I can skate by unnoticed if I’m alone: baseball cap down low, sunglasses, baggy sweats, and layers.
When I’m with him?
Jesus, he’s like a walking, talking billboard for douchebaggery that cannot be ignored. By anyone. Paparazzi, fans. Women, men. Teenagers who are fans of the sport or the team. Dude cannot get e-damn-nough.
He’s right though; our friends start to arrive, filling my kitchen and living room, flopping onto furniture. Feet up. Beers poured.
A few of them stand at the kitchen counter with me, shooting the shit, talking about their kids and families, women they’re dating or sleeping with.
Fucking is more like it, but still, it’s more action than I see.
“Wallace was telling us you have a hard on for some baseball card,” Kurt Kleinman is saying, snapping a celery stick in half and dipping it in dill. “Which one is it?”
“Hank Archer,” I say, popping a few veggies into my own mouth. “It’s mint.”
“You ain’t seen it—how the hell you know it’s mint?”
Kleinman is from the Deep South and his grammar drives me insane.
“I’ve seen pictures.”
“Are you fucking serious? Boy, haven’t you heard of Photoshop? Shit, half the women I meet look nothin’ like their pictures online. It’s all fake.”
Fake, fake—that’s what Wallace was saying.
I swallow hard, shrugging. “Guess I’ll find out on Wednesday.”
Well, Wallace will when he meets Miranda and gets the card for me; he just doesn’t know it yet. Shouldn’t be tough to convince him—he rarely needs much encouragement when there’s the chance to meet a chick.
“Who’s selling you this card, some old fart who needs a fat paycheck?”
“Nah. It’s some young entrepreneur. She inherited them from her grandpa when he died.”
Kleinman snorts. “See, that’s fucked up—people will do anything for a fast buck. Ain’t she heard of family heirlooms? Or legacies?”
The good old boys are far more sentimental than I give them credit for.
“What is a girl going to do with a box full of old baseball cards? They aren’t doing her any good in the closet.”
“What if her son wants ’em? And she sold them.”
I doubt she has a son to pass them down to and if she does in the future, who even says the kid would give a crap.
“Guess I’ll keep them for my son then. Or daughter.” I shrug, not wanting to get into a pointless argument. “None of my business why she’s selling the cards as long as she sells them to me.”
I expect him to keep arguing, but he surprises me by nodding. “When you meeting her for the drop?”
My eyes roll toward the ceiling; they’re making it sound like I’m doing an illicit drug deal on the wrong side of town.
“Wednesday.”
“Want me to come with you? Just in case? I’ve seen To Catch a Predator—I know how this shit goes down.”
“First of all…” I sigh. “Neither of us are children. Secondly, I doubt she’s going to try to jump me.”
“You don’t even know for sure it’s a girl. It could be some old dude pretending to be a girl. Next thing you know—whammo, you’re being held at knifepoint in a seedy parking lot by some little dude.”
Keep in mind: I’m six foot two, weigh two hundred pounds, and have a glare that would send a junkyard dog running in the opposite direction the way I run from home to first base.
“We’re meeting at the police station.” Idiot.
“You can get held at knifepoint in the police parking lot.”
What is he even talking about? “I’m not worried.” I slide some cheese and sausage in his direction, along with the fruit platter. The more he has in his mouth, the less nagging he can do. “Besides, it’s not me who’s going.”
The guys consider this new information, and Donahue—our first baseman—cocks his head. “You sending Rudy?”
Rudy is my manager-slash-assistant on those rare occasions I need assisting. Mostly he just manages appearances when I have to make them and my time when baseball is in season.
“Nah, I’m sending Wallace. He’s bored and looking for something to do.” He shoots me a glance from where he’s planted on the sofa. Throws me the peace sign to let me know he’s down with whatever.
A few of my friends laugh. “You’re not worried he’s going to steal this girl out from under you?”
Steal her out from under me? “Under me? When was I on top of her?”
They laugh again. “When doesn’t Wallace chase after someone? She could have a bag over her head and he’d find her attractive.”
Brownbagger—someone called me that once, a girl I went out with on a blind date. She got piss ass drunk then slurred the insult at me when I put her in a cab at the end of the evening and sent her home. Alone.
I force a grin, feel it tugging at my cheeks in the most unnatural way.
“Whoa, watch it or your face is gonna crack,” Anderson jests, elbowing me in the ribs and shoving me aside to gain better access to the cheese and crackers. “Let’s get this show on the road, yeah? Keely wants me home in an hour.”