Page 3 of All Bats are Off (Rose City Roasters)

Tucker

I hadn’t planned on driving to Kenton, not consciously at least. On the contrary, I had had every intention of spending the rest of the evening holed up in my bedroom with noise-canceling headphones, catching up on the latest season of Carnival Eats. An afternoon of sampling fair food had inspired me to figure out what other things could be deep fried.

And yet, here I was, parked two doors down from Mayfly, a good twenty minutes from my apartment.

So much for the Food Network.

I swapped out my sweat-soaked T-shirt for a blue, sleeveless tank in the trunk of my Outlander and combed some dry shampoo through my hair. Between workouts, hookups, and late-night hangs with the team, I had taken to keeping a well-stocked “go bag” in the SUV. Spare clothes, an extra pair of sneakers, snacks, toiletries—plenty to last me a week.

I lathered on some deodorant, tucked a strip of condoms into my pocket—for good luck—and made my way to the bar. The gym shorts from this afternoon’s yoga class would have to suffice, because there was no way I was throwing on pants in this heat. It was going on ninety-five degrees, and we were still a good hour or so from sunset.

This was only my first summer in Oregon—my second on the West Coast—and despite what my conservative grandmother thought, based solely on what she read on “ the Facebook,” it wasn’t all that different from Maryland. One thing I knew to be true about both Portland and Ocean City was that when summer rolled around, people flooded the streets, flocking to parks, beaches, and restaurant patios until well after nine p.m., when the sun went down.

Music and laughter leaked through the open windows of the bar and onto the patio. I had been to Mayfly. More than once, in fact. While a few of my teammates had opted to buy property closer to the stadium—our team captain, Soren, had just closed on his house this week—most of us had chosen to stay in Portland, a mere forty minutes south of Rose City. Bennett and Diaz’s house was just around the corner. I had spent enough M the last thing I wanted was to do it again.

Maybe this wasn’t my brightest idea after—

“I had a feeling you might show up.”

His tone was light and easy, a sharp contrast to the heat I felt in his stare. He gestured toward the empty stool beside him.

“Looks like I won’t be needing that table after all, Tyra.”

She smiled knowingly. I waited until she darted back to her post before taking a seat. Our knees brushed and the touch sent a jolt of electricity up my spine.

“I guess I get to buy you that drink after all.”

We sat there side by side, silently sizing each other up for a moment. Like me, he had changed out of his previous shirt, opting instead for a short-sleeved button-down that showed off his sinewy forearms. The gold rings adorning his fingers matched the layered necklaces draped around his neck.

The only thing missing was a pair of silver handcuffs. Then again, he might have something to say about mixing metals.

“Is that your friend?” I pointed toward the queen with the mic.

He nodded. “Yup, Beau and I go all the way back to freshman year at University of Washington.”

“Is he a journalist, too?”

“Civil rights attorney.” His face lit up as he discussed his friend. It was the first genuine smile I had seen from him all day. “A total shark.”

“And a total fox, too.” Beau had legs for days. “Together, you could take over the world.”

“One of these days, we might.”

“Well, before you get to world domination . . .”

I leaned into him as if I were sharing a secret. Which, I guessed I was. Sort of. Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to be closer to him. Who could blame me? The guy smelled like citrus, spice, and everything nice.

“I wanted to apologize.”

He cocked his head to one side. “For what?”

I swallowed past the lump in my throat and gritted my teeth. It was no secret; apologies had never been my strongest suit. Just ask any of my exes. And it wasn’t because of some misplaced pride or arrogance—that was immature, teenage boy shit—but rather because apologies meant next to nothing in my family. They were empty words, a way for my mom or dad to pacify the other without any level of introspection. Somebody fucked up, they said sorry, and that was the end of it.

Except it wasn’t.

It wasn’t until my first relationship in junior high that I’d realized I had never really understood what an apology was for. Before then, I had never really felt any genuine remorse or sadness, just deep resentment that burned my chest and left a sour taste in my mouth.

That wasn’t something that could be fixed overnight, but ten years and two therapists later and I was more open and communicative than ever before. Which was how I knew I owed Brock an apology, even if he didn’t think he deserved one.

“I didn’t like how we left things earlier. I’m not sure if it was the food or my blatant flirting or the mention of your book—” His wince was all the answer I needed. “Or maybe some combination of all three, but I know I made you uncomfortable, and that’s not okay.”

Brock looked like he wanted to argue with me, but I wasn’t about to give him a chance. Instead, I held up a hand to cut him off and pressed on, hoping that my voice wouldn’t betray me.

“I might be a sarcastic asshole, but that’s no excuse, so I hope you can accept my apology.”

For a long, agonizing minute, neither of us spoke. Brock sat there, watching me with unreadable eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck, and then somebody behind us shouted, “Bingo!”

Finally, just when I thought my heart might burst out of my chest, Brock broke the silence. “Apology accepted.”

“Good.”

“On one condition.”

I arched a brow when he echoed my words from earlier. “Name it.”

“Tonight, you drink what I order you.”

It took a second for the request to process, but once it did, there was no stopping the boom of surprised laughter that busted out of my chest.

“Deal.”

Maybe the Tin Man had a heart after all.

For the next two hours, we traded stories about friends and careers—all off the record, of course—while sipping our way through the bar’s cocktail menu. I’d already known that Brock was an easy guy to talk to, but this was the first time we weren’t “on the clock,” so to speak. This was the real him—the K-pop obsessed, vegan-ish introvert with an unpretentious sort of charm that could make the Pope spill his secrets after only a few drinks.

Tyra and Beau took turns calling out numbers, and before we knew it, the game had ended. Not that either of us had been paying much attention to begin with; we were too caught up in each other . . . and the god-awful mojitos Brock had ordered us.

“Dude, I’ve officially reached my limit,” I told him. “I draw my line at pomegranate.”

“I watched you inhale deep-fried butter today. You can stomach a pomegranate mojito.”

Just then, a shadow—one with larger-than-life hair and Barbie-like curves—fell over our table. “Well, well, well,” she said, her Southern dialect rivaling Matty’s. “What do we have here?”

I pivoted in my seat to face the blonde bombshell.

“Good to meet you, Beau. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“It’s Miss Toxx, actually.” Beau Toxx, nice. “Only my friends call me Beau.”

“How about friends of friends?” I asked, wagging my brows.

Her gaze volleyed back and forth between us before eventually landing on the man seated next to me. “Is that what’s going on here? Is this your friend ?”

Beau said it like it was a dirty word. Nonetheless, I was dying to hear Brock’s answer.

“Yeah,” Brock replied, flipping his hair over his shoulder like he was the star of a goddamn rom-com movie. “I guess he is.”

I smiled like an idiot. I also didn’t miss the way Brock’s thigh nudged mine when he made room for Beau to join us at the table. Or, more importantly, the fact that neither of us attempted to put more space between us. Any closer and he would be sitting on my lap, exactly where I wanted him.

We spent another forty minutes talking with Beau until eventually, the bartender told us it was time for them to close. Beau and Tyra stuck around to clean up, leaving Brock and me on our own, in a parking lot, for the second time today.

“Well,” I started, scrubbing a hand through my hair. “This was a lot of fun. Thanks for . . . not inviting me.”

He snorted. “You’re welcome. Thanks for . . . showing up uninvited.”

“That’s what I do best.”

This was the moment I had been both looking forward to and dreading all evening. I had finally worked up the nerve to say something, and now here I was, on the precipice, teetering and about to fall.

I tried to think of some clever reply, a witty quip, a sly remark, but the only thing I could come up with was, Fuck it. What did I have to lose? You know, aside from my career, reputation, and dignity.

I leaned in and kissed him.

It was quick and messy, nothing more than my lips pressed to his for three, maybe four seconds. But just as I pulled away, his lips chased mine, diving deep and demanding more.

Little did he know, I was more than willing to give him everything.

“This is a bad idea,” he rasped between kisses.

His words said one thing, but his body told a different story—one full of unbridled hunger and desire. Need coursed through me thicker than blood when his hands circled my waist, pulling me tighter against him until my cock brushed against his stomach.

I threaded my fingers through his luscious locks and tugged, tilting his head back until his eyes, clouded with lust, met mine.

“Nothing bad feels this good.”

I swallowed any further protests, taking his lips once again, thrusting my tongue inside his mouth.

There was no doubt that he wanted this—wanted me —as much as I did. Brock’s fervor matched my own, his kisses as delicious as they were desperate. The taste of him made my head swim, the feel of his lithe body against mine enough to make me dizzy.

I wanted him in a way that I had never wanted anyone before, and no job—his or mine—was going to stand in the way of whatever was brewing between us. At least not tonight.

“Let’s get out of here,” I managed through strangled breath, fingers teasing the soft skin beneath the hem of his button-down. “I’m parked right down the street.”

“Johnny—”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” I told him, my voice heavy with desperation. “One night, you set the pace, whatever you want.”

Fuck, here comes the begging . . .

“ Please , Brock.”

He blinked, taken back by the sound of his own name.

“One night?”

“One night,” I repeated, the words sour on my tongue. The last eight-ish hours had felt like verbal foreplay, a battle of banter to see who’d give in to their urges first.

Answer: me.

At this point, I would take whatever he was willing to give me. And then, maybe, beg for more.

Brock took me by the hand, lacing our fingers together before giving me a slight tug in the opposite direction. “You see that building across the street? With the green awning.”

I nodded.

“That’s my apartment building.”

Oh, thank Christ.

This wasn’t the end. On the contrary, the night was just getting started. But I needed to hear him say it first.

“Are you saying—”

“I need you, Johnny.” His smile was alluring and sexy. He ran a finger across my jawline. “Is that clear enough for you?”

Fucking crystal.