Page 39 of Curveball
Giving me a suggestive glance complete with bobbing eyebrows—probably because I’m still staring at his lips—he nudges my shoulder to get me moving.
“Head in that direction.” He points behind a detached building with three—count ’em,three—double garage doors.
I don’t spot the batting cage andsimple setupuntil we come around the side of the oversized garage.
“How many cars do you have anyway?” Max whips his head my way, his expression abruptly closed. My breathing stutters.
“I’m sorry. That was a thoughtless reaction to the size of this building, and absolutely none of my business.”
Natalie and Dylan run up to greet us as we approach, their clothing patched with sweat.
“We only have one car, don’t we, Daddy?” Natalie stands with her hand on her hip, nodding her head petulantly and tapping her foot.
My eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? The one I saw that night? That’s it?”
“All I need right now.”
Natalie snorts. “My birthday’s coming up.”
“Grades first. Then, we talk about wheels.”
Alex had three cars. All three, along with my Navigator, were confiscated by the feds. Afterward, Alejandro let me buy a used Toyota sedan from his dealership and make payments directly to him. It’s the car I still drive, but it didn’t take me long to realizewhat a mistake I made asking him for help. To this day, he thinks hisgenerosityentitles him to a say in all parts of my life.
But Max is done being roasted by his daughter for his conservative, non-materialistic philosophies. At least, when it comes to his acquisition of motor vehicles. He gives a nod to her, then turns his gaze to home plate.
“Warmed up?”
She nods up at him as she straps on leg guards. “Laps. Squats. Arm circles. Stretches. We’re ready to work.” She drops a catcher’s mask over her face, then pushes it up till it rests on her forehead. She tosses a rosin sack to Dylan and points toward the pitcher’s mound.
Dylan traps the flying object against his chest and glares at her. “The fuck you doing?”
“Rude.”
He actually looks at what she threw him, and gives it a toss. Powder drifts into the air, then clouds his hand. “Oh. Thanks.”
“Whatever. Use it or not. Now, move the L-screen out of the way. Nobody’s batting today.”
He pushes the screen to the side of the dirt practice yard and meets Max at the mound.
Max looks in my direction. “You gonna stick around while we do this?”
The sun is bright this morning. I raise a hand to shield my eyes.
“Thought I might.”
He returns to the backstop and bends over the unzipped duffle bag that Natalie dug her gear from.
“Mind keeping track?”
“Sure,” I say from my grassy spot under a shade tree.
I could do that. Or I could keep checking out the way his nylon shorts stretch across his what I imagine to be firm ass afew short feet in front of me. With his prolonged search, I have plenty of time to take in the view.
Our texts from Friday included photos destined for hidden folders where theywillneverbe discovered by nosy adolescents.
Me: I need you to send me a pic. From the back. Waist down.
Bad Boy: That’s oddly specific. You want my ass for your spank bank?
