Page 102 of Bad Run

Present

After feeding me and offering me some insight on my current situationship with Lance, Juju pushed me out the door of her house so I could, in her words, “get my little ass to work and show ’em what I’m made of.”

Two and a half hours later—because Southern California traffic blows—I made it to the stadium for what felt like the longest day of work. My head is going to explode if I look at another spreadsheet tonight.

All I want to do is take a long hot shower, put on some pajamas, and watch a show while lying in bed.

I close the door to my apartment and toss my keys into the small ceramic bowl on the table by the entryway. Flicking on the lights, I glance around my place. My place is a small, one-bedroom apartment in one of the nicest areas as close to the Evaders stadium as you can get.

Even though it’s tiny, I love the space. It has hardwood floors, exposed brick, and new appliances. I’ve made it my own by adding lots of colors—especially pink—a fluffy, cozy sofa, and whitewashed wood furniture.

Plus, the neighborhood is amazing. Close to so many restaurants and shops, and the drive to work, even in traffic, is at most twenty minutes. Unlike Lance’s house, which takes three times as long to get to the stadium from.

His home is beautiful. It has so much charm and character. I think I fell in love with it the moment I drove through the wrought-iron gate and around the circle driveway. The cute Spanish architecture. The unique modern flair. It’s not the type of house I pictured Lance to live in, but it somehow fits him.

The ache in my chest grows uncomfortably tight as I think about Lance and how I miss him.

I still haven’t texted him back. I feel terrible for not responding, but I’m not sure what to say.

Do I ask what he means when he says he’ll catch me? Do I bring up running out of his house after walking in on him in the shower?

Shower …

Like I have a hundred times today, I picture water cascading down his hard body as his hand firmly grips his …

Nope. Do not think about a certain hot baseball player in the shower, doing … things.

I slip off my heels and reach into my purse, grabbing my phone, and then drag myself to my room. My sanctuary. It’s not a huge space, but I was able to fit in a queen bed and a dresser. The essentials are all I need. While living in New York, I learned that less is more when it comes to small apartments.

Feet aching, I strip out of the simple gray slacks and white button-up Juju had in the guest closet. She keeps it stocked with all kinds of spare clothes. Being her only granddaughter has its benefits.

Naked and phone in hand, I enter the bathroom and turn on the shower, letting it get hot. I prop my phone on the little stand I have by the sink and open the music app. I pull up my favorite ladies-of-the-80s playlist, connect it to the speaker in my bathroom, and press Play.

I climb into the shower, reveling in the hot water and letting it wash away the stress of the day. It’s not just work causing my anxiety to shoot up to sky-high levels; Lance is too.

I’m not sure how I want to handle what’s going on between us. It’s why I haven’t texted him. I need some form of clarity before I do.

I am without a doubt attracted to the sinfully delicious man, and he is undoubtedly attracted to me. Fighting or getting along, sparks fly when we are together.

That connection, that fire, is why I took off. It’s overwhelming and could easily consume me.

I felt it in the way my body reacted as I watched him pleasure himself. My feet wouldn’t move because I wanted to watch, to hear him grunt my name as he came.

In that moment, I wanted more and he knew it, and it scared the living hell out of me.

As I wash my hair, I picture the burning fire in his blue eyes as he stared at me, stroking his cock.

Exhaling a breath and ignoring the way my body reacts, I rinse the shampoo from my long locks, then apply my leave-in conditioner. As I wash my body, my music is replaced by the ring of an incoming call.

Joan Jett’s voice returns, singing about her bad reputation, when a text alert chirps.

Since I am the least patient person and need to check my phone, I rinse the conditioner out of my hair early. I turn off the water and reach for the jersey-knit hair towel on the rack, wrapping my hair in it to prevent my curls from frizzing. Quickly drying off, I wrap the towel around my chest and step out of the shower.

Swiping out of my music app, I tap the message. My heart flips with delight at the sight of a new message from Lance.

Lance: You up?

A booty-call text, really? A smirk pulls at my lips as my fingers fly across the screen.