Switch Hitter (2 page)

“What happened? Did you get hit by a pitch?” She dropped to her knees beside his chair, covering his hand on the pack with hers as if her touch could make him better.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.”

His sullen tone rocked her back on her heels. She dropped her hand to the arm of the chair. “Bentley. What happened to you?”

“It’s none of your concern. Just a disagreement in the clubhouse. I’m fine.”

She stood. “You don’t look fine.” She pried the ice pack away long enough to see the damage. His eye looked like someone had taken a purple felt-tipped marker to it. “You look like hell.”

“Go to bed, Ashley. Okay? I want to be alone.”

It hurt to think he didn’t want her help, but then again, she had no experience with this side of her boyfriend. He wasn’t the kind of man to get in fights. “I take it there’s someone else out there in equally as bad shape?”

“I fuckin’ hope so,” he said.

“What’s gotten into you?”

“Just leave me alone.” Standing, he headed toward the kitchen.

She followed him, pouring herself a glass of wine while he refilled his ice pack with short, angry movements. She wasn’t too happy herself. His rejection stung, but she wasn’t ready to give up just yet. She sensed there was something more at stake here than him fighting in the clubhouse, but she didn’t have a clue what it could be.

“Why can’t you tell me what’s going on?” Crossing her arms over her breasts, she propped her hip against the countertop to watch him.

“Because there’s nothing to tell.” He helped himself to a beer from the refrigerator then stalked back to the family room and his well-worn chair.

Leaning against the doorjamb where she could see the top of his head over the back of his chair, she sipped her wine and weighed her options. There was more to the story than he was telling, but if he wouldn’t let her in, let her help, there wasn’t much else she could do but let him work it out on his own.

“I love you,” she said to the back of his head. “I’m here for you, Bentley, no matter what.” When he didn’t respond, she returned to the kitchen, emptied her glass into the sink, then headed upstairs to bed.

Let him sulk.
But the fact he wouldn’t confide in her hurt more than she could bear to think about.

The next morning, his side of the bed looked as if he’d been there, but she had no idea what time he’d come to bed or how long he’d slept. Glancing at the clock, she groaned. It was too early to be up on her day off, but Bentley had a game later. She wanted to see him before they went their separate ways for the day. Maybe he would be in a better mood this morning, more willing to talk.

Or not. She found him in the backyard, water hose in hand, tending his precious rose bushes. She liked roses as well as the next female, but Bentley babied these, especially when he had something on his mind. Having been raised on a farm, he said growing things relaxed him. It didn’t appear to be helping today. His shoulders were tense, and in profile, his jaw was clenched tight.

“You keep working your jaw, you’re going to grind your molars to dust,” she said, approaching with caution.

“You’re up early,” he said, not looking up from his task.

“I have things to do. How’s your eye?”

“I’ll live.”

She moved closer to look for herself, but he turned his face away. “Look, I’m just trying to help. Don’t shut me out.”

He twisted the sprayer nozzle to the off position before he faced her. His eye was swollen, the bruising was more colorful than it had been the night before. She’d seen worse, but not on him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you want to help, but trust me, there isn’t a thing you can do. It’s over and done.”

“You aren’t going to tell me who you fought with?”

“No, I’m not. Can we just forget about it, please?”

She wasn’t ready to forgive him completely, not yet anyway. “You aren’t going to fight anymore, are you?”

“I didn’t start the fight,” he said. “I’ll do my best to keep my distance. That’s all I’m willing to promise.”

“I feel like I’m trying to reason with a child. This is insane, Bentley. Grown men do not settle their differences with their fists.”

“I’ll be sure to bring your point up the next time someone takes a swing at me.”

She groaned at his absurd remark. “Okay. Have it your way. I’m out of here. I have a million things to do today. I don’t have time for pointless arguments.”

“I’ve got a meeting in a couple of hours,” he called after her. “I probably won’t be here when you get back.”

“Whatever,” she mumbled, leaving him to work out his problems on his own.

* * *

The summons to appear in Doyle Walker’s office wasn’t unexpected. Management couldn’t ignore violence. Hell, he’d been in the Mustangs’ clubhouse all of ten seconds before he started a fistfight with another player. But damn it all to hell, why did the first person he laid eyes on have to be Bentley Randolph?

It was almost too much to bear, seeing him again in a locker room and remembering how Bent had walked out all those years ago. He’d asked to be traded! Hadn’t even given them a chance, just walked away…no, make that
ran
away. As fast as his chicken shit legs would carry him.

God, the memory still hurt. Seeing him periodically throughout the years hadn’t been near enough, but at the same time, it had been too much. How many times had he willed the Mustangs’ left fielder to come find him after a game, but the damned stubborn son of a bitch never did. He’d known he wouldn’t.

Bentley was a twisted fucker. He screwed every female who came within a half-mile radius, but the idea of being with a man he desired scared the shit out of him.

Fuck you, Bentley.

Sean hadn’t asked to be traded to the Mustangs, had tried his damndest to keep it from happening, but he was here, and he’d be goddamned if he was going to pretend nothing happened between them in the Pioneers’ shower. Even if it hadn’t, the erection pressing into his thigh when they rolled around on the clubhouse floor the day before told him the man wanted him. That was something. If nothing else, Bent would acknowledge his part in the debacle. No way was he going to suffer alone. Not anymore.

Bentley had always made him a bit crazy with want and need, but he’d managed to keep it under control until one day five years ago. He’d thought everyone had already left, so he was taking his time in the shower when he’d sensed someone watching him. When he saw who it was, his knees almost buckled. Damn, the Pioneers’ left fielder was built. That he’d stood there letting him get an eye full, stunned him, but he wouldn’t pass on the opportunity of a lifetime. He’d seen bits and pieces around the locker room, but a guy had to be discreet. Ogling another player just wasn’t done—unless of course he allowed it. Bentley more than allowed it. He’d all but begged Sean to satisfy his curiosity.

The guy hadn’t tried to hide his erection or his open perusal of Sean’s body, so he’d turned—let him see he felt the same way. It was risky, but Bent’s openness had given him courage. Then the bastard ran, chicken feathers flying, he was out of there so fast. Out of the shower. Out of the clubhouse. Out of town.

Talk about fucked up. Classic denial. Lots of gay guys slept with women—himself included on occasion—but it didn’t make them straight. Or maybe Bent really was bent. Could be he desired both sexes equally. He could live with him being bisexual as long as he could find a chick who didn’t mind her guy having a man on the side. He liked watching hetero sex. Hell, he’d fuck Bent while his lover fucked a woman. He couldn’t think of anything hotter.

But at the moment, there were other things to worry about—like explaining to Doyle Walker why he’d felt compelled to punch the left fielder’s lights out, while managing to keep his ass off the bench in the process. Even more difficult, he had to accomplish the task without telling the team manager he would rather fuck the man than fight with him. It might be the twenty-first century, but when it came to sexual issues, professional team sports were pretty much stuck in the dark ages.

He couldn’t tell the truth.
I took one look at those kissable lips of his, and all I could think about was five years of jacking off while imagining coming down his throat. I snapped. I was trying to rearrange his mouth, but the chicken-shit bastard moved so I clipped his eye instead. ‘My bad?

Yeah, that would go over well. He’d be playing single A ball on the Mexican border in a matter of hours. He needed to come up with a different excuse, one that made a shred of sense. Bentley would need to tell the same story. He might have gotten them into their present predicament, but it went back to the beginning, and that was all on the other guy. If only Bentley had just kept on walking back then. He never would have had the nerve to approach a guy on the team, much less one as heterosexual as Bentley appeared to be—not unless he was given encouragement. He smiled to himself, remembering. He’d had more inches of encouragement than most men could truthfully boast of.

They were in this together. They would get out of it together.

Chapter Two

Sean rang the doorbell then took a step back. If Bentley wanted to try breaking his nose again, he would to have to come get him. He was through making it easy on the fucker.

Well before noon, the day was already hot. Heat shimmered off the curved driveway where he’d left his car behind another one. Probably belonged to some bimbo Bent was screwing. He didn’t care as long as he didn’t keep him waiting out in the heat forever. Hell, the place probably had security cameras, and Bent had no intention of letting him inside. It wasn’t the end of the world. He’d find another way in.

He was about to go looking for a side gate when the front door opened. A woman with flowing brown hair, large, beguiling brown eyes, and long legs made longer by the short shorts she wore, stood in the doorway. No doubt Bent’s flavor of the day.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Is Bentley here? I’m Sean Flannery from the Pioneers. I mean, the Mustangs.” He smiled. “Just got traded the other day. I’m not used to the new situation yet.”

“He’s here.” She scowled then waved her hand toward the back of the house. Grabbing a purse from the table in the foyer, she gestured for him to enter. “He’s all yours, but I warn you, he’s lousy company.”

She donned sunglasses that almost covered her face then sashayed past him, leaving it to him to close the door behind her.

Lousy company.
He smirked. “Ain’t gonna get any better, sugar. I can guarantee you that.”

For a moment, he stood still, listened, looked around. Why a single man had such a huge house, he had no idea.
Because he can afford it.
Bentley’s financial status wasn’t in question. He had buckets of money, thanks to the recent contract extension he’d signed with the Mustangs—ten years plus a figure with more zeroes on the end than he could count. He guessed it made sense to invest some of it in real estate.

The place was nice. It looked as if an actual human might have selected the furnishings as opposed to an interior decorator. A person could be comfortable here. He wouldn’t have to worry about knocking something over every time he turned around. It was nice stuff, but it didn’t look museum caliber. He’d give the owner points for that, at least.

There were a few paintings on the walls, but most of the frames held enlarged photographs—artful renditions of ballparks and outdoorsy places—rivers and such. He gave them a cursory glance as he moved past, deeper into the house. Every step he took, he was aware of the silence surrounding him. No television blaring. No stereo.

The woman who’d let him in had seemed to indicate Bentley was downstairs, so Sean ignored the staircase continuing on. Turning a corner, he stepped into the kitchen.

Damn.
What looked like acres of granite countertops gleamed—not from polishing, but from lack of use, he guessed. The place was spotless, a gourmet cook’s heaven. A bank of floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on the backyard. A low fountain trickled into a large swimming pool on one side of the enormous yard. The other side was grass edged with neat flowerbeds. Well-placed trees provided shade to that side, while a canvas cabana did the job for the pool. At the back of the property, sitting at an angle, was another structure mirroring the main house like a miniature reflection off the shimmering swimming pool.

Bentley was halfway down the grassy side of the yard, water hose in hand, irrigating a bed of rose bushes. Sean watched, taking the unguarded moment to enjoy the man’s shirtless back. Tan cargo shorts hung low on his hips, revealing two dimples just above his ass. Hair a shade or two darker than the light brown on his head covered his calves. One of the fastest base runners in the league, his legs were sculpted and toned. His fingers itched to touch them, to feel the strong bones in his ankles, to suck his toes into his mouth so he could watch Bent’s eyes roll back in his head.

Oh fuck! Get a grip, man. You’re here to talk to him. Nothing else. Come to some sort of understanding, save your career then get the fuck out.

He wrestled his libido under control then stepped out into the yard.

Guilt nearly choked Bentley as Ashley walked away. She just wanted to help, but there wasn’t a thing she could do. Telling her who he’d fought with would lead to why, and he loved her too much to put her through that kind of pain. He didn’t understand his insane desire for Sean, so how could she?

You’re better off not knowing, babe.

He made a mental note to adjust the automatic timer on the sprinkler system before his rose bushes dried up in the Texas sun. He’d spent too much time and effort on them to let them die He didn’t know squat about landscape or interior design, but he knew what he liked. Roses. If doing so made him a pansy, well, so be it.

He aimed the hose at the last bush in the bed, frowning as the stream died to a trickle. Spinning around, he was prepared to yell at his meddling girlfriend, but the words died on his lips when he saw the man standing next to the outdoor spigot.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked, crossing the yard in long, angry strides. He had to get him out of here. This was his home. His sanctuary. The last person on earth he wanted there was Sean Flannery. “How did you get in?”

He narrowed his eyes, looking for Ashley behind the glare of the glass partition. He hoped to God she wasn’t there or he’d have to find some plausible explanation for the man’s visit, and there wasn’t one.

“Some cute thing in a hurry to leave let me in.” He held his hand up about shoulder high. “About so big. Brown hair. Short shorts.”

“She had no right.” He pointed the hose in the direction of the kitchen. “Get out.”

“Not until we talk, asshole.”

“Asshole?” Maybe it was the heat. Or perhaps it was seeing this particular man in his backyard, on his turf, but he lost it. Dropping the water hose, he launched himself at his unwanted guest.

His abs still hurt from the punches he’d taken from the man the day before, but it didn’t stop him. He swung with his right, connected with a wall of solid muscle in Sean’s mid-section with enough force to garner a grunt.

“Son of a bitch.” Sean swung his left fist.

Bent dodged just like he did the day before, his attacker’s knuckles scraping along his jaw. He retaliated, aiming his fist at the purple bruise on the bridge of Sean’s nose. His opponent ducked, came at him shoulder first, connecting with his solar plexus. Bent crumpled to his knees, clutching his stomach.

“Get up.”

He fought for air, held up a hand signaling for a time out.

“I haven’t got all day. Get u—”

Bent lunged, catching Sean at his center of gravity, toppling him to the ground. His victory was short lived. The first baseman grabbed for him, dragging him down to the grass with him.

They rolled around, two combatants with no skills for warfare. Punches missed their mark more often than they connected. Nevertheless, Bent did his best to defeat his opponent who was taller by a few inches—plus, he had a slight weight advantage. He punched, dodged then punched again and again, managing to elicit a few satisfactory grunts from the man when his fists found flesh. But it wasn’t long before Bent found himself in an untenable position.

He spit grass out of his mouth while he struggled to buck Sean off his back. The larger man had him pinned face down, the full length of his body pressing him into the soft earth. A massive erection dug into the cleft of his ass through layers of clothing. His cock stirred.
Shit
.

“Get off me, you fucker.”

“Not yet.”

Bent struggled to breathe beneath Sean’s weight. His sudden awareness of how close they were to doing something so foreign, so forbidden, yet so exciting, scared the living shit out of him.

“Don’t,” Sean whispered, his lips brushing the shell of Bentley’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

Bent curled his fingers into the grass. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable. He was exhausted, had nothing left to fight with, physically or mentally. Whatever Sean wanted to do, he just hoped to hell he got it over with quick.

Gentle fingers traced his jaw, along his neck to his shoulder then down one arm. “I won’t hurt you. Just let me touch you.”

The anguish in Sean’s voice mirrored what Bent felt inside, though somehow, he’d thought their situation was easier for the other man. Maybe not. Maybe Sean was as lost with what was going on between them as he was. He tried to even out his breathing, but each touch of the man’s fingers on his skin stole oxygen from his lungs. Every movement was a reminder of the physical strength of the man atop him.

I can’t do this. Oh, God, please. No.
His mind screamed, but anticipation stilled his body.

“I’ve wanted to touch you for so long.” Sean’s left hand closed over Bentley’s where he clutched the lawn while the other trailed over his shoulder, down his ribcage to his waist.

Holy shit.
What they were doing was so wrong, but yet it felt good. Too good. His head buzzed with the pleasurable sensations.

Sean’s fingertips slid into the no-touch zone. Panic warred with excitement. He wanted Sean to caress him there almost as much as he wanted his next breath, but at the same time, the idea of a man knowing him so intimately made him sick.

“Let me see you. I promise I won’t do anything.”

No. Yes.
“No!”

Pressing him into the grass with one big hand in the center of his back, Sean sat up. Gut wrenching fear immobilized Bent more effectively than the knees bracketing his hips or the solid weight pinning his thighs.

He squeezed his eyes shut as long fingers curled beneath the waistband of his shorts and tugged. Warm summer air brushed across his clenched ass cheeks.

He forgot to breathe. Other men had seen his ass. Modesty had little place in a locker room. Locker room shenanigans never turned him on, but God help him, Sean looking at his ass in this forbidden way did. It excited him more than he would ever admit. Mortified at the need to grind his hips into the lawn to find release, he squeezed his eyes shut and ground his molars instead, silently willing his lower half to keep still. Heaven help him if Sean realized what was going on in his head.

Rogue tears irrigated the lawn. “Don’t. Please.” The words came out as feeble admonition as well as unwilling encouragement.

“I’ve dreamed of your ass so many times.”

Oh God. This can’t be happening. Please, God. No.

“One touch. That’s all. I’m sorry, Bent. I can’t help it. I have to.”

“No.” His protest was moot.

“Shh.”

Sean covered both cheeks with his hands. He squeezed—not a gentle squeeze, but less than bruising. Bent clenched his ass even tighter and prayed the earth would open up to swallow him. No man had ever touched him. He’d never wanted a man to, but dear God, Sean’s hands on him felt good. His cock twitched, painfully erect, pinned between him and the ground.

“Please. Don’t.”

“Your ass is perfect, just like the rest of you.”

He squeezed again. Bent’s dick tried to dig a hole in the yard.

“I won’t take what you aren’t offering. I promise. I know you’re thinking I’m taking something from you now, but I’m not. If you wanted me off, you have the strength to move me. Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to rape you or to seduce you.” While he talked, his fingers massaged and stroked, sparking equal parts of desire and fear. “I came because we need a story to tell Doyle. We need to be consistent. I don’t think it’s in our best interest to tell the truth.”

He pried Bent’s ass cheeks open, groaned, and let him clench them tight again. “So fucking beautiful,” he said, running his fingers over the small of Bent’s back, up to his shoulders then down again. “I’m going to tell him I owed you one because you stole my girl back in St. Louis. That’s why I punched you yesterday. I’ll say I got it out of my system, and it won’t happen again.”

While he talked, his hands roamed Bent’s back down to his ass. His touch was firm, nothing like a woman’s touch, but just as exciting. He was hard enough to drill for oil, but all he could think about was drilling Sean, and to his everlasting shame, letting Sean drill him.

“I’m going to leave now.” After hefting Bent’s shorts back into place, he leaned down, pressing their bodies together again. “I won’t come back here unless you invite me. I won’t make another move toward you unless you ask me. Think about what you want. You want the same things I do. I knew you did five years ago. But go on denying your true nature if you want to. I won’t try to change your mind.”

He lay there until the front door slammed followed by the rumble of a car engine in the distance. He rolled over, shielding his eyes from the sun with his forearm. His other hand lay across his chest, inches from his aching cock. Beneath his palm, his heart hammered and his lungs heaved with each labored breath.

He’s wrong. I don’t fuckin’ want him. It’s all some kind of aberration. I don’t want a man. Not now. Not ever.