Going All the Way (Knights of Passion Book 1) (2 page)

She shook her head and stepped aside. One of them held open the door and gestured for her to precede them. They were more gentlemanly than the people with whom she had spent the past seven months. Those guys in polished suits and designer clothes either tried to get in her bed or shoved her aside as a coffee girl. She let her eyes wander over the tight shirt and the muscles displayed in the working man clothes and a low hum of arousal started in her lower region, an area that hadn’t seen action since the beginning of the campaign, maybe longer. That feeling, and the tingling along her nerve endings, reinforced her intention to finally cut loose and enjoy herself, forgetting about the disaster that was her life.

Tomorrow was another day, as another famous Southern belle once said. Scarlett was a woman to emulate. Stacia wished she had Scarlett’s forthright, get-it-done-no-matter-what attitude. Hell, she had stood up to the Yankee army! Stacia only had to stand up to her father.

The man cleared his throat and exchanged glances with his buddies. Aware she was still standing in the doorway, she smiled quickly and slipped through the door. She stepped aside and let her eyes adjust to dim lighting. The guys pushed past her with barely a glance, shouting a greeting to friends gathered around a round, wooden table on what probably was the dance floor if a band was playing. On a Tuesday night, the TV showed a baseball game and the local major league team was playing, the Georgia Knights. She scanned the room, looking for Sophie amidst the groupings of mostly men hanging out after work. A group separated and she spied a lone man sitting in a corner booth in the dim corner. He was sipping what appeared to be scotch and scowling at the people around him. Despite the scowl and the go-away aura he was projecting, something drew her gaze, more than the group of young construction workers.

This man was older, experienced and something told the woman inside he knew his way around the female body. A girl would not be disappointed after a night with him, if she could break through the thick warning signs and barrier of foul temper. He was dressed different than many of the men in the bar. They were mostly blue-collar workers, blowing off steam from a long day in the August sun. Nice enough guys, but they tended to leave Stacia, who usually dressed in a Neiman Marcus business suit, alone, her armor that was as much a prison as a fashion statement.

Tonight, however, she had ditched the suit and dressed in an Ann Taylor blouse and Old Navy jeans, in which she was still too obvious in this bar. This man, this loner, was dressed in designer clothes, yet he wasn’t a businessman. Something about the clothes and the attitude didn’t scream business.

At that moment, his eyes shifted from the alcohol and met hers. The banked heat in them almost scorched her already raw nerve endings and electricity coursed along her skin, like the sizzle in the air before a summer thunderstorm. His gaze sent tingles of sexual awareness to areas she had ruthlessly suppressed for seven months because the campaign and her boss owned her body and her father owned her soul for as long as she could remember. Now they awoke, stretched, and stood at attention.

“Stacia, over here!” A blonde woman waved wildly from the bar area.

With one last regretful glance at the man, Stacia weaved her way to her friend. Sophie gave her a quick hug and, holding her shoulders, stared into her eyes, studying them for some hidden message.

“Those assholes. They fired you, didn’t they? What about your father?”

Stacia looked away, the hot sting of tears prickling just behind the eyes. “I think is the politically correct term is that I’ve been removed from the campaign effective immediately.”

Sophie steered her to the bar and slid a drink in her hand. “Southern Comfort sour. Thought you could use it tonight. He’s an ass. They all are. You’re the only reason Glazier had any chance at all after he was caught with his pants around his ankles humping that damn intern.”

She choked back a laugh. “Thanks, Sophie! I needed that.”

“Seriously,” Sophie continued her outraged tirade. “What did they expect you to do about it? Jump into bed with him and be his dick guard? He’s a dog. No wait, that’s an insult to dogs everywhere. What’s worse? A pig?”

Stacia avoided looking at Sophie, instead fixing her gaze on the television behind the bar where the candidate, her former boss, was about to give his concession speech.

“Can you change the channel, Deon?”

The bartender gave her a sour look and slid the remote across the bar. “Do it yourself.”

“Great service.”

He flipped her the bird and grinned, softening the blow. He slid two more drinks in front of her and Sophie.

“So, what are you going to do?”

Stacia shrugged. “No idea.” Away from the magnetic pull of the dark stranger, the brief stirring of life, of heat, dissipated and the numbness returned, blocking the paralyzing fear that had been her first reaction once the primary results had been announced. “I’ll talk to Michael tomorrow. Maybe he has something else for me.” She turned from the bar, trying to find the man she had spied when she had first walked in. “Meanwhile, I need a diversion.”

“A diversion?” Sophie gaped at her. “You just got fired. Several more drinks might be in order, I think.”

Stacia shrugged. “I would have thought you would be happy for me. You’ve been telling me I need to get out more, loosen up. I’m ready to loosen up. Now, to find the right guy.” She scanned the bar, seeking, then finding. The crowd parted, revealing a dim back booth and the man, sitting alone, partially hidden by the shadows. The same man who started awakening her long-dormant desires.

The half not hidden showed promise; mainly he didn’t appear to have a beer gut; he’d dressed in something other than a stained t-shirt or designer suits, and was under forty years old. She wasn’t looking for suave businessman or out-of-work alcoholic. This man may just be right for her, for this moment in time. A brief fling to help her forget the pain of the day. A brief lapse in the control she had to maintain over her life. A brief chance to be herself, for once.

Now, how to play this angle.

*

“That’s my only
offer?” Jason Friar slumped in the back booth of a local, no-name bar, cell phone pressed to his ear. Thank God they were on the phone. Maybe his agent wouldn’t catch the stink of desperation as he hoped for some news—a position with a major league baseball team, any team.

He really should be careful what he asked for.

“The Georgia Knights? The cellar-dweller team filled with minor league hopefuls and major league has-beens?” Disbelief and disappointment warred deep in his chest.

“I’m sorry, Jason. I’ve been calling around both leagues. It’s mid-season. No one needs a first baseman.” Regret tinged his agent’s voice. Scott Thomas continued, “The Knights are in first place this year. They have a real shot at the league championship.”

Jason sipped the twelve-year-old, single malt scotch to create distance from the words stabbing his soul. If only the whiskey could dull the pain of his trashed career. “Is there anyone else? Anyone at all?”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. If Scott hadn’t sighed, Jason would have thought they had been disconnected. “I’m going to lay it on the line. Two years ago, teams would have been lined up for you. A Gold Glove. A batting championship. You had it all. Since then, your shoulder injury severely limits your worth. A first baseman post rotator-cuff surgery is a risky option. Most players retire or are never the same. You know this.”

“Yeah, but it’s fine now. Healed and strong. I took the time off. Did the rehab. Even the doctor said it’s solid.” He sipped his scotch, wishing he could ignore his reality, the one he had spent too many months diving into drink to avoid. “That’s not the only thing, is it?”

“Karma’s a bitch. I told you years of partying and rumors scare teams off now. Especially after the Senate hearings on steroids.”

Jason slammed his fist on the table, almost knocking over the glass and shaking popcorn out of the bowl on the table, the familiar bolt of anger still stinging after a year. The people in the booth next to him gave him an alarmed look. He inhaled deeply and exhaled as a former lover, a yoga instructor had taught him.

Slightly calmer, his voice was lower when he finally spoke. “I never took steroids. No one could prove it. That damned Senator Kendall and his witch hunt, all for his own publicity.”

“That certainly didn’t help. Teams are gun shy. They don’t want an injured player with bad press.”

“No one wants
me
.” He let the bitterness strangling him lace the words.

“No.” Scott paused, clearly unsure how to proceed. “The Knights need an experienced player and a first baseman. It’s not a great contract, but it’s a start. No matter what happens, if you keep your private life clean, bat in the 300s, and field your position, you’ll be in a better place for next season. Maybe even back on top.”

Scott’s voice took on a note of pleading, as if saying it over and over would make it real. Based on the past year, nothing could change his reality.

“The contract is insulting. I’m worth far more than a lousy million. It’s a contract given to journeyman utility players, not a proven major leaguer.”

“Do you really have a choice?” Scott’s words bit deep, reminding Jason of the mess he’d made of his life. “You’re lucky to be offered anything at all.”

“Damn it. You know I don’t. My money’s gone, stolen by that weasel of an accountant. I have my pride, Scott.” A pride he would have to choke down if he wanted back into the game he loved. Or watch his career head to the showers like a worn out has-been, with no fanfare, no celebratory victory runs, no applause. Just a long, slow, solitary march down the tunnel into forced retirement and to a walk-on role at old-timers’ day. If he was lucky. At this point, being a greeter at Walmart was more likely.

“You can’t afford pride,” his agent quietly reminded him.

Pride dictated that he reject the offer. Practicality warred with pride, telling him that playing the sport he loved was more important and accepting the offer was his only choice, especially if he wanted to have a roof over his head and food on the table. But the insults and comments he was sure to hear from players and commentators would be worse than a bad hop right to the crotch.

He took a deep swallow of his scotch and let good judgment control his words for the first time in his life. “Get the details, and set up the meeting. I’ll be there.”

“Jason, watch yourself. Everyone is concerned about your image.”

“I’ll grab something to eat then go back to the hotel. To sleep. Alone.” He clutched the phone, its edges digging into his palm. “There are no groupies hanging around me anymore. Nothing to see. No one to do.” He snapped the phone shut and slouched in the booth. Resentment wafted out in waves, scattering the locals, who steered clear of him, the odd wary glance or suspicious look the only attention he received.

He had to accept the offer. It grated on him to let the team dictate his private life, like a teenager with the parents out of town. He glanced around the dim bar, more from habit than any real interest. His ego taunted him to find a playmate and blow off some steam, prove he was in charge of his own life, not some pencil-pushing general manager. Prove he still had something people wanted, even if it was only sex, because his fame, fortune, awards, respect were all gone. No one wanted him for anything, not even a lousy endorsement selling Viagra.

The crowd parted. An auburn-haired siren, perched on a barstool, sipping a real drink, not a white wine spritzer or something feminine, one of those frou-frou drinks. A real woman. A woman who dared him not to look.

He never could resist a challenge.

As if sensing his interest, she turned sideways on the stool and crossed one knee over the other, her legs going on and on and on, ending in a high heel that could have doubled as a weapon.

Damn. His groin tightened and pressed against his jeans.

She was not the typical barfly, not for this dive. Even though she was in jeans, they were too new and the blouse too high-class, too expensive, too perfect for this mostly blue-collar bar. The patrons recognized quality, judging by the half-hearted, lame pick-up lines being served to her like yesterday’s bread. Her auburn hair was twisted up into a knot, a few tendrils tickling a long, creamy neck. He wanted to loosen that rich hair, feel it cascade over him, bury his face in her neck, and inhale her subtle perfume.

Stupid. Fantasizing about a woman after being told specifically not to get into trouble. He passed off the interest as a by-product of a year-long celibacy. Too bad his rebel side thumbed its nose at being controlled.

The woman deliberately loosened a button on her blouse. She licked her lips, a come hither look in her eyes. Lust slammed him deep in his groin and he felt a stirring that had everything to do with things he should not be doing. Yes, he still had something, sex appeal, the one thing he never lost.

She would be perfect to forget his lousy life.

*