Page 3 of Spellbound
I grunted into the phone, which only encouraged Pete to continue harassing me. While my coffee popped and gurgled and finally streamed into my waiting mug, I gave Pete’s one-sided conversation my attention. Fraud, emotional abuse, theft. Priscilla.
I fell into a chair at the kitchen table, scratching my head.
“Whoa, wait. Back up. Priscilla did what?” Now that I’d been restored with my first sip of robust Kona blend, Pete’s story made less sense than ever.
“According to news accounts—and note I use that term loosely—your fiancé broke off your engagement last night. And rather than posting every grisly detail on her social media as any self-respecting millennial would, she took her sob story straight to the managing editor ofThe Alert.”
“For the record, I’ve never had a fiancé. As of last night, I don’t even have a girlfriend. I prefer to live in the real world; Priscilla Bayless was living in a fairy tale.” What she wanted was a knight in shining armor. I made her believe I was the black-hearted villain and called it a win.
“So, your girl took offense to losing her ticket to instafame? No more Mr. and Mrs. Eli “The Master” Masterson on her embossed stationary?”
I could only shake my head the gall of the woman. “Offense, yeah, that about covers it. What’s that crap about fraud and emotional abuse, and what was the other thing?”
“Theft.”
I lifted my hand in a stopping motion, as if Pete could see. “Fucking Christ. Do I even want to know?”
“We’ve now circled around to the reason for my call. Nobody has the right to torpedo your career because you hurt her feelings. Unfortunately, that rag is chumming and it’s your blood they want in the water.”
Journalism at its finest.Andof course, now that my career was really taking off. I set my mug on the table. Slowly. Deliberately. Because I was tempted to throw it against the wall.
“All right, boss man. How do we keep this offTMZ? Does Legal call the editor and give them my version of the story—the right version? Do I call the dickwad myself? What’s the plan?”
The silence on the other end of the line was so prolonged, I pulled the phone away to check the connection. Shoved the phone back to my ear. “Pete? You have a plan, right?”
“Uh, yeah, man. I have a plan. I think today’s a really good day to get away. Take an impromptu vacation. Front office is all over it.”
“No way.”
“Come on, a quick flight somewhere under the radar—”
“I’m not going into hiding because some chick who was barely around long enough to be called my ex is a psycho.”
Pete’s sigh was audible. “Dude. I get it. I do. But the rules change when the psycho also happens to be the owner’s daughter. Anyway, if anyone asks where you are, we only have to say you’re celebrating your meteoric rise in baseball.”
I cursed under my breath. The brain throb brought on by last night’s confrontation with Priscilla was threatening to return. “Say I go along with this scheme of yours. How long do you propose I stay on this so-calledvacation?”
“Relax. It’s only for a week, maybe two. By then the new edition ofThe Alertwill be out and someone else will be in the hot seat.”
“Two weeks? No fucking way!”
“Tops. Time enough for everything to blow over. Look at it this way: you’ll be able to watch the World Series anonymously in a bar for probably the last time in your life.” Pete pitched it as if this were a life goal.
I let my eyelids sink shut. Looked as though I was going on vacation. “Does your plan at least include a tropical destination? Somewhere with a swim-up bar and girls in bikinis?”
“Don’t I always have your back? I’ll have your travel documents delivered to you in a few hours.”
By the time a messenger arrived with my boarding pass and itinerary, I’d almost convinced myself I was ready for a getaway. My contract negotiations netted me more than I dared imagine, but made for an intense couple of weeks. Maybe a break would do me good.
My suitcase lay open on the unmade bed, board shorts, tees, and flip flops tossed in from across the room and hanging haphazardly over the sides. I’d been strung up for weeks in button-down suits and lace-up shoes, and I was over it. For the next fourteen days, I was about comfort and clothing that was easy to slip on.
Or easy to slip off, if my fantasies played out.
My phone rang as I returned from the bathroom with my hands full. Had Pete already smoothed things over? I found myself scowling with a flash of something that resembled regret. Dumping my toothbrush and shampoo in the suitcase with the rest of my gear, I reached for the phone and muttered a distracted greeting.
“My dear, is that any way to say hello to your favorite grandmother?”
I puffed out a laugh at the good-natured chiding drawl. “Now, Granny—”
