Switch Hitter (Jock Hard 0.5)

My lifeline.

He gives them a squeeze, lacing them together, glancing back at me over his broad shoulders. It’s then that I realize: I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking; I’m just watching him.

The muscles in his strong back contract as he works his way through the crowd. His thick neck corded, sexy. I’ve always liked that part of a guy’s body, always found it attractive.

Masculine.

My hungry eyes rake down his backside, down his tapered waist, over his firm ass, and I allow myself the luxury of every part of him, pretending the large hands and imposing form tugging me along belong to me.

Pretending he’s mine for the taking.

We reach the bar, where the crowd has thinned out considerably since the music started, the sound of Scotty’s band blasting through the subwoofers and speakers drowning out any laughter and loud chatter.

Dash orders us beer, ice water.

Faces me while we wait, one arm resting on the bar top.

I wonder how long it’s going to take for him to bring up the fact that I speak Spanish.

For now, he seems content to stand here surrounded by the concertgoers, the loud music, and my quiet company. If he thinks it’s strange that I, as Lucy, finally have nothing to say, he would be right. My sister is always chattering away, and she’d be talking non-stop right now, too.

The only things I can think of to ask Dash are personal; I want to know more about him, want to know things that are none of my business.

Does he have brothers or sisters?

Where is he from?

What’s his major? What does he want to be if he doesn’t play baseball after he graduates?

Are these things he and my sister have already talked about?

We stand at the bar, regarding each other, his cool black gaze caressing my exposed shoulders. I respond to it by coolly lifting the beer bottle to my lips and taking another drink of liquid courage, hoping to avoid his disconcerting scrutiny.

I don’t know what it is, but Dash is someone I want to get to know more, someone I’d want to know if the circumstances were different.

I sigh.

The fact is that tonight, I am not supposed to be myself.

And I’m doing a really crappy job being my sister.

“So, you wanna tell me what’s going on with you?”

“What do you want to know?”

Chapter Four

Dante

Lucy speaks Spanish.

And not just the I was required to take two years of it in high school version. She actually knows how to fucking speak it, fluently.

I don’t know what to do with this strange new information. It’s certainly a game changer; I’ve never dated anyone who could have a conversation with me in any language other than English, and it’s really fucking sexy.

We’re sidled up to the bar, my arm draped on the lacquered wooden top, elbow propping me up as I study her.

Study her in a new light, riveted.

This Lucy isn’t just a pretty face.

This Lucy isn’t just a grasping jock chaser.

This Lucy has layers.

This version fascinates me more than the two versions that came before her.

Her striped baby blue shirt is understated but sexy, hair still falling in loose waves despite the growing humidity from all the warm bodies inside this packed concert hall.

Wavering unsteadily on high heels, she leans against the counter, mimicking my stance, mimicking the way I let my gaze trail over her, returning the favor.

She peruses me up and down, expression unreadable.

It’s so fucking unsettling.

Lo amo. I love it.

“So, you wanna tell me what’s going on with you?”

“What do you want to know?”

“I think you know what I’m talking about. I’ve never met a single person on this campus who speaks Spanish as well as you seem to, besides other Latinos.”

“I spent a semester in Mexico teaching English at an immersion school.”

That makes no fucking sense. Lucy is a fashion major—why would she be teaching classes in Mexico?

“Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

The beer bottle hits my bottom lip and I tip it. Chug. “I’m trying to figure you out.”

“I know,” she returns unhappily. “Please don’t.”

“Are you intentionally trying to be evasive?”

“I’m not playing games with you, I promise, but it’s complicated.”

The bartender finally gets to us, setting two new bottles on the counter. Lucy reaches for one, taking a dainty sip, delicate fingers wrapped around the long neck of the bottle. Nails painted baby blue, the second to last one a glittery silver.

“You know Luce, I’m really fucking busy with school and baseball, so I don’t date a lot, and this right here is why: I can’t stand drama.”

“Neither can I,” she volleys back. “Maybe I’m just not good at this, did you ever think of that?”

“Not good at what?”

“Relationships. I’ve never dated a single guy for more than two weeks.”

“Well that’s good to know.”

Her eyes roll toward the ceiling dramatically. “This is only your third date—I can’t even believe we’re discussing this.”

This is only your third date? That’s an odd way to put it.

“Besides,” she continues, “aren’t you ballplayers all just looking for a little fun between seasons?”

“I’m not a stereotype, but thanks.”

Her expression falls. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…I’m not comfortable having this conversation with you right now.”

“Why?”

“Because I…it’s…” She’s reluctant to finish her sentence. “It’s personal.”

“You know, Lucy, relationships don’t usually work when one person is hiding something.” Jesus, why am I trying so damn hard with this girl? I couldn’t stand her the last time we went out, and I’m only here with her tonight so I didn’t have to come alone.

“Hiding something?” Her eyes are wide. “What would make you say that?”

“You’re either really good at faking who you are, or you have no fucking clue what you want.” I can’t describe the look on her face right now, couldn’t if I tried, not for a million fucking bucks. It’s a cross between crestfallen and oddly captivated…stricken but expectant?

Like she wants to cry and laugh all at the same time.

So bizarre. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

Lucy swallows a lump in her throat, eyes shining. “I literally just asked you that same thing, so how am I staring at you?”

“Like you’re dying to say something.”

Her chin tips up, that little dimple by her bottom lip drawing attention to itself, imprinted in her skin.

My eyes fixate on it, narrowing. “I’m not fucking stupid. Something weird is going on with you, and I want to know what it is.”

“Nothing weird is going on.” Her nostrils flare, eyes get bright. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“So it’s going to be like that, huh?”

Her arms cross. “What do you think is weird?”

“To avoid the risk of feeling like a fucking dumbass, I’d rather not bring it up, okay?”

She’s in my space now, fingers splayed on my forearm. “Tell me.”

“Your hair is different,” I blurt out.

“How?”

Jesus Christ, this is going to sound so stupid. “It’s longer…and darker.” I go for broke. “And I swear you didn’t have this the last time I saw you.”

I extend my arm, placing my finger on that perfect spot by her mouth. Her dark lips part.

Lucy’s breath catches. Something in her eyes…

“What else?” she whispers.

“Your—” My eyes drop to her breasts then rise again. I’m such a fucking hornball. “Never mind.”

Behind us, Scotty’s band interrupts, striking another chord, his adolescent voice croaking into the microphone. “This is going to be it for us tonight, Bettys and gents. One last lullaby before the big show. Enjoy, and have a great fucking night.”