Page 3 of Tagging Bases

I toss the offending garments back onto the table, where they land in a sad, crumpled heap, mocking me with their mere existence.

“Charlie! Where’s your sense of adventure, man?” Daniel claps me on the shoulder, his shit-eating grin also mocking me.

I glower and fight the urge to smack it off his face. My hand’s pretty big—I’m sure my slap would hurt like hell.

“I don’t know why you’re looking so smug. There aretwo.”

It’s comical how quickly all the blood rushes from his face when he comes to the same conclusion I did. His mouth falls open into a perfect “O” of horror.

“Oh, hell no!” He holds up his hands as if he can ward off the idea. “No way in hell. Not happening. Ever.”

I clap Daniel on the shoulder and lean in to whisper in his ear, “Where’syoursense of adventure, Danny Boy?”

His head turns slowly. His eyes are narrowed slits, and his lips are pursed.

Grinning, I mouth, “Payback’s a bitch, fucker.”

“Fuck you, McManus.”

Eventually, I take pity on my best friend. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. If you walk the streets of New York in that ridiculous mankini with me, I’ll do your laundry…for a week.”

Daniel tilts his head, considering my offer. He counteroffers with, “A month.”

It could be worse. He could have said two. Extending a hand, I say, “Fine. One month on laundry duty it is.”

Olivia claps her hands in delight as we shake on it. “Yes! This is perfect!”

Daniel scrubs a hand down his face and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “I’m going to regret this in the morning.”

“That’s the spirit, Danny Boy! Embrace the mankini.”

He flips me off, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I hate you both so much right now.”

“Aww,” Olivia says before kissing him for the umpteenth time tonight.

But now, I get in on the fun, pressing my lips to his cheek, much to his chagrin and my delight.

Chapter 2

Mistaken for Sasquatch

Daniel

Canyour teeth shatter from chattering too hard?

I know it’s a stupid question to ponder when I’m in the alley behind a dive bar, wearing a hot pink mankini, but I think the bitter cold has affected my ability to think rationally.

“I c-can’t believe you t-talked me into this.” Violent shivers punctuate each word as I wrap my arms tightly around my torso in a last-ditch effort to conserve body heat.

Charlie bounces from foot to foot, not faring much better. He shoots me a wry grin. “Hey, you agreed to it, b-buddy. No backing out n-now.”

I glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it, because the frigid air has stolen it all from me. My insides have turned to ice, and I swear my balls have retreated deep inside my body. “I hate you s-so much.”

“No, you don’t. Because w-we look h-hot!”

I study my reflection in the grimy window of the bar, barely recognizing myself, and grimace. The mankini fits snugly in all the wrong places, emphasizing every curve and bulge of my athletic frame. The straps dig into my broad shoulders, and the fabric rides up my ass, making me wonder how in the world women find thongs a comfortablefashion choice.

I don’t mind the way the getup accentuates my upper body. But I do mind the way it puts my ass on full display. Years of squatting behind home plate have blessed me with a backside that won’t quit—much to my eternal embarrassment.

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