Sliding Home (14 page)

He leaned his elbows on the windowsill, watching her jump. She soon shut
off the water, stretched her hand toward Cimarron, and snatched the towel off
the big dog's back. Once wrapped, she shot from the enclosure.

Kason sucked air. The white terry cloth was more hand towel than bath.
Her breasts were peaked, her inner thighs in shadow. The lower curve of her
butt cheeks, round and pale.

Her hair hung wet. Her skin damp. She was as slick and slippery as the
day he'd first met her. The day he'd tackled her on his mattress and laid her
out, spread-eagled before him.

He caught her shiver, a full-body shake. She ran her ringers through her
hair, then turned her face to the sun, to air dry. She stood quietly, warming
up, and lazily scratched Cim's ear. The dog was totally committed to her.

Dayne would soon bring him coffee. Kason needed to dress.

It was Saturday. Opening Day on Monday pitted the Rogues against the
Louisville Colonels. He'd be facing his old teammates. The Colonels were tough.
Kason wanted the win.

A trip to James River Stadium was in order today. The players had access
to the workout room and batting cages. He planned to spend the morning honing
his muscles and his skills.

Later that afternoon he'd erect Dayne's television antenna. His thoughts
ran to buying her a small set. She would question where he'd gotten the money.
He wasn't ready to admit he could buy her a large plasma with the change in his
pocket. He still liked the fact that she thought him poor.

She arrived at his door as he tied on his Nikes. He opened it to find
her, his dog, and a hot cup of coffee. She'd dressed for work. Her bike was
parked, kickstand down, by his Hummer.

“How was your shower?” he asked with his first sip.

“You saw?” she groaned.

“The enclosure faces my back bedroom window.”

“I froze my ass off.”

“You need a larger water tank.”

“Can't afford one,” she said with a sigh. “I'll have to shower faster.”

Any quicker, and she'd still have soapsuds in her hair.

“I'm headed into town,” he told her. “Want a ride to the warehouse?”

“My bike's fine,” she said. “Business is slow and my hours are erratic.
I may work two hours, if I'm lucky, four. You wouldn't know when to pick me up.”

“Cimarron,” he called to the Dobie.

Dayne patted Cim on the head, and the big dog nuzzled her hand. He
reluctantly entered the trailer.

“Later.” Kason closed the door on Cimarron, crossed to his Hummer.

He left Dayne to pedal down the road.

***

A short drive, and Kason
parked at the stadium. Expectancy walked with him to the workout room. The
media had tagged Richmond the ball club to beat. Every National League team
would be gunning for the Rogues.

He wasn't the only player
there to pump iron. He recognized Psycho McMillan's Dodge Ram and Risk
Kincaid's Porsche Cayenne. Risk's sports car of choice was a Lotus, but as soon
as he and his wife, Jacy, had decided to start a family, he'd gone SUV. Though
Jacy wasn't yet pregnant, Kincaid walked around with a smile on his face. Man
was trying hard to be a daddy.

In the locker room, Kason
changed into his sweats. He passed Risk in the hallway. The center fielder was
headed to the indoor batting cages. In the weight room, Kason faced off with
Psycho and his dumbbells. Neither spoke as Kason chose to bench press.

Both men broke a sweat in a
matter of minutes.

On a grunt, Psycho set down
the dumbbells, took a break. He pulled up his T-shirt, wiped off his face, then
drained a bottle of water.

First baseman Rhaden Dunn
joined them, followed by backup center fielder Alex Boxer. Boxer was an
arrogant son of a bitch who believed himself invincible and invaluable. Alex
had latched onto Risk, gone as far as to imitate his every move. So much so,
the guys had started calling him Shadow Boxer.

Tangible energy rolled off
the athletes.

They were hyped to start
the season.

“Ready to face your old
team?” Rhaden called to Kason as he picked up the medicine ball. Rhaden went
through a series of slams, holding the ball first over his head, then forcibly
throwing it down on the floor. He caught it on the first bounce. Repeated the
exercise.

“I want the win.” It was
all that mattered to Kason.

“We split series with
Louisville last year,” Boxer put in. “Media's written the opener as a power
struggle.”

Kason understood. Guy
Powers owned the Rogues, his ex-wife Corbin Lily, the Louisville Colonels.
Corbin was as beautiful as she was powerful. As the only female owner in Major
League Baseball, she brought class and distinction to the old boys' club. She held
her own in a man's world.

Though Guy and Corbin were
as competitive as any two people could be, the exes remained cordial. Their
respect was an invisible bond as they battled through the season.

“It's maturity versus
youth,” Boxer continued. “Average age of the Colonels is twenty-four.”

“Watch this old man knock a
ball down some rookie's throat.” Rhaden slammed the medicine ball with such
force, the floor vibrated.

Psycho snorted. “Veteran,
old-timer, who the hell cares? None of us are wearing adult diapers or medical
bracelets. Except maybe Rhodes.”

Kason ignored him.

“Louisville trash talks,”
said Boxer.

“We'll let our bats speak
for us,” answered Rhaden.

The edginess persisted, as
the players continued their strength training. Core muscles stretched, burned.
Their bodies peaked with explosive power.

Psycho switched on the
television mounted on one wall. Saturday morning, and animation dominated the
TV. Psycho was a cartoon fanatic.
King of the Hill soon
followed
The Simpsons.

“Who'd you rather have for
a neighbor? Hank or Homer?” Psycho asked as he crossed to the stationary bike.

Kason kept to himself. He
already had a neighbor. A tomboy who lived in a tin can.

Boxer worked the lat
machine, performing a series of triceps press downs. “With Homer you'd get
Bart. I don't need a kid telling me to eat his shorts every damn day.”

“Hank's always good for a
beer,” Rhaden said. “He and his buddies gather on the sidewalk and pop a cold one.”

“How about Santa Claus or
Frosty the Snowman? Who'd you want next door?” Again from Psycho.

“Santa has presents; Frosty
melts.” Rhaden judged logically. “The Easter Bunny might be cool—he has Peeps,
a wicked sugar buzz.”

The senseless exchange
released tension. Similar questions were exchanged in the dugout or bullpen.
Men became boys. The absurdities drew chuckles. The more outrageous, the
better.

A commercial for Disney
Classics flashed, and Boxer's grin broke. “Who'd you date? Snow White or
Cinderella?”

Rhaden moved to Russian
twists, working his shoulders and hips.

“Chick with the glass
slipper. Snow White comes with dwarves. I'd never remember their names.”

“There's Doc, Dopey,
Sleepy, Creepy, Weepy...”

Boxer shook his head. “Not
even close, Psycho.”

“Rhodes?” Psycho baited. “Preference?”

The men stared at Kason. He
straddled the weight bench, ready to rise. “I don't do cartoon characters.”

“Think hot babes, then,”
Boxer tossed out. “Blondes or brunettes?”

“Nothing wrong with
redheads,” said Rhaden.

“Blondes for me,” said
Psycho. His wife, Keely, had light hair, pale skin, and looked like an angel.
Psycho was kin to the prince of darkness.

Dayne and her wild brown
hair crossed Kason's mind. Her bangs hung in her eyes; her part was always
crooked. She looked forever windblown.

“Nipple or navel rings on
your woman?” Boxer asked.

“Definitely nipple,” said
Rhaden. “Total turn-on.”

Kason preferred navel
rings. Dayne had a flat belly and smooth skin. He'd like to get a closer look
at her horseshoe.

“Tomboy or beauty queen?”
Psycho now pedaled with the speed of Lance Armstrong at the Tour de France.

“Tomboy.” Kason's gut
clutched. He hadn't meant to speak his thoughts aloud.

Psycho's grin was telling.
He'd sucked Kason in.

“Tomboy for me too,” Rhaden
agreed. “Beauty queens are high maintenance. They're always smiling, waving,
riding in parades.”

Kason wound down. He pushed
off the bench, kicked out his legs. His muscles flexed, felt fluid. It was time
to hit the batting cages.

“Queen Elizabeth or Queen
Latifah?” Psycho caught him at the door. “Who'd you do?”

“Elizabeth, but only if she
wore her crown.” Kason moved on.

Psycho's choked laughter
followed him into the hallway. Kason shook his head. The man was friggin'
mental.

He headed for the indoor
batting cages. He entered the chain-link enclosure adjacent to Risk Kincaid. He
selected a bat, moved to the mat, took several practice swings. He then nodded
to the trainer, who'd set up the pitching machine. A machine that threw with
the speed and accuracy of a big-league pitcher.

Ninety-mile-an-hour
fastballs, nasty sliders, and changeup curveballs readied Kason for competitive
play. The nylon netting at the back of the cage strained and stretched with
each slam of his bat. The sloped floor automatically fed the baseballs back
toward the machine.

“That ball crossed two time
zones,” Risk complimented after Kason's final hit. The center fielder leaned
against the fence, arms crossed over his chest.

“I was thinking Denver,”
Kason said as he handed his bat to the trainer, ready to leave.

Risk didn't force
conversation as the two men headed back to the locker room. Both kept their own
thoughts. Opening Day had a way of turning men introspective.

Kason cleaned up, cut out.

Concern once again rode
with him down the dirt road home. He hated the feeling of something being
off.
Yet his instincts were right on target. What he saw in the clearing gave
him heartburn.

The trailers were
multiplying like bunnies. Four now sat on his land. His, Dayne's, and two new
ones. He slammed to a stop, shut off the engine, and stared until his eyes
burned. A pop-up explorer, expanded at both ends, sat beside a Coachman Mirada
the size of a Greyhound bus.

What the fuck?

His steps ate up the
distance to Dayne's Airstream. Anger made a man walk fast. He pulled a fist,
banging on the door with such force, the uni-wheel rocked. The tin can would
blow over in a strong breeze. Where in God's name was Dayne?

Another round of pounding,
and she appeared in pale green pajamas, her hair mussed, her eyes sleepy. A
robe hung from her left hand. She yawned at him. And he took her in. Her top
hung off one shoulder and the waistband on her pants dipped dangerously low. He
caught the horseshoe stud at her navel, turned up for good luck. Concave
shadows bracketed her belly.

It was early afternoon.
Tomboy was taking a siesta.

He jabbed a finger in the
direction of the RVs, his temper ramped up. “Friends of yours?” he ground out.

“Acquaintances,” she said
as she slipped on her robe. “Don't look so upset—it's all good.”

All good, his ass.

“Come in?” She turned to
let him enter.

She was way too congenial.
He'd allowed her to share his land, and she'd extended invitations to others.
It had to end. Right here, right now, with the truth.

He edged past her into the
snug space. His elbow brushed her left breast and his hip caught at her waist.
She felt soft against him, the scent of peaches ripe on her skin.