Page 11 of Curveball (Tennessee Terrors #9)

Palmer

Some days you’re the windshield; some days you’re the bug. And some days you’re lucky enough to avoid the splat, only to land on the ground and get flattened by the tire. Welcome to Saturday.

These are my thoughts when my cell phone rings and Alejandro’s name and photo flash on the caller ID after sending his calls to voicemail for the past two hours.

I walked in the door from our morning’s activities at the ball field exactly twelve minutes ago and headed straight for the bathroom.

Because hello! Two cups of coffee, remember?

I dropped Dylan off at Gabe’s so they could hang out before their game. I have a couple of free hours until I’m expected at the school field, and all I want is a shower, clean clothes, and to somehow untangle the snarl that my hair has become in the breeze and humidity of the past several hours.

I don’t have to answer the phone. I’m an adult and make my own decisions. I even make decisions for Dylan. But you try making my former father-in-law understand that he is not the master of every situation, and let me know how that goes for you. I’ll wait.

Actually, I’ll wait to talk to him until after I have that shower—and that change of clothes.

The hair situation may take more time than my patience allows if Big A sticks to his standard MO and puts his attempts to contact me on auto redial.

I don’t know if that’s even a thing, but at exactly four minutes, the length of time between his calls or texts is eerily specific.

I mute my phone and step under the streaming hot water, letting it soothe away the morning’s frustrations.

I didn’t intend to baby my hair with a leave-in mask—face it, my hair’s gonna do what it’s gonna do—but here I am, slathering it on.

A girl can hope—and I’m still waiting for one thing to go well today.

To delay my interaction with Dylan’s grandfather as long as possible, I even dig through the shower caddy hanging from the wall and come up with the razor.

It’s been too long since I tackled this chore, but it’s coming on shorts season, and face it, you never know when Mr. Right Now might show up and introduce himself.

Be prepared , and all that. The Scouts may be on to something.

Just the idea has me envisioning the scratch of scruff as I ran my hand over Max’s sculpted jaw, and the toned, muscular arms I wrapped my hands around while I kissed his firm lips .

The man frustrates me every time he opens his mouth to speak.

And now, he’s leaving me with a totally different kind of frustration.

Get a grip, Palmer Sloan.

And yeah, I agree with myself wholeheartedly. That sounds like a really good idea.

I finish with the razor, hitting all the places I’d want smooth if I were sharing this enclosed space with a nude, hard-bodied male, then lather up and get a grip .

. . on Mike, the pink—yes, Mike is pink—battery-operated boyfriend I keep fully charged in another of those hanging wall caddies.

It isn’t concealed in its storage solution but it’s convenient, and if my teenage son happens to see it and is mortified by its presence, he can just remember that his mother is a youngish single woman who is capable of taking care of her life and herself.

Or maybe he should stick to his own private bathroom and not think about it at all.

Hot water streams over my head and shoulders, and spills down over my bare body in smooth rivulets that wash away the suds, and in the heightened headspace I’ve willed myself into with the idea of my student’s hot father, it entices and intensifies my body’s reaction when it comes in contact with my sensitive nerve endings.

The shower head has several settings, so I reach up and adjust it so a single hard stream of water pulses down, and with a slight adjustment in my stance, the jet hits me just where I like. Just where I need .

I close my eyes, tip my head back, and in a heartbeat of time, a vision of a naked and fully erect Max is entrenched in my imagination, standing tall and in full view.

The broad expanse of his undoubtedly chiseled chest, the firm muscles of his forearms and biceps, the well-formed length of his calves, and his thick athlete’s thighs.

The pink mushroom tip and pronounced ridges of his long, thick shaft.

I reach out to hold his erect cock in my palm and wrap my fingers around the soft skin of its girth. He’s solid and smooth, and I bend my knees to kneel, to take him into my mouth, but then I’m stopped and he’s guiding me in a low, husky timbre.

No, baby. This time is for you.

The sound of his sexy, guttural voice in my mind is so real, I startle and open my eyes, expecting to find him standing before me with the shower curtain slid open. But he’s not there—of course he’s not. I close my eyes again and will him back to joining me in my scene.

His tall, chiseled form moves out of my hold to envelope me from behind, that heavy cock I wanted in my mouth so hard and wedged at my hip.

With his arms wrapped around me, the weight of his large, calloused hands cover the backs of mine and slide them higher rather than lower, rounding the weight of one breast and then the other.

He’s here with me as I glide my open palms over my aching breasts and then move down my abdomen.

No, let’s do that again. Your beautiful tits want to feel extra good.

My breathing is growing labored, my heaving breaths echoing in this confined space. My core is heavy and throbbing. I put one hand against the tiled wall to hold myself upright.

I sweep my breasts again, this time pausing on each to pinch the hard nipples between two fingers, and arcs of pleasure pain rush straight to my clit. My moans of frustration and unbridled lust are loud but I’m the only one here to witness them. Well, me and Max.

Now, lower, baby. I want to see you touch yourself.

I can’t resist him. I let my hand cruise back down the soft flesh of my stomach, and my pussy perks up.

She’s got an idea of what’s coming and she’s ready to purr.

I’m moving so much—arching and stretching—that the solid stream of water that felt so good a few minutes ago is now useless.

I flip off the faucet and turn so my back’s against the cool shower wall, then lift my foot to the lip of the tub, right beside my vibrator.

The air around me is warm and steamy, my body swollen and throbbing when my hands continue their slide downward, and I rub myself between my thighs.

Max has been quiet, but now he speaks up, urgent and demanding, his words filthy and erotic.

Jesus, Palmer Girl, just look at you glistening for me. I want to eat that pussy right now, put my mouth on you until you explode with pleasure.

My knees want to buckle, and I lock them so I don’t collapse in a naked heap.

But my hand has been listening to Max and is on board with his desire, shoving him down till he’s crouched at my feet, his mouth fastened against my swollen pussy lips and sucking, his tongue lashing against my pulsing clit, his eyes locked on mine.

My hand, holding the vibrating wand on its barely there setting, moves slowly, then faster against my flesh, alternating firm strokes with circular pressure. It’s Max’s mouth, Max’s talent, then oh fuck , Max’s fingers taking control.

My legs are quaking, my breathing harsh, the noises coming from my throat ragged and loud . I’m close, so close to orgasm, so in need of this release I’m not sure I’ll survive.

As Max continues to nip and suck at my swollen, greedy clit, he inserts two long fingers into my channel and strokes while his thumb continues with endless circles of alternating pressure directly on my aching bundle.

I turn up the vibrator, one notch, then two, applying it directly to my swollen clit while his fingers curl upward and stroke the tender ridges of internal flesh.

The pressure inside me intensifies, contracts, surrounds me, submerges me, and I melt into a hot, screaming, sweaty heap in the cold ceramic tub, and bring my soaked fingers to my mouth for a taste.

Good girl , says Max. That was fucking beautiful.

I have eight more missed calls by the time I emerge from the bathroom, dressed and oh-so-blissfully relaxed, and move to the kitchen to guzzle a bottle of water.

I might even be pleasant to Alejandro when he calls back.

I turn the phone volume back on and drop the device on the counter.

Surely, there’s time to pour a glass of wine before we hit number nine.

Wine sounds really good about now. I’d just moved to the kitchen table and taken a first sip and a time check when the ringer blares and his name and contact photo fill my screen exactly on time.

Four minutes flat since his last missed call.

He’s already annoyed when I click to answer. So, something else is going well today . The sarcasm in my thought lifts my already languid spirits and makes it almost easy to hold my tongue when his opening gambit is a complaint.

“ Mija , how many times must I tell you, I miss your face. Please pick up the FaceTime when I call.”

“Not at your beck and call, Alejandro. And I’m not going to FaceTime with you. Now, do you need something, or are you just calling to spread cheer?”

“Today, my daughter, I call with exceedingly cheerful news.”

And, oh hell, my orgasmic bliss evaporates. Poof! I’m torn between a feeling of basic cringe and one of pure dread. These days, his jovial mood could mean anything.

“Alejandro, I can’t imagine you know anything that I want to hear. I think, after all these years, you’d understand that.”

A couple of months ago, he got home plate tickets to the Dodgers’ opening game and wanted to fly Dylan to California for the weekend. Thank you, but no. Last summer, he wanted to order Dylan a new pickup truck from one of his Ford dealerships and have it delivered. Hell no, and hard pass.

My son was not happy with me for not-so-politely declining that offer. He’s still na?ve enough to imagine his grandfather as generous. I’ve known the man long enough to see him for what he is—controlling and manipulative.

Even those prior excesses don’t prepare me for today’s announcement.

“They are moving my son, Alejandro, to a facility closer to Los Angeles. It is time for you to come home and be a family again.”

My brain is whirling, but cohesive thoughts take a moment to form. When they do, they all spill out at once.

“Alejandro, maybe I’ll start with delusion number one. Alex is not in the hospital. Not in rehab or a nursing home either. Those are facilities . He is in prison. You’ve visited. You saw it. High walls, razor wire—any of that jogging your memory?”

Alejandro is silent, as I knew he would be, but I swear I hear the steam coming from his ears.

Not big on contradiction, this man, unless he’s the one serving it up.

And since he just detonated the effects of the best orgasm I’ve had in years and isn’t supplying any input of his own, I am in it, full steam ahead.

“And maybe you also don’t remember that your son was never fond of family life.

Not his own, anyway. How many girlfriends was he supporting, Alejandro?

” All while he wore my ring on his finger.

My chest is heaving by now, and not with the sensual tension that built and then exploded inside me not so long ago, but with billowing anger that’s threatening to swamp me.

I am over this, damn it! I do not want to relive those years.

No more drama, no more cops, no lawyers, no judges.

No federal agencies dissecting my life. No neighbors I am embarrassed to show my face to.

No more fucking press tearing my life to bits and then tossing the shreds like confetti for the vultures to feast on.

I want the life I have now. As calm and serene as it can be with a teenage boy in the mix. I am at peace. If the fucking regret of those early years rears its ugly head from time to time, all I have to do is take one look at my boy and I can shove it all back down where it belongs—in the past.

“Palmer Lopez, you will find compassion in your heart. You will find empathy, and you will create a life with my son once more. He is the father of your child and he deserves nothing less. He would like to know his son, to have him visit regularly for the years until he is free to rejoin society, and then be the father Dylan’s been denied for the past ten years.

Let me be clear, I will make this happen. ”

Goose bumps raise on my arms. On the back of my neck. Alejandro’s tone is different—harder, more determined—than anything I’ve heard from him in the past. But now I’m livid, because fuck him if he thinks he’s going to decree who I live with.

“Alejandro, I allowed Dylan to keep his father’s name, but are you forgetting that I ditched my husband’s name the absolute moment it was an option for me?

I expect you to respect that. I’ve allowed you to communicate with Dylan these past years, and don’t make me regret that.

I believe it’s right that he has a connection to his roots, no matter what I think of you personally.

No matter how little respect I have for your son.

But let me make myself clear. Starting today, I am done with you.

Dylan is done with you. We want nothing more to do with you or anyone from your entire family. ”

He won’t concede. It’s not in his DNA.

“You can say whatever you like, mija. You can pretend you are a strong woman. But make no mistake—we are not done.”

Alejandro is a wealthy businessman. He had standing in his community until his son shattered it, and it took him years to rebuild what he lost. To recreate trusting relationships from those people his son swindled. He can decide to gamble that all away again, but I choose not to.

I also choose to end this game of cat and mouse. My son is pitching in one hour and I will be there, cheering him on, pretending his grandfather did not just threaten to implode my life.