Feisty Red (Three Chicks Brewery 2)

2

Sullivan Keene did two things well.

One, play baseball. The Red Sox had scouted him in college. His fast-pitch had a 100.6 mile per hour average with a velocity of 2,530 average spin rate. Over the last season, his cutter earned him an insane run of 124 strikeouts.

The second thing he did well? Fuck up epically. His last disastrous decision had been a bar fight that ended up on the cover of a tabloid magazine and earned him a month-long suspension. That night had been the breaking point when Sullivan knew his life had to change. The last time he’d gotten into a blackout rage and fought in a bar was before he left River Rock. He had no doubt the recent death of his father a few months back was the root cause for this latest fight. So, when he’d been handed the suspension, instead of staying in Boston, or sticking close to Fort Myer where the team trained, he came back in River Rock in hopes of facing the trauma of his past. Trauma he hadn’t thought about in a long time. Trauma that had stayed buried until the passing of his father.

But the greatest thing he’d ever fucked up was staring at him with captivating deep-blue eyes and pink pouty lips. Seven years ago, he’d been full of demons he didn’t want touching her. Now, all that was left was regret. After Sullivan landed at the airport, he passed through Denver to see his uncle Ronnie before coming to River Rock and the apartment he rented for the month. When he heard from his uncle that Clara was coming into Denver for a meeting, Sullivan invited himself to join. Because he knew, to move on for good, he didn’t only need to make peace with the tumultuous relationship he’d had with his father, but with Clara too.

He had thought of her often over the years, and he’d done his best to push her from his mind. But one look into those pretty eyes, and he knew, without a doubt in his mind, that he loved her as much now as on the day he’d left her. Admittedly, she seemed different. There was a hardness on her face he didn’t remember, and her eyes were wary, cautious. Her reddish-brown hair was tightly pulled in a ponytail, and that tightness matched the line of her mouth. While all of that was new and jarring, some things hadn’t changed. She could still fill out a pair of jeans like no other woman, and she could hold his attention until he couldn’t see a damn thing but her. And with her soaked in sludge from head to toe, her shirt was skin-tight, revealing the body of a woman, not the twenty-one-year-old he’d walked out on.

“Sullivan,” Clara said, voice clipped.

His gut tightened at his name on her tongue. She’d barely acknowledged him yesterday when he saw her, only determined to land a contract with his uncle. Now she looked right at him, and his world narrowed on entirely on her. “Hey, Slugger.”

Her eyes narrowed at the nickname he’d always called her. Whatever Clara did, she’d hit it out of the park. “Don’t call me that,” she said, carefully calm. Her eyes lied, though; they blinked twi

ce, warmth swirling in their depths. To put him in his place, her gaze skipped past him, like he didn’t matter much, and fell to his uncle. “I’m really sorry about this, Ronnie. I’ll need a few minutes to get cleaned up. Is it all right if Maisie shows you around the property?”

Sullivan had only heard about the Carter sisters’ new venture yesterday from his uncle. He’d been as surprised to learn of their growing brewery as he was impressed by the presentation she put on in his uncle’s conference room. Having found the perfect excuse to see Clara at that meeting, and hoping he got her to pause long enough so they could talk, he asked his uncle if he could come along for today’s visit. Luckily, his uncle had obliged him. Sullivan looked to the side, finding his uncle frowning at Clara.

“Is everything all right?” Ronnie asked, surveying the damage.

Clara nodded and spit out more of the sludge, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yes, everything is fine. This doesn’t happen often. Ever, actually. Excuse me for one quick sec.” Fierce, like the Clara he remembered, she kept her eyes and chin up, striding out of the barn.

“Ronnie,” Maisie quickly said in Clara’s absence, all amusement now gone from her face. “Let’s start at the back of the brewery, and we can work our way up.”

“Excellent,” his uncle said. He looked nothing like Sullivan’s father, Kurtis. Ronnie had the Keenes’ light green eyes but, at five foot seven, was shorter than Kurtis’ and Sullivan’s six foot two. Ronnie was also bald, whereas Sullivan had his grandmother’s light brown hair.

Sullivan went to follow behind the group, amazed at how grown up the Carter sisters were. When he’d seen them last, they were awkward teenagers. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Time had gone by, so much time. And yet, there he was, back in River Rock, no longer running from his demons, but determined to face them.

As he headed past Amelia, who gave him a wave, his cell phone rang in his pocket. He grabbed it. One look at the screen revealed it was his agent. “I need to take this,” he told his uncle.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ronnie said, waving him off and focusing back on Maisie, who was talking about beer tours and events.

Sullivan turned away and pressed the phone to his ear. “What’s up, Marco?”

“Not much here.” Marco had represented Sullivan since Sullivan was scouted. “How are things out in the middle of nowhere?”

“Quiet,” Sullivan answered, kicking up some gravel as he left the barn.

Marco gave a dry laugh. “I can only imagine. Listen, I talked to Coach Hale a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, what’s he saying?” He could still hear the coach’s roar in the locker room as he read the headline: Sullivan Keene hits hard at the club! The only thing he’d hit hard was that asshole’s face. Luckily for Sullivan, he hadn’t had a bat that night. He wasn’t sure what he would have done with it. He’d only ever snapped like that once, and that was the driving reason he left River Rock and Clara behind.

“It’s simple, Sullivan,” Marco answered. “Take this month; you’ve got to get your head straight. Frederick”—the owner of the team—“is coming down hard on Coach Hale about how this makes the team look. This is your last shot. One more fuck up, and you’re done.”

He got it. He’d had a few articles written about him in the tabloids over the last few months. None of them put him in the best light. “Yeah, I got it.”

Marco hesitated. “They’re in their rights to do this, Sullivan, under your contract.”

“I know.”

“You got this. Right? I don’t have to worry about you?”

“Yeah, I got this. See you in a month.” Sullivan ended the call, not having more to say than that. He was drowning when he should have been gliding through the water. His game was on point. But something wasn’t right in his head, and Sullivan had been pushing that down and down, and with his career on the line, something had to change.

A bang had him glancing over his shoulder to find the front screen door slamming shut behind Clara as she left the house. Sullivan watched her closely and the way she held his gaze like she told herself she had to. He didn’t fault her there. She had something to prove to him, and he’d let her prove it. She deserved far better than the shit he’d given her. “All cleaned up?” he finally asked, breaking the heavy silence.