The Lucky Ones Page 9

  Voices outside reminded her that her front door was standing open. If Emmy came home right now, she’d get an eyeful. “Bedroom,” she said.

  While Britt scooped up their shirts, Ninah hurried across the room and kicked the front door closed. Then she led Britt to the bedroom, where a ceiling fan lowered the temperature a good ten degrees. With a swift yank, she flung the bedcovers to the bottom.

  “This is nice,” Britt said. “It’s very…you.”

  It was, as long as “you” meant neat and subdued, her soft floral sheets the only real splash of color.

  Britt quickly dropped her shorts, but kept her panties on as she crawled beneath the sheet.

  By the light of the bedside lamp, Ninah stepped out of her shorts and briefly stood for a silent appraisal. Then she stretched out alongside Britt and cupped her cheek. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I don’t usually… What am I saying? I don’t usually anything. I haven’t been with anyone but Candice since my junior year in college.”

  Ninah laughed softly and tickled the hair on Britt’s forearm. “We’ve already exceeded my expectations by several light years. If you wanna lie here and talk, that’s fine.”

  “That’s not quite what I had in mind when we got naked. The moment I kiss you—which I’m about to do—I’m going to want all of you.”

  Ninah trembled with anticipation as their lips met again, this time languid and inquisitive, as if kissing were all there was. With a gentle nudge, she pushed the panties down until Britt peeled them off and tossed them aside.

  For the next several minutes, Britt lay perfectly still with her eyes closed while Ninah traced every curve of her body within arm’s reach. From her thigh to her round bottom, to the womanly curve of her hip. To her heavy breast, which Ninah covered with her mouth as Britt softly moaned. Then to the hollow of her neck and collarbone. Exquisite, all of it.

  When she tried to follow the path with her lips, Britt stopped her with a hand to the chin, lifting her face for another soulful kiss. Without realizing it, she’d begun a wavelike roll against Britt’s leg, which alternately hardened and relaxed in a matching rhythm. The heat of their bodies grew until finally Ninah curled a hand into the soft, delicately shaped patch of hair between Britt’s legs. A gentle teasing induced a quiet hitch in her breath and a steady writhing as her excitement built.

  “Go inside me.”

  Ninah slithered into the velvety crevice. One finger, then two, while her thumb tugged at the outer edges of her sensitive center. She studied Britt’s furrowed expression as she became more focused, more controlled. The muscles in her hips and thighs tightened as if to summon all her energy for the crescendo.

  “Ohhhh!” Her body jerked as her climax struck, and she arched into the touch as long as she could, holding her breath until the throbbing subsided. Then she gasped and wilted all at once.

  Ever so gently, Ninah withdrew from inside her. Robbed of the chance to taste her directly, she brought her fingers to her mouth to savor the essence. She’d never felt more powerful.

  As she basked in her prowess, Britt began her own discovery, a fingertip journey under the cover of another kiss. Ninah’s senses were already inflamed. She threw off the sheet and surrendered her whole self.

  Britt answered with a spirited growl. Licking, nipping, she brought Ninah’s nipples to a torturous, tender peak before embarking on a more disciplined crawl. Caressing, inhaling.

  Weaving her hands through Britt’s silky hair, Ninah encouraged her mouth’s odyssey. The anticipation alone nearly undid her, as warm, wet breaths opened her thighs. When Britt’s tongue finally parted her, she fought the first tingles of release. Too soon. But when fingers slid inside, she gave it up.

  Her climax still pulsing, she reached again for Britt, who countered with a captive hug. “I still need a minute. You destroyed me.”

  “I know the feeling. That was amazing.”

  Britt nuzzled her ear. “I had no idea how much I needed that.”

  They lay still and silent as Ninah tried to make sense of what it meant. One thing was plainly obvious—tonight, they’d needed each other.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Outside the press box, Ninah stood solemnly in the aisle with her hand over her heart as Deke Sullivan warbled the last lines of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Deke was an institution in Leland, having led the Baptist choir for more than forty years. He also was perfectly emblematic of all the ways the Longdogs were stuck in a rut. The Iversons would be a breath of fresh air.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. And welcome to another great season of Longdogs baseball!”

  Cloudless and with only the barest hint of a warm breeze, it was a perfect night for baseball. The stadium was more than two-thirds full, a decent crowd considering the stunning drop in attendance last year after Duffy’s neglect. Ninah had hoped for a full house, this being opening night under new ownership.

  There was no sign of Britt. In fact, she’d been off the grid since disappearing the night before last from Ninah’s bed. No note, no text. Nothing. It was hard not to take that personally.

  Ninah trudged up the stadium stairs to the press box with the starting lineup in hand.

  “Ninah Faust! Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. I was beginning to think you weren’t even gonna come up and say hello.” Stu Tomberlin, set to turn seventy-five on the Fourth of July, rose from his chair to greet her with a hug. Three decades in the booth as public address announcer had earned him the moniker Voice of the Longdogs.

  “I wanted to make sure you guys saw this,” she said, acknowledging reporter Wesley Hodges, who wore noise-canceling headphones to cover Cookeville’s radio announcers sitting two seats away. “Hank made a last-minute change to the lineup. He’s using Austin Farmer as DH.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” Stu penciled in the change of designated hitter in his notebook. “What did you think of Vernon Iverson buying the team? That’s what them corporate raiders call a white knight. I tell you, I sure hoisted a cold one.”

  “Yeah, me too,” she said. “I went by the hospital to see him this afternoon. He’s doing pretty good, said to tell everybody hi.”

  “Too bad he had to miss his very first game. That’s some bad luck.”

  “I showed him how to tune in to the Cookeville radio station on his phone. Maybe you’ll get that guy to give him a shout-out. That would be cool.”

  What would be even cooler was for the Longdogs to sign a radio contract of their own. Maybe the Iversons would see the wisdom in making folks wish they were at the ballpark.

  The VIP box next door was empty and dark, which made her wonder if Britt was even watching the game. Perhaps she was too nervous. It was better to think that than to worry she was avoiding the place because of Ninah. If she regretted having sex, they could set it aside and focus on being friends. To do that, they’d have to talk eventually.

  She waved a hand in front of Wesley to get his attention. “That was a great piece this morning on Cory Hanover. I hope you’ll write up some of the other guys like that. It’s good to see the personal side.” It was a gratuitous compliment, designed more to flatter than engage. Her willingness to play to his vanity might prove useful should he go after Britt or Vernon for their management of operations.

  “Thanks,” he grunted. “If the other guys do something to earn it, I’ll write ’em up.”

  “Throwing out the ceremonial first pitch of the Longdogs season, five years and counting, Mayor Paul Wilson.”

  At the pitcher’s mound, general manager Archie Davenport conducted the ritual, presenting a new baseball to the mayor as they smiled for the Gazette’s photographer. Hamming it up as usual, Wilson loosened his arm and pretended to shake off a sign from Longdogs catcher Angel Alvarado. Then he went through an elaborate windup before hurling a pitch that fell to the dirt a good three feet in front of home plate.

  Predictably, the home crowd booed.

  “Yep, five years to practice and
he still can’t get it there,” Ninah muttered.

  Stu nudged her. “Better go grab your seat. The Dogs are about to take the field.” He pressed a button on his sound system that played a chorus of—what else?—“Who Let the Dogs Out?”

  “See you guys later.”

  She scampered down the concrete steps to the fifth row, second seat. The empty aisle seat beside her was Vernon’s, and the one on the other side belonged to Carly. They’d chosen these seats specifically for the view over the shoulder of the umpire as he called balls and strikes.

  After logging in to the Longdogs’ secure network with her iPad, she opened the scorekeeping app and entered the lineup change. A part of her missed the old days when she tracked the games on a tearaway pad of scoresheets, but it was fun to imagine fans and talent scouts following her every click in real time from as far away as Japan, home to Longdogs prospect Yuki Yakamoto.

  “Hey, kiddo.” Carly arrived carrying a giant bucket of popcorn and a red souvenir cup of Sun-Drop. “You tired of summer vacation yet?”

  “God, no. But I woke up at five o’clock this morning, right on schedule. By the time I train myself to sleep till seven, it’ll be August and I’ll have to drag myself out of bed at five again.”

  “A little bird told me you are seriously crushing on the new girl. What’s up with that?”

  Had they seen Britt’s car in her driveway? “How could you possibly know that already?”

  Through a mouthful of popcorn, Carly garbled, “You just told me. All I knew for sure is you drove past our house the other day, didn’t even stop to say hi. Now we need you to settle our bet. Justine said you wouldn’t have gone over there unless you were invited, but I said you were probably just stalking her.”

  “Exactly what I don’t need, you two starting rumors. But you can let Justine know she wins the bet. Britt needed some advice on how to deal with Wesley Hodges from the Gazette. He can be sneaky sometimes, so I gave her some tips for not falling into his trap.” She pretended to shift her attention to the field, all the while knowing Carly was waiting for more. No way would she confess to more than that, since Britt had backed off already. “So we sat out on the dock and talked, had a couple of beers. No big deal.”

  “Sounds nice. But then Emmy said you had company later that night, somebody in a red rental car.”

  Ninah stiffened. “Britt’s right about one thing. Living in a small town means everyone knows what you’re up to.”

  “So…how was it?”

  Her face warmed with what had to be a crimson blush, but she kept her eyes straight ahead. “Carly, remember that time you accidentally weed-whacked Justine’s impatiens, and you got me to say I did it because you were already in the doghouse about something?”

  Carly twisted her lips as she bit back a response to Ninah’s playful threat. “Hey, how about this Hanover kid? He’s the real deal, huh?”

  Ninah sighed with relief as Cory Hanover threw the first of his warm-up pitches, a curve that dropped like a rock over the outside corner of the plate. The crowd responded with an appreciative hum.

  “Holy wow,” Carly said. “Something tells me we’re in for a treat tonight.”

  “Wouldn’t it be something if this really turned out to be the Longdogs’ year? That would be so cool for Vernon. And for Britt…and for all of us.”

  Hanover’s next pitch was a fastball that thumped loudly in Alvarado’s mitt.

  “Back to Britt,” Carly said. “The Pride picnic’s coming up soon, which means she’s about to meet all the single ladies.” She interrupted herself to do a dreadful Beyoncé impression. “And mark my word, it’s gonna look like Guido’s when they bring out a fresh hot pizza for the buffet, everybody rushing up there with their tongues hanging out. And that includes Teri.”

  Another breaking ball, this one on the inside corner.

  Ninah shuddered with disgust. “I could have gone all night without hearing that name.”

  “She’s here with Robbi and Liv, by the way.” Carly twisted in her seat, spilling part of her popcorn in Ninah’s lap. “They’re sitting one section over at our eight o’clock, all three of them. Mark my word, Teri’s gonna make a move on her.”

  “If Britt gives Teri Kaufman the time of day, I’ll eat my own mouth. That woman is toxic.”

  “Of course she is, but the point remains that Britt’s gonna turn a bunch of heads when she shows up…especially if she shows up by herself.” She stuffed another handful of popcorn into her face. “Which is why you walking in with her sends a useful message.”

  Even as Ninah hated the idea of behind-the-scenes shenanigans, the wisdom of Carly’s words weren’t lost on her. “What are you suggesting?”

  “You need to close this deal, Ninah. Justine wants to have a small welcome party next week…just for couples. And you.”

  “That’s not very subtle.” Plus it would be humiliating if Britt turned her down.

  “Leading off for the Cookeville Moccasins, second baseman Jorge Sanchez.”

  They rose with the crowd in anticipation of the first pitch as the batter took his stance at the plate.

  Carly tossed herself a puffed kernel and caught it in her mouth like a trained seal. “The subtle part’s up to you, Nines. You don’t have to keep throwing yourself at her. Seems like she already likes you. This is an opportunity for you guys to be a couple. But only if you wanna come.”

  “You’re so full of shit, Carly. Of course I’ll be there. But don’t get your hopes up about me and Britt. I’ve got a feeling she’s not all that interested in being somebody’s girlfriend.”

  Or maybe it was only Ninah she didn’t want.

  “Look at this kid,” Carly said, pulling out her phone to snap a pic of the new Dogs pitcher. “Twenty years from now when Cory Hanover goes into the Hall of Fame, we’re gonna be able to say we were there when it all began.”

  The first pitch of the game—of the season, of this future star’s professional career—was a slider, obvious from the clockwise rotation that produced the illusion of a red dot as the ball’s seams spun. As it tailed toward the plate, the ball hung ever-so-slightly over the outside corner of the strike zone. The home plate umpire had already started his dramatic gyration for a called strike when Cookeville’s Jorge Sanchez connected with a thunderous crack! that sent the ball over the right field fence.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Britt massaged the small of her back and shifted her aching butt on the aluminum bench. Three hours was a long time to sit on bleachers without back support. No wonder some of the fans nearby had already packed it in. But at least out here in right field, wearing sunglasses and a panama hat until the sun went down, she didn’t have to worry about being ambushed by Wesley Hodges or the Gazette’s photographer.

  After giving up a home run on his first pitch, the young pitcher everyone had been raving about settled down, recording nine strikeouts as he retired the next fifteen batters. Meanwhile, the Longdogs got back in it with a two-run homer by third baseman Oscar Lopez. By the seventh inning, it was looking like a Longdogs win when back-to-back errors by the same Lopez allowed two runs to score. Now down to their last three outs, Leland trailed by one.

  On the bright side, Britt’s hurriedly arranged wagon race had been a hit with the crowd. At a break between innings two couples, the Greenes and the Bartons, had set off in opposite directions from home plate, the men pulling their wives in a red wagon. When they reached second base they had to switch so that the women pulled their husbands the rest of the way. The particulars needed tweaking if they were to try this game again, she noted. If not for the spill Jake Greene had taken rounding third, there might have been a calamitous collision at home plate.

  “Leading off the bottom of the ninth for the Longdogs, right fielder Troy Cline.”

  Her foray into the cheap seats had given her insight into the experience of budget-minded fans. A family of four could catch a game from these bleachers for a mere twelve bucks, though they’d still get h
osed on concessions. Using the note function on her phone, she reminded herself to come up with a basic food package—hot dog, chips and a soda—she could sell in the outfield concessions at a bargain price. She’d also look into what it would cost to add seat backs to these bleachers.

  A deep male voice behind her said, “Too bad about that Hanover kid. One unlucky pitch and a couple of bad hops, and he gives up a beauty of a game. At least we’ve got the top of the order coming to the plate.”

  She cast a tentative glance over her shoulder, unsure if the speaker was addressing her or a companion. A forty-ish man in dress slacks and loosened tie, he apparently had come to the ballpark from an office job. His most distinctive feature was the cleft in his chin, which straight women probably found boyishly handsome.

  “He’s got a heckuva slider though,” he went on. “Best I’ve seen on a rookie, and I’ve been watching this game a long time.”

  Since there was no one else within reasonable earshot, she glumly concluded he was talking to her. Less certain was if he was actually talking baseball or laying the groundwork for hitting on her. Accustomed to being approached by men, she contemplated how best to shut him down. She could try a few words of Spanish, like Please don’t spray fragrance in my car.

  The crowd let out a collective gasp as the first pitch careened off Cline’s batting helmet with a loud pop! Visibly shaken, he trotted slowly to first base, where he represented the potential tying run.

  “We’ll take a base runner any way we can get it,” the man said, clapping his approval. Apparently deciding he’d done enough to engage her, he scooted like a giant crab down two rows to sit beside her. “Kip Barlow, hopeless fan of these hapless Longdogs.”

  Barlow…she’d come across that name earlier today but couldn’t recall where. After only a cursory nod, she turned her attention back to the field.

  “At the plate, second baseman Rolando Castillo.”