The Rookie and The Rockstar Page 3

  “Is that right?” I ask, dipping my chin, along with my voice, lowering it to a near whisper.

  “Yeah,” she says, her tone full of confidence as she darts her tongue out to lick a drop of Nutella from the crepe she’s still working on.

  We both sit in silence, the air crackling around us. When she misses a bit of the hazelnut, chocolate goodness, I lean in a little further until my lips are at the corner of her mouth, tasting the sweetness that is Charlotte Carradine.

  The semi-startled, very uncharacteristic giggle that escapes Charlotte matches the jittery nerves that have settled in my stomach.

  What the fuck did I just do?

  “Uh, I’m sorry,” I say, leaning away and giving her back her personal space. “I, uh…” I feel my face flush as my dick hardens for what feels like the millionth time since she slid into the passenger seat of my car. Fuck that. Since she stopped me from walking out the doors of that ballroom with her alluring voice.

  She brings her fingers up to linger over the spot where my mouth was, lightly swiping away the last traces of the lingering sweetness. “Don’t be.”

  “I should take you home,” I tell her, realizing that if I don’t, I might do something I’ll regret, and I don’t have time for regrets. There are still a couple weeks left of Spring Training and then I’ll be in New Orleans for the season opener, if I make the team. The next month of my life is going to be a whirlwind and I need to be at my best—no distractions.

  Her face falls a little, but she gives me a quick smile as she collects her trash.

  I take it from her, depositing it into the bin up by the trailer, putting a nice tip into the jar before we walk back to my car.

  “This was nice,” she says as I open the door for her.

  “Glad you liked it,” I say with a chuckle, leaning against the open door, so I can see her face. Her beautiful, edgy, otherworldly face. She’s nothing like anyone I’ve ever been on a date with and it’s making all of this very hard.

  Pun fucking intended.

  “Not just the amazing crepes and the lack of cameras and people,” she continues. “But hanging out with you. It was unexpected...you’re unexpected...and that’s my favorite thing. Everything in my life lately has felt so orchestrated, so thank you for being anything but.”

  “Charlotte,” I begin, but she must see the look on my face or have a sixth sense for what I’m about to say, because she places her hand over mine to stop me.

  Shaking her head once, she gives me a half smile. “Don’t, okay? I know you probably have a lot on your plate right now, so you don’t have to make any excuses. It was a nice evening. I enjoyed your company, but there are no other expectations.”

  On the drive to her place, other than her giving me directions, we’re pretty quiet. And as I hop out of the car to walk her to the front door of her house, which by the way is a gorgeous two-story beauty, and nothing like I would’ve guessed from someone like her, she stops at a side door and motions toward it. “I use this entrance. There are usually paparazzi waiting somewhere near the gate to catch a glimpse of me coming home, waiting to spin it into some sordid tale.”

  There’s a sadness that creeps in with that confession and it makes me angry. I don’t like thinking that people out there are trying to make her into something she’s obviously not.

  “Don’t be surprised if you show up in a tabloid tomorrow,” she adds with an apologetic huff. “I really should’ve taken an Uber or called Fred. Sorry if—”

  It’s my turn to stop her and I do with a quick kiss to the side of her mouth, the same spot I kissed the Nutella off of. “Don’t be sorry.”

  “Thanks for...the ride and the crepes...and everything,” she whispers, turning to punch in a code on a keypad that opens the door.

  “My pleasure.”

  “Call me, maybe?” she asks, hesitantly. “When you’re back in town, after the season gets going.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Holding her phone out to me, she turns her tone more businesslike. “Put your number in.” I do as she asks and hand it back. “There,” she says a few seconds later, stepping into her house and using the door as a shield. “I called you, so now you have mine and I have yours and if our paths cross again, Bo Bennett, well...I’ll see you then.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see you,” I reply, walking backward toward my car—part of me, mainly my dick, screaming at me for walking away from this woman, but the other part of me telling me to run.

  Because Charlotte Carradine could be a game changer.

  Chapter 4

  Charlotte

  “Charlotte.”

  I continue tapping my pen against the notebook on my lap, ignoring Casey.

  “Char...Charlotte...Charlotte Renee Carradine!”

  “What?” I ask, spinning my chair around to face her and throwing my notebook to the floor. “What do you want?”

  “Why are you in such a bad freakin’ mood?” she asks, giving me a look of complete annoyance. Blowing out a deep breath and rolling her eyes, she stands up and walks over to the espresso machine in the corner. “You’ve been in a funk for the last week. You either need to get laid or work out or do some flipping yoga...something, because I can’t take any more of you ignoring me and Lord knows you haven’t written more than a few lines of a song in the last week. Something’s got to give.”

  She’s right. I know she’s right, but I don’t have to like it.

  Groaning, I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling.

  “Who is it?” she asks as the espresso machine perks to life. “That guy the label sent over for studio time? Oh, or that guy Terry set you up with to improve your image?” she asks with a giggle.

  “No one,” I tell her, still keeping my eyes trained on the ceiling, because I’ve been trying to convince myself of it for the past seven days and failed miserably. I’ve tried telling myself that my chance encounter with Bo Bennett was nothing. It was a friendly meal and a free ride home.

  And a hot as fuck kiss...on the side of my mouth. Who does that? I swear, I thought that was a precursor to some serious sheet time.

  And I don’t mean the music kind.

  I mean, down and dirty sex with an almost stranger—no strings attached. He’d be gone the next morning. I’d be back to my creative self and songs would be written. Terry would be off my back. The label wouldn’t be breathing down my neck. And all would be well in the world of Lola Carradine.

  But no.

  That is not what happened.

  Bo Bennett turned out to be a surprise on every level.

  First, I thought I had him pegged for a rich donor from the gala, but then they pulled his 2010 Toyota Corolla around and blew that assumption right out of the water. On our way to get something to eat, I was trying to guess who he was—waitstaff, hotel employee, the boyfriend of some rich chick—and once again was surprised when the dude that ran the crepe truck recognized him. An athlete, didn’t see that one coming. I should’ve, given the event, but again with the Toyota.

  I know he recognized me, but the way he was around me made me feel...real and seen. He looked at me like I was more than a song or a reputation. Our conversation was light and easy. And even though he’s five years younger than me, I never once felt like we were on different levels. I’ve dated men twice his age and been less impressed with their maturity. When he leaned over and placed his lips at the corner of my mouth, I swear my heart skipped ten beats, waiting to see what would happen next, but then he pulled back and blushed.

  He fucking blushed.

  “Who?” Casey asks again, when I continue to stare at the ceiling, remembering every second spent with Bo Bennett.

  “No one,” I repeat, neither of us believing the lie.

  “Maybe you should write a song about him?” she suggests, settling back into the cushy chair across from me with her frothy cup of coffee, legs crossed.

  I huff out a laugh and shake my head, still refusing to make eye contact with her. She’
d see right through me and I don’t want to tell her about him. For now, I want to keep him to myself, if only in memory. Thinking about him makes me feel good. “It’d be a flop.”

  Actually, that’s a lie too, because what girl wouldn’t want to sing along to a song about a boy who smiles like he knows every secret and has skin that’s been kissed by the sun.

  I take that back, a man...someone who makes your skin tingle with a single look.

  Bright white, super straight teeth.

  That’s always been a turn on for me.

  Add that to a killer smile and a slight dimple in his right cheek and it’s a deadly combination.

  Not to mention what has to be a finely tuned body, but one I didn’t get the pleasure of seeing. However, the way he filled out that tux, I know it’s something to write home about...or write a fucking song about.

  I’ve taken the liberty to look Bo up on the internet. I felt it was only fair, seeing as how my life is an open book and he probably knows every sordid detail about my past. His online image is as squeaky clean as his real-life persona. There’s not even a drunken picture of him at a frat party in college. No women to be heard of. He played all four years at a midwestern college and was drafted by the Revelers, but he’s spent the last two seasons playing for their minor league team in Des Moines, Iowa.

  His luck seemed to change after he was called up at the end of last season, but was sent back to the minors before playoffs, which the Revelers lost, never making it to the World Series.

  He’s also five years younger than me.

  So not my type.

  All the more reason I need to forget about him, and his number burning a hole in my cell phone.

  Picking my notebook back up off the floor, I begin to doodle—sometimes it helps open up the floodgates, allowing the words to flow—but all that appears on the page in front of me is his name.

  What am I? Some lovesick teenager?

  The next thing you know I’ll be adding his last name to mine and planning our marriage and future children. Letting out a frustrated groan, I look across the room to Casey.

  “Wanna talk about it?” she asks with a pleased expression. “I knew you’d come around.”

  “You can’t say a word. Not to anyone. Not Mom or Dad. And especially not Terry.”

  She makes a motion of zipping her lips and tossing away an imaginary key. Taking a sip of her coffee, she wiggles down further into the oversized chair, like she’s settling in for a bedtime story.

  Annoyed at her and her carefree attitude—always the baby with zero expectations, cruising through life with no one watching her every move. Most people probably think she’s envious of me, but really, I’m the envious one. I’m jealous of her freedom and that she can go anywhere she pleases without people gawking or imposing themselves into her daily life.

  “Fine,” I huff. “It’s a guy.”

  “I knew it,” Casey squeals. “Did you...you know?” My baby sister isn’t a prude, per say, but she refuses to say fuck...or speak about sex without using code words for everything. We’re polar opposites in so many ways.

  “We didn’t fuck,” I tell her, knowing it’ll earn me an eyeroll.

  “Mom is right. You’re so crude.”

  I laugh, looking her square in the eyes. “Just because I say fuck doesn’t mean I’m not a lady.”

  “Oh, my God. Tell that to someone who hasn’t lived with you for the last twenty-two years,” she retorts, giving me a look so similar to our mother. When does that happen? When do we start looking, acting, and sounding like our parents?

  The thought scares me.

  Not that our parents are horrible or anything. I just don’t want to be Tammy and Dean Carradine. I’m Charlotte. I’m a rocker. I love a good gin and tonic. I listen to loud music and this studio in my house is my church.

  “So, if you didn’t...you know, do the dirty, why is he messing with your head?” she asks thoughtfully, pausing to take another sip of her coffee. I think she likes staying here just for the freebies: espresso machine, home gym, all the Netflix she can handle, and grocery delivery. There aren’t many things I splurge on with my earnings, but this house and the things in it, are essential to my well-being.

  After a few seconds of me not answering, Casey jumps to her own conclusion and nearly knocks the chair over as she jumps to her feet. “Oh, my God. Did he turn you down?” she asks in mock disbelief. “Did a person of the male species not fall for Lola Carradine?” With her hand to her neck, like she’s clutching the family pearls, she gawks at me, mouth hanging open, as she waits for my response.

  I can’t help the loud belly laugh that erupts. It’s not that the idea of a man turning me down is absurd, although most men don’t. I realize I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. But it’s her dramatics that have me rolling. Also, yes, I mean, kind of...Bo Bennett was attentive, but at the end of the night, he dropped me off and with one last soft, sweet kiss to the corner of my mouth, bid me farewell.

  For fuck’s sake, I sound like a Jane Austen novel.

  “Is that what this is about?” Casey continues to push. “Did he dis you and now you’ve lost your mojo?”

  “No, he didn’t dis me,” I scoff. “And who the fuck says dis?”

  Casey stares at me with her hands on her hips, hovering over me. “I do.”

  “Well, 2004 called and they want it back.”

  She groans, plopping back down in her chair and picking her cup of coffee back up from the side table. “See, this is what I’ve been dealing with for the past week. So much shade.”

  “Okay, you can stop now.”

  “Look at you, turning twenty-nine and losing your cool status,” she mocks with a raise of her eyebrows, lips positioned in a smirk behind the rim of the coffee mug. “Alert the presses, Lola Carradine is officially old.”

  My eyes narrow on her. I know what she’s doing. I know she’s prodding me, poking me—playing on my insecurities like only a little sister can do—until I lose my shit and tell her everything, but it’s not happening. “Take it back.”

  “Which part? That you’re not cool...or that you’re old?” Her chipper little voice and high ponytail are really getting on my fucking nerves today.

  “Out,” I seethe, pointing to the door of the studio.

  “What?” she asks, incredulously.

  “Out. Now.”

  Her scowl tells me she’s not happy, but she leaves anyway, slamming the door behind her. Once I’m convinced she’s gone and not coming back for an encore, I reach over to the desk and grab my phone, opening it up to my missed call list and glaring at the number from a week ago.

  I could just text him.

  Once.

  Just a friendly hello, asking how he’s doing...maybe I could tell him I revisited the crepe truck and have taken it upon myself to try everything on the menu. I wouldn’t tell him that I went back and ordered the Chicken Florentine and a Nutella, just to try to recreate our evening together.

  No.

  That would be weird. And desperate. And so fucking unlike me.

  Maybe I could make up something to ask him?

  Hey, Bo. My manager was wondering when the first game is...he’s wanting to take some record label big wigs…

  Blah. So stupid.

  Again, who am I? And what has he done to me?

  No, you know what. This is stupid. I’m Lola Carradine. I rock the stage. I own a crowd. I do what I want...say what I want...and I can send a fucking text to Bo Bennett.

  Feeling irrationally empowered with that pep talk, I quickly punch on the number and select message.

  Me: Hi, Bo. It’s Charlotte. Just wanted to say I had a really great time last week. And the crepe truck was a great find. Thanks again.

  Before I lose my nerve, I hit send and toss the phone back onto the desk like it’s on fire.

  There, done. No take backs.

  Chapter 5

  Bo

  This week has been brutal.

  Not onl
y has it been hotter than normal, but the coaches have been working our asses on and off the field. Every Spring Training starts out with about sixty players, but by the end of it, only twenty-five will make the opening day roster. Of course, it’s everyone’s goal to make it to the end.

  It’s what we’ve worked our whole lives for.

  We eat, sleep, and breathe baseball.

  Everyone dreads the tap on the shoulder—the signal that you’re moving down.

  Skip needs to see you.

  I watched a few guys get the tap this week and every time they do, I feel a dead weight in the pit of my stomach. But instead of letting the anxiety of it all keep me from performing, I use it to push me—harder, faster, stronger.

  “Good work out there today,” Skip says, patting me on the back as we make our way down the steps and into the club house.

  Wiping my forehead with a towel and untucking my shirt, I take a breath. “Thanks, Skip.”

  Another day down. Another day to live the life. But the countdown to twenty-five intensifies and I feel it, probably more so than the majority of the players left in this locker room because I’m one of the youngest, one of three guys who’ve never been on the twenty-five man roster. Other than my short stint on the bench at the end of last season, I’ve never been in the majors.

  There’s been plenty of talk, lots of predictions, about my future success, but all of that means nothing if I don’t make the cut.

  “We’re all going to Shortie’s tonight, Rookie,” Ross Davies says, coming up behind me and placing his big, meaty palm on my shoulder. “Be there.”

  I shake my head. “No, no Shortie’s for me tonight. There’s a split schedule tomorrow and I’m playing first game.” Meaning, I have to be at the field no later than nine o’clock, which in my book is eight-thirty. My dad always taught me that if you’re required to be at practice at six, that’s really five-forty-five, five-thirty if you’re an overachiever, and I am definitely an overachiever. It’s in my blood. I can’t help it.