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“Who the hell is that pitching?” AJ asks.
I shake my head because I have no fucking clue.
“Cora,” Rome answers.
“She’s got a hell of an arm on her,” Nour comments.
“She’s got a hell of a lot of things.” AJ chuckles.
I zone out and watch Gwendolyn on third base, decked out in Lulu, crouched down, eye on the pitcher, Cora.
“Strike two!” Amias yells.
“Z, what the hell are you doing?” Jase laughs.
“Don’t go easy on us!” Whit yells in. “We’re going to kick your asses fair and square!”
“Mrs. Pope”—Zandor shakes his head—“you might want to tell her to take it easy on us. Jesus, girl, where did you learn to pitch?”
“I think you should just focus on the ball, Mr. Steel,” Cora says all too politely right before she throws another.
“Strike three, old man. You’re out!” Amias calls.
Cora strikes Jase and Xavier out next.
She’s good, real good.
The girls run in, and whatever sports bra she’s wearing, I wanna shred because her tits aren’t bouncing even a little, which is bullshit.
I hear Turner say, “Hey there, Francesca.”
“Turner,” she acknowledges him without even looking toward us.
“Swear I’m in love,” he sighs.
“You do that a lot,” I point out. No lie; he has three ex-wives and like six kids. He’s a good man and takes care of them, but not at a level that will be sustainable when his career ends.
“Locke, what’s up?” I turn to see the chick I was chilling with at the concert standing right fucking there.
She’s fucking gorgeous—tall, dark, thin, and perfectly put together.
“Dromida O’Donnell.” She holds out her hand.
I give it a shake. “Memorable name.”
“You didn’t ask that night.” She smiles.
“If I remember correctly, neither did you.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Tell you the truth, I didn’t much care.”
“Burn,” AJ snickers.
“You playing tonight?” I ask just to make polite conversation.
“I’m not sure. You tell me?”
AJ nudges me and whispers, “Say yes. Fuck, please say yes. She’s hot as fuck.”
