Chapter Ten

Rhett

I hated to admit it, but by the time Saturday rolled around, nerves had overtaken my stomach cavity like a swarm of butterflies on crack. I hadn’t been on a real date in forever. Not since my senior year of high school. Probably prom. Most of the time, when Ernie and I went to pick up girls, we’d skip the whole getting-to-know-you process and start by telling them we’d hook up with them for one night only. Take it or leave it. I still couldn’t believe how chicks ate that shit up. They loved it, we loved it. The only person who didn’t love it was my long-suffering mother, but she’d have to get over it.

The thought of going on an actual date filled me with excitement though. I’d finally be acting like a normal guy. I looked forward to picking Brenna up at her place, trying to treat her right while sneaking the occasional peek at her fantastic tits, and winning her over by the end of the night. I practiced my wolfish expression in my dresser mirror as I dressed in a pair of dark slacks and a white button-down Oxford shirt that showed off my tan.

Brenna may not remember much, but by the end of the night, I bet she’s going to remember how to scream my name, all three syllables of it.

My cock bulged inside my briefs as I thought of running my hands down sweet little Brenna’s tight body, hearing her heated moans, and turning her on so much that she’d plaster herself against me. The thought made me even hornier. Brenna Sinclair didn’t seem like the type of girl who’d debase herself by blowing a famous baseball player in one of Manhattan’s busiest alleys…but I sure as hell wanted to see how far I could push her limits.

My mind went wild as I imagined all the ways I could talk sexy and shy Brenna into letting her freak flag fly. That lush, pouty mouth of hers would feel so fucking amazing on my cock, and I wanted to squeeze her lush tits until she moaned with desire. Since she’d formerly hated my guts, I’d never even considered I could bag her. But now… I couldn’t wait to make her mine. I grinned.

You used to spit curses in my direction, I thought, picturing Brenna all hotheaded and angry. And now you’re going to beg me for a chance to suck my cock. This is perfect.

More than anything else – even more than I wanted to fuck her – I wanted to see Brenna fall at my feet and look up at me with worship in her gecko-green eyes. I wanted the beautiful face that had scorned me for years to look at me with absolute lust and adoration. I wanted Brenna to fall completely and utterly bat shit crazy for me. The thought of Brenna learning our true history after falling in love with me made my shit-eating grin so wide that my cheeks ached.

Payback’s a bitch.

Seducing her seemed like the perfect revenge even though part of it rang hollow in my ears. I was going to win this twisted game, no doubt about it. I’d wine her, dine her, fuck her, and leave an ache inside her heart so deep she’d fall into the Rhett Bradshaw sinkhole of love.

Yeah, I thought as I left my condo, walking forward as I relished the warm spring air. This is gonna be one hell of a night. Too bad I can’t film it. I could break it out every time I need a little pick-me-up and watch it over and over.

Fucking and drinking my way through New York were two of my favorite hobbies, but I did have another one – collecting and driving vintage roadsters. I’d always loved cars, but growing up, I’d been too poor to drive anything other than my dad’s Dodge Caravan from the eighties. Now, I had a collection of four badass cars. They had an added benefit, too – dropping panties so fast they littered the streets. Women had a thing for guys who could drive a stick. I smirked. Once a girl saw me grinding a five-speed at a reckless pace, she couldn’t wait to get her hands on my stick.

Would Brenna fall at my feet as easily? Well, she was a chick with all their raging emotions and hormones. How hard could it be? Not that I needed much help – her doe-eyed infatuated behavior at the game’s after party had been all the encouragement I needed to know that I could push all the right buttons.

It had been so perfect – she’d been so obsessed with me that she hadn’t even noticed the glares and angry, murderous stares from the other player’s wives. As far as my teammates were concerned, Brenna Sinclair represented a baseball pariah. The woman who constantly debased one of their own. We were a tight-knit group. Not that anything would change after I finally fucked her, but I had a feeling the guys on the team would love to hear the details about how their least favorite journalist had been bagged and tagged.

After settling on my current favorite car – a gunmetal grey Porsche 550 Spyder circa 1953 – I drove out of the garage and made a beeline for Flatbush. Brenna lived in a rent-controlled apartment. Not my neighborhood, but back when she’d first started writing for Sport Taste, they’d done a little feature about her and “how far she’d climbed” to make it in one of the most male-dominated fields in the country. They’d included pictures of her apartment.

At the time, I’d scoured it, thinking about how it would help when I took her to bed. Obviously, that happened before she’d written her first irritating exposé highlighting my lifestyle. Now that I thought about it, I realized I’d been lusting over her since I’d first seen her stunning face. But she’d been off-limits then, like some kind of virginal milkmaid with a pen and paper in her hands.

The pictures of her apartment hadn’t been surprising, either – lots of décor that girls pick when they want to look sophisticated, but they end up just looking naïve ala Pottery Barn and Pier One. Lots of white, a sprinkling of light pink and gold and glitter encrusted memes and motivational quotes in crystal frames. Brenna’s apartment looked like the adult version of a dorm room at Sweet Briar, or maybe Vassar.

Columbia. Her alma mater. A random thought pierced my brain that she’d graduated with honors from Columbia. I’d pitched and fucked my way through college, earning a degree from Miami but only because of what I meant on campus.

When I pulled up in front of Brenna’s building, I double-parked my Porsche and sauntered over to the buzzer.

“Hey, I’m here,” I called, pressing the button marked ‘B. Sinclair.’

“Oh!” Brenna’s husky voice crackled with static, but her excitement ripped through the intercom. “Do you want to come up? Have a drink or something?” she babbled. “I won’t be drinking, but I thought you might want one before dinner.”

I grinned. She’s already ready to spread her legs, and I haven’t even whipped out my American Express Black.

“Sorry,” I said, making sure not to sound sorry at all. “I’m double parked down here, can’t leave the car unattended.”

“Oh. Okay! Well, I’ll be right down,” Brenna chirped. “See you in a minute.”

I waltzed back to my car and leaned my hip against it. I knew I was acting like a jerk, but it was all part of the subtle nuance of the pick-up culture. And I excelled at everything. Hot, cold, hot, cold. Move an inch toward the warmth, then two notches back down to Mr. Icicles and Frost. That was how I’d roped in hundreds of girls – many of them prettier, funnier, and more confident than Brenna. I’d perfected my game both on the field and off.

Moments later, Brenna stepped out from a slender door that was practically hidden by the Chinese take-out sign. She wore a stylish blue dress that was more conservative than I’d been hoping for – the sleeves went down almost to her elbows, but the clingy fabric clung to her tiny waist and full breasts.

Hi,” Brenna said. She tucked a loose curl behind her ear as her vibrant eyes focused on my shoes. “Ready?”

“You look nice,” I told her with my trademark grin. Time to ratchet back the chilly freeze for a second. “That’s an interesting shade of blue. Spin?” I swirled my finger in the air, and Brenna hesitated before turning slowly around in a circle. I’d played this game before, too – compliment, but not too much. Make her think that while you approve, she could have done better. Always leave her trying harder to please you.

“I watched the game earlier,” she said. “Congratulations on the win. Aren’t you tired?”

I stretched my arms over my head. I loved early afternoon games, especially on weekends. “Nah, I’m good. Our physical therapy team is amazing, and they iced me down and stretched me out so I’m good. I’m off the schedule tomorrow, so I’ve got plenty of recovery time.”

Brenna nodded, but didn’t appear to understand anything I just said. Instead, she looked past me. “Is this your car?” Brenna’s eyes lit up when they landed on my Porsche. I had to admit, it looked perfect. All the other cars on the block paled in comparison to my flashy ride.

“Yep,” I said with a nod. “I bought it last year when I…”

What the fuck? You almost outed yourself, Bradshaw. This might end up being tougher than I’d initially expected. I was used to being loose-lipped and easy. I’d never censored myself until Brenna Sinclair.

Brenna frowned. “When you what?”

I coughed. “Uh, when I got the team to postseason. The players get bonuses, and that’s how I used mine.” I had been about to say: right after you almost ruined my family name with that bullshit article about me and the twin actresses, but with a ninth-inning grand slam of a save, I kept my Italian loafer-clad foot out of my own mouth.

Brenna’s eyes widened as if she’d never encountered an employment bonus for a job well done. “Oh,” she said, sweeping her gaze over the shiny car again. I could tell by her face that she didn’t remember it. Good thing. I’d made it up because I didn’t have any bonuses built into my contract.

I made a grand gesture of opening the door and bowing. Brenna blushed again, then climbed inside. She tottered on five-inch platform heels that made her calves look fantastic, and I couldn’t help sneaking an admiring glance at her firm ass as she crawled inside the Porsche.

“We’re going to the Russian Tea Room,” I said with a grin. “Ever heard of it?” I raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Brenna as I navigated the Porsche into a thicket of traffic.

Brenna laughed. “Duh. Just because I lost most of my memory didn’t mean I completely forgot about what it feels like to be a New Yorker.”

“So, is this place a favorite of yours?” Internally, I cursed my own stupidity. I’d hoped to be the first person to take Brenna there. What if she was some kind of regular and one trip down memory lane caused all her other recollections to come rushing back?

Brenna laughed even louder, and I stiffened. I couldn’t remember the last time a woman laughed at me instead of with me. For some strange reason, I felt like I’d just stepped out of my league.

“Oh, yeah. At least three or four times…a year. I’ve been living in New York for almost my entire life, remember? That’s one of the most famous restaurants in the world, Rhett,” she teased. “I can’t believe you thought I’d never been there.”

I shrugged, out of my element and not sure how to proceed. “So, uh, you want to go somewhere else?”

“No!” Brenna clapped her hand over her mouth as if she’d said something wrong. “I mean, no. I love the Russian Tea Room, at least it feels like I do. I can’t remember exactly what I usually order, but maybe it will come to me when I see the menu.” She looked at me curiously. “It’s not that I make a habit of fine dining or anything, but it doesn’t seem like the kind of place you’d like”

I shrugged again, feeling like an idiot and a third-class citizen from the hicks. This isn’t going well. I need to do something to get her away from teasing...me.

“Well, you’re right,” I said, baiting a bit of myself on a fishing hook and extending it toward Brenna. “I don’t normally do fancy places.” I shot her an earnest glance. “But I thought it might impress you.”

And I really fucking want to impress you.

Brenna looked down at her twisting fingers. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun.”

That’s more like it, I thought. The traffic thinned over the bridge, and by the time I steered onto 57th street, my stomach rumbled with the same hunger that had been stirring in my pants.

We were shown inside by an unsmiling hostess, who seated us in a red leather booth near the back. The restaurant was packed, but soft, classical music played throughout the sophisticated ambiance. My admiring gaze swept over everything from the gold ceiling and green walls to the white linens gracing every table. I hoped I’d remember to use the correct fork. Not that I gave a shit, but Brenna seemed to be taken away with the décor.

“I haven’t been here since I graduated from Columbia,” Brenna whispered, her eyes widening with the memory. “I remember! My mom brought me to an elegant lunch in celebration.”

“And here I thought you came here all the time,” I teased as I handed her a menu. “What’s good?”

“The onion soup, definitely,” Brenna said, scanning the menu. “And the duck. I so remember the duck. That’s what I want. It melts in your mouth.”

I clamped my eyes shut against the mental image of something else I’d like melting across my tongue. Calm yourself down, Bradshaw. It’s too early for that proposition.

I nodded. Deep inside, I suffered a moment of panic when I realized a huge portion of the dishes were labeled in Russian or French. Thankfully, the dishes Brenna mentioned were in plain old American English so I wouldn’t make an ass of myself again to our waiter.

He swooped over to the table, depositing a red leather bundle on my lap.

“The wine list, sir,” he said, staring down at me. I mentally rolled my eyes. It was obvious that I stood out like a sore thumb here, but I just had to keep praying Brenna wouldn’t notice.

“I like white,” Brenna said. She smiled her encouragement at me, and I forced a grin right back.

You’ll like whatever I order, I thought, glancing down. These names are ridiculous, and I fucking can’t decipher how to pronounce any of them.

The waiter smiled down at me in the most patronizing manner possible, making me want to pop him one in his smug face. My ass itched to stand up and shout some don’t you know who I am platitudes to the entire damn uppity restaurant. “The Château de la Maltroye is nice, sir,” he said, tapping on the list. Frantically, I looked down and tried to follow the path of his finger. “As is the Oliver Leflaive.”

“Uh, I’ll go with that one,” I said, closing the book, and handing it back.

The waiter smiled and nodded. “Which one?”

Shit! Shit! My palms started to sweat, and my heart raced as I tried to recall the jumble of pretentious-sounding French.

“Uh,” I said. “Uhm, the uh, Shadow de luh Maltese,” I said, rushing my syllables together so it came out like a jumbled mess of redneck baseball player American.

The waiter frowned. “The Maltese is a dog, sir. Did you mean The Château de la Maltroye?”

I shot daggers at him so sharp I hoped they skewered his arrogant ass to some fine china. “Yes, that one.”

“Very good, sir,” the waiter said. He clasped the red leather menu to his chest and walked away.

Brenna burst out laughing across the table. Some people at the next table turned and glared at her, and I leaned back in my seat after exhaling a puff of air.

“I told you,” I said, fidgeting in my chair. “I really don’t come out to places like this much. I’m more of a sports bar kind of guy. Beer and wings all the way. The hotter the better.”

Brenna took a sip of water, her grin still apparent. “Well, thanks,” she said, looking around with those wide green eyes. And then it hit me. I liked having her here beside me and looking happy. And if that meant I had to take one for the team by tolerating some expensive and pretentious bullshit, I’d get that done. “But if this isn’t your style, why did you pick it?”

I shrugged and tried to look casual. Because it makes my cock hard when you smile. “Had to impress you,” I said, rendering my hand around the table with a flourish. “Couldn’t exactly take you to my usual place. There, you never know when a girl’s going to flash her tits.”

I expected Brenna to titter and flush and giggle again, but instead, she frowned. “Why not?”

“Because…” I started grasping at straws. “You’re a nice girl, Brenna.” I raised an eyebrow and stared at her until her cheeks tinged pink. “At least, from what I know of you, you are,” I added, remembering my rule about making sure never to compliment too much. Shit. I hadn’t even been in her presence for an hour, and I felt like throwing all my rules straight out the window. I wanted to compliment her. Only because I wanted to see her eyes flash happiness and her cheeks flush with just-fucked pink.

Brenna sighed. “Thanks, I think. I wish I knew what kind of woman I am. I mean, deep down in my core. I haven’t been with this new version of myself long enough to really know.”

“Like I said, you’re a nice girl,” I repeated.

Brenna cast her eyes downward as if she couldn’t accept that information. She probably just couldn’t accept it from me. “I’m twenty-seven,” she said. “I’m not really a girl, Rhett. I’m a woman.” She shifted in her chair, and her tits bounced, drawing my eyes down to her chest, a perfect expanse of creamy white skin exposed in the deep vee of the neckline. When Brenna caught me staring, her cheeks grew even more flushed.

I chuckled. Busted. “I already noticed that.”

The waiter placed two crystal wine glasses on the table and a bottle of Shadow Who Gives A Fuck in a silver ice bucket to the side. With a disapproving glance, he poured me a tiny bit of wine and handed me the glass, staring down as he looked at me with arrogant expectation.

I rolled my eyes. “What the hell is this,” I said, grabbing the glass, and throwing the wine down my throat. What the fuck kind of place charged this much for a bottle of wine and then didn’t give you any? “I’d like a full pour this time,” I said, handing the glass back to the waiter. “If you can manage it, sir.”

Brenna burst out laughing, and the waiter glared. “Anything you like, sir,” he said sarcastically, filling my glass to the brim so that a few errant drips escaped the crystal stemware to float downward. I watched the droplets stain the pristine tablecloth as he stalked away from the table.

“You were supposed to taste it,” Brenna said, covering her luscious mouth with her hands. “It’s important that the head of the table approves the wine pairing. Rhett, don’t you know anything about fine dining?”

“Says the woman with a head injury,” I said, picking up the glass so fast another twenty bucks worth hit the back of my hand. I resisted licking it off in a show of defiance, but the waiter had started ignoring me the moment he showed me his ass walking away. I took another swallow of wine, then poured a full glass for Brenna.

“Sorry,” Brenna said, looking uncomfortable, making me uncomfortable. “Hey, Rhett, this really doesn’t seem like you. If you want to go somewhere else, that’s fine. It doesn’t have to be fancy. I just…” Brenna trailed off, biting her lip in a delectable way. “I just wanted to spend time with you, away from your teammates and Riley.”

I grinned. There it is, I thought, my confidence surging back once more. We’re still on track, folks. There was one swing and a miss, but we got a hold of this last pitch, and it’s fouled off into the stands. Wait until my next at bat, and I’ll smack it out of the park.

Home. Fucking. Run.

An older woman with dark hair sitting at the bar kept throwing glances back at the table. The pleasant conversation with Brenna flowed, and I enjoyed just being with her. The woman glanced back again and speared me with a certain look. I knew that damn look. I fidgeted again; the woman made me anxious as hell. Who is she? I glanced over at her while mid-conversation. Did I sleep with her? She’s a little old for my taste, but still fuckable. Her daughter? Both of her daughters at the same time? Fuck, please don’t let her ruin everything with some kind of David Copperfield rabbit jumping out of the hat moment.

“Rhett? Are you okay?” Brenna looked suspicious, her eyes narrowing as she asked the question. “You keep looking toward the bar. Has someone recognized you?”

I refocused on the beauty before me. “Yeah, sure, I’m fine,” I said, swallowing the rest of my wine.

“You keep looking at that woman,” Brenna said and frowned. “Do you know her?”

I don’t fucking know! I thought angrily. I wanted to snap at her, but she didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of my jumbled annoyance. Just then, the gears began to spin, and I realized that yes, I did know that woman. Janet McCall. The same woman who had originally broken into the male-dominated field of sports journalism. The woman, the myth, the legend.

She had been Brenna’s main mentor.

As if she’d been suspended in thick air, I watched her get up, turn, and walk straight toward our table.

Fuck me.