Going Deep (20 page)

“Because. I know
who turned me in. It was Holder. He wanted me out of the way so he could go for
the record all by himself.”

“You’re saying,
not only did Jason Holder provide you with illegal steroids, but he somehow
convinced you to take them, then he turned you in so he could pursue the
homerun record himself?”

You couldn’t go
anywhere in Dallas these days without seeing Jason Holder’s likeness on
something, and you didn’t have to be a baseball fan to know the local team was
taking advantage of the hitter’s run for the record to sell tickets. But was
Holder using and/or pushing steroids? She’d never seen the man in person, but
if the photos plastered on everything from buses to buildings around town were
current, then he didn’t
look
like he was using. He was the best-looking
man she’d had ever seen—bar none. It would be a shame if what McCree said were
true.

“Yeah, that’s
exactly what I’m saying.”

She glanced to
McCree’s lawyer, a sleazy guy with expensive taste in suits and absolutely no
style whatsoever. “What does your client hope this information will accomplish,
if anything?”

“Mr. McCree has
turned over a new leaf. He’s seen the error of his ways and wants to set the
record straight, so professional athletics can purge itself of the unscrupulous
people who enable steroid use from within these organizations. Steroid use is
on the rise among teenage athletes in this country, and as long as their
professional counterparts persist in using these illegal drugs, teenagers will
continue to emulate their behavior.”

“That’s exactly
why I’m writing this article,” she said. “Thank you both for meeting with me.”

Carrie stood,
extending her hand. “I appreciate your time. Speaking of which, I have to be on
my way.” If traffic wasn’t too bad, she could make it back to her hotel room in
time to call Master. Blood rushed to her pussy at the thought of hearing his
voice.

Nearly an hour
later, she hung the Do Not Disturb sign on the door and dropped her purse and
the bag containing her laptop on the foot of the bed. Precious minutes ticked
by while she shed her clothes and dug through her purse to find the phone
Master gave her.

“Come on. Come
on,” she chanted, urging the power up process to go faster. Damn. She was going
to be late. She should have thought to power it up right after she got off the
plane, but she’d been exhausted and nothing went as planned from the minute the
wheels touched the runway. The rental car agency lost her reservation, and when
they’d found a car for her, they were out of GPS units to rent. She’d arrived
at the hotel behind a busload of tourists, all checking in individually, just
to learn the only room left was a smoking room, even though her reservation
specified non-smoking. After a fitful night, she’d begged to be moved and they’d
agreed to move her to the first non-smoking room that became available.

So, here she sat
in her new room, minus her luggage the bell-staff couldn’t locate via the claim
check they’d given her just a few short hours ago.

The interview
with Martin McCree and his lawyer was icing on the cake of her miserable trip.
She felt dirty having just been in the same room with them. If it weren’t for
this phone call, she’d be in the shower scrubbing the invisible taint from her
skin.

The screen came
to life, and with a sigh of relief, she punched the speed-dial number that
would connect her with her master.

“I’ve been
waiting,” he said.

“I know. I…this
has been a miserable trip, Sir. Nothing has gone right, and I had to wait for
the phone to power up. I know it’s my fault. I should have thought….”

“Tell me, angel.”
His voice was a lifeboat, his concern a fresh, calming breeze. “Let me help
you.”

She told him
everything from the flight delays up to and including the night spent in a room
that stank of stale nicotine, and ended with, “I hated the people I met with
this morning. My hair smells like cigarette smoke, and there isn’t enough hot
water and soap in the world to get the stench of creepy people off my skin.”
Drained from the recitation, she flopped back on the bed with a sigh. “I miss
you.”

“I miss you,
too, angel. Feel better now?” She smiled at the humor in his voice.

“Yes, I do. It
all sounds so silly, doesn’t it?”

“No. Not silly.
Stressful. I wish my demands hadn’t added to it, but I needed to know you were
okay. I want to take care of you, always.” His words chased away the last
lingering bits of tension. “Did you follow my instructions before you called?”

“Yes, Sir. I’m
completely naked.”

“Good. Put the
phone on speaker and go into the bathroom. Fill the bathtub with hot water. I
want to give you a bath.”

After acquiring
all the things he listed, she placed the phone on a towel atop the closed
toilet lid and stepped into the tub. The hot water sapped the last of her
energy. “Oh, God, that feels good,” she sighed.

“Lie back and
rest your head on the edge,” he said. “Let the water caress your skin.”

The porcelain
was cold against her skin, but it warmed quickly. “Ahh, yes,” she sighed.

“Let your knees
fall open, angel. Let the water caress your pussy.”

“This is just
what I needed, Sir. Thank you.”

“Oh, we aren’t
done yet,” he said. “Lather the washcloth, angel.”

Pure
decadence, that’s what it is.
She closed her eyes and imagined him there,
her sitting in the cradle of his strong thighs while his hands stroked the
soapy cloth over her entire body. By the time he instructed her to place it
between her legs, she was only minutes away from a soft, languorous orgasm.

“Fold the cloth
into thirds, angel, then roll it into a ball so it fits in the palm of your
hand.”

“Oh, Sir,” she
sighed. “I’m so horny, can’t I just rub my pussy without going to all this
trouble?”

“No,” he
chuckled. “No short cuts to orgasm heaven tonight. Just do what I say and roll
the washcloth into a ball—something like a roll of dollar bills.”

She flattened
her foot on the bottom of the tub, and used her raised thigh like a table to
roll the washcloth. “Okay. Now what, Sir?”

“Lift your knees
and let them fall open. Place the rolled up washcloth at the top of your mound
and use the palm of your hand to roll it back and forth over your clit. Use
enough pressure to do some good, angel. The harder you press, the faster you’ll
get the orgasm you want so badly.”

The water grew
cold and she forgot all about the last twenty-four horrible hours. Clean, sated
and now pleasantly exhausted, she followed Master’s instructions and slipped
naked between the sheets of her artificially darkened room for a well-needed
nap.

“Sleep well,
angel. You’ll feel more like working after you rest.”

“Thank you, Sir.
You take good care of me.”

“Always, angel.
Always.”

* * *

Three whole
days. He was going out of his mind worrying about her. After the first day when
she’d sounded so exhausted and had made those comments about the type of people
she’d been keeping company with…God, he couldn’t stop worrying. He was going to
put an end to this torture. When she returned, he would tell her who he was and
demand she tell him everything about herself. What kind of job did she have
that put her in the company of, in her words, creepy people?

Whatever it was,
she couldn’t keep it. No way, no how. He couldn’t live with the anxiety or the
frustration at not being there in person to take care of her. Hell, she didn’t
need to work. He made enough money to take care of her. He
needed
to
take care of her. She was his lifeboat. She’d saved him from drowning in
self-pity. Saved him from a living a vanilla lie. He’d never experienced the
freedom of being himself, except in her company. She understood. She accepted.
And he would protect her. Always.

He’d had no
choice the last few days but to channel his negative emotions into aggression
on the field. The Mustangs had played three games since she left, a
double-header followed by a late game the next day. He added four homeruns to
his stats, breaking his own season high, and there were still two months to go
in the regular season.

He tried to focus
on the report in front of him. Knowing the strengths and weaknesses of every
batter on the opposing team was the difference between a decent catcher and a
future Hall of Fame catcher. That meant hours studying reports and watching
game video, something he’d never minded before, but with Carrie out there
somewhere in the great unknown, the numbers might as well have been Greek.

The phone
ringing startled him. His heart leapt then plummeted to his toes when he
realized the call was his house line, and not the cell Carrie would’ve contacted
him on.
Shit.
Wiping a hand over his face, he reached for the cordless
handset. He checked the caller ID. The Mustangs’ front office. This day just
got better and better.

Within the hour,
he tapped on the team manager’s office door. “Doyle? You wanted to see me?”

“Come on in,
Jason. Shut the door behind you.”

His heart was
sure as hell getting a workout this season, he thought as his pulse kicked into
overdrive. Closed doors were never a good thing when talking with management.

“Have a seat.”
Doyle waved him to the casual arrangement that boasted a comfortable leather
sofa and three matching chairs around a coffee table. If it hadn’t been for the
massive desk across the room and the walls lined with framed celebrity photos
and trophy cases, a person might forget he was in the boss’s office.

Jason sat on the
sofa, no longer the raw recruit he’d been the first time he’d sat there, but a
seasoned professional who had no reason to be as nervous as he was. He crossed
an ankle over his knee. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been given
a head’s up by the local newspaper. They called this morning to ask me for a
statement regarding an article they plan to publish in tomorrow’s issue.”

“And this
concerns me, how?”

“Martin McCree
says you’re the one who sold him the steroids.”

So that’s what a
ton of bricks felt like when it landed on your head. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t
find words. He scanned the room, wondering how this alternate universe could
look so normal, but be the polar opposite of reality.

“Jason? Son?”

A block of ice
formed in his gut. Like some sort of alien being, it sent out tentacles to his
internal organs, flash freezing each in turn. He sat in mute horror while the
alien creature gripped his career in its frigid grasp and reduced it to vapor.

“Is that all?”
he asked through tight lips.

“He’s accused
you of using, too.”

Bile rose in his
throat, the chemical burn almost welcome in the midst of the paralyzing cold. “What
did you tell them?” he asked when he pried his jaw from the ice monster’s grip.

“I told them the
truth. That McCree lied.”

“Thank you.”
Jason nodded, processing the unfathomable. “I’ll take a drug test. Hell, I’ll
take a hundred.”

Doyle crossed
one ankle over his knee. “That’s the first step, but you and I know it won’t
end there.”

“It never does.”
Fuck
.

“I don’t think
we can stop them from printing the article, but I’ve already contacted our
lawyers. They’re working on it right now. If there’s a way, we’ll stop it. If
not, then we’ll decide what to do depending on the reaction to it.”

Jason nodded
again. “So, that’s it. I’m supposed to wait for some reporter with a hatchet to
destroy my career?”

“You’re not
guilty, son. This won’t destroy your career.”

Jason jumped to
his feet. “Are you fucking kidding me? It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not.
They’ll raise the question. That’s all it takes. The media will grab on to the
lie and every time they repeat it, it’ll become truth in the minds of the fans.
You know how it works.” He forced his legs to move toward the bank of windows
overlooking the stadium. Choking back tears that threatened he gazed out at the
playing field that had felt like his home. “Who’s doing this?”

“I don’t know
the reporter. He’s not from the sports desk.”

“What’s his
name?”
Know thy enemy.

“Carradine
Taylor.”

The name meant
nothing to him. He should at least be able to look his executioner in the eye.

 “He covers
random shit, mostly local, but anything that involves scandal or a cover up.
Politics, corporate misconduct—that sort of thing.”

He counted the
squares mowed precisely into the outfield, silently wondering into which
category he fell into. Random shit? Definitely scandal. And everyone knew there
was always a cover up when steroids were involved. If this Carradine Taylor
only knew what kind of random shit, scandal and cover up was really going on in
his life, he’d have a golden ticket to every talk show on the planet.
What a
cluster-fuck.

“Look, Jason.
Come sit down. The PR people are coming up, then the lawyers. We’re all over
this. By the time the paper hits the news racks in the morning, we’ll have a
strategy and a response ready to go. We aren’t going to take this lying down.”

“You have a copy
of the article?”
At least let me view the murder weapon
.

“Yeah, they
faxed one over.” Doyle crossed to his desk. A moment later, he nudged Jason’s
elbow. “Here.”

Jason turned his
back to the view, sank to the floor and leaned against the glass, his knees
raised, the only wall of defense he could muster at the moment. He read the
article, agreeing with everything the author said regarding the evils of
steroid use. Two pages of perfectly good journalism. Then, on the third page,
the lies, not even masked in innuendo. Flat-out, blatant, defamatory lies. Each
one striking a serious blow to his career. Cumulatively demolishing everything
he’d spend his life building.