“Fine,” I managed through my teeth. Because fuck social media. “Anything else?”
“Would Smell as Sweet.”
That had me scratching my brain. Was he talking in code?
“Huh?”
“The bakery in town,” he explained. “Would Smell as Sweet. You should check them out. I recommend the empanadas.”
I nodded. Because how else was I supposed to respond to a restaurant recommendation from my boss?
“You can go.”
My streak of bad luck continued when I exited his office, only to bump into Pink once again. This time by the vending machines.
“How’d it go?” He wagged his eyebrows. “You in trouble, Sin?”
“Don’t call me that.”
I narrowed my eyes and gave him a look. One that I hoped said he ought to shut up if he knew what was best for him.
“Say please,” he taunted while grinning like an idiot.
“Pink.”
Ward’s voice echoed through the locker room, commanding attention from my straggling teammates. His physical presence was even more intimidating. Anybody who thought his signature black-frame glasses might soften his features had clearly never come face-to-face with Brooks Bailey-Ward III.
Everything stopped as he crossed the locker room, conversation and stretching of any kind momentarily forgotten. Even our shortstop, Owen Miller, who was halfway through pulling up his boxer briefs, froze. Dick on display for public perusal.
None of us cared about Miller’s dick, though. No, we were here for the ass-handing of one Jared Pink. Though, judging by thepaling of his face, he might have to change his name to Jared White.
Ward approached Pink until they were toe to toe. Pink might have had a few inches on our GM, but Ward had at least fifty or so pounds on the rookie pitcher. Not to mention a lifetime of experience and accolades.
“Don’t call him that,” he growled.
“S-sorry?” Pink stuttered. I couldn’t blame the kid for his surprise. Ward’s defense shocked the hell out of me, too.
“I said, don’t call him that.” Ward’s eyes shifted to mine, just for a second. Long enough to let me know that for the first time in a long time, I had somebody in my corner. Somebody rooting for me. When he turned his attention back to Pink, he added, “Please.”
It wasn’t a request.
Clarke
It’s cold enough to freeze the udders on Paw Paw’s prized heifer.
Today marked my third day in Rose City, Oregon, and it was a far cry from Charleston. More like a holler, really.
“Quit your bellyaching, Clarke,” I whispered into the cup of coffee in my hands. Maybe if I closed my eyes and counted to ten, it would magically turn into a macchiato. I hadn’t had a shot of espresso in days. To say I was struggling to lift my feet would be a bit of an understatement. I’d never felt the effects of gravity so strongly until now.
Steam rolled off the top of the mug, a black-and-blue ceramic piece decorated with hand-painted trees and the phraseOregon makes me wetin delicate handwriting.
You got that right. I only wish it weren’t so literal.
It had been raining for two weeks straight, from the moment I’d left Charleston. It had rained during my drive through Louisiana. It had rained during the entire trip across Texas—doyou know how big that state is? And it had rained every day since I’d crossed the Colorado River.
Buying a brand-new, water-resistant wardrobe was at the top of my to-do list. As soon as I got my first paycheck.
What little money I had saved had gone quickly during my trip out west. At least I had gotten a good deal on a used Honda HR-V when I traded in the Range Rover.
