Over the Fence: Lyssa Layne's Baseball Romances (71 page)

To my good friends,
Melissa Keir
, thank you for your formatting skills, Tami Adams of
Magic of Books Promotions
for your proofreading, and to
E.J. Kellan
for making my cover come to life. To the lovers of Lyssa Layne, thank you for your continued support and staying by my side during this period of time. I promise I’ll do my best to continue giving you hot, steamy stories with book boyfriends we can’t resist.

A Diamond is Forever

He has to pick which diamond he’ll be on forever

CHAPTER 1

A warm, California breeze blows through the patio where I’m enjoying some Spanish fine dining. The spicy smells of the sauces float through the air and twinkle lights illuminate the area, setting the mood for the evening. There’s one person I can think of that would love this place but she’s on the opposite side of the country right now. 

“Alright, boys, the night is young. Let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into!”

I clap my hands, rubbing them together mischievously as I recall the good times that my old teammate, Grant Adamson, and I used to get into. Tonight, we’re sharing dinner with his buddy, L.A. Stags shortstop, Tate James, and my current teammate, Jace Richards. We won’t discuss Grant and Jace’s former relationship because the point is that they’re buddies now and all is good. 

“We’re all married men these days, Benny. Remember?” Grant speaks with a chuckle in his voice, letting me know that he’s teasing me.

“And the two of us have got kids to get home to,” Tate reminds us, gesturing between him and Grant.

I turn to my new teammate. “Guess it’s just you and me then, Dickey,” I say to Jace, grinning as I know he hates my nickname for him.

Jace rolls his eyes. “You’re on your own, dude. Laurel’s blowing up my phone because Grey’s on a date. Her last text, and I quote, said ‘Should I have given him a condom?’”

We all laugh at her text but it soon trickles off as we remember what it was like to be a horny teenager. Hell, I’m only thirty-four and I’ve got a horny teenager of my own back East thanks to my poor decisions when I was a teen myself.

“Well, no one put a ring on it, so I’m going to explore the options.” I hold up my left ring finger that is void of the jewelry the other three share. I lift my eyebrows quickly in the direction of the blonde server walking in our direction. My eyes drift up and down her body, pretending like I’m checking her out but it’s all for show.

“Benny Martinez, need I ask how Isabel is doing?” Grant asks, clearing his throat.

My lips drop into a frown at the mention of my longtime girlfriend and mother of my son. Grant knows my intentions are always empty and that there hasn’t been a woman in my life since Isabel entered it in ninth grade. But he also knows my commitment issues and the fact that despite almost twenty years together, I still haven’t put a ring on
her
.

“Now, Adamson, you know I only like to appreciate la belleza of women around me.”

I use my native language as if it’s some kind of code and no one around us will understand what I’m talking about. Born in Puerto Rico and growing up in Spanish Harlem, I used to speak español fluently and on a daily basis. Then I got to high school and discovered my love for a game called baseball. Turns out I was pretty good at it, but my group of friends, aside from Isabel, went from primarily Latinos to the offspring of those living on the Upper East Side. Needless to say, my Spanish went out the window but sixteen years later and I’ve made my name in MLB as the New York Aces’ best closing pitcher. I still practice my native tongue but usually in a way that my mama would not be proud of.

Tate glances up from his smartphone. “Martinez, you do realize we’re in Los Angeles. You know almost half of the city’s population speaks Spanish, right?”

“Excuse me, gentlemen?” The blonde waitress stands beside our table, her white blouse unbuttoned just enough to let the imagination wonder. Her eyeliner is feathered out in a smoky eye and she wears a bit more blush than I like but she’s still a pretty girl. My Isabel has a flawless, dark complexion that requires no make-up but I still appreciate this girl for putting forth an effort to look nice.

“Yes, amorcita?” I answer for the group, calling her a Spanish pet name.

Her cheeks turn bright red, giving off the natural blush of a woman’s skin that is much sexier than the artificial kind she brushed on. She interlocks her fingers on each hand, twisting her thumb ring nervously. She finds the confidence she’s searching for and lifts her gaze from her hands to look each of us in the face.

“Um, aren’t you guys ball players?”

My lips slip into a sly grin, the professional athlete line works every time, but when the ladies recognize it before I have to point it out, it’s even better. Taking her hand in mine, I bring it my lips and kiss it softly.

“So kind of you to notice,” I pause, looking at her breast to read her nametag, “Ladonna. What a beautiful name, I might add.”

Her eyes light up and that shyness she was harboring slips away. She tosses her hair over her shoulder, keeping her hand in mine. “So, how long are you boys in town?”

A credit card is thrust between myself and the waitress. Jace is leaning forward, effectively forcing us to break our touch. I’m familiar with the look of irritation on his face and I bite back the urge to laugh as it wasn’t too long ago that Jace was Mr. Playboy himself. The waitress takes his hint and retreats inside to swipe the credit card.

“Fuck, Martinez, what the hell kind of game are you playing? Fuckin’ marry Isabel and end this shit,” Jace mutters, throwing his wallet on the table as he waits for the beautiful blonde to come back with his card.

“There’s no harm in looking, Dickey.” I shrug nonchalantly and take a sip of my wine. “I thought tonight was going to be a fun guys’ night out, didn’t know I was with a bunch of old geezers.”

Tate smirks. “Aside from Adamson, aren’t you the oldest at the table?”

I roll my eyes. “Fine, but I’m not going to sit back and pretend that beautiful women don’t exist.”

Across the table, Grant temples his fingers as he speaks. “None of us are saying beautiful women outside of our wives don’t exist. There’s just a fine line between appreciating their good looks and disrespecting our own ladies.”

Paired with his wise words, the glow from the candle on the table and the twinkle lights directly behind him, Grant is looking a tad bit Yoda-ish. I hold up my hands, accepting his words for the evening and deciding to lay off on my flirting so I don’t offend the bridegrooms at my table. I don’t have to convince anyone because I know I would never cheat on Isabel, but for some reason that’s unbeknownst to me, I just can’t seem to pop one little question to her.

CHAPTER 2

Sanguine tunes with Spanish lyrics play in the courtyard of my apartment complex. Dredging up the stairs in my wool Burberry suit pants, I curse the elevator that is forever broken. At least the stairwell has open windows so a small breeze offers somewhat of a relief from the summer heat. My suit coat thrown over one shoulder and my suitcase in my other hand, I climb the steps to the tenth floor where home sweet home waits for me.

The sounds of kids singing and yelling at each other dance up the stairs and I smile. I used to be somewhat of a hero to the neighborhood kids being an MLB player and all. These days, I’m just Señor Benny who they think is the next best thing to Santa. I never come home from a game or road trip empty handed, usually it’s some kind of Aces’ shirt or giveaway, but their favorite is when I leave a filled piñata hanging above the patio. I learned my lesson the hard way not to do that when I get in late at night or I won’t get to sleep in once the children discover it the next morning.

At last, I finally reach my front door which is already ajar, letting the breeze in from outside. The smell of Isabel’s famous pasteles, or Puerto Rican tamales, greet me and my stomach gives a loud growl to say hello back. Pasteles have always been my longtime favorite food and Isabel strongly believes if she feeds me enough of them, I might return to some of our authentic roots.

I kick open the door the rest of the way, letting it hit the wall beside me and stepping into our little hot box that we call home. Did I mention that the entire building isn’t air conditioned? I could buy this building if I wanted to, and the good Lord knows I’ve tried, but I haven’t because Isabel would kill me if I did. Instead, we pay just under two grand per month for our place, which is pennies to what I make per inning. Our humble abode is a two bedroom apartment that luckily only houses three people—myself, Isa, and our son, Marcos. I
might
overpay rent each month to cover some of our neighbors who struggle to get by because it’s about the only thing Isabel will let me do with our money.

“Hola, gordi!” I call out to Isabel as I set my stuff on the couch and shed my dress shirt, tugging it over my head. Following the aroma to the kitchen, I take a second to watch my woman. Isabel, the woman I love, is the sexiest mujer I’ve ever laid eyes on. My lady is a full figured woman, thick around the hips and booty with buxom bosoms. My current view is of Isa bending over the oven, swaying her hips from side to side as her lavender, cotton romper trimmed in white crochet stretches over her wide backside and makes my pants do a little dance of their own.

Finding the rhythm myself, I quietly dance across the room until I slide my hands over her hips as I hum along with the music from the courtyard. Isabel jumps in surprise, clanging the pan of pasteles on the rack in the oven. Grinding my hips against her bottom, I let her see for herself how happy I am to be home.

“Benjamin Martinez!” Isabel shouts, accenting my name in her sexy Spanish way. Closing the oven door, she turns to face me. “Tienes miedo a la mierda de mí!” She says, which translates to I scared the shit out of her. At barely five feet four inches tall, her bark is pretty intense.

I pull her closer to me, swiveling my hips against hers. Her frown quickly disappears as she notes my manhood pressed against her. Slowly, her lips raise into a smile and she shakes her head.

“I take it you missed me?”

“Always, Isa, you’re my girl.” I lower my head, pressing my lips against her neck.

Isabel runs her fingers through my dark mop of hair, thicker on top and buzzed on the sides.

“How were the women on the road?”

She’s fishing, she does this every time I come home. I’ve never cheated on her, not even so much as kissed another woman on the lips. Still, it doesn’t matter what I say, she is insecure when I’m on the road although she refuses to travel with me, contending that Marcos needs a steady home life and has to focus on school. Grant and I have had many a conversation over the years regarding this as it used to piss me off every time she’d ask a question like this. Grant helped me to realize that it’s more than likely my fault for not marrying her already.