Out of Left Field

Chapter 1 - This is Bad (Chris)

Chris

I heard her shoes before I saw her.

The harsh clack of her stilettos on the concrete floor sent a wave of relief through my system that was immediately washed away and replaced with nerves.

There were only a few things in life that I hated, and disappointing Sloane Taylor was at the top of the list. I could already picture the resigned look on her face and how she would cross her arms and sigh.

Honestly, I would let the nerves eat away at me any other time. But the pounding headache combined with the fact that I was still coming down from a coke high, made it a little hard to focus on anything other than the fact that I was sweating through my clothes and the room was spinning.

I tried to ground myself by focusing on a scuff that marked the concrete wall across the room instead of the way everything circled around me despite my ass being planted on this extremely uncomfortable mattress.

"He's in here."

The metal 'bed' creaked under me as I sat up, swinging my legs over the side and taking a deep, slow breath. I rested my elbows on my knees to keep upright and waited.

"Thanks, Stu." The softness of her voice floated through the air, bringing a welcome warmth and familiarity to the chill of this cell.

Dread gnawed at the pit in my stomach as the sound of her heels got closer and closer, scraping to a stop just outside of the metal bars.

Honestly, I had no clue how I was going to face Sloane. In a perfect fantasy world, I could keep my palms pressed to my face and pretend that I didn't call her and beg for help. But knowing Sloane as I did, her patience was running thin and now was not the time to test it.

She would leave me here. In a heartbeat. Especially after the past couple of months.

I tilted my head in her direction, squinting against the bright fluorescents, and finding her scowl through the bars of the jail cell. "Hey, Pip." My voice was hoarse, my throat scratchy and dry.

Apparently, even the starting pitcher for the Boston Red Sox doesn't get special treatment around here. Especially when caught snorting coke off of a stripper.

Man, would I kill for a bottle of water.

Sloane cleared her throat, twisting her lips to the side. I assumed she was chewing on the inside of her cheek, a habit I'd tried to break for the entirety of our friendship, but after almost 30 years, it seemed to be a lost cause at this point.

It was well after midnight, but here she stood in the Suffolk County Jail impeccably dressed like she was heading to a board meeting.

Her long brown hair was pulled up into a tight bun on the top of her head, a few wisps of loose hair falling down the back of her neck. She wore a white button-down, long-sleeve shirt tucked into a black pencil skirt with tiny white pinstripes, her black Louboutin's tapping against the concrete impatiently.

She was pissed. I could see that easily. But even pissed off, she was stunning. A beautiful contrast to the jail cell I currently sat in. Describing her as stunning still felt like a gross understatement.

Despite her heart-shaped face being twisted with anger, her features were still soft and my fingers still ached to touch her. She had high cheekbones and freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose, fading onto her cheeks, and she always smelled like summertime. Citrus and sunshine.