Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 104745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104745 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Is he doing an impression of me?
“I did not sound like that.” I pause, staring down at the rack of ugly, plastic batting helmets. “Is it really necessary for me to wear that thing? It’s ugly.”
And I did my hair.
“Yes, it’s necessary. If one of those balls hits your head, you’ll end up seriously injured.”
Yes, yes, Dad, I know.
“Balls flying at my face…” I joke.
“I didn’t say balls flyin’ at your face, you perv. I said flyin’ at your head.”
I notice he is all business when it comes to sports.
Admirable? Yes.
Kind of annoying? Also yes.
“It’s the same thing,” I argue. “If I have to wear protective headgear when we hang out, I might have to rethink this.”
I’m only teasing, but I loathe having to wear the helmet.
“It’s for your own safety,” he says. “Now grab a bat and get your sweet buns over here.”
Ugh. “Fine.”
Melodramatically, I make a show of choosing a baseball bat from the rack; drag it across the pavement toward the plate on the ground that designates where we should stand for the pitching machine…so we don’t get hit by a flying ball.
Drake is busy knocking the bat against his sneakers—as if he were standing at home plate on a professional baseball field. As if he were knocking dirt off a pair of cleats. I don’t know anything about baseball, but I’ve seen guys do this in high school gym class.
Everyone thinks they’re a pro.
“You actually thought this would be a good idea?” I squint at him.
“Yes. I get to stare at your ass.”
And I yours.
It’s a nice one, and he’s wearing athletic pants—the mesh kind that give him a wedgie when he sits down and stands up, leaving nothing to the imagination, including an outline of his dick on his frontside.
Not that I was looking when he wasn’t watching me.
“When I suggested we go on dates, I didn’t say they had to be dates that would raise my blood pressure.”
“If we’re busy, we won’t be thinkin’ about sex.”
“Pfft. That is not a problem for me.”
Drake laughs, rolling his eyes. “Oh okay, you haven’t been thinkin’ about sex with me.”
“Nope.” Yup.
“I don’t believe you, but whatever.” He pauses. “Besides, doin' these five dates was your idea.”
“Right. But I was thinking we’d go on picnics and take walks around the lake and maybe paint pottery or something.”
Drake stares blankly. “In what world would I want to go paint pottery? I suck at art.”
“Painting pottery isn’t art. It’s…painting.”
“Which is art.”
Why is he such a damn know-it-all? “So you’re saying if I wanted to go paint something, you wouldn’t go with me?”
Drake gives me a long look as he bends at the knee, practicing his swing.
“Yes, I would go with you if you wanted to go paint somethin’.” He pauses. “Better yet, we can paint something at your place. Somethin’ like—I don’t know. Your bare titties.”
My mouth falls open.
I close it.
Floundering, I have no idea what to say except, “Or yours.”
Beneath his shirt, he flexes his pecs and wiggles his brows.
Typical.
“You ready to get serious or what?”
“Or what.”
He grins, taking my hand to pull me to the plate, directing my hips into position over the square on the ground, showing me how to hold the bat.
“I know how to hold a bat. I used to play in fourth grade.”
That makes him laugh. “Oh yeah, you used to play in fourth grade, hey? For who?”
“The Cubs. Our shirts were green.” That’s about all I can remember. That and the fact that our coach, Mrs. Leitner, screamed at me once while I was running to first base and scared the shit out of me, ruining my confidence.
I hated baseball after that and refused to join the rec department league again, despite my parents’ attempts at bribery. They wanted me to be active and social and meet people, but all the girls on the team were from school anyway, so why did it matter?
“Well, if you need help, just holler. I’ll stand over here out of your way.”
“Thanks.”
“You ready?”
I nod. “Yup.”
Bending my knees, I bend my elbows, too, gripping the bat just above the handle, my dominant hand on top.
It’s not so heavy that I can’t easily—
The ball whizzes out of the machine without warning, buzzing past my face—and my bat—at lightning speed.
“Hey!” I shout. “I wasn’t ready!”
“You literally just said you were ready.”
I hadn’t meant it. And I hadn’t thought the damn ball was going to fly so fast.
“Another one is on its way. Get ready.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble, not excited about this activity. Surely, he chose it because he’s good at it and wants to show off.
Thwack.
The ball zooms out and hits the chain-link fence behind me, caging us in with the balls and equipment and each other.
“Do you want my help?”
“No. I need you to adjust the speed.” That would be helpful.