Page 39 of Playboy Pitcher

Glancing down at my watch, I mentally calculate the hours we have left, and make a snap decision. One I know I’ll regret. “Fine, but can we discuss it in the car on the way to Georgia?” I roll my eyes at Ben’s victorious grin. “Pack a bag and meet me outside.” Muttering under my breath, I stomp toward the front door.

“One more thing,” he calls after me. “Can I drive?”

My answer is a middle finger as I slam the door to the sound of sadistic laughter.

Chapter Thirteen

Every action has a consequence.

Roger Mays was never a typical father. His time and attention fell into three distinctive hierarchies: the league, the Storm, and his players. Somewhere, meandering aimlessly on the fourth rung, sat the rest of us.

A forgotten herd called his family.

Well, maybe not family as much as me and his coke-snorting trophy wife.

No one made sure I went to school or did stuff like, oh, I don’t know…graduate. Dad cared more about a player’s ERA than my GPA. It didn’t matter if I flunked every class or became valedictorian. For the right price, grades, just like forgiveness, could be bought.

However, as absent as he was, my father made sure to impress life’s most important lessons upon me. Things such as: don’t work hard, work smart, and the toes you step on today are on the feet that will kick you in the ass tomorrow. Most of the time I smiled and nodded as they went in one ear and out the other.

But that one stuck in my head—every action has a consequence.

As much as I hate to admit it, he was right. Throughout my life, that nugget of wisdom proved to be the most painful in its truth. Every decision, despite how noble the intention, creates a backdraft.

And that’s exactly where I’m at right now; standing at that opened door seconds before my actions explode it into an inferno of consequence.

“Did you plan this?” I ask, my bag dropping from my shoulder.

A hum of irritation vibrates in Ben’s throat, and I stiffen as a few shuffled steps brings him flush against my back. “While I’d love to claim responsibility for our current situation”—leaning close, he presses his lips against my ear—“you made the reservation.”

I spin around and glare at him. “And you confirmed it!” I know I’m yelling. I’m panicking, and goddamn it, I want him to yell back. I want him to muster up at least a sliver of remorse for the fucked-up situation we’re in. Instead, he gives me a lazy, one-shouldered shrug and kicks my bag out of his way.

“I had to.Someoneconveniently fell asleep twenty minutes into our road trip.” He doesn’t even look at me when he says it. He just waltzes right past me into the hotel room, drops his bag, and pockets the key card.

And here I still stand in the doorway like a dumb bitch with her mouth hanging open.Nope. Not today, Satan.Pushing my shoulders back, I charge into the room and grab his forearm. “What are you implying?” I hiss, swinging him around to face me.

His eyes trail down to where my hand is clamped around him, but he doesn’t pull away. No, he does something much worse; he returns the favor.

Smirking, he reaches toward my arm, and I blink in shock as my bicep is completely swallowed by his much larger hand. “Oh, I’m notimplyinganything, Puddles. I’m saying it. You let me drive your car for one reason and one reason only, so you could shut those guilty eyes and avoid holding up your end of the bargain.”

I want to argue, but I can’t. He’s right. The minute we loaded Buford outside Ben’s condo, I folded like a bad hand of poker and handed him the keys. Not because I couldn’t resist giving in to the great Benson LaCroix. It’s because, in the short walk from the front door to the car door, I realized the driver’s seat was also the hot seat.

He had me cornered.

Nowhere to run.

No recourse.

No out.

So, I played to his ego. I acquiesced to one of his conditions, and he lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

As far as his accusation? He’s absolutely right. Twenty minutes on the highway and my pretend exhaustion made me pretend to fall asleep so I could pretend not to hear him yell my name for six hours.

Along with a few other choice words.

It worked too. Until that whole action/consequence thing came back around like a boomerang from hell. I might have evaded telling Ben about my history with Drake, but karma bitch slapped me the minute we walked into our hotel room.

So instead of coming clean, I do what I do best—project blame.