He had no idea how long he’d spent in the shower, but it must have been a good while. The Bat Pack and Brody Jones were now dressed and sat at a small round table playing cards. Risk Kincaid stood to the side, talking on his cell phone. Several other players milled around. An unusual sight, as the men always left the park quickly, especially following a win.
Romeo cut him a look and grunted, “Damn, you take long showers.”
“Jacking off?” Psycho coughed into his hand.
“Hope you’re feeling good enough to dress yourself,” said Chaser. “If not, I call socks and shoes.”
The fraternity of sportsmen. Law dried his hair with a towel as he took in the men. They’d been concerned over his head injury and hung out until he’d returned.
One corner of his mouth curved slightly. “I can manage my clothes,” Law assured Chaser.
“What about driving?” The card game over, Brody folded his hand, pushing to his feet. “You need a ride? I’ve room in my Caravan.”
Law doubted there was more than an inch of space in Brody’s van. The kid had moved all his possessions to Richmond at the beginning of the season, yet hadn’t fully unpacked the vehicle. Brody presently lived in a room above Duffy’s Diner in north Richmond. He hadn’t set up a permanent residence. He liked living his life on four wheels.
Law met each player’s gaze. “I see only one of you—no more double vision.” His reassurance released the men.
“Thanks,” he added as they filed out.
Psycho turned, pulling a face. “Don’t go all mushy on us.”
Law appreciated the brotherhood. The Rogues looked out for and protected their own.
He kept his movements even and balanced as he dressed. Steady on his feet and close to feeling his normal self, he finally left the park. Driscoll Financial was his next stop.
A thirty-minute drive later, Law parked his silver Bugatti Veyron on Stonewall Jackson Parkway in the heart of the historic district. Against the soft burnished glow of the late-afternoon sun, the redbrick buildings rose solid and stoic, holding the past in the present.
He cut the engine, released his seat belt, then searched his front pants pocket for a roll of tropical-flavored Life Savers. He peeled back the wrapper and popped an orange one in his mouth. Orange was his favorite flavor. He had a sweet tooth and enjoyed several rolls of candy a day.
Exiting the vehicle, he stood on the sidewalk and took a moment to admire the Bugatti’s sleek, racy lines. The car had been a gift to himself, bought with the bonus money from his latest contract, not from his inheritance.
Law never forgot who signed his paychecks. Without fan support, he wouldn’t have a job. He took care of those who took care of him. He led a complicated life, balancing celebrity, sports, family wealth, and a personal need for solitude.
He followed in his grandfather’s philanthropic footsteps, reaching out to the Richmond community whenever he could. He rang the bell for the Salvation Army at Christmas and volunteered for Special Olympics each summer.
In the evenings, he often sat at the veterans’ center and listened to war stories. He donated generously to rehabilitation centers that provided ongoing therapy for those military men and women injured overseas. Team owner Guy Powers praised Law for being so visible around town. But Law didn’t do it for good team publicity.
He’d been taught what was right and what was expected of him. Yet the city’s warm reception never quite reached his heart. A limousine accident had broken up his family on his eighth birthday. His childhood had died with his parents. Since then he’d shared joys with his team, but never formed any rock-solid bonds with anyone.
Fortunately, sports and his grandfather had kept him alive. He’d never have survived without Randall and baseball.
He flexed his shoulders, rolling the memories back. He next checked his watch, a platinum Panerai that had once belonged to his father. He was fifteen minutes late to his appointment.
He locked the sports car and set the security alarm. Through the passenger window he caught sight of Wonder Woman’s Lasso of Truth curled on the floor mat next to a box of athletic shoes and a six-pack of bottled water. He kept the lariat in the car in case his administrative assistant tracked down the owner of the costume. Law had every plan to see the Amazon Princess once again.
He turned and scanned the block before him, noting two familiar businesses. On the corner, a steady stream of customers entered Jacy’s Java, a gourmet coffee shop owned by Risk Kincaid’s wife. Law was a regular, favoring strong espressos and orange-cranberry muffins.
Two doors south, starting pitcher Brek Stryker’s wife, Taylor, owned Thrill Seekers: hardcore adventure tours for the strong of heart. Extreme skiing at La Grave, France, had always appealed to Law. However, the no-risk clause in his major-league contract curbed his adrenaline rush.
He walked to the end of the block and entered Driscoll Financial. The short, dark-paneled hallway and hardwood floor led to a reception area. The room was decorated with style. An ornate gilded mirror reflected all visitors; the wingback chairs were covered in rich burgundy leather. Sconces provided subtle lighting. Scarlet impatiens bloomed in a brass urn. Forbes, Fortune, and Newsweek were tucked into the magazine rack. The Wall Street Journal was folded neatly on an antique tripod table.
Polished and professional, Law thought as he approached the receptionist. Zen Driscoll was thriving after his baseball career. Law was glad to see his former teammate doing so well.
“Mr. Lawless.” Ellen French recognized him and smiled her welcome. “Follow me. Mr. Driscoll is expecting you.”
She rose from behind her desk and directed Law toward the second door on the right. She knocked twice, then ushered him inside.
Law hadn’t been in Zen’s office since Zen and his wife, Stevie, had renovated the space. He took two steps over the threshold, turned in a full circle, and stared at the transformation.
He was swimming with goldfish.
Two of the walls had been gutted and now gargantuan Plexiglas aquariums ran the breadth and length of the newly plastered and painted drywall. Fluorescence streaked the water gold. Green gravel and turquoise rocks lined the bottom of each tank. The air pumps bubbled and orange slices bobbed on the surface. Heaters hummed as hundreds of goldfish explored dark caves, castles, and tall plastic plants.
“Black moors, bubble eyes, fantails, shubunkins, commons.” Law recognized the different types of goldfish from his own childhood aquarium. “There’s even a lionhead.”