CHAPTER TWO
STERLING
“How can it still be so hot out?” I ask, having lost my tolerance for the South’s humidity. “It’s only May.”
“Baseball wouldn’t be baseball unless you’re sweating like a whore in church,” Momma says.
Part of Daddy’s duties as a deacon often involve consoling the families of men and women killed in the line of duty, whether that was in the military or as police officers and firefighters. For as long as I can remember, he’s played in an annual charity baseball game where all the money earned goes to support them—and he’s pitching today. As a little girl, I loved coming to the game, watching him. Think I even wore a cheerleading costume a time or two.
But I’m not as thrilled about coming tonight. It’s not completely intended, but I’ve become a loner. It’s just too exhausting to deal with snarky judgments from repressed women and asshole comments from men, so I’ve found myself opting out. It soon became my way of life. It makes sense in a weird way. Masturbation is usually a solo act, so why shouldn’t the vibrator inventor be a loner?
Breaking that tendency isn’t going to be easy.
Here’s the difference between living in a small town and a big city. Charity events in big cities cost an arm and a leg and tend to be a who’s who of the elite. But in a small town, it doesn’t really matter because everyone knows everyone, and these tickets were only five bucks. The only similarity seems to be the man candy. Of course, here the men are in baseball uniforms and in New York, suit porn reigns supreme.
Momma spreads a blanket out on the grass, in the same spot we always sat when I was little. Once upon a time, it was so I could run around and play, but I suspect tonight it’s her way of shielding me from being the target of town gossip.
The whispers and the sly glances my way are already starting. Momma pats my leg. Perhaps I should hold a town hall meeting to educate these people on what I do exactly. I’m sure they assume I run my company out of some trashy back alley and not the fifth floor of the Manhattan skyscraper that is home to Paramour.
That’s the name of my company. It’s a French word meaning lover, usually something illicit like the lover of a married person. But what’s more illicit than having a vibrator as your lover? I like the name, but I love the logo. It’s the silhouette of a woman’s naked body—that beautiful curve every woman has no matter her size—of her breast, waist, and hips. That curve defines us as women and has been known to drive more than a few men crazy. And I want my company to celebrate the power in being a woman and everything that means. The best part about the logo is that it’s me, but no one knows that. I took the photograph myself. And I’ve never told a soul.
The thing I wish everyone understood is that my product helps people. It’s not some piece of obscenity used in porno flicks. In fact, a porn film studio approached me with an offer like that once, and I shut that shit down. I’m trying to help people. I don’t want to make it sound like I’m Mother Theresa, but this is my way of improving relationships, helping women claim their power, accept their bodies, and just get rid of some stress. There are actually studies proving the health benefits of masturbation.
For every obscene phone call we get, I also get messages from people thanking me or personally thanking their vibrator. Unfortunately, there’s a segment of the population that will never understand what I do, and even if they do, they won’t admit it in public.
“I despise her,” Momma says, staring daggers at a woman way too dressed up for a ball field. “She thinks she’s Miss High and Mighty. She’s nothing but a busybody and a shit stirrer.”
“Momma!”
Now, I’m the first to admit that my momma is crazy, but she’s not mean or hateful. Very few people get under her skin. She loves most everyone—but that’s definitely not love coming out of her eyes right now.
“That woman just ruffles my feathers.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you worry about it,” she says, giving a little point to the field. “Game’s about to start.”
Daddy takes the mound, flashing a smile at Momma and me, keeping another annual tradition of the game alive. I tip the bill of my baseball cap, my end of the exchange, and the game starts. I understand the basics of baseball. Daddy’s tried to explain the science behind the different pitches to me a thousand times. But it’s a lot like me trying to explain the science behind vibrators to him. I’d lose him after the first sentence.
Truth be told, there is a science behind it. The materials, the shape, the colors all make a difference. And that can change across cultures. In the US, we aren’t as picky as other countries, but when you’ve spent years going over international sales trends, you start to notice patterns. For example, some countries love a red toy, while other countries have almost zero sales in that color.
When you’re dealing in an industry that’s worth close to twenty billion dollars, you need to know these things. This industry has a huge growth rate. When the housing market is bad, the vibrator market isn’t. People are pleasure driven animals. They’ll find it where they can get it. And the high from an orgasm is shown to last about two days. That’s a pretty good return on your investment.
“Three up, three down,” Momma says, winking at me. “Your daddy still has it.”
I can’t help the grossed out laugh that escapes. But it quickly fades when I see the pitcher for the other team. I can feel Momma’s eyes turn to me, gauging my reaction. “Rorke pitches for the other team?”
“Every year. He and your daddy have a little rivalry going. They’re all tied up in wins.”
Watching him toss the ball up then catch it, I see he’s got a huge smile on his face. He waits a few seconds for his catcher to get set then takes a couple practice pitches, his t-shirt lifting just enough to catch a glimpse of his chiseled abs. Seriously, that V-cut is like an arrow straight to his dick. The ball strikes the mitt with such force it almost echoes.
“He’s got more power than Daddy, but his pitches can be wild,” she says, offering her expert analysis.
Wild! That word vibrates through my body, knowing Rorke brought out the wild child in me. Looking back, I still can’t believe we slept together. Who loses their virginity in a one-night stand? I’ve never done anything like that since. Before today, it seemed like a lifetime ago, but watching him, that boyish smile, it seems like last night.
The first hitter walks to the batter’s box, and Rorke turns back to the mound. I pull my ball cap down a little lower, unsure why I’m trying to hide.
“You going to go up to the school tomorrow?” Momma asks. Before I can ask how she knew about that, she says, “Your daddy told me.”
“I don’t know. I came home to be with you and Daddy.” I shrug, glancing back out at the man on the mound. I still can’t believe he’s a teacher. They certainly didn’t make teachers that looked like that when I was in high school. “Plus, your shop is closed on Mondays, so I thought we could spend the day together.”
She gives me a weird smile. “There’s plenty of time. You should go. Rorke invited you.”
I glance over at the gaggle of women in the bleachers, giggling and smiling like schoolgirls. “He’s got a whole fan club he can invite.”
“Earning those green eyes today,” Momma says. “Jealous.”
“Not at all.”
“Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining,” she says.
“Well, mind ya business,” I say, drawing out the words.
She laughs and bumps my shoulder with hers. “You can’t lollygag around all summer. You need to get back out there. People are going to disappoint us. But we have to keep trying. I’m just giving you a little focus.”
Right about then, Rorke’s blue eyes land on me, and I know my days of hiding are over.