Sliding Home (22 page)

Romeo drove a Viper, and Chase a '58 Corvette.

Kason shrugged. What the hell? It was a half-mile drag race to the gate.
The lot was deserted as twilight dropped the green flag. He bore down on the
accelerator, with no chance of winning. The Hummer lumbered forward, nearly
three times heavier than the other vehicles.

Psycho pulled ahead fast in a fishtail of power. Just before the guard
station, he whipped the Ram into a NASCAR burnout, rubber and sparks marking
his win.

Romeo and Chase rolled to a stop.

Kason kept right on coming. Psycho was too busy celebrating to cross the
finish line. The tortoise and the hare came to mind. At forty miles per hour,
Kason barreled through the guard gates, the undisputed winner, at least in his
mind.

Psycho brought his Ram under control, laid on the horn, and flipped Kason
the bird. The man was not a good loser.

Before any of the players could fully clear the grounds, Guy Powers's
stretch limousine crawled onto the lot. Sleek and polished, the limo pulled to
a stop. Powers worked erratic and long hours. Kason knew the team owner had
witnessed their race and would frown on his men acting like boys.

The Bat Pack all slammed on their breaks, backed up. Kason pulled a
U-turn.

The men drew up beside the limo and exited their vehicles. They stood by
the back-right passenger door as the window rolled down. Guy Powers looked from
one to the other, his eyes sharp, his jaw granite, ready to ream them a second
one.

“Stupid, dangerous, unacceptable.” Powers ground the words out. “The Bat
Pack's prone to idiocy. Kason, I thought you had more sense.”

“It was all Rhodes's idea,” Psycho accused.

Kason set his back teeth, kept silent. In the moments that followed,
something inside him shifted, and an odd sense of camaraderie took hold. He'd
never felt part of any team, especially the Rogues. The players were as tight
as any fraternity. Tonight, he'd raced and gotten caught. He was one of the
guys, and about to get ripped by the team owner.

The significance was jarring, but acceptable, and one he refused to
analyze further. He'd never be fully comfortable with the Bat Pack, but he was
part of the team.

“No more racing.” The team owner went on to flash five fingers, his
expression stern.

“Cash or check, Guy?” Psycho was the only player on the team to call
Powers by his first name.

The window rose, tinted black and ominous, shutting off the owner from
his players. The stretch drove off, as silent as the night.

Psycho and Kason stared at each other across two parking spaces. “What's
with the five fingers?” Kason asked.

“Powers fined us five hundred for speeding.”

Kason was pissed. “You're shitting me.”

“We raced, got caught,” said Romeo.

Kason narrowed his eyes. “I was doing forty.”

“Speed limit's fifteen in the player's lot.”

Kason had seen the sign, and always kept within the limit. Until
tonight. He'd be paying five hundred for playing with the Bat Pack. He took his
stupidity hard.

“Guy's name goes on a clay pigeon when we next shoot bird,” said Psycho.

“So does yours.” Kason climbed into his Hummer, drove off.

His architect had worked late, and Kason picked up the blueprints.
Twenty minutes later, he parked at his trailer. Once inside, he removed the
drawings from the long plastic tube and unrolled them. He then smoothed the
prints flat with his palms across the dining room table.

Seconds later, someone knocked on his door. It could only be Dayne. He
opened to her.

She stood before him in an Aerosmith T-shirt, cut-off gray sweat pants,
and red flip-flops. She clutched Ruckus to her chest, and Cimarron leaned
against her thigh.

“I'm returning Cim,” she told him.

The Dobie looked none too happy.

“Thanks.” Kason hesitated to let her in. He'd kept his architectural
plans private. The house was his future. He wasn't ready to share the
blueprints with anyone, including Dayne.

She looked a little lost, standing on his doorstep. A crease marred her
brow before she gave a small shrug. She accepted the fact he didn't want
company.

“Good luck against the Marlins,” she said as she turned to go.

“Want to see my house?” He'd spoken words best kept to himself. He
refused to overanalyze his need to show off the blueprints. But for some
strange reason, he wanted her approval.

She returned to him, eyes wide, lips parted. “Show me,” she said.
Inside, she tucked Ruckus on the couch, and Cim babysat.

Dayne and Kason bumped shoulders and elbows as they hovered over the
blueprints and he described every detail. The ranch design fit his needs,
styled for a bachelor and his dog. A half hour passed before he eased back and
waited for her opinion.

“You don't have a pantry for bulk items” were the first words out of her
mouth. “You need to store food for an emergency. Your kitchen's small.”

She tapped the drawing with her finger. “You have a guest room, but no
children's bedrooms. Don't you want to have kids someday?”

To be honest, no. Any thoughts of extending his family ran to a couple
more dogs. Children had never crossed his mind until Dayne sketched the
picture.

“You should knock out this wall between the living room and den and make
it an open arch. You'd have more flow.”

Kason had liked the separation of rooms.

“And maybe—”

“No
maybes
Dayne.” He rolled up the blueprints. “I like the
house as it stands.”

“You're building a residence for only one person.” Her tone was soft and
uncertain, flat.

“My house, built for me.”

A flicker of sadness, maybe pity, darkened her eyes, but disappeared
quickly. “It's a fine house, Kason,” she said, but he knew she didn't mean it.

She scooped Ruckus off the couch and crossed to the door. “Safe travels.”
And she was gone.

Kason stood stiffly. He slapped the architecture tube against his thigh,
annoyed but thoughtful. Dayne had no business adding on rooms and knocking down
walls. He never should have showed her his home.

He exhaled sharply, pulled the plans from the tube, again spread them on
the table. The square footage was moderate yet functional. The architect had
modeled the home around Kason's life. The drawings had begun long before Dayne
Sheridan and Ruckus entered the picture.

After a hard second look, he traced his finger along the wall that
separated the den and living room. An arch might work. Or not.

Though he didn't want Dayne to influence his future, a well-stocked
pantry seemed practical. It would save him trips to the grocery.

He scratched his jaw. He'd give it some thought.

Eleven

“Give it some thought,
Rhaden.” Revelle Sullivan looked at him as if he were her salvation. “You've
got four or five minutes.”

Rhaden Dunn couldn't wrap
his mind around her request. “You want to set me up on a date?” Damn low
blow—the very idea twisted his nuts.

“It's for a good cause,”
Revelle explained. She sat behind her desk in player promotions, dressed in a
lavender suit that matched her incredible eyes. She'd steepled her fingers
beneath her chin, and now looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “The
speed-dating event supports Collage, the historic schoolhouse. Six Rogues
participate— each man faces ten women. You'll choose one of your ten and take
her to dinner. The ladies pay one thousand dollars for the chance to dine with
a professional ballplayer.”

Rhaden raised a brow. “They
pay, win or lose?”

She nodded. “The
participants are wealthy. The women are strong, self-assured, and go after what
they want. The donation is a tax write-off. If a participant isn't chosen, she
can still enjoy a five-star dinner catered by the hotel.”

“Which other Rogues are
involved?” He wondered who Revelle had conned into the event.

“The players are all
single,” she emphasized. “Alex Boxer, James Lawless, Chas Ragan, Rod Brown, and
Barry Cameron. Lawless is the only starter—the rest are rookies.”

“You thought of me?” His
stomach dropped.

“It's painless, Rhaden.”
She rolled her hip, crossed her legs under her desk. He caught a glance of her
suede lavender pumps. “You might get lucky and meet the woman of your dreams.”

No one filled his dreams
but Revelle. She made nightly visits, sometimes sexy, more often soulful. She'd
slip beneath his sheets and snuggle close, her hand placed over his heart. Her
presence usually felt so strong, he believed her there.

His palms began to sweat,
and he ran them down his khakis-clad thighs. “Give me the details,” he
requested.

“The event is tonight.”

“Short notice, Revelle.”
The lady had invited him late. Rhaden read her easily. She was desperate, and
knew he wouldn't decline. “What if I have plans?”

She bit her bottom lip. “Do
you?”

The Rogues had wrapped up a
series against Milwaukee. They'd lost two of their three games. He wasn't in
the mood to be cordial to ten women vying for his attention.

He'd do this only for
Revelle. The schoolhouse was a good cause, and one she favored.

“When and where?” he asked.

“Maximillian Hotel. Seven
o'clock.”

The finest hotel in
Richmond. “How long will the event last?” He dreaded any get-together that cost
him more than an hour. He needed a decent night's sleep. The Rogues hit the
road tomorrow. Their schedule took them to Atlanta, then on to Washington. The
Braves sat atop the National League East. The Rogues wanted to knock them out
of first place.

“Plan on three hours,” she
said.

An entire evening shot to
hell.

“The ten women each have
six minutes to charm you,” she rushed on to say. “Afterward, you select one to
wine and dine.”

“A restaurant of my choice?”

“No fast food. Please don't
hurry dinner.”

“What if no woman appeals?”

“Your reputation precedes
you.” Her shoulders squared. “When you first joined the organization, you were
never seen with the same woman twice. I'm sure there'll be some spark of
attraction.”

His slam-bams had died with
Revelle. He hadn't banged anyone for months. He'd flown solo in the shower,
hand soap his new best friend.

He'd been waiting for her
to give him a sign. Any damn sign that she'd date him. She'd come close several
times, only to close the door in his face. He wasn't too proud to beg. Now
might be the right time to press his advantage.

“I'll speed date,” he
slowly agreed, “on one condition: after I take the woman to dinner, you meet me
for a drink.”

Her hesitation lasted a
full minute. He counted the seconds. “Agreed. One cocktail.”

“Dress code?” The last
hurdle.

“Suit or white shirt and
tie.” She let him off easy. “I'm not certain Barry Cameron has grown-up
clothes.”

Away from the stadium,
Cameron acted sixteen, a horn dog with a stand-up comic's delivery of dirty
jokes. He had a strong, accurate throwing arm, and would eventually take Psycho
McMillan's place in right when Psycho retired.

If
Psycho ever retired. The man swore he could cover right in a wheelchair
or with a walker and still best Barry Cameron.

The meeting over, Rhaden
pushed to his feet. He flattened his palms on Revelle's desk, leaned across the
top. They were inches apart, but it could have been miles. Her expression was
all business.

Her Chanel teased him, the
scent classic and sophisticated. Her red hair had been recently styled, the cut
a bit shorter than the last time he'd seen her.

He tried his damnedest to
see her several times a week. He'd made up every excuse in the book to knock on
her office door. He'd used some twice.