Page 7 of Bad Run

We’ve shared an apartment for eight years, and not seeing each other every day has been a big adjustment for us.

But it was never my plan to stay on the East Coast as long as I did. I was supposed to get as much job experience as I could, then tell my father I was ready to work for the Evaders like him and my three older brothers.

Searching the area to make sure the coast is clear—because I do not want my family to see me having too much fun—I lift the heavy shot glass in the air. “Here’s to you, bestie. Let’s have some fun, baby.”

The alcohol burns as it slips down my throat and pools in my belly, making me wince. I can’t remember the last time I took a shot.

“Girl, yes!” Jenna slides another full glass my way.

I shake my head. “Nuh-uh. No way.”

“Yes.” Jenna lifts the second shot to my lips. There’s no use fighting her when she’s in party mode; better to just get it done.

“Fine.” Sucking in a deep breath, I ready myself for the burn and throw back the second round of booze.

“Hell yeah!” Jenna slugs down another shot, then grabs my hand and drags me onto the dance floor. “Time for us to dance our asses off!”

The tequila buzzes beneath my skin as we find a spot in the crowd. Inhibitions lowered, I let myself fall in sync with the pulsing music as I dance with my bestie.

I don’t know how long we dance, or how many more shots Jenna convinces me to drink, but at some point my head spins and sweat breaks out along the back of my neck.

Air. I need air.

I spot Jenna mid-grind with some guy in the middle of the dance floor. I tap her shoulder and shout over the music, “I need fresh air; I’m gonna go upstairs. I’ll be back.”

“Okay, be safe. I’ll be right here,” she shouts back as the guy she’s dancing with grips her hips and pulls her back flush to his chest.

Pushing through the sea of dancers, I make my way toward the back staircase that leads to the roof. The temperature slowly drops as I take the three flights up.

Near the top, I sidestep a group of players I’m not familiar with as they whoop and holler. They’re glassy-eyed and joyful, celebrating the culmination of all their hard work this season.

My thoughts jump to a different group of baseball players I’ve yet to see tonight as I push through the rooftop door. Scanning the rooftop for a quiet area, my eyes zero in on the corner spot hidden behind a rectangular planter of mini lemon cypress trees.

The lights of the city skyline glitter across the horizon as I position myself at the edge of the roof, where the frosted glass barriers surround the space, and grip the top, taking a much-needed deep breath of the cold air.

My tequila-induced spins slow, and the heat coursing through me simmers to a low heat as a cold gust of wind hits me in the face. The night air wraps its icy tendrils around me while simultaneously carrying a deep, raspy voice on its wings.

Chills race down my spine, making me shiver.

There’s only one thing, one person, that sends that type of shiver through me, and it’s not the freezing temps or the frosty breeze whipping around the surrounding skyscrapers.

Without thinking, I turn around to find Lance Taylor with a cellphone to his ear as he mumbles something to the person on the other end. Even when he’s sitting, you can sense his height and strength.

I stand frozen, rooted to the ground, watching him.

My heart somersaults in my chest like it does every time I see him. He’s wearing dark slacks and a gray button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

Damn, he really is fine.

I still think I prefer him in baseball pants. They mold his chest and butt better.

Note to self: Drinking tequila makes my brain say and think about things it shouldn’t.

Stowing my wandering thoughts away, I take in the defeated-looking baseball player.

He’s sitting on the floor, back to the planter, with one long leg stretched out before him and the other bent, arm resting on his kneecap as his head sags down, chin to chest. He runs a thick hand over the back of his shaved head.

Lance has found the only spot available to hide away from the rest of the world. His sad demeanor is such a contrast to when I saw him last. Hurt radiates off him in waves.