’t noticed anything was wrong. That he hadn’t noticed that it’d been a month since we’d had sex. Our winning streak had helped, each game, each win, giving another shot of testosterone into his life. With us successful, trudging our way up the hill toward a ring, I didn’t think he’d notice if I shaved my head. His focus was one hundred percent on the team. Maybe it’d always been, being one of the things that made our marriage work. Both of us, standing on the Yankee sideline, in our pinstripes, breathing blood, sweat, and tears into the organization, everything focused on their success.

Richards swung, and Tobey and I rose as one, watching as the ball shot, low and deadly, toward third base, skimming past the baseman and bouncing on the grass, our runner shooting off the base and pounding toward home. Tobey’s hand grabbed mine, and both of us tensed until the moment his foot hit the plate. We screamed, his arms wrapping tightly around me, his kiss pressed into my hair, his voice gruff as he whispered an
I love you
into my hair.

I loved him too. My best friend. My partner. But whatever embers of love I felt for Tobey was nothing compared to my love for Chase. That was a wildfire, burning hot and mad and out of control, eating everything in sight. It consumed my marriage and left only charred black.

Part of me hated this, hated what I was doing to Tobey, to my marriage. The other part of me just wanted to be free, just wanted to be happy, just wanted to be with the man I loved.

97

American League Championship

Ty,

I hate that you’re choosing baseball over us. This feels like a business decision.

Chase

Game 5. We won the championship in spectacular fashion, four games to one. Two homers by Chase brought in a total of four runs, the team clicking, our fielding seamless, the Angels not standing a chance. We popped champagne in the skybox, the air brimming with excitement, Dick pulling me in for a rare hug, shouts and cheers loud in the space. I turned to the field, watching the team jump around each other, bodies colliding, a pile of celebration, more boys than grown men.

I watched the team and tried to find his jersey, number 28 finally spotted. He turned, his eyes finding mine in the skybox, and I smiled. He didn’t. His face darkened, and I jumped, caught off guard when Tobey’s arms wrapped around my waist, his mouth nuzzling my neck, a kiss against my cheek.

“I love you so much,” he murmured, turning me to him, my eyes darting away from Chase, reluctantly pulled by Tobey, his mouth firmly settling on my lips. The kiss saved me from answering, and when we parted, I smiled, glancing back at the field, but couldn’t find Chase.

98

Chase

It’s less than two weeks. Deal with it. This team has been my world for twelve years. I’m leaving it and everything I know for you.

Ty

I was going crazy from not going to the field, my nightly runs taking Titan and me through the ivy-covered elegance of our neighborhood. The run was boring, but safe, the field too risky, security increased, the chance of Chase there too great.

The other issue, one I didn’t want to face, was that he might not be at the field. I would spend two hours running, throwing, sweating … all in an empty stadium, my eyes scanning for a strong build I wouldn’t find. It would be a blow that I didn’t want to take, my psyche much more comfortable with the thought of him there, waiting. It was a fucked-up thought process, but one that still had me running down a cobblestone street, past private security gates and expensive lanterns, my fingers itching for a glove and ball.