Love After Hours Page 10

  “It’s not usually an issue.” Gina shrugged. “I like my work, day or night.”

  “So do I, and if the situation demands, I’m in—day or night.” Carrie searched in her duffel as they talked and found her keys. “But after hours if something can wait until the next day, I let it.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Gina slid a hand into her back pocket. “There’s one thing I forgot to ask, though.”

  The tavern door opened behind Carrie, and along with the noise, a cluster of people surged out. Someone bumped her from behind and she rocked forward. Gina’s hand came to her hip, steadying her.

  “Sorry,” Carrie murmured. Another inch and she’d have been in Gina’s arms. She quickly stepped back. What had Gina said? Oh, right. She wanted to ask her something. Damn it, there went her heart racing again. What did she think, Gina was going to ask her for a date? She’d already made that impossibility clear. Besides, dinner was in their future, one way or another—not a date, just dinner. Casually she said, walking toward the lot, “What did you forget?”

  “If there’s no business after hours, what is there?”

  Well, she’d let herself in for that, hadn’t she. What could she answer that wouldn’t be a lot more revealing than she wanted to be with Gina? “That is nothing you need to know.”

  Laughing, Gina said, “Well, now I’m curious. And you might not know this about me, but when I’m curious, I always get an answer.”

  “Why am I not surprised,” Carrie said, grinning in spite of herself. She took a step back, watching Gina watch her. She never realized how much she liked being watched by a woman. And oh boy, was it time to go home. “Good night, Gina.”

  Gina nodded her head, her gaze still on Carrie. “Good night, Ms. Longmire.”

  With a snort and a roll of her eyes, Carrie pivoted and headed across the lot to where she’d parked. Her car was so small if she hadn’t known where it was, she wouldn’t even be able to see it, dwarfed as it was by the pickup trucks and SUVs. The bunch that had exited just after them still lingered in the center of the gravel lot, and as she circled around them she caught snatches of postgame analysis.

  A man stepped in front of her and she jerked to a halt. She recognized him instantly. The Houlihan’s pitcher. Moving sideways, she said, “Excuse me.”

  He moved with her. “Hey, it’s the ringer.”

  She carefully shifted her keys until she had the largest in her fist. “Close game tonight. Could go the other way next time.”

  “Pitched triple-A somewhere, didn’t you,” he said, slurring his words. “On some girlie team. That’s why you think you’re so hot.”

  “No, sorry. Never did.” Carrie took another step to the side. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “You’ve got a pretty nice slider. I bet everything else slides pretty nice too.”

  Okay, so enough. The lot wasn’t all that well lit, but they weren’t alone. She didn’t want a scene, but she wasn’t going to be bullied, either. Carrie looked him in the eye. “Listen, the game is over. Next time we play, you’re welcome to try to outpitch me.”

  “How about a little batting practice next time.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, making his intentions obvious.

  Oh, please. High school again? Time to head back inside and wait this bunch out. “No thanks.”

  He shot out a hand as if to grab her arm and she jerked away. “Okay, listen—”

  “Hey, Carrie!” Gina jogged up beside her. “I forgot to ask you for that paperwork. Probably because I hate it, but I really ought to get it tonight.”

  The pitcher frowned, blearily looking from Gina to Carrie. Finally he focused, more or less, on Gina. “We’re having a conversation here, buddy.”

  Gina’s smile was thin. “Oh, sorry, business. You don’t mind, do you?” She slipped her hand under Carrie’s elbow, moved her to the side, put her body between Carrie’s and his. “You told me you had the stuff in your car?”

  “Yeah,” Carrie said. “I’m just back here.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  The guy muttered something under his breath, but he didn’t try to stop them.

  “Thanks,” Carrie said once out of earshot.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s just a drunk asshole.”

  “He’s also three times your size.” The dark, angry undertones in Gina’s voice belied her calm exterior. Her hand still clasped Carrie’s arm, firm and warm. “Did he threaten you? Because if he did—”

  “He didn’t—just made a few lame come-ons, but I’m glad you came over.” Carrie pointed to her car. “That’s me. I’m good.”

  “You want me to follow you home?”

  Carrie unlocked the Mini Cooper, slid behind the wheel, and looked out at Gina. “No, I’m fine. And it’s not very far.”

  Gina checked the parking lot. The Houlihan’s guys were gone. She propped an arm on the low roof and leaned in. “You got your cell phone handy?”

  Carrie laughed. “I always do.” She lifted it from the console where she’d just put it. “I even have your number in here already.”

  Gina studied her. “Why don’t you make sure it’s on speed dial.”

  “Believe me,” Carrie said, “I’ll find you if I need you.”

  “I’ll remember that.” Gina stepped back. “Good night again.”

  Carrie backed out and idled until Gina crossed the lot to a red pickup truck and climbed in, just in case the a-hole made another appearance. She followed Gina out to the road and turned in the opposite direction. She watched Gina’s taillights until they disappeared, then put the window down and took a deep breath. Well then, that was more excitement than she’d had in a very long time, and the idiot from Houlihan’s had nothing to do with it. She absently rubbed the spot on her arm where Gina’s hand had rested, and swore she could still feel her fingers. The woman was hot all right, inside and out.

  Chapter Ten

  When Carrie got home, she pulled around behind the house and parked under the lean-to attached to the barn. Probably a vain attempt to keep the car clean, but at least it wouldn’t be a target for flyovers. Some things about country living she didn’t love, and a perpetually mud-spattered vehicle was one. As she climbed the back porch and let herself in to the kitchen, the temperature dropped ten degrees to a tolerable seventy or so. Had to be eighty outside still, and the upstairs bedroom was probably hotter. No AC was another thing not to love, although she was coming to enjoy sleeping nude with the windows open and a fan blowing the sultry air across her as she lay in bed. Decadent in a wholly refreshing way.

  She wasn’t quite ready to cool down in the shower and stretch out in the big double bed upstairs, though. Instead of being tired, which she should’ve been after a beer and having gotten up practically in the middle of the night the day before, she was wired and wide-awake. She thought about a cup of tea, but then the caffeine might be a problem if she ever wanted to sleep, and decaffeinated tea just never tasted anything like the real thing. But hot chocolate—now, that was always a good idea. She showered quickly, pulled on a pair of white boxers with candy canes all over them, the girlie version of the boy style, along with the thinnest tank top she could find, and headed barefoot down to the kitchen. Everything in there worked, but nothing was quite as it should be—not enough counter space, a fridge with a freezer that was way too small, and a four-burner stove that looked like it was new when Teddy Roosevelt was president. She wasn’t exactly sure when that was, but more than a hundred years ago would be about right.

  All the same, the kitchen with its window above the big square country sink looking out into the barnyard, the white screen door that led to a wide porch, and the scarred pine table, just big enough for four chairs around it that she’d bet had been in that room for almost as long as the stove, spoke of history and home in a way that worked for her. Who knew things like this would resonate after growing up in Berkeley, with a coffee shop on the corner, concerts in the park, and a house
full of her parents’ activist friends and students at odd hours of the day and night. She’d always had to share her space and vie for their attention. She’d known they loved her, but sometimes she’d wished life hadn’t been quite so busy.

  Maybe that’s why the quiet and the solitude suited her more than she’d expected. If she got lonely now and then, she only had to call Presley or Abby or Mari, and she’d have a friend to share a movie and wine or ice cream with. As she’d told her annoyingly nudging little sister, the dating would come when she found someone who offered her something else—friendship, sure, but she wanted more. Sparks and fireworks and, most of all, to feel she was the one and only. Fairy-tale romance, her sister teased, but then, that’s what dreams were for. And she was in no big hurry. The biggest thing on her horizon was getting a kitchen she could actually cook in and a bathroom with a shower big enough to wash her hair without cracking her elbow on the wall. Small miracles first.

  Leaving the inside door open to catch what there was of a breeze, she heated milk on the stove in a small dented copper bottom pot, poured it into a mug with honest-to-God Belgian chocolate she spooned out of a tin, and stirred the hot mixture until the top was frothy and velvety dark. After licking the spoon, she left it in the sink, popped the screen door open with her hip, and wandered out to sit on the top step with her mug and the moon. The starlit sky was cloudless, and the half-moon, so perfectly formed it looked as if someone had sliced it with a knife, hovered just above the rolling hills beyond the fields surrounding her house. Harper had told her the place had been built for the generations of farm managers and their families who’d overseen the Rivers family land for a century and a half until the last fifty years, when her grandfather decided to lease the land to local farmers to plow and plant.

  Across the grassy dooryard, as Ida Rivers called the patch of land behind the house, the barn was shadowed by a stand of tall oaks whose branches dipped down to nearly touch the tin roof. The story-high double doors were wide open now, with all of the animals having been moved elsewhere when Harper left to move in with Presley. The stalls and hayloft inside were invisible in the dark, but she fancied the weathered building seemed lonely, as if waiting for life to return. Maybe she’d have some animals of her own. Not that she knew the first thing about taking care of farm animals, but they couldn’t be much different than dogs, right? After all, Presley had a pet chicken—correct that, rooster, the male of the species—plus a barn full of kittens. Presley loved that silly bird with its bad leg and its even badder attitude. Carrie’d always had a dog as a kid, and if she hadn’t lived in city apartments for the last five or six years, she would have had one by now. A place like this was made for animals. She definitely had room for kittens, maybe a puppy. She’d have to see what Presley thought about it. She could definitely use barnyard advice for anything more exotic. Like chickens.

  For now, her only company was the crickets—almost as noisy as city traffic at night—a frog croaking loudly and insistently hoping to get lucky, and the distant chorus of coyotes. At first she’d tried to convince herself they were just dogs, but they definitely weren’t. Their yips and yaps and howls were eerie and haunting at first, but now as relaxing as any other night sound. She’d yet to see one and would probably be a little unnerved the first time, but she seemed to be rapidly losing her city sensibilities and replacing them with something slower and quieter and, in a strange way, deeper.

  Contentment finally replaced the wire in her blood and she arched her back. Her right shoulder was a little sore, but her arm felt fine. She knew what overuse felt like, and she sure as heck knew she was more prone to it now than she ever had been when she was playing nine months out of the year. Just because she wasn’t pitching that much any longer meant she had to take it easy, but she threw as often as she could during the week. Her strength was still good and her flexibility almost what it was when she’d been in college.

  She’d been happy with her pitching tonight. The asshat in the parking lot had been right. Her slider had definitely been working. Sore loser, that guy. Her temper spiked just thinking about what a jerk he’d been. She’d been more angry than scared, but she wasn’t naïve enough to think he hadn’t been dangerous. Alcohol and bruised egos were a bad combination, especially when he’d been beaten by a girl.

  Ha. Not just any girl, either. She chuckled. A hot pitcher, Gina had said.

  Carrie smiled. The woman knew how to charm and had the confidence to pull it off. Most of the time. Nothing about Gina was halfway, and as irritating as that was on occasion, Carrie had to admit she liked a woman who was definite.

  Gina had surprised her back there in the parking lot—coming to her rescue, which was pretty darn welcome, and managing to defuse things without getting into a standoff with the asshat. Which might have happened if Gina hadn’t arrived. Carrie’s temper had been starting to fray—she wasn’t raised to take bull from anyone, even when they did happen to be a little bit bigger. Okay, a lot bigger. But all things considered, always better not to fight. So Gina showing up was…nice.

  Somehow, she was going to end up having dinner with Gina. Win or lose—of course, she wouldn’t be losing—and she needed to give some thought to the restaurant. She wasn’t even going to feel bad if it was a pricey one. Not a bit. Gina looked like she would be able to handle the price tag, and she’d been the one to set the terms of the bet. She wouldn’t otherwise take advantage of her. Hell, she wouldn’t mind having McDonald’s with her.

  She caught herself and examined that idea. First of all, she didn’t even like McDonald’s, and what made her think she’d be spending any time with Gina? Other than this payoff. Her mind had been wandering down strange highways all day. She’d just chalk that up to starting her day in a different time zone.

  Carrie rose, dusted off her backside, and swallowed the last of her hot chocolate. By the time they got to the tournament and one of them had won the bet, she might not have the slightest interest in having dinner with Gina Antonelli. All the same, the idea of having dinner with Gina made her think about things she hadn’t thought about in a long time. Things like dresses and whether she needed a haircut or highlights, or exactly what shoes would go with what. Girlie thoughts. Girlie thoughts inspired by a woman.

  *****

  Gina took her time driving through town. The sidewalks were empty and the only cars clustered in the parking lots of Clark’s pizza place, Stewart’s dairy shop, and the Cumberland Farms, which was pretty much open twenty-four seven. She wasn’t going anywhere in particular, just driving, restless and edgy. She’d almost circled around after leaving the tavern to try to pick up Carrie’s car headed home and stopped herself at the last second. Carrie wouldn’t appreciate her following her around, and she couldn’t blame her.

  Still, an itch between her shoulder blades had her stomach churning. The Houlihan’s pitcher might’ve been just a drunk asshole, but he’d been a step away from putting his hands on Carrie. When she’d started across the parking lot, she’d been certain that was what he was going to do. He was looming over her, clearly blocking her way, and Carrie hadn’t looked like she was going to back down or even call for help. Stubborn, and no surprise there. Seeing him threatening her had tossed Gina back to another parking lot in another time, another life. She still remembered every minute of that night although she’d mostly trained herself not to relive it. Tonight she had, the angry words in the parking lot, the crude insults, the thinly veiled threats as sharp and cutting as they’d been when she was seventeen. She remembered the car ride with Emmy scared and furious by turns, the headlights slashing the darkness behind them, closing in on them. And the last fractured seconds of the sickening roll of the car and the screaming metal.

  Gina jerked the truck to the side of the road and slammed into park. Sweat rolled down between her shoulder blades. Nausea churned in her chest. Gripping the steering wheel, she closed her eyes and took a couple of slow deep breaths. Over. Done with. Gone. All of it. The plans, the d
reams, the hopes and promises.

  She hadn’t relived that night in a very long time, not while she was awake at least. The guy in the parking lot, that was it. He’d just triggered something. The terror and the sick fear had nothing to do with Carrie. Nothing at all.

  *****

  “Holy smokes,” Margie said in a hoarse whisper. “What time is it?”

  “Nighttime,” Blake mumbled. “Go back to sleep.”

  “I can’t go back to sleep here,” Margie said, bolting upright in bed. The loft was dark and the whole house was quiet. What happened to the movie they were watching? She didn’t remember turning it off. She fished her phone out of her jeans. One twenty. Cripes! “I’m at your house in the middle the night.”

  “So? Don’t jiggle the bed.”

  Margie went still as granite. “Whoa. Right. Sorry. Does it hurt?”

  “Sore,” Blake muttered. “I think if I take a pain pill, it’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. I’ll get them. Where are they?”

  Blake sighed and sat up. “I think on the nightstand on your side. My mom brought everything up when we got home, but I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  “I’m gonna turn the light on over here,” Margie said, reaching for the little bedside table lamp. “Cover your eyes.”

  “I’m awake,” Blake said, sounding just a little grouchy. “Go ahead.”

  “Nobody called me from home, so I guess they know I’m here.” Margie flicked on the light with a shade made of multicolored glass pieces held together by thin black lines, probably not really lead anymore, in a pattern with dragonflies around the edges. It wasn’t girlie, but it was pretty.

  “My mom probably,” Blake muttered.

  “Yeah. Sounds right.” Margie eased out of the bed, trying to be careful not to jostle Blake too much, and checked the labels on two pill bottles she found next to a capped bottle of water. One was an antibiotic, the other a pain medicine—she recognized it from ones she’d taken when she’d broken her arm a couple years ago. The instructions said to take one to two every four hours. They’d been up in the loft for at least six and Blake hadn’t taken any, so the timing was cool. “You want one or two?”