Grand Slam (The Boys of Summer 3)

I don’t think Saylor realizes that I’d follow her anywhere, especially if she’s leading me down the path of righteousness. For her, I’d be a better man. All she has to do is say the words, and I’ll enter every self-help program available to be the type of man she deserves. But something tells me that she likes the bad boy in me and that she craves the dirty-talking, cocky man that I am.

Her bathroom is decorated in a Disney theme, and earlier when Lucy was giving me the grand tour of their two-bedroom, one-bath apartment, I noticed that Saylor’s life has been overcome by Lucy. I don’t mean that in a bad way, but I do know that women like to have space to go and relax, and Saylor doesn’t seem to have that. Every inch of their apartment is “Lucy,” whether it’s toys, books, or decorations.

Saylor motions for me to sit on the pink-covered lid of the toilet as she digs under the counter for something. I watch her prepare a handful of cotton balls with some type of liquid, as if it’s pure science.

“Close your eyes,” she says. The liquid is cool against my eyelids, and the pressure she’s applying is soft. “I’m sorry she did this.”

“I’m not. It was fun. I’ve never done anything like this before.”

She moves to my other eye and follows the same technique. “You could’ve told her no.”

I smile and rest my hands on her hips. I feel her lean closer as she continues to rub the cotton ball over my face, removing the remnants of Lucy’s makeup job.

“This shouldn’t feel good, but it does,” I whisper into thin air. I’m afraid to open my eyes, fearful of her expression. Sometimes my little comments make her happy, and other times they make her step away.

“This might taste funky, so try not to lick your lips.” She starts working on my lips and scrubs a bit harder.

“Ouch,” I mumble as my bottom lip is tugged across my face.

“Sorry, she really caked this crap on.”

“Where’d she get it from anyway??

? I ask in between swipes.

“My mom. Lucy isn’t supposed to use it without permission and supervision.” Saylor continues to work at removing the lipstick. She steps out of my hands, and I open my eyes to find her staring at me. I’m tempted to pull her onto my lap so she can straddle me and have another heavy make-out session, but with Lucy in the other room, I can’t imagine Saylor would even kiss me right now.

“I was supervising,” I say with a laugh.

“Right, and what if I couldn’t get this off?” she laughs.

I shrug and stand to look at myself in the mirror. Aside from my lips being stained red, the makeup is gone. “Then the media would’ve had a field day with me.” I wink at her in the mirror, and she blushes. “Do you want to talk about what has you all upset?” I ask as we leave the bathroom. She shakes her head and motions toward the door.

“I need to give Lucy a bath, and I’m tired. Do you mind?” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she’s covering her face and shaking her head. “I’m sorry—that came out wrong.”

“It’s fine, Saylor.” I bring her to my chest and hold her tightly. After a few seconds, her arms snake around my waist. Kissing the top of her head, my lips linger there for a moment until they move down to her temple, cheek, and finally to her lips. Her quick intake of air isn’t lost on me as I try to fight back a smile while I kiss her. “Good night,” I tell her as my lips hover over hers. “Lucy has already eaten dinner. I am the master at fish sticks and fries.”

“Good night, Travis, and thank you for saving me today.”

“You save me every day.” I leave her with those parting words, hoping that she understands what I’m saying to her. Hell, sometimes I don’t even understand what I’m saying except when it comes to Saylor. I know that she likes me, but something is stopping her from pursuing a relationship. It could be a number of things—my reputation is probably the biggest hurdle—and I hope I’m doing everything right when it comes to showing her that I’ve put that life behind me, more so for her than anything.

Instead of taking a cab or calling for an Uber, I walk home. The night air is brisk, and the wind is holding steady. I can’t get my mind off Saylor and how I’d much rather be in her tiny apartment than home alone. Their home is filled with love, warmth, and it makes you feel welcomed, while mine is a designer slab of bachelorhood.

I groan when I see the same trucks parked outside my house, not to mention the surveillance van sitting a few doors down. They think they’re subtle and that I don’t notice them. I’ve been tempted to play practical jokes on them but have refrained. It’s part of my trying to turn over a new leaf. The Travis Kidd from a week ago would’ve stuck a banana up their tailpipe, had copious amounts of food delivered, and probably even ordered them an escort.

My name is called as I near my house. Someday I’ll be able to answer all their questions, but until then, I stuff my hands in my pockets and keep my head down.

“Travis, are you still a Renegade?”

“Do you know what’s taking the DA so long?”

“Are you nervous that your arrest is imminent?”

The last question has me stumbling over my feet. A reporter reaches out and grabs my arm to help me straighten up. “Thanks,” I say as I adjust my coat and start walking up the stairs to my door. Unless this woman somehow stole my jizz, there is no way they can pin her rape on me. It’s unfair that I’m being hounded when there hasn’t been a peep about her or her credibility.

As soon as I’m behind my closed door, I lean against it and sigh. I want to scream, throw things, and stand in front of my large picture window with my middle fingers up, telling them all to fuck off. Somehow I doubt Saylor would approve of a stunt like that, though, and the damage I would do with the media would probably be beyond repair.

Instead, I move through my darkened house, turning on only the television for light, and slip into my bathroom to take a shower. There isn’t a thing sitting on my countertop, and my walls are decal-free. In fact, looking around I feel as if the gray-and-white décor is boring and lacks life. Saylor’s may be cluttered, but it feels homey.