“You’re his secret weapon.” Stryke knew this to be true.
Throughout the campaign, he’d watched Talbott use his daughter to soften his own directness. Constituents were drawn to Hilary. She posed no threat, only offered reassurance that her father was the best man for the job.
Stuart Tate leaned around Hilary and looked pointedly at Stryke. “You working the jock vote?” he asked.
The jock vote? “Sorry, I don’t discuss politics in the locker room,” he replied. He’d never apply pressure to any player to back a candidate—not even the father of his fiancée.
Over the past month, Brek had contributed heavily. He’d written three fat checks, all with five zeroes. He’d yet to see enough flyers, buttons, or banners to justify his donations. A flicker of concern had him wondering how the money was being spent.
Twice a week, Wayne Talbott’s face popped up on the tube during the late-late shows. The campaign commercials lasted all of fifteen seconds. They were so brief, the man barely had time to state his name and the fact that he was running for reelection. Talbott’s opponent, Scott Beatty, took sixty-second spots, laying out his platform and making promises in short but efficient sound bites.
Stryke had attended five fund-raisers thus far. Expenses had been spared on the meals, all child-portioned. He hadn’t expected to be fattened up, but he’d walked away hungry. He always grabbed a sandwich at Jacy’s Java on his way home.
He now pressed his hand to Hilary’s thigh, then lowered his voice. “We’ll talk a fourth donation when I have you alone.”
Will the donation go up as I work down your body?
His breath hissed through his teeth as Taylor’s—not Hilary’s—voice whispered in his ear, all sexy and sultry and teasing.
“You look tense,” Hilary said, concerned. “I’d thought you’d be relaxed after your win today.”
He stretched out his legs beneath the table. “The team played well. We’re starting the season strong.”
“The late-afternoon addition of the Virginia Banner pictured you and Rally Ball on the lower half of the front page,” Stuart Tate put in. For a man who blanked on sports, he was suddenly animated. “The article mentioned that the mascot took a beating.”
Those words would tick Taylor off. She held her own in most situations. He’d never known her to fall until today, when she’d been unfairly tripped by the plastic-toed Raptor.
“Rappy tripped Rally.” Stryke found himself defending Taylor. “The Raptor was twice the fuzz ball’s size.”
“The bird was a bully,” Hilary added sympathetically.
“You”—Tate pointed to Stryke—“came to Charlie Bradley’s rescue. One photograph showed your arm around Rally; another had you brushing off his backside. Very chummy, wouldn’t you say?”
Chummy? Shit. “Charlie hurt his knee.” Stryke kept the focus on Charlie and not Taylor. “I helped support his weight until the trainer took over.”
“Looked pretty intimate,” Tate persisted, “the pitcher coming to the mascot’s rescue. The reporter called you ‘sympathetic.’ ”
Stryke’s testicles drew tight. A picture was worth a thousand words. He didn’t appreciate Tate’s suggestion that he and Charlie were more than friends. Worse yet, he hated explaining himself to a table of strangers.
He would have let the subject drop had Hilary not gone wide-eyed with surprise. He sucked it up, assured her, “I’ve known Charlie for six seasons. He’s divorced, but still loves his ex-wife. They’re going through couples therapy. There’s reconciliation in their future.”
“If Charlie doesn’t get back with his wife, he always has you.” Tate grinned, a perverse twist to his lips. “A man of . . . comfort.”
Stryke stared at Tate. The man had insinuated that Stryke was a switch-hitter. Everyone at the table now looked at him questioningly. They wondered if he did men. Though he wasn’t homophobic, Stryke was attracted to women, not men. Always had been, always would be. For whatever reason, Tate wanted Stryke to look bad in Hilary’s eyes. Stryke didn’t appreciate Tate’s smear campaign. He wanted to kick Tate’s ass for raising doubt about his sexuality before his fiancée and Richmond’s finest.
For a brief moment, he thought about telling all those seated that it was Taylor Hannah, not Charlie Bradley, who’d performed as Rally Ball that afternoon. He decided not to drag Taylor into the mix. An ex-fiancée’s antics were best kept secret.
Stryke looked at the four remaining men seated at his table: a contractor, a bodybuilder who now owned a chain of gyms, a community leader and owner of several Harley-Davidson franchises, and a retired high school basketball coach. All were men with athletic pasts and more muscle in their necks than Tate had in his entire body.
Game face on, Stryke turned to Tate. “Guess you’ve never played sports, Stu. Otherwise you’d know Rally’s an integral part of the Rogues organization. We consider Charlie one of the team. No matter the circumstance, the players protect their own. Today I defended Rally.”
Color flooded Tate’s cheeks. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair and had nothing further to say.
Vindicated, Stryke moved the conversation away from baseball. He asked Hilary about the next fund-raiser. She went on to discuss her father’s plans to back a homeless shelter in south Richmond.
Her burgeoning excitement drew interest from nearby tables. Grocery magnate Earl Stone promised to supply day-old bakery goods and produce to feed the less fortunate. Contractor Bud Davidson’s offer to set up a job pool for out-of-work men had Hilary so ecstatic she couldn’t eat her dessert. Stryke ate two slices of the sliver-thin pecan pie.
At the end of the night, Hilary was all smiles and gratitude. She initiated their good-night kiss in the parking lot beneath a quarter moon, a kiss so featherlight, Stryke wondered if it had really happened Her reticence kept him at arm’s length. Since they’d met, all his pent-up sexual energy had gone into pitching. He’d started the season strong.
Their lack of sex hadn’t bothered him until Taylor’s return to Richmond. Not every couple came together as he and Taylor once had. They’d experienced once-in-a- lifetime sex. A mere glance or light touch, and their attraction unbuttoned blouses and unzipped jeans. Landing in bed was as natural as breathing.