Page 158 of Stolen Bases

What the fuck?

I buck my hips, tugging her hair. Instead of her sweet raspy moans, Talia cries out, “Ding dong,” again.

My eyes fly open.

Fuck, it was just a dream. My cock is hard as stone, and my chest aches as my hand strokes the cold empty side of the bed where Talia sleeps.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen her. Since I sent her home.

I’mfucking miserable.

Talia is on a ten-day shift, covering other nurses who switched with her so she could get away for the week with me. I could kick myself for putting her in the car and kissing her goodbye.

She’s texted me, but it’s been quick like she’s avoiding me. I don’t know where that leaves us, and it’s driving me out of my mind.

The doorbell rings again. Who the fuck is at my door at… I check my phone for the time. 5 AM.

I live in a gated community, and the only people allowed past are on my pre-approved list, which means it can only be one of six people.

Fucking great. Just what I need right now.

I climb out of bed and grab a clean t-shirt from my drawer, pulling it over my head, then pick up my athletic shorts from last night. Running a hand through my hair, I pad to the front door and pull it open.

“Hey, kiddo.” My dad stands in front of me with a huge grin on his face, shocking the hell out of me.

“It’s fucking dark out. What are you doing here so early?” I grumble. I mean, I know why he’s here, but… Why is he here?

He lifts a brow at me. “Really?” The look he gives me is one he’s used a million times before. It’s a mix of “stop fucking around” and “are you kidding me right now”.

I play dumb anyway. “It’s early.”

“No shit, Sherlock. Now, get your fucking running shoes on, and let’s go.” He holds up a black stopwatch and dangles it in front of me.

I groan. “Seriously?”

“As serious as a kick in the ass. Now, get moving.”

I hesitate for a second, remembering the grueling canyon run he used to put me through in college. He’d roll up to the baseball house at exactly five and wait for me to come out. Then, he’d drive us to the trails. Sometimes, he would walk; other times, he’d sit onthe hood of his car with his stopwatch and push start. Then, he’d say, “Beat it.”

I never pushed as hard as I did during those sessions. There was no time to think, just run. Hard.

“Yes, sir.” There’s no point in arguing with him. He knows as well as I do … I’m going with him.

When I come back, shoes on and ready to go, my dad is sitting in his SUV waiting for me. His car is on the older side and in good shape. He loves this thing even though I think he deserves a new model, but he’s stubborn and refuses to let me upgrade his ride.

I climb into the car, buckle in, and sit back. Just like the old days, Dad’s favorite 80s’ rock band plays in the background as we sit in silence and head towards Topanga Canyon State Park—our old stomping grounds.

When we park in the lot at the base of the trailhead, Dad climbs out and starts up the fire road. Surrounded by red stone and green mountains, my anxiety about everything ebbs.

No thinking, we walk. I breathe in deep. There’s no fire ravaging the hills or a tinge of smog left in the air, only a hint of sea salt and a clean California breeze.

“Are you ready to talk?” Dad asks, breaking the silence as we reach the two-mile lookout.

I’m surprised we made it this far without talking. “About?”

“Quit yanking my dick, boy, and talk to me already.”

Ladies and gentlemen, my dad, the wordsmith.

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