Jason reared back and let another one rip.
Longarm had it down this time. It was still nothing but a simple matter of making his hands go where his eye said they ought. But quicker this time. No big deal.
He connected so hard he could feel the sting of it through his palms and all the way into his wrists. The sound of the horsehide coming off wood was crisp and loud, and all around him the ball players began to gape as the ball soared damn near out of sight and then arced down toward the far end of the field.
The redhead center fielder, a skinny kid named Ted, didn’t even try to run it down. He just stood there watching the thing sail over his head way the hell out of reach.
“That’s a home run, Short. Jesus. I never seen anything fly so far.”
That was good, Longarm thought. Wasn’t it? He knew better than to ask though. Not right now. He could talk to McWhortle about it later if he remembered. He settled for turning his head and spitting, which seemed to be something the other players did a lot. “Can we quit now?”
“Good God, no,” McWhortle said. The young manager looked so tickled about something that he could bust although Longarm didn’t know what had happened to please him so. “Come on, Jason. Put something past Short here. If you can.”
Longarm shrugged and picked up the bat again. Now if they could just go ahead and get this over with …
Chapter 12
Longarm had never in his life been so tired, so hot, or so thoroughly drenched with steamy-sticky sweat. He was sure of it. Except maybe that time … no, not even then, he decided upon further reflection. This was the worst of it right here and now, yes it was.
His ass was dragging and his clothes—what asshole was it who decided that baseball uniforms had to be made of flannel, anyhow—stuck to him like they’d been painted on.
The other boys were fifteen to twenty yards in front of him and chattering like a flock of damn guinea fowl as they walked back to the boardinghouse. Even the clubfooted equipment boy was moving along faster than Longarm, pushcart full of bats and all. Longarm might have been able to work up some humiliation over that fact except that it would’ve been too much effort. Right now all he wanted was a bath, a cool one at that, and about twenty hours of sleep. He was too tired even to want any supper. Or so much as a beer. And that, b’damn, was tired indeed.
“Yoo hoo. Mister. Mr. Short, is it? Chester Short?”
He squinted one eye against the sting of salty sweat that was streaming off his scalp and looked to see who was speaking to him.
She was eighteen, nineteen years old and built like a sword blade, lean and flexible. But pretty. Lordy, she was pretty. Chestnut hair done up in a prim and tidy bun, delicate face but full and rather juicy lips, eyes as icy pale as a she-wolf’s. She looked good enough to eat. If a man happened to be hungry, that is. At the moment Longarm was sure he was too tired to raise an erection if the girl had been naked. Which she certainly was not. She had that prissy, skinny-neck look about her that spoke of choirs and daylong sermons. He doubted a girl like this one would consent to get naked to take a bath. Likely she insisted on wearing a bathing robe to reach underneath and scrub.
Not that he cared, of course.
“Yoo hoo. Mr. Short?”
“Yeah.” He slowed and came to a stumble-footed halt, not so much because he wanted to talk to the girl as that he wanted to rest for a minute before walking on to the boardinghouse and that waiting bathtub.
“I saw you hitting those home runs this afternoon. It was wonderful. Really.” Her smile was beatific, and her eyelashes fluttered right furiously. “You were magnificent.”
Longarm felt his cheeks commence to heat up. He wasn’t exactly used to this sort of praise. It was positively embarrassing. Magnificent? Jeez!
“Could you come into the arbor here for a minute, please?”
“You want my autograph or something?” he asked. “Me?”
The smile became even more fetching. If that was possible.
“Please?” she repeated.
Damn girl had dimples when she smiled like that. And what man can resist the request of a pretty young thing with dimples? “Sure, why not.”
Wearily Longarm trudged along behind the girl as she let herself through a white-painted gate and through the yard of a fine and fancy house to a spacious gazebo so thoroughly covered with ivy and climbing rose vines that it might as well have had walls. “In here,” she said.
It was coming dusk—McWhortle hadn’t wanted to quit despite the late hour and only agreed to let Longarm stop batting when he complained that he couldn’t see the ball any longer; a mild sort of lie but a necessary one considering the state of Longarm’s fatigue—and inside the summerhouse it was practically full dark.
The girl stopped half a pace into the shelter and turned, her right hand reaching out—and down—to unerringly find the bulge that Longarm’s pecker made high on the thigh of his wet uniform britches.
“Short,” she said with a small laugh. “They should rename you Long. I couldn’t believe it when I saw this lump, Chester. Why, I do believe it is as big and powerful as the bat you were swinging.”
What Longarm couldn’t believe was what this crazy girl was all of a sudden doing.
She pressed herself full against him, which surely did no good to the pretty dress she was wearing as it, and she herself, would be wallowing in his sweat from the merest touch.
She came up onto tiptoes and shoved her tongue inside his mouth, all the while pulling and tugging at his prick.
