No Sunshine When She's Gone (18 page)

She snuck into his bathroom; saw his toothbrush, paste, and dental floss on the counter by the sink.

Electric razor and deodorant. His medicine cabinet revealed a bottle of aspirin and a box of condoms. Ribbed and lubricated.

Returning to the bedroom, she had the uneasy feeling she was not alone. She wasn’t. She nearly had a panic attack.

Mike Burke leaned against the doorframe. His arms were crossed over his chest. One eyebrow was raised, but his expression was unreadable. His dark blue
Cates Construction
T-shirt had a new tear in the shoulder. Threads held his jeans together at the knees. He’d taken off his work boots at the door and wore only his socks. He walked on cat’s feet.

“You’re home early,” she managed.

“You’re breaking our rules.”

She’d never been more embarrassed. She blushed, and her entire body felt hot. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged, unaffected. “Don’t be. You’re welcome in my bedroom anytime.”

He stepped in the room and pulled his shirt over his head. He continued to undress, unbuckling his belt, and then drawing down his zipper. He toed off his socks.

Carrie couldn’t help herself, she stood and stared. His shoulders were wide, and his chest was thick. The man was cut. A smattering of hair trailed from his navel to the open waistband. The bulge in his boxers showed he was packing more than most men.

“Stay for the show or go,” he said. “Either way, I need a shower.”

Her legs barely got her across the room. She was a bundle of nerves and shaking limbs. Mike caught her arm as she passed him. He rubbed his thumb over the soft inner skin of her forearm. He leaned in, inhaled her scent. Said near her ear, “Next time you wander into my bedroom, you stay and play.”

Play
meant sex. It was implied in the darkness of his eyes and his deepened voice. Goose bumps rose. An image of the man lying on silk sheets made her stumble. She somehow found her way back to the living room. She sat on the couch and buried her head in her hands. A quick peek into his bedroom had resulted in a sexual warning. Damn her curiosity.

Never again.

Mike came to her after his shower. His hair was damp and spiky. He was bare chested. His athletic shorts rode low on his hips. “I’m not naked,” he told her, just before she looked up.

He settled in a leather chair, close to where she sat. “How was your day?” he asked.

His normal, end-of-the-day conversation surprised her. He could be civil. She was grateful. She cleared her throat and said, “Shaye Cates and I formed Team Barefoot William. You have great players to coach.”

“Ah, coaching.” He drew out the words, as if he’d tried to forget his part in slow pitch. “Who’s signed up?”

She ran down the list, including herself at the end.

“What position do you intend to play?” Sarcasm crept in now. Clearly, he didn’t believe she had an athletic bone in her body.

“I’d like to pitch.”

“Your second choice?”

“Shaye agreed with me.”

“Let her coach the team then.”

“You’re not backing out of this.” She stood firm. He could come at her all night, be rude and annoying, but she refused to let him off the hook. He had committed to the team.

One corner of his mouth curved, the snide side. “You could show me your stuff if we had a glove and softball,” he said.

She had
stuff
. “I have both.”

“You travel with softball equipment?”

“I’m prepared for the game.”

He rose and came to stand over her so close she inhaled almond soap and man. “Go wind up at the end of the hallway, and I’ll play catcher.”

She glanced at the enormous television, the blown-glass vases, and the sliding-glass doors. All breakable items. She didn’t want to take any chances. “I’m not throwing in the penthouse.”

“I doubt you can throw at all.”

She got to her feet. They faced off. “Let’s take it outside,” she suggested. Lawn maintenance had recently mowed. She liked the scent of freshly cut grass.

He laughed then, deep and annoying. “You’re sure you want to do this?” He still didn’t believe she could pitch.

“As long as no one sees us.”

“Even if someone did, we have a legitimate excuse. We’d tell him that I dropped by to discuss the softball team. No one’s going to mistake this for a friendly visit.”

That was a good cover. “Put on a pair of tennis shoes,” she warned. He was barefoot. “The ground crew spread fertilizer earlier.” She went to change clothes and to get her ball and glove.

Mike Burke stared after her. He couldn’t believe Carrie was out to prove herself. He didn’t give a rat’s ass if she could pitch. He’d hoped to stick her in left field, where there’d be little action. A part of him worried about her screwing up and feeling bad. She was sensitive. He wanted to protect her feelings. The fact he cared set his teeth on edge. He scratched his belly. A shirt and his Nikes, and he’d be set to go.

Mike left the penthouse ahead of Carrie. They rode down in separate elevators. He waited for her in the lobby. She crossed to him wearing a red tank top and navy sweatpants. She had nice breasts. A white headband held her hair in place. She carried her ball and glove with casual grace. Her sneakers were new and squeaky on the polished entrance floor.

He nodded to the security guard as they left the building. The man was aware of Mike’s comings and goings, but with the change in shifts, he didn’t know Mike had spread his sheets in the penthouse apartment. Mike wanted to keep it that way.

“Where to?” he asked Carrie once they were out on the sidewalk.

She pointed toward the side lawn. The building cast shade onto the grass. “That’s as good a place as any,” she said.

He ran one hand down his face. “Are you sure about this?” He gave her an out.

“It’s forty-three feet from the pitching rubber to home plate. Walk it off.”

He did so, give or take a foot. She called him on it. “Five more feet.”

She wanted accuracy. The lady was a perfectionist. He went on to watch her loosen up. Her body had decent flexibility. She could touch her toes and twist so far sideways, she nearly faced backward.

“I’m kind of rusty,” she said. “I haven’t pitched for a while.”

Since never, he thought. She was like the Tin Man.

She rolled her shoulders, shook out her arms. Then picked up the softball and slipped on her glove. “Get in position behind home plate,” she called to him.

He could be her catcher. He bent his knees but didn’t hunker down.

“You should have a glove,” Carrie said. She drew a deep breath, gripped the ball in her right hand. Focused on him.

“Not necessary.” This wasn’t a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball crossing the plate. It was slow pitch. There’d be no sting.

Mike had once watched his grandfather play at a retirement village in Key West. He knew the arc of the ball had to be at least six feet high and lower than twelve. Carrie’s throw rose in-between but fell slightly short of home plate.

Holy shit, not bad for ball one, Mike thought. “Can you do that again?” he asked.

She nodded. “But hopefully better.”

He scooped up the ball and tossed it back to her.

Her next pitch would have made any batter swing.

She had softball in her blood.

She practiced for an hour, honing her skill. He gave her little direction. She’d played before. She made her own corrections.

“Not bad,” he said. She was damn good. “Where’d you learn to pitch?”

Her smile was immediate. There was a lot of metal in her mouth. “I volunteered at a senior center in Philadelphia, close to where I grew up,” she told him. “I’m fond of the elderly, and when the social director asked me to join their slow-pitch team, I jumped at the chance. My teammates were all seventy and older. Pitching came naturally to me.”

He understood natural. He had been told by coaches that he’d been born with a pitching arm, which hadn’t done him a lot of good in the grand scheme of his life.

He walked back toward her. “Any chance you can bat?” he asked.

“I can sacrifice bunt.”

She was his ringer. “Are the Rogues aware of your pitching skills?” he wanted to know.

“Only Jillie Mac,” she said. “She came to the senior center with me on occasion. She won’t say anything.”

“Where will Jill play?”

“The infield,” said Carrie. “She’s good at sports. I’m not.”

“How about sex?”

She blushed, as he knew she would. “I’ve never considered it an athletic event.”

“It can be,” he teased her. “Hard, fast, deep, heavy breathing; both players win in the end. Climax ties the score.”

No comeback from Carrie, although her color remained high. “Our team is set except for one alternate. Is there anyone you’d care to ask?”

He had an idea, but Aidan would kill him. “Agnes,” he said.

“The receptionist?” Carrie was surprised.

“She’s sixty-seven.” Mike thought this through. “But she played women’s softball in college, and is always reminiscing about her good old days.”

“College wasn’t yesterday for her.”

“It was a long time ago,” he agreed. “She’s pretty fragile. But as an alternate, she’d be part of Team Barefoot William without actually getting on the field. She’d warm the bench and cheer us on. It would be the highlight of her year.”

“There’s an off chance if someone got hurt that she’d have to play.” Carrie was practical.

Mike rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. This is a friendly community game, right?”

“You’ve yet to meet the Rogues. Retired or not, the guys are born sportsmen. They’ve never lost their edge. That’s why Jillie Mac decided on slow pitch. It would even the playing field. A little,” she added.

“Will you approach Agnes or should I?” he asked her. He couldn’t wait to see the older woman’s face. She’d be excited. She might even bake him his own batch of cookies.

“Let Jill do it,” Carrie decided. “She’s in charge of the event. I want her approval first.”

“When’s our first official practice?”

“Tomorrow night,” she told him. “Shaye suggested we have three before game day.”

They would probably need more than that, Mike thought, but three was better than none. They all had lives. Everyone worked. They’d be giving up their evenings to bat and learn the field.

“I’m glad you’re coaching,” Carrie said.

“That makes one of us.”

She poked him in the chest then, to get her point across. “Don’t you dare take the fun out of this game,” she said and meant it. “Keep your bad attitude and sarcasm away from the dugout.”

Guess she’d told him, he mused.

She took off then, crossing the lawn ahead of him. He appreciated her backside. Her curves brought sexy to softball.

He walked more slowly. He could play nice.

It was only for one day.

T
welve Richmond Rogues arrived in Barefoot William. Ten retired players, and two active. They were flown in on James Lawless’s private company plane. The men traveled alone. They would be in town for only eight hours. Their families remained in Richmond. Those who had small children would be home in time to tuck them into bed.

Their celebrity impacted the town. Jillian Mac had stood back and watched as the beachside town swelled to three times its size. Richmond rallied around their boys of summer. Loyal followers of the team traveled great distances.

Fans embraced the rookies, and had never forgotten the veterans. James Lawless, Richard “Risk” Kincaid, and Cody “Psycho” McMillan would always have their respect.

The men had greeted Jill and Carrie with fist bumps and hugs. Jill had a soft spot in her heart for each one of them. Especially Psycho. He’d pulled out his wallet and shown her recent pictures of his wife and daughter. He was one proud father.

The day rested heavily on Jill’s shoulders. A great deal of time and planning had gone into this weekend. She and Carrie had begun preparations months in advance. Still, the enormity of the turnout overwhelmed her.

Shaye Saunders had hometown muscle. Her connections extended throughout the county. She’d been instrumental in helping tie up loose ends. Jill would always be grateful to her.

Tailgate celebrations had begun with breakfast; hundreds of trucks and campers had parked just outside the guard gate leading to the site. The partying would continue long after the slow-pitch softball game. Aidan had beefed up security. Just to be on the safe side.

History was made with the ground-breaking ceremony. James, Aidan, and Trace Saunders were drawn together for a photo op. Their first scoop of dirt drew enormous applause. Somehow Psycho managed to get in the picture. He had a way of popping up unexpectedly. He’d wanted his own Lucite shovel, but shared James’s instead. Jill had promised to order him a commemorative spade, which had pleased him greatly.

Trace Saunders and Aidan Cates had been given special baseball jerseys. They’d become honorary Rogues. The men had all looked handsome in their suits, Jill mused, looking back on the morning. Aidan had stood out to her. He’d worn a navy suit with a white shirt and burgundy tie. He’d gotten a haircut since she’d last seen him. His gaze had warmed her when their eyes met. She grew so hot she’d fanned herself with the program of events. She hoped to see him again on a more regular basis following the weekend. She’d missed him.

He had apparently missed her, too. His get-well wish for her sunburned feet had arrived in a bouquet of hot pink, orange, and yellow gerbera daisies. A vase of white roses awaited her on the day she and Carrie moved into the Rogues store. She did love flowers. No man in her life had ever been so generous. She appreciated Aidan.

The morning had flown by; it was now one o’clock. Game time. She stood behind the low fence in the Team Rogue dugout. She gazed at the crowd. Additional collapsible bleachers had been delivered to the ball field at parks and recreation. The stands stretched the entire fence line. Those seated as far back as the outfield raised their voices for a home run. Fans in standing-room-only stomped their feet. Concession stands were set up on the grounds. Peanuts, popcorn, hot dogs, and cheese nachos scented the air. The sky was clear; the temperature was moderate. It was the perfect day to play ball.

Mila Carlyle from Dreams had approached Jill moments before. The owner of the store had thanked her profusely for the tickets. Jill had also included one for her associate, Sabrina. She’d felt a little fresh air and a box of Cracker Jacks might make Sabrina less of a tight ass.

Jill glanced between dugouts. The players on both teams had exchanged pleasantries. All but Mike Burke and Rylan Cates. They’d stared at one another, but neither acknowledged the other’s presence. Surely they knew each other, Jill thought. However there was no sign of friendship.

The crackling of the microphone gave way to player introductions. The crowd went wild, not only for the professional ballplayers, but for their hometown competitors, too. Team captains Aidan Cates and Risk Kincaid had the crowd on their feet, cheering at the tops of their lungs.

Rylan Cates received a hero’s welcome. Ry was tall and lean with sandy hair. He had very blue eyes and a slow smile. He seemed more surfer than baseball player to Jill.

Psycho and Trace did the coin toss. Psycho won and chose to bat first. The head umpire took his position behind home plate. A second official stood between first and second base. The day was all about fun and fair play, although Psycho was clearly amped to win.

The Rogues selected their bats and took a few practice swings. The men were all in their late thirties; handsome and fit. They promoted an active lifestyle. There were no beer bellies or couch potato butts.

“The ball’s so big and round, it’s like batting a pumpkin,” Psycho grunted, standing on deck. He watched Carrie warm up, obviously amazed by her pitching ability. He turned toward Jill and shouted, “Why isn’t she on our team?”

Jill hadn’t shared her best friend’s skill. She’d let the Rogues find out for themselves. Carrie deserved to shine. This was her moment. Jill noticed Mike Burke couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was checking out more than her talent. That made Jill very nervous.

Psycho dug in at home plate. The team had decided to wear the classic Rogues’ uniform colors, and did so with red-and-white baseball jerseys and blue jeans. He wore his baseball cap backward.

His grin was cocky as he pointed down the first baseline at Agnes Spencer. The older woman had stubbornly insisted she be in the starting lineup. Aidan had been apprehensive, concerned about her age and her fragile bones. He’d been outnumbered, and eventually he’d given in. He had walked with her to first, a protective gesture. Jill crossed her fingers that the medical team would not be called for an emergency.

Agnes now bent her knees and punched the pocket on her glove. She had a determined look on her face. “I’m coming your way, Aggie babe,” Psycho called to her.

She motioned for him to bring it on. Agnes was feisty. Her light blue Barefoot William T-shirt hung nearly to her knees. The tee covered her khaki shorts. She looked as if she was wearing a dress. She was happy with her look. No one asked her to tuck it in.

The game was underway, Psycho leading off. Fans were chanting “Psycho, Psycho, Psycho.” He’d been badass crazy during his career.
Try anything, do anything
had been his motto. He’d lived a wild lifestyle until he’d met his wife, Keely. She’d brought him up short. Now Jill respected him as a husband and father.

Jill exhaled when the game began. Carrie pitched to Psycho with the relaxed presence of a player who knew she could strike him out. He swung at a ball that dropped two feet before the plate. “Shi-shoot,” he corrected. He shook himself off, got ready for her next underhanded toss.

He connected with the next pitch. The ball flew down the first baseline, straight toward Agnes. The crowd held its collective breath as the older woman scooped, then stepped on the base. Psycho was out by a fraction of a second.

He snarled, bent down, going nose to nose with her. The crowd erupted when he kissed her on the cheek. Agnes may have made the out, but Psycho won everyone’s heart. Jill felt her throat tighten, for no reason at all.

A man’s man, Risk Kincaid batted second. No one could match his reliability and calm. He landed a double.

Jill hit third: a solid single.

Team owner James Lawless came fourth. He struck out. He shook his head, then surprised everyone by applauding Carrie. She was on fire. The crowd clapped for him, too.

Two outs, and Carrie next faced Rylan Cates. Ry was confident. He gave her an exaggerated wink. She winked back. The fans whistled their approval. Their silly flirtation drew Mike Burke’s scowl. Jill could easily see him from first base. He was within her line of vision. His mood had visibly shifted, turning dark and dangerous. His hands were now fisted at his sides. He rocked heel to toe, a boxer’s stance, ready to throw a punch.

What in the world was going on? she wondered.

Aidan had taken notice, too. He was playing left field, but now moved toward third base. He could see into the dugout. His gaze shifted from the Barefoot William bench to home plate, then back again. He seemed concerned about Mike.

It was fortunate for the home team that Aidan played close in. Rylan powered the ball over one of his cousin’s head at third and Aidan caught the pop fly.

Three outs and the Rogues took the field.

Shaye got the team lined up to bat. Jill had no idea what was going on in their dugout, but Aidan now sat by Mike at the end of the bench. Their heads were bent, and it appeared that Aidan was doing most of the talking.

Agnes Spencer soon walked to home plate. The crowd rose and applauded her. She positioned the bat, which had to weigh as much as she did. The woman was a lightweight.

Rylan was to pitch. He played centerfield during the regular season, but today he stood behind the pitching rubber. James Lawless chose to catch. Jill played second base. Psycho took right field. Risk Kincaid headed to center. The rest of the Rogues fanned out, covering the remaining positions.

Carrie had told Jill that her team had practiced together. Their practices had paid off. Mike made a good coach. He pushed a little, praised a lot. He said not a word to Carrie.

“Agnes, hit the ball to me,” Psycho shouted. “I’m waiting, sweetheart.”

Agnes had other intentions. Jill watched in amazement as Granny Aggie smacked the ball over her head. And on the very first pitch. Agnes made it easily to first base. Jill was impressed. Risk jogged and collected the ball. He returned it to Rylan.

“Out of the park, boss,” Agnes yelled to Aidan, who was next up. The lady had a strong set of lungs.

Jill held her breath. She’d love to see Aidan score the first home run of the afternoon. Yet winning or losing mattered little to her. Today was all about welcoming fans and leaving them wanting more. That
more
would come with spring training. Psycho didn’t share her feelings. “Strike him out,” he hollered to Rylan.

Ry faced off against his older brother. Rylan could pitch, but he wasn’t nearly as good as Carrie. Four pitches and the ball never fully crossed the plate. Aidan took his base. Agnes was spry; she trotted to second.

Shaye Cates had a competitor’s heart. It didn’t matter that Rylan was her brother, too; she was out to score. He pitched, and she drove the ball straight back at him. The softball caught his thigh, near his balls.

Ry did the shit-fire shuffle. He danced around the softball that bounced off him and rolled to his right. Shaye was safe at first by the time Jake Packer, a team rookie playing shortstop, made the recovery.

“What the—?” Psycho growled from right field. “Bases are loaded and there are no outs.”

“It’s only the first inning,” Jill reminded him. Aidan now stood beside her on second, and his body bumped hers lightly. She discreetly brushed him back. She shivered in the heat of the day.

“Let’s go, ladies!” Psycho rallied his teammates.

Retired pro volleyball player Dune Cates took his turn batting. Risk caught his high fly ball, but that didn’t stop Agnes from crossing home plate. The townies went crazy. Agnes was all smiles.

The next two Barefoot William players went down on strikes. “It’s about damn time,” said Psycho as he jogged to the dugout. “You pitch like a girl, Rylan.”

“Too bad he doesn’t throw like Carrie,” Jill said as she ran past him.

“She’s your friend—rub it in,” said Psycho.

The afternoon progressed with laughter, a few taunts from Psycho, and a lot of teasing when players made mistakes. Carrie took Barefoot William to the top of the ninth inning. Her pitching had slowed somewhat, and Jill grew concerned for her friend. Carrie was visibly tired. She now rubbed her shoulder between throws.

Jill called a time-out and the umpire stopped the game. She crossed the field to Mike Burke. He was far from welcoming. “What do you want?” he asked. “You’re holding up play. A game we’re winning by the way.” Barefoot William was ahead by two runs.

“Take Carrie out,” she said.

He looked at her as if she were crazy. “What the hell for?”

“She’s hurting.”

“You know this how?”

“Watch her next pitch and you’ll see her flinch.”

His brow creased. He looked uneasy. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“That’s because you’re busy glaring at Rylan. Get a grip. Whatever’s going down between you, deal with it after the game. But pull Carrie now.”

“If I don’t?” He was being his disagreeable self.

“You’ll wish you were wearing a cup.” She darted back to her dugout.

“You fly just fine without your broom,” he grumbled after her. Still she heard him.

“Flying monkeys to you, too.”

Carrie got in one additional pitch before Mike withdrew her from the game. Jill breathed a whole lot easier. Psycho came to stand beside her at the dugout fence. He nudged her with his elbow. “Is she okay?” he asked, concerned.

“She’s done for the day,” Jill told him. “Ice on her shoulder, and she should be fine.”

He ran one hand down his face, and she knew there was more to come. “I saw you body-rub the contractor. Is there anything between you?” he asked.

Psycho missed nothing. Ever. “I was just trying to distract him,” was the best she could do.

He looked dubious, but didn’t press her further. “You were successful. Aidan looked dazed.” He went back to the bench.

Mike Burke soon called a second time-out. The umpire allowed three minutes. The team formed a circle and seemed deep in discussion. Jill wondered what was going on. Five minutes passed, and Psycho shouted across the field, “Violation.”

Aidan Cates walked from the dugout and motioned to Risk Kincaid. They met at home plate. As team captain, Aidan had to choose a new pitcher; he wasn’t sure he’d picked the proper person. Right or wrong, the decision rested on his shoulders.