Switch Hitter (9 page)

The man could take it. Hell, he’d probably welcome it. He was that kind of an asshole.

He pictured Flannery smiling at being called an asshole. Then he envisioned those smiling lips closing around his cock, sucking hard. He came, his hot seed spilling on his flat abs once again. Curses flew—bouncing off the polished surfaces, coming back at him like the screams of sissies on a carnival ride.

Spent, his ass slid down the inside of the tub to the bottom. Scooting around, he lay prone, used his toes to turn on the faucet then lift the valve to start the shower.

Water cascaded over him, washing away the outer vestiges of his shame and humiliation, wrinkling his skin. The water rose as it overwhelmed the drain capacity. It stung the ring of muscles Sean had abused. His natural instinct was to protect the area, but he refused to move, taking the pain as punishment for his sins.

He might one day accept what he’d done with Sean, but his betrayal of Ashley would always be with him—a secret he couldn’t imagine telling her. She couldn’t possibly understand how he could want her, want a life with her, but still feel what he did for a man. She’d leave him in a heartbeat and never look back.

If a sore anus and bruised insides were the only price he had to pay, he’d count himself fortunate.

* * *

The hotel bar was dark, inhabited by a few people who were probably just like him. They had nowhere to go and no one to care if they did. The atmosphere was perfect for his mood. The last thing Sean needed was company.

“Scotch, neat. Three fingers.”

The bartender slid the glass across the polished marble then raised an eyebrow at the hundred-dollar bill Sean plunked onto the bar.

“Keep ‘em comin’.” He headed to a secluded booth in the back.

The first tumbler of amber liquid loosened tight muscles and eased the physical aches from holding himself together for as long as he had. Weeks of sexual tension took a toll on a man’s body, not to mention he still hadn’t recovered from the locker room fight his first day with the Mustangs.

The second tumbler of liquid fire burned off the fog clouding his brain. Confronting Bentley had been stupid, not to mention, dangerous. The proof of the revelation throbbed in his lap. Hell, in his anger and frustration he’d practically raped the man then topped the assault off with a threat. Yeah, he’d handled it well. He’d be lucky if he didn’t end up in jail.

The third tumbler of guilt ate at his conscience. Bentley didn’t deserve the treatment he’d received. It wasn’t his fault he couldn’t accept who, or what, he was. Society was to blame for that. Homophobes were everywhere. Theirs was the standard for pretty much the world, and certainly for professional athletes. The guy was doing his best to fit in, even if it meant rejecting a chance at happiness.

The fourth tumbler of reality scorched truth into his heart. He had to let the man live the life he thought he wanted. He needed to forget tonight, forget the pure ecstasy on his lover’s face when he came, forget the way he’d gazed at him when he’d rammed his cock up his ass, forget he knew more about the Mustangs left fielder than the man knew about himself. He was too afraid of what he would find out about himself if he looked. He’d never admit he’d enjoyed what Sean had done to him. He’d never admit his desire for another man was a natural part of him. He’d live the lie for the rest of his life rather than face up to the truth.

It
was
the truth.

Draining the last dredges from the crystal glass, Sean let his future settle on his shoulders. There wasn’t anyone else—just Bentley. Out of necessity, he would find other sexual partners, he’d always managed to. But love? His was reserved for one man. If tonight proved one thing, it was the love of his life would never return the sentiment.

The fifth tumbler of forgetfulness numbed his heart and blurred the edges of his brain, so when he closed his eyes, he slept.

Chapter Eight

Sean’s ass was in a sling, no two ways about it. After the bartender shook him awake, instructing him to clear out so he could close the bar, he managed to find his room all by himself. He collapsed on the bed, but not before he’d woken his roommate by knocking a half-dozen empty beer bottles onto the floor.

The bus ride to the stadium proved to be more than his stomach could handle. He’d earned the animosity of the entire team by throwing up in the bathroom at the back of the bus. Sitting on the bench, hung over and despondent, he couldn’t argue with his one game time-out. He was in no shape to play baseball. Hell, he could barely see to tie his shoes, and there weren’t enough painkillers in the world to ease the jackhammering going on inside his skull.

His sole consolation was, Bentley didn’t look like he was doing much better. He was functioning on a normal level, but Sean could tell his nemesis was struggling to keep his head in the game. His shoulders were tight, and if he clenched his jaw any harder he was going to need dental work. It was only the fifth inning and the man in possession of his heart had struck out twice. His fielding error in the third had cost the Mustangs a run they couldn’t afford to give up. But, Bentley being off his game gave Sean’s mood a much needed boost.

Fucked up asshole. Deal with it, buddy.

After his third strike out in as many at bats, Randolph threw his helmet across the dugout, earning himself a reprimand from the manager and a possible fine from the organization. Sean smirked at the first thing he’d found humor in all day.

The left fielder chose then to look at Sean. A murderous look crossed his face before he turned and apologized to Doyle. He retrieved his helmet from where it had come to rest at the base of the stairs leading to the clubhouse then moved to the end of the dugout, as far away from Sean as he could get.

Fuck you, Bentley. Oh yeah, I already did, didn’t I?

* * *

After his game sitting on the bench, the team traveled to Seattle for a four game series. The longest road trip of the season, from there they were headed to Minnesota for three days. Sean was back on the field playing every game. Most of his teammates had forgiven him for the incident on the bus, not because they’d forgotten, but because he’d been playing like a maniac ever since his return to the lineup.

His hip hurt like hell, but the extra hustle he exhibited on the field meant more time with the trainers and less time to think about Bentley. Which suited him just fine. Part of being a Major League player was being gracious whether you won or lost, but translating it into his personal life wasn’t as easy. There was always another baseball game to win or lose, but he believed people were given just one chance at true love. In his one at bat in the game of love, he’d struck out, big time.

Being on the same team with his greatest failure, knowing he’d made his play and lost, was killing him.

Baseball was all he had left, but it, too, was in danger of telling him to shove off. If he planned to keep his position with the Mustangs, he would have to show management he was better than any of the young talent lined up to take his place.

Two days into the Seattle trip, on trainers’ orders, he moved to a third floor room in the hotel—one he could climb the stairs to in order to strengthen his hip muscles. Waving goodbye to a group of his teammates heading to the elevator, he entered the stairwell off the lobby. At last, he’d gotten a private hotel room, but the price was no elevator to get to it. As he approached the second floor landing, he weighed the situation in his mind, deciding it was a fair trade. Besides, he just had to make the climb a couple of times a day, max.

Lost in his thoughts, he barely registered the door opening and closing on the floor above him. Seeing the man waiting for him on the third floor landing, he stopped short.

Bent Randolph stared down at him. His hair appeared to have been combed with a rake, and his cheeks were flushed. His hands were fisted at his sides.

Shit. Just what I need, another fight.

“Look, man, I’m beat. Whatever you have to say, can it wait?”

Bentley fidgeted, clearly undecided about what he’d come there to do. Damn, the color in his cheeks reminded Sean of the way he looked when he came. The memory pissed him off. He didn’t want to be reminded of the man’s passion or how much he longed to put that expression on his face every fucking day.

Sean took the last few steps to the landing. Stopping when they were on the same level, he sighed. “Spit it out, Randolph. I haven’t got all day.”

Before he could escape, his back hit the wall hard, forcing the air from his lungs. Gasping for breath, he hesitated. Instinct said to defend himself, but his attacker was Bentley. He didn’t want to hurt the bastard, just beat the shit out of him, make him feel the same level of pain he felt every goddamn day.

“Shut the hell up, Flannery.”

The man’s rock-hard body pinned him to the wall from chest to hips. Through their thin dress slacks, he felt a thick cock pressing into his belly.

“Just shut the fuck up.”

Large hands closed around his face. Rosy lips came closer, crushing his own, moving, demanding, taking. Hips ground hard against Sean’s, startling another groan from him. Taking advantage, Bent plunged his tongue past Sean’s lips.

Desire ignited like a flash-fire, searing good sense to ashes. His cock surged to attention. He held Bent’s hips steady so he could do some grinding of his own.

The kiss was punishing—just what he would have expected from the man pinning him to the wall if he’d allowed himself to imagine such a thing ever occurring. His rational self had prevented any such musings, so now he had to wonder, why, as he returned the kiss with equal fervor.

Lost in the feel of the masculine mouth covering his, he froze when hands found his belt buckle, working it free.

“Not a goddamn fucking word from you,” he said, his eyes blazing with intent.

Sean’s heart leapt to his throat. He couldn’t respond even if he’d wanted to.

Holding his lover’s gaze, he let him work the fasteners loose on his trousers. When his hand closed over his erection, he groaned, arching into his touch, all the while refusing to look away from the man’s gaze.
Eye jousting
. Both refusing to be the first to cave while Bent felt him up like a high school kid in the bathroom—fumbling fingers and damp palm. No hand job had ever felt as good. Sean let him know by grinding into his embrace.

“Over there.” Breaking eye contact, the left fielder pointed to the metal railing where the stairs leading up a floor turned then headed down again.

Bent grabbed the lapels on Sean’s suit coat. He yanked him forward, turned him, shoving his shoulder from behind. “Bend over. If you fuckin’ move, I’ll shove you down the stairs, so hold on tight.”

The metal was cold under his hands, but he held on, sliding his left hand down the descending banister and his right up the ascending one while the horizontal bar pressed into his stomach. His belt buckle clanged like a ship’s bell when it hit the two lower cross members on its way to his knees.

For a split second, he panicked over the thought of someone entering the stairwell, seeing them, then he couldn’t think about anything but Bent’s dick shoving dry past the tight barrier muscles of his ass. Bareback. No condom. If it had been anyone but Bentley, he would be worried, but Bent was squeaky clean. Hell, this was probably the fucker’s first time without a raincoat.

His asshole burned like hellfire, but he didn’t care. Bent was fucking him. Nothing else mattered. What did it mean?

“Fuck, I hate you,” Bent hissed. “I. Hate. Every. Fucking. Thing. About. You.” Each word was punctuated with a stinging retreat followed by a thrust hard enough to send shockwaves of pleasure all the way to Sean’s toes.

“I. Can’t. Get. You. Out. Of. My. Fucking. Mind.”

That makes two of us.

Sean gripped the metal tighter, rocking into the thrusts. His dick slapped against the cross rail with each movement, but he welcomed the pain because Bent was fucking him—at last.

“Don’t. Want. To. Want. You.”

But you do. You fucking do.

“I. Hate. You.”

I love you, Bentley. I love you so goddamn much.

“Feels. Fucking. Good.”

Shit, yeah.

“Oh, shit!”

Sean hung his head, recognizing the signs of his lover’s impending release. Clenching his jaw, he screwed his eyes shut and held still while Bentley rode out his orgasm. Hot cum flooded his ass, proof of a desire the man fucking him hated with ever fiber of his being. Sean catalogued every spurt, every spasm, committed the feeling to memory to be treasured the rest of his life.

His lover stilled, his dick buried to the hilt in Sean’s ass. The cold stairwell was silent except for the wrenching sobs coming from the man whose cock was buried up his ass.

“Let me up, man. Let’s talk about why you just fucked me.”

They remained frozen for the space of two heartbeats then, his softened cock slipping free, the left fielder stumbled away. Sean reached for his trousers and briefs, righting his clothes before turning around.

Bentley leaned against the wall next to the door marked with a big red number three. His head was thrown back, tears forming rivers down his cheeks, the heels of his hands pressed into his eye sockets. His dick hung limp from his open zipper.

“Ahh, shit, man.” Sean tucked the other man’s cock back in his pants then zipped him up. “Pull yourself together, okay? My room is a couple of doors down. You want to go there so we can talk?”

He nodded, wiped at his eyes with his palms, and choked back another sob. “Yeah. We should talk, I guess.”

Sean held the door for his teammate then followed him inside the room. Randolph crossed to the window, collapsing into the room’s solitary chair. He turned his face to the darkened glass. Getting him to talk wasn’t going to be easy. Opening the mini-bar, Sean selected two beers roughly the price of a small condominium and held out one to the man sulking in the corner.

“Beer?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He roused enough to take the cold bottle, but did so without making eye contact. Okay. At least he wasn’t crying like a baby anymore, and they were in the same room without punching or fucking. It was a start.

Sean stretched out on the bed, his shoulders propped against the headboard, waiting. He’d almost finished his beer by the time his companion spoke.

“I don’t want to feel this way about you.”

“I know you don’t, but you’ve tried to make it go away for over five years. How’s it working out for you?”

“Not so good, obviously.”

Another step in the right direction, but Sean didn’t dare hope for more. He finished off his brew, placing the empty container on the nightstand, waiting.

“I love Ashley. I want to marry her. I do. I want kids with her. What I feel for her is real. This thing with you….” He shook his head.

“Is real, too, Bent. You came to me today. I didn’t encourage you in any way.”

“You encourage me just by being alive.” The man’s heartfelt confession rang with the defeated tone of a soldier surrendering the battle.

“I know the feeling,” he said. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you. You’d just come up from the Minor’s, all fresh-faced and eager to make your mark on the sport. I used to fantasize about taking you in the dugout after a game—you know, when the lights are still on, but the place is empty.”

Bentley nodded. “I would have killed you if you’d tried.”

“I know. Why do you think I never said anything? You weren’t ready. To be honest, I wasn’t sure you ever would be. Then you walked into the shower, and I saw it in your eyes. You wanted me. I took a chance, stroking my dick the way I did, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. Dropping a bar of soap for you to pick up wasn’t an option.”

His companion’s laugh was harsh, but it was another step in the right direction. “As I recall they had liquid soap dispensers.”

“They did.” Sean nodded, remembering. “I wanted you so damn bad. For a few minutes I knew you wanted me, too. The next thing I knew, you were on a plane to Dallas. I thought I was going to die. I missed you so damned bad, Bentley. For five years, I’ve wanted to strangle you for leaving.”

“And I’ve wanted to strangle you for making me feel that way. If you’d asked me to bend over, I might have done it, but I would have killed you when it was over. I wasn’t ready to handle it.”

“Are you ready now?”

“No. I’m not ready, but I don’t think I have any choice.”

“You always have a choice, Bent.”

“You think?” He shook his head. “I don’t. I love Ashley. I won’t leave her for you, but I can’t be with you and not tell her. But if I tell her, she’ll leave me.”