Page 7 of Playboy Pitcher
“It’s definitely not as interesting as yours. However, you could say I’m waiting on a type of meeting myself.”
“Sounds cryptic.”
“Not really. My future is sort of up in the air right now. The company I work for isn’t exactly…” Hesitating, he shakes his head. “Well, let’s just say it’s not the most productive. It could be in for a big change. If that happens, I’m fucked.”
“Change isn’t necessarily bad, Ben. Even if it is, it’s not like there aren’t other companies out there.”
He frowns. “Not for me.”
The stale air in the bar hangs heavy with the weight of his words. I can tell they’re what brought him in here tonight. The sadness in his voice hunches his shoulders like a cold hand clamped around his neck.
I should know. It matches the one wrapped around my throat.
“Jesus, what doyoudo?” I ask. To infuse some much-needed levity, I hold up a finger. “Let me guess. You’re some kind of international spy.”
That earns me a smirk. “Close. I’m a ballplayer.”
I freeze. “What?”
“I play for the Miami Storm.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “The professional baseball team.” When I still don’t respond, a deep line sinks in between his eyes. “Willow, are you all right?”
No, I’m not. Blood is rushing through my veins at warp speed, and every ounce of alcohol in my stomach is sloshing around like a riptide. I’m not sure if I’m going to pass out or throw up. All I know is I have to get out of here.
Now.
The legs of the flamingo chair scrape against the floor as I shove it back. “I have to go.”
Just as quickly, Ben stands, diving a hand through his dark hair. “Did I say something wrong?”
I can’t answer that. Not tonight.
Backing up, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I have a headache.”
“You were fine thirty seconds ago.”
My answer is a tight jaw and dead silence.
He lets out a low curse, stepping forward just as I step back. Sighing, he scrubs a hand down his face. “Let me give you a ride home.”
“No,” I stammer. “I’ll be fine.”God, I need air.Turning away, I push through a mosh pit of people with Ben right on my heels.
“Jesus, can I at least get your number?”
My head is spinning, and I can’t breathe. “I’m sorry, Ben,” I say, still shoving my way through the crowd. “I don’t date baseball players.”
His hand wraps around my bicep, stopping me a few feet from the door. “What about pitchers?”
I wince. “Especially pitchers.” Jerking out of his hold, I blindly push my way through the crowd, slamming into a hard chest. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“No worries,” a deep voice murmurs above me. Something about it rubs me the wrong way—then again, I’m half drunk and short on air, so what the hell do I know?
Pushing through the rest of the patrons, I barrel through the door, running an entire block before stopping to take a breath. Ducking into an alley, I collapse against the side of a building and slowly sink to the ground.
They say life happens when you least expect it.
Know what else they say?
Lightning never strikes the same place twice.
