Stupid Girl(60)

“This tank is a fuckin’ beast!” he hollered. Then he draped an arm over my shoulder, pulled me against him, and we took off. My eyes drifted to Brax’s hand on the steering wheel, and I noticed the letters inked into his knuckles. Who in their right mind would ever cross him?

We pulled into the sports complex and Brax drove around to the back lot, behind the pavilions, grandstands and baseball diamond. There were several other cars and trucks, and Brax parked next to a restoration-in-progress 1970’s model Camaro. I recognized the year, the work. My brother Jace’d had one just like it.

“Looks like the beast is here. Good.” Brax said. He nodded toward the car. “That’s my first baseman’s ride.” He opened the door and reached for my hand to help me out. “It’s a work in progress.”

I stepped out and Brax closed the door. “So he’s the same one who duked your eye out before, and the dead sexy first baseman Tessa was talking about?”

“One in the same.” He tugged my hand, and passed me a sly grin. “Ever been in a batting cage, Sunshine?”

“I guess I haven’t,” I answered. “So why exactly did you want me to wear a dress to a batting cage?”

We hit the concrete walkway leading into the pavilion. Inside, it smelled of leather and wood and something I would dare label male. Brax grasped my chin and stared at me, his lip quirked. “Because there’s just something that appeals to me about a gorgeous girl in a dress swinging a baseball bat.” His eyes raked over me, just before he settled his mouth against mine. “Jesus Christ, you are so beautiful,” he whispered against me, and I shuddered. His lips were firm, warm, and moved with just a slight, simple claim that made my body feel weightless. When Brax pulled away, he stared down at me, and I stared back, barely able to breathe. From the intense expression I’d almost accuse him of having the same trouble as me. He inclined his head. “Come on.”

Brax led us up to a set of double doors, and when we pushed through it opened into another smaller entry room, the walls covered in baseball team banners. An older man, probably in his eighties, seated behind a counter and wearing a Winston’s Silverbacks hat, glanced up. A grin split his weathered face.

“Well, look who it is,” he said. His voice, gravelly and deep and thoroughly Texas, resonated off the walls. “The Yank with the hundred mile an hour fast ball. Nice lip you got there, boy. Looks a lot like Cory’s.”

“Hundred and one, and Cory’s face way worse.” Brax corrected. He pulled me next to him, and the old man’s eyes lighted on me. “Henry, this is Olivia Beaumont.” Brax inclined his head. “This is Henry ‘The Crook’ Johnson.” Brax leaned over to my ear. “King of the stolen bases in his day.” Though an innocent gesture, his warm breath against the shell of my ear made me shiver a little. I wondered if Brax noticed. If he realized the reaction he stirred within me by just his breath grazing me, he didn’t let on. My reaction seemed ridiculous, but unstoppable at the same time.

I gave Henry a warm smile and held my hand out to shake his. He grasped it, firm but gentle, and the mischievous glint in his green eyes belied his aged exterior.

“So you’re the one,” Henry said, gave a low whistle and eyed Brax. He dropped my hand. “You weren’t kiddin’, were you?” His gaze returned to mine. “Nice to meet you, darlin’. The boy here’s been non-stop gabbin’ about you for two solid weeks.” He leaned on his elbow. “Said the very first time he saw you he almost stopped breathin’.”

“Thanks, Henry.”

Henry grinned. “My pleasure, son.” He winked at me. “You two can take booth four, next to Cory. And no fightin’ in the booths.”

“Nice to meet you, Henry,” I offered, and smiled.

He gave a nod. “Hope to see you around here more often, darlin’.”

“Maybe.”

“All right, put your eyeballs back in their sockets, Henry,” Brax teased, and led me through the doors to a long row of side-by-side narrow batting cages. We stopped at booth four, and beside us in the next cage stood a giant in a batting stance, facing the pitching machine. When it spit out the pitch, the giant swung, and the sharp cracking sound made by the ball as the bat tore into it rung in my ears.

“Hey, man,” Brax said. “I got someone I want you to meet.”

The giant rose and stepped back off the plate, pressed a button on the wall and turned to face me. A partition of chain link separated us. He pushed his batting helmet off his forehead, and hazel eyes—one with a slight discoloration close to the cheek bone—regarded me closely. Easily six foot five if not more, and shoulders as broad as, well, my whole body it seemed. I couldn’t believe Brax walked away with only a split lip. Sandy-colored hair flipped up from under his hat in the back. Strong jaw, athletic build. Or, in Tessa’s exact words, dead sexy. She was right. He was. And by the lines between his brows he didn’t appear to be extremely happy to meet me.