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Chapter Sixty-Four

The waitress was the last thing Jack desired or had thoughts about. She pushed him inside the room and kicked the door closed. There was a side of him that didn’t want any part, the other, well reacted.

“Uhm, you are delicious. When I saw you at the restaurant, I thought wow, you would be…”

“Hold on, eh, Carlie,” Jack said breaking away from her kiss.”

“It’s Carrie, but that’s okay. You’ll remember when our night is over.”

She ran her hands over his body and planted kisses where her fingers had been. “God, I’ve never had a major league pitcher,” she said stopping her attack. “Outfielders think they’re God’s gift, but I don’t think so. Let’s see what you got.”

She went for his belt. “This is worse than a bra, God dam it.”

He looked down. “The buckle interlocks.” In a quick motion he undid the clasp.

“All right,” she slipped off her jacket then raised her arms and took off her top. “I didn’t think I needed anything underneath.”

Her eyes were ablaze as her hands gripped the top of his pants and pulled.

“Look at that. Definitely big league stuff,” she said.

He couldn’t think of a come back. She led him to the bedroom and slipped out of her jeans. This was happening too fast. Holy shit, she was gorgeous. She grabbed his dick and feasted. He felt a surge of power she must have sensed, and stopped. He caught his breath. She came up to him and gave him a playful kiss. The look on her face said…more… sex. His heart raced. She stretched herself out and pulled him on top. Now, it was he exploring her. Her skin was soft, delicate, and every touch increased his desire. Wave after wave of pleasure shot through him. Her strokes, their movement, this was better than anything… anything? Just like that his mind did a 180. His thoughts no longer focused… wandered. What about the game tomorrow? Was he going to give that up for this? He slowed. A gnawing chill replaced the heat. Was this Chicago all over again? He turned away from her kiss.

“Something wrong?” she asked between gasps. Her eyelids fluttered open.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong. What the hell could be wrong? She was everyman’s dream come to life. Perfect in everyway.

“Then, you know, come on.” She kissed him hard and reached for him.

“Wait-a-minute, what happened? You didn’t…?”

He flipped off of her. “No I didn’t. It’s just, well, I can’t. I mean I can, but I won’t.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We’re naked and we’ve touched everything there is to touch. What’s the problem?”

He knew he couldn’t explain. No, he didn’t want too. Strange, fucking someone was considered the most intimate, but in reality it’s not. It was what was behind the act, the person, and their lives, that was the intimacy, not fucking. “I think you should go,” he said.

“What? I’m going to say we did it anyway. Might as well finish what we started.”

“Say whatever, but we’re done.”

She slid up on the mattress and pulled the bed sheet around her. “I can’t believe it. Pitchers. They really are strange, not like outfielders. They go for the glory. You, get your kicks by teasing, promising a finish, and then puff, you’re onto something else. “You’re bat shit crazy. I hope the Yanks murder you. Son-of-a-bitch. So close. Shit.”

She scooted off the bed and dressed while he found his pants. She turned to him when they were by the door. “This is a first. I’ve never…I don’t…you’re a god dam shit, bastard…”

He opened the door and gave her a slight nudge. “You’ll get over it, honest,” and watched her walk down the hall, not believing he had kicked her out. He listened then double locked the door. When he felt enough time passed he went slowly to a chair near the TV and fell in. He stared at the blank screen wondering what the fuck happened. Was the whole Brown Derby thing a setup? Danny, Carlie, no Carrie, did they work for the mob? What about tomorrow? His team was a game away from becoming World Series champions. The sound of those words…he let out a breath. He stood and paced. Danny warned him about girls like…Carrie. All she wanted was to fuck a major leaguer, do a World Series winning pitcher. He chewed that over. He was being paranoid, although he had good reason to be. He stopped near the floor to ceiling windows that over looked the highway and the mountains. Even at this hour of the night the road was full of cars heading anywhere. It had to be coincidence. The girl only wanted a notch, a claim to fame. None of this had anything to do with the thug in the bathroom. He should have felt better, but didn’t. He was alone in a suite that had a living room/dinning room combination and an endless master bedroom.

His father would never believe this luxury. He wouldn’t have believed a lot of things. “No that’s not right,” Jack said and went back to the chair. He plunked down into the seat. Nah, his father would have understood. His father would have enjoyed all this. And the thug? He would figure a way. He’d do what was necessary to survive. Jack gazed around the room. “Shit, shit, shit.” “Come on Dad what should I do? I need your magic.” There was only silence.

His father knew him as no one else. “Brains,” he’d say, “not so much, but you have a gootah nashoma (a good soul) and a hell of an arm.”

Jack got up and went toward the window and looked out again. Tomorrow was the biggest day of his life. His teammates were counting on him. Should he throw it away? Should he run like the last time? He touched the bruises on his stomach. Apparently, Carrie never noticed. She must have been too into…who knows or cares? At least he sacrificed something for the team.

He grabbed a shirt from the couch and decided to go for a smoke. He went for his jacket. He needed to get out talk to someone. He sighed and rubbed his face. This was going nowhere. He stuck his hand in his coat pocket and felt a card. He studied it. It was Fred’s. “Aaah,” and stuffed it back. He rocked on his feet. There was something about Fred. Maybe it was the Yiddish, a similar background. But he was a reporter who made a living in finding things. Shit, what if he learned about Chicago and the girl. His imagination took over. He put his jacket on and went to the door. His hand was on the knob. Hold it. What if they just talked? The most important game of the year was tomorrow. That was a conversation in and of itself. Damn, there was no one else. He held the card and stared at it. What the hell?

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