Listen, Pitch (There's No Crying in Baseball 3)

Damn, I was so going to hell.

At half past eight, I made my way over to Rhys’ side of the duplex and waved at his bodyguard.

His bodyguard didn’t wave back.

He tilted up the shaker bottle he had in his hand and drank heartily from the bottle. It looked disgusting. Like snot mixed with something that swirled brown.

His eyes made me feel weird, too. They were always on me and didn’t miss a single thing.

Like the way there were bags under my eyes.

“Get a good look last night?”

My face flushed.

Luckily, I didn’t have my transmitter on today because during the scuffle—or masturbation break—last night, I’d dropped it between the bed and the headboard while thinking about Rhys’ reaction to what was on the television.

Then, this morning, I’d gotten out of bed to look for it only to realize it wasn’t where I’d put it. After a short search, I’d found it…but hadn’t been able to reach it.

To get it back out, I’d have to have some muscle, which was what I was getting as I headed over to Rhys’ place an hour earlier than I usually did.

Ignoring the bodyguard, I knocked on Rhys’ door, gave it ten seconds, then let myself inside.

My eyes scanned the rooms as I made my way throughout the small space.

“Rhys?”

It always confused me when I came in here. I mean, if a man like Rhys, who could afford damn near everything, was living here…there had to be a reason.

I mean, we had the police commissioner on the opposite side of the street from us. On the other side, there was a district attorney, and the other was an emergency room nurse.

Behind us was a couple of doctors, but they were so young that it was a surprise that they were able to get a mortgage with all the debt they owed obtaining their doctorates.

Seriously, this was a middle-class neighborhood, and I couldn’t figure out why he was here. He could live anywhere.

Yet, he chose here. In a duplex, in the middle of one of the most boring suburbs in Longview.

“Rhys?” I called out again.

Though, I honestly didn’t know why.

He might’ve already answered and I wouldn’t even know it.

I rounded the final corner to his spare bedroom—I wouldn’t be going into his bedroom without his consent—when I ran into a hot, sweaty chest.

I hit him with an ‘oomph’ and gasped, my hands going to his belly to steady myself.

“Sorry, sorry,” I apologized.

Then I got distracted by his body. His chest, and his abs.

He had a cross tattoo in the middle of his pectorals. If he was wearing a rosary, the cross of the rosary would be almost identical to the placement of the tattoo.

Then there was the crow on his side, and it always seemed to be staring at me, mocking me.

And God, he was wearing gray knit pants—my favorite pair.

Why were they my favorite? Because I could see everything in them when he got hot and sweaty.

Everything.

And he was sweaty. The normally light gray fabric was stained a dark gray from the sweat that was accumulating in the waistband, and the arc extended all the way down past his, umm, unmentionables.

I was so busy staring at everything there was to stare at that I got distracted.

At least until I felt him press his hand to my throat and angle my face up toward his.

He was staring at me with amusement and concern in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, touching the side of my ear with his free hand.

His other was still wrapped around my throat.

He didn’t move it, and I didn’t complain about its placement.

I actually kind of liked it there.

I shivered.

His eyes missed nothing, too.

Which promptly caused me to blush.

“I can’t get my transmitter!”

He frowned.

I must’ve said that really loud.

Shit.

“Where is it?” he asked.

I read his lips and then started to have naughty thoughts about those lips.

I wonder if I could read his words on his lips when they were pressed against my skin?

He put slight pressure on my throat, and I blinked, looking back at him.

“It’s behind my bed.”

His eyebrows rose, but he didn’t hesitate in following me out of his front door, past his bodyguard who seemed to have choked down the rest of that disgusting concoction, and then into my own half of the duplex.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Rhys wave his hand absently at the bodyguard, who had apparently tried to follow us.

I kept moving forward, already feeling my cheeks flaming back up to red-hot.

Oh, shit.

I hope he didn’t say anything about me watching Rhys watching porn.

Shit, that would be awful, and that would for sure cause me to lose my job.

My job that I didn’t even do anything at.

Hell, all I was doing at this point was making him dinner, checking on him periodically throughout the day, and then spending my time on his couch.