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“Don’t hold your breath.” I took long strides toward the rental car, my instinct telling me the drive-bys were nothing more than a warning of things to come.
“Oh, and hey. Thanks for saving my life.”
“You mean again. As in six or maybe seven times.”
“Asshole,” he teased, giving me his middle finger.
While I laughed, a bad feeling roared into the pit of my stomach. I could smell blood in the air.
CHAPTER6
Viper
“Viper Briggs is up to the bat and the bases are juiced.” The announcer’s booming voice had amused me the entire game, so deep I imagined him voicing the trailers for action flicks. It was a shame his body didn’t match his persona.
I swung the bat, steeling my grip as I eyed the pitcher. We were down by three and I hadn’t played in a hell of a long time.
“Come on, Vipe,” a voice roared from the dugout. “Bottom of the ninth!”
Oh, yeah. No pressure. While I was in damn good shape, lifting weights six days a week when my schedule allowed, and hiking every chance I got, baseball used an entirely different set of muscles.
The pitcher eyed me as if I was chump change, grinning in preparation of striking me out. I gave him a feral look of my own just to fuck with him. After the grueling trip to New York, I was in a surly mood and the game hadn’t been tops on my list of activities once returning to LA.
“Go, Viper!” At least the cry came from a fan in the stands, a female fan with a lilting voice. “Sending kisses your way.” The small crowd cheered, several people stomping their feet on the metal bleachers.
I had to laugh, not from the unknown woman’s comment but from the smirk on the pitcher’s face. For God’s sake, this was a straggly league of men who started out to have fun on a Sunday afternoon. Since business had taken me away from enjoying the outings, it had gotten extremely competitive, turning into a league. Why I’d agreed to step in one time only for an injured player was beyond me.
As the pitcher paced back and forth, I tapped the tip of the Marucci on the dirt. What the hell was the man waiting for? I leaned on the bat, planting my hand on my hip and crossing one ankle over the other. It was time for a cold brewski, for God’s sake.
He turned swiftly, giving me almost no warning before throwing a curve ball. What the fuck? When I was forced to jump backwards by several feet, it took all I had not the charge the son of a bitch.
“Ball! Dugan, stop playing games!” the umpire yelled.
“That’s a strike,” someone yelled.
“Not in my game. Sit the fuck down and shut up.” I was shocked the umpire had almost come unhinged.
Christ. The arrogant ass had the nerve to flip off the man. And I thought the world of organized crime was ruthless. Seconds later, the pitcher seemed to settle down, throwing a decent ball.
Which I missed.
“Stee-rike one!”
Even the dramatics were getting on my nerves. I tapped the base then eased the bat into position again. He threw another curve ball, but I’d anticipated it. Too bad the powerful swing missed.
“Stee-rike two!”
The crowd booed. It was funny how they could turn on you on a dime.
“Third time’s the charm, buddy.”
When I heard Mike Alexander’s voice, I grinned. He owed me more than a pitcher of beer for enduring this exploitation of manhood. I returned to position, giving the pitcher a hard look. When he began his windup, I exhaled, trying to relax every muscle.
The crack as the bat smashed against the ball would always be music to my ears. While I knew I’d hit it hard, I couldn’t afford to second guess how far it would fly. I took off running, the crowd cheering all over again.
“And that, ladies and gentlemen, is a long ball!”
The crowd was on their feet. Holy hell. I’d hit a home run. As I slowed down, rounding first to second, I watched as the other three players started to cross home base.
