Page 24 of Double Play

I’m here for her.

She stares at me another moment before turning away and taking the short steps to Montgomery’s bedroom. Once inside, she looks back at me, stone still in my kitchen, watching as she slowly closes the door.

The moment reminds me of an elevator scene in which two people acknowledge the tension between them, hold their breaths, and then address one another before the doors close.

“Wylde Thing,” India whispers toward me.

“Wildfire,” I counter observing her silvery eyes flare, like a private firework display, before the night goes dark because she’s shut the door on us.

In a rush, I round the counter and head to my room. Fuck Isaiah hogging my bed. If I don’t put more doors between India and me, I’m going to do something stupid.

Inside my own bedroom, I shove Isaiah to one side of the king-size mattress, I toss myself on my back, staring upward at the ceiling once again. My hands are clasped over my chest, my heart racing within. I’d love nothing more than to slip my hand into my shorts and take care of my sudden issue but I’m not whacking off with my best friend laying beside me, so I tamp down the sexual visions of his sister and her mouth.

“Fuck,” I groan aloud, closing my eyes where more images filter through my head. India on her knees . . . with me behind her, hand fisted in that wild hair and⁠—

“What the fuck?” Isaiah mutters groggily from his position beside me, back toward me.

“Jesus,” I hiss, startled by his voice, interrupting the clusterfuck of images in my head. My heart races even faster, as if Isaiah somehow saw the porn-reel in my brain, staring his sister and me.

“I can hear you thinking,” Isaiah mumbles, shifting to his back before heaving himself over like a breaching beluga whale to face me.

God, I hope he can’t hear my thoughts.

“Felt my mental telepathy telling you to fuck off, did ya?” I quip, bursting my desire like a spent firework.

My best friend and I have never shared a bed, and I wasn’t about to start, but I need another few minutes to pull myself together before I return to the couch.

Rolling my head on my pillow, I can hardly make out Isaiah’s face in the dark room. “You’re going to have one helluva hangover.”

“I already feel like shit,” he mutters. “Did you guys eat?”

“Hours ago,” I snort.

“What time is it?”

“After midnight.”

“Fuck,” Isaiah hisses, lifting his hand to his forehead and squeezing at the pressure I imagine thumps against his skull. “Where’s India?”

“She’s in Montgomery’s room.” I sigh and face the ceiling again, willing away wishes to enter said room and curl up next to his sister. “You’re a fun date,” I add, mocking his condition, and the idea that he wasted an opportunity to hang out together.

Then again, the night wasn’t a total wash because India and I finally spoke. We cleared at least a little air between us, like dusting off home plate before the next batter saunters up to bat. I’d really love another turn around the bases with her, and I’m not just meaning sexual experiences. I want to know her again.

“I had to talk to Penn.” Isaiah interrupts my thoughts again and then remains quiet a second.

“Do you even remember talking to her?” My friend wasn’t making any sense before he took the call from his wife.

“Yeah.” He sighs but doesn’t offer more information.

“Everything alright with you guys?” I turn my attention back to his dark face when he doesn’t immediately answer me. “Isaiah?”

“We’ll be okay.” His tone lacks confidence, however.

“You can talk to me,” I remind him. Isaiah has always been there for me. The team deals. The news about Montgomery. The decision to leave professional baseball behind.

“Like you told me about my sister?”

Shit. Are we really doing this now? With him hungover and my head a mess?