Chapter 7
brIELLE
It’s safe to say that Evie’s uncle is a fucking smoke show.
Obviously, I already knew that from the few times I’ve seen him at the stadium and team events, but he was so up close and personal on Wednesday.
I had this urge to pounce across the room and sink my claws into his perfectly pressed dress shirt just to see if he’d shove me off or enjoy the roughness.
That wasn’t the time, nor was it appropriate in any shape or form to test that theory.
Not with Evie shooing him away and the undying reminder that he’s my brother’s boss acting like a splash of cold water on my awkwardly hard nipples.
The instant attraction I felt sizzled out pretty quickly after he disappeared and left us to finish our shoot.
Once the last photo was taken and I was pulling on Soft Body’s newest sweat set over my lingerie, he had retreated outside.
Apparently, even being in the same studio space as a half-naked woman was too much for him to handle, so he opted to lean against his typical black sedan to wait for Evie instead.
I’d have felt bad for making him wait, but something tells me a guy like that has his needs tended to instantly every other time.
He can consider yesterday a bit of character building.
Now that I think about it, he definitely would have shoved me off. I can’t imagine Roman Shore being interested in getting clawed by a woman.
I pop a piece of buffalo-flavoured popcorn into my mouth and watch Rhys Casey pitch another ball on the TV.
He’s had a devastatingly horrible game tonight.
From the early home run he let up in the second inning to his inability to strike anyone out now at the beginning of the fifth, I know it’s only a matter of time before he’s pulled out.
With a wince, I debate texting Aubrey to ask if she’s watching this, too. Since Finn isn’t playing, I doubt she is.
“There’s definitely some discussion being had in the dugout. It’s only a matter of time before Kordell Bailey makes that call to the bullpen,” one of the commentators says.
I frown, watching my brother sink to a squat behind the opposite team’s hitter.
He still looks relaxed to those who can’t read him all that well behind his mask.
I know better than to assume he’s not feeling the weight of his pitcher’s gameplay.
There’s a calmness to my brother that only appears when he’s playing ball, like he can somehow shut the entire world out while hundreds of thousands of its people watch him.
The moment Rhys’ next throw catches on the bat, I curse.
I press my palm to my face and partially hide my vision between four fingers when it soars over the field, not showing any sign of stopping.
When it finally does, it’s into the hands of a fan.
Screams erupt from the home team’s crowd, stoking the disappointment in the Havoc players.
“And there it is. Roman Shore’s on the field now. It’s safe to say that Casey is done here today and hopefully headed back home to Vancouver with a desire to make up for today.”
I slow my chewing when the camera focuses on the manager strolling across the field.
Swallowing, I tuck my leg beneath me and lean a bit closer, my knee hanging off the couch.
The noncommittal hum that escapes me is the least of my concerns when I feel the telltale race of my pulse the longer I look at him.
Unlike the day he barged into my boudoir shoot, he’s not wearing a silky shirt and pressed pants, but a Havoc hoodie with the sleeves pushed to his elbows and a pair of dark green baseball pants.
It almost feels wrong to see him in such relaxed clothes now that I’ve seen him so put together. I scrunch my brows.
Isn’t this how he always looks? Like a high school gym coach rather than a man who holds my brother’s career in his hands?
The scruff I swear I saw darkening his stone-like jaw in the studio is gone, too.
Yet the piercings aren’t. The two black hoops in the tip of his ear do something to my lower body that they absolutely shouldn’t.
I’ve seen them before, and I’ll admit they’ve always turned me on a bit.
I love men who do what they like and don’t give a shit if others look at them funny for it. Especially something so small.
Usually, that’s a trait I’ve found in older men.
Christ, my daddy issues are going to get me in so much shit one of these days.
Shoving my mouth full again, I force myself to focus on chewing and not the commanding way this man claims the field and everyone on it.
My stomach pinches as I wait for the commentators to tell us what he’s said to Rhys, even if I already know.
You don’t need to be a lip-reader to put the picture together when you know as much as I do about baseball.
The popcorn is dry in my mouth as I struggle to swallow.
“It’s not surprising, really. Roman has been pretty forgiving with Rhys thus far this season, but the Havoc have a great bullpen lineup this year. If you don’t play as well as he believes you can, there’s another waiting to take your place.”
“I agree. For a team set on going to the finals this year, there’s little room for error here, even this early on in the season.
You’ve got to be able to juggle between playing your best as often as possible while still giving the others a shot to prove themselves.
That’s the only way you don’t end up with unnecessary injuries, especially with a team this heavy with talent. ”
“I think the only question most fans have, though, is does Roman Shore still know how to hold that balance the way the team needs him to?”
I arch a brow at the question, blinking at the screen. Roman’s walking off the mound with Rhys beside him, and from the change of song coming in, I know he’s been replaced with Beck Rourke, the team’s closer. Or, as I like to call him very lovingly, the Fuckboy.
“I don’t think we should doubt him. In my opinion, Roman’s done a great job with this team thus far.”
“That’s right, asshole. Talk about being judgy for a guy sitting up in a box, watching the game,” I mutter, almost sounding . . . bitter.
Roman and Rhys step down into the dugout, and the camera lingers for a minute on the older man as he speaks to the pitching coach. The stress lines sunken deep into his forehead don’t ease, even once he’s turned back to the field. If anything, I think they get worse.
His lips are flat and a deepening shade of red that holds my gaze for a few beats before I yank it away and fill my mouth with spicy popcorn again. My tongue burns as I stare at the screen and try to understand why I’m suddenly so damn attracted to this man.
I’m only twenty-five, but maybe I’ve got some early mid-life crisis going on.
Or maybe I just really need to get laid by a dick that isn’t made of silicone.
So much of my time has been spent recording videos for After Hours and trying to get my business up and running.
I’ve put off actually going out and meeting someone.
If that’s all it would take to overcome this fascination, then I’m all for it.
I tug the comforter up to rest under my armpits as I grab my laptop and rest it on my thighs. The After Hours website is still up from when I uploaded last night, and I quickly click out of the comments before I have a chance to read too many of them.
Honestly, it was a lame video. I wasn’t feeling recording in the slightest. Not since I sent Quiethours his request. I doubt any of the comments are going to make me feel any better about my internal crisis.
The single message the unnamed stranger sent me over a week ago wasn’t what I was expecting after the kind of video I sent.
And that’s not because I was waiting for some elaborate declaration about how I’m a goddess and he wishes he could bow and pray to me, but really?
“You look stunning in black?” was the best he could do?
Yeah, I need to get laid. And soon.
I hate that I check for a new message from him before going through the others.
Disappointment lingers while I reply to a few of my subscribers and make notes of what they want to see next.
Most of the requests are boring, like use a vibrator or wear your hair up in pigtails while wearing a short skirt without panties.
Role play is not my thing, so I decline a few of those suggestions.
Once I’m finished, I hover my mouth over the chat with Quiethours. Then, I huff and click on it.
I ignore the still of the video and glare at the last message I sent, willing a reply to appear. “Come on. Don’t be shy now.”
My fingers fly across the keyboard when I give in, throwing a metaphorical fuck-it to the universe.
Crushedvelvet
So, is the only thing you liked about the video the lingerie you paid for?
I send it and immediately cringe at how desperate I sound. Brielle Hayes and desperate are not often put together in the same sentence, but Jesus, that’s exactly what I am. If this isn’t yet another sign that I’m going through something right now, I don’t know what is.
The three dots that flash from the left side of the chat surprise me enough that I gasp. My teeth sink into my cheek as I watch and wait for words to appear.
Quiethours
You know that isn’t the case.
Oh?
Crushedvelvet
Maybe I do, but it still would have been nice to receive confirmation.
Quiethours
I’ve watched your video a dozen times since. Thoughts of it have distracted me in the real world, Velvet. Is that answer enough?
My skin warms as I release my cheek and smirk.
Crushedvelvet
Well, all you had to do was say that.
Quiethours
Were you not already aware of how well you did for me?
Crushedvelvet
At the risk of sounding arrogant, of course I was.
Quiethours
You were craving praise, then, were you?
My tongue glides across my bottom lip, wetting it. I pull the blankets down my body a bit, needing a bit of cool air.
Crushedvelvet
Guilty. Who doesn’t like praise?
Quiethours
I’m the last man you should be wanting praise from.
Crushedvelvet
I doubt that.
Quiethours
Don’t. It’s better if you don’t ask for anything from me.
Crushedvelvet
I could film something else for you then, if you wanted me to.
The three dots appear for longer this time. Unease fills my gut as I fidget and cross my ankles beneath the bedding that suddenly feels too constricting.
Quiethours
No. No more videos.
“Shit.” Aaaand I’ve overstepped.
There’s an urgency to the way I type my next message that worries me.
Crushedvelvet
I’m not trying to get more money.
Quiethours
Money isn’t a concern. I simply can’t use this site any longer. Before I deleted my account, I wanted to answer you.
Crushedvelvet
Is this because of what I said?
Quiethours
No. It’s because I want you to say more and that can’t happen.
I reread the message four times before typing out a reply, my palms warm with sweat.
Crushedvelvet
I don’t understand.
After I hit Send, another message fills the bottom of the chat.
User Quiethours has deactivated their account.