In an effort to ease the mounting tension, I wandered to the far side of the room, away from him. It didn’t seem to help with the looks, but at least I couldn’t make out his laugh or voice from this distance.
A few members of the medical staff waved at me as I milled through the room in search of a drink, but most were there with their spouses or significant others. A few days at home were not to be wasted when we spent as much time on the road as we did. Everyone had someone it felt like—Luke Archer had the whole damn room—except for me.
I had no one. Self-pity. It wasn’t a position I liked to find myself in, and if I couldn’t chase it away with force of will, I’d try chasing it away with something stronger.
The first glass of champagne went down in two swallows. The second one I was just finishing when someone also on their own wandered up to the bar beside me. Noting my vanishing drink, Shepherd lifted two fingers at the bartender.
“I’m here for the free booze too.” Shepherd held out a glass for me, waiting.
“I’m not here for the free booze,” I replied before draining what was left in my second glass before accepting the fresh glass from him.
A smirk settled on his face. “No? Then what are you here for? Because Uncle Sam knows neither of us make enough to put a down payment on the items being auctioned off tonight to benefit some country that’s going to be renamed and run by some other dickface in a year.”
Shepherd wasn’t my favorite person to be around. Actually, he might have been one of my least favorite, but as the crowd around Archer continued to grow, Shepherd’s company became more desirable. I’d rather be talking to him than no one.
“I’m here to support the team,” I said right before I hiccupped. The champagne had gone straight to my head, which was a welcome relief since alcohol was clouding my Luke Archer Rubik’s cube of confusion.
“And support the team you do.” Shepherd followed where my gaze had moved to. That same person stationed in the center of the room, holding a room full of people in his hand. “So very, very well.”
“What does that mean?” My eyes narrowed from his tone or from what he was alluding to with his tone.
“This is Archer’s best season. And it’s not like his three prior seasons were shit, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I don’t have a clue.”
“All I’m saying is that whatever you’re doing, keep it up, Allie.” Shepherd slid a little closer, his gaze dropping to where the V in my dress came together. “Archer stays this hot, I see a World Series win in our future.”
The skin on the back of my neck tingled. From what he was saying, from how he was saying it, from the way he was looking at me. I wanted to play dumb and deny his veiled accusation, but I hadn’t approached anything in life by playing dumb and I wasn’t about to start with the likes of Shepherd.
“Whatever you’re trying to say, Shepherd, spit it the hell out. My head’s swimming in too much champagne to figure out cryptic riddles.”
Shepherd didn’t stop running his eyes over me, and with him getting closer, I could make out the glassiness in his eyes. He was marinating in more champagne than I was.
“I’m saying that of all the Incentive Girls I’ve seen thrown at Archer, you’re the one who’s squeezed the best results out of our boy. Or should I say fucked the best results out of him.” Shepherd’s head tipped, his smile eclipsing into one that made me shiver.
“You’re drunk.”
“And you must be such a slut in bed, you might actually get to hang around for a second season. Most of the girls the team brings on only last a year, but you”—he whistled, shaking his head—“you just might be this generation’s Marilyn.”
Setting my glass down, I put some space between us. “At this point in your depravity, I think it’s a good thing I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, please. Marilyn Monroe? Joe DiMaggio? Why do you think he became the legend he is today?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Because he was a great ball player?”
“Made great because he got to look forward to a fine piece of ass crawling over his cock every night.”
His words hit me like someone had just slapped me across the cheek. Whatever sexual harassment policies the team had drawn up, Shepherd was breaking just about every single one of them.
“You are an asshole.”
“Oh, please. That woman couldn’t act to save her soul. But servicing dick—she could have taken home the Academy Award.”
Anger coursed through me, mixing with the alcohol. It was a volatile combination. “I wasn’t calling you an asshole because of what you’re accusing Marilyn Monroe of. I was and still am calling you an asshole because of what you’re accusing me of.” Nevermind the fact that DiMaggio and Monroe hadn’t even met until after he’d retired from baseball. Clearly, Shepherd wasn’t up on his baseball trivia like I was.