Page 7 of Bad Call

When I hooked up with men, I did it discreetly, and I never called them back for a repeat. That was my rule. One and done, like a pinch-hitter. The life Marcus lived, well, that was just a dream on the horizon. It was so far off, it wasn’t even worth thinking about.

“Who’s a good girl? Yes, you are. Yes, you are. You’re the best girl.” Rawlings licked my face like she hadn’t drunkwater in a week, her rough tongue lapping at my skin until I laughed, pushing her away.

“Mr. Collins, I just need to let you know I had to separate Rawlings and another dog today.”

Patting her on the head, I stood and addressed the doggy daycare worker. “Was she fighting?” My girl was a lover, not a fighter.

Angela blushed. “Not exactly, sir.”

It took me a second to realize her implication, and I turned accusing eyes on my dog. “You dirty girl! Let’s get you in the car. I think you’ve had enough interaction for one day.”

As if she understood every word out of my mouth, Rawlings dropped her head and whined before following me out to the truck. She trotted behind me with her tail stuck straight down and stiff, not wagging like usual. She knew she was in trouble.

I pulled into the driveway of my house—three bedrooms with a brick façade and a fenced-in yard out back—and went around to the passenger side to open the door for Rawlings. Usually, she scratched at the window, eager to be home, but not today. Today she sat still with her sad puppy dog eyes, waiting patiently for me to let her out.

“Go. Get inside, you little hussy.”

After a hot shower to wash off the sweat and dust from the ballpark, I changed into a worn pair of jeans and a T-shirt. In the kitchen, I whipped up a quick and simple spaghetti Bolognese dinner with garlic bread and flipped onSports Centerto entertain me while I ate.

When I’d finished and loaded my plate in the dishwasher, I looked out the kitchen window above the sink. “Come on, girl, let’s go outside.” Rawlings went potty while I got to work on my latest project. The little wooden library box was coming along nicely. As long as I didn’t run into any issues, I would be finished by next week. “What do you think, girl? Should we paint this one red or yellow?”

Almost every building in Mapleview now sported one of my little free libraries. It was just another way I liked to give back to the community that had given so much to me. In addition to the libraries, I also made handicap ramps and donated my time one weekend a month toHabitat for Humanity. It started as a way to fill my downtime and keep my hands busy, but then the projects I made began piling up, and I had to find an outlet for them. I started by donating the things I made to different organizations in the community that needed help—a clothing donation box at the church, and a school supply donation box at the community center—and it snowballed from there.

I lined my deck with a tarp and set the box on it. Rawlings trotted over and sniffed the bucket of red paint, giving a loud bark. “Red it is.” Almost ninety minutes later, the box had two coats of paint, and my hands had about four. “Come on, girl, let’s go wash up.”

I herded her into the house and locked up, and then headed to my bedroom, stripping off my shirt and tossing it in the laundry basket. It looked like I would need another shower. I popped the button on my jeans,reaching into the stall to start the water. The bathroom quickly filled with steam, and I stripped out of my pants and underwear, letting them pool on the floor. Leaning over the sink, I looked into the mirror, checking to see if I needed to shave or if I could hold off one more day.

Ocean-blue eyes stared back at me, assessing my squared jaw and the sandy five-o’clock shadow that covered my cheeks. One more day, but then I’dhaveto shave. I couldn’t stand to feel itchy when the scruff grew in.

Stepping into the glass stall, I stood under the spray, letting the hot water sluice over my head and shoulders. Was there anything more refreshing than a hot shower? My muscles loosened, and I turned my face up to the spray, breathing out a relaxed sigh. Working my body wash into a good lather, I was able to get most of the red paint off my hands, except for the stubborn layer caked under my blunt nails. My hands left a sudsy trail over my pecs, down my flat stomach, to the short light brown curls around the base of my cock. My hand slid easily down my soft shaft, and I stroked it several times, giving it a satisfying tug before cupping my balls. The steam kissed my skin and made my head feel light. Rolling it back on my shoulders, I breathed a satisfied sigh, stroking my dick a little faster until it was hard.

My God, that felt good.

It was time to find another hook-up. Maybe I’d hit up that bar again. The one I went to the last time, where I met…Buck. Damn, he was a good lay. I needed another Buck.

Buck. There was no way that was his real name. Not that Colin was mine. Nor did I care. I got what I wanted and so did he. Another warm body for a handful of hours, sinking my cock into a tight ass, plowing until I came hard enough to last me a couple of weeks until I needed to do it again.

Just the memory of his tight ass, that velvet grip choking my cock, made my balls draw up tight. The muscles in my stomach contracted, and thick white ropes pulsed from the tip of my cock. I wasn’t sure why I screamed his name as I came. Maybe because he was on my mind, and he had helped to bring me off a second time.

Thanks, Buck.

CHAPTER FOUR

BAYLOR

Well,hell, I thought I’d seen it all until now. A giant muskrat dancing theMacarenawith a feathered toucan. The muskrat tripped, taking the toucan down with it. The toucan began humping the muskrat, preventing it from getting up. They just rolled around in a flurry of feathers and baseball jerseys until their handlers rode out in a golf cart to break them up. College ball waswild.

While the teams’ mascots shook their tail feathers, I swiveled in a full circle, taking in the massive crowd filling the stadium. I’d been to minor-league games that weren’t this packed. This was a whole different ball game than the high school baseball I used to umpire.

I stood on home plate with my hand over my heart and sang the national anthem. After that, the giant muskrat took to the pitcher’s mound to throw out the first ball of the season while another umpire motioned for me to join him. He was in conversation withboth head coaches and probably wanted to introduce me, since I was the new guy.

“Baylor Buchanan, this is Bill Asher, head coach of the University of Washington Tacoma Toucans.” I shook the man’s hand and smiled. “And this is Casey Collins, head coach for the University of Oregon Mapleview Muskrats.”

When my eyes landed on his face, everything inside of me, including my heart and my breath, seized up. Sandy hair combed back neatly from his handsome face, blue eyes the color of the deep sea—yeah, I knew that face. It belonged to the man who fucked me last month, the only man who’d ever fucked me.

The one that I couldn’t stop thinking about.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

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