Swing Read online

  Swing

  Copyright © 2016 Adriana Locke

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover Art:

  Kari March, Kari March Designs

  www.karimarch.com

  Cover Photos:

  Adobe Stock

  Editing:

  Lisa Christman, Adept Edits

  Interior Design & Formatting:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  www.typeAformatting.com

  Table of Contents

  Swing

  Also by Adriana Locke

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  Check out an excerpt of Wherever It Leads

  Check out a sneak peek at The Italian by Beverly Preston

  Acknowledgements

  THE EXCEPTION SERIES

  (each novel can be read as a standalone)

  The Exception (book 1)

  Purchase from Amazon

  The Connection, a novella (book 1.5)

  Purchase from Amazon

  The Perception (book 2)

  Purchase from Amazon

  THE LANDRY FAMILY SERIES

  (each novel can be read as a standalone)

  Sway (book 1)

  Purchase from Amazon

  Swing (book 2)

  Switch (Graham Landry’s book, coming 2017)

  Swear (Ford Landry’s book, coming 2017)

  STANDALONE NOVELS

  Sacrifice

  Purchase from Amazon

  Wherever It Leads

  Purchase from Amazon

  Written in the Scars

  Purchase from Amazon

  Delivery Man (coming 2017)

  Battle of the Sexes (coming 2017)

  More Than I Could (coming 2017)

  Subscribe to Adriana’s Release Day Email list and receive an email from the author every time she publishes a book—HERE

  Follow Adriana on Goodreads to stay up-to-date on all things Bookish—HERE

  For everyone that loves someone that’s not always easy to love.

  And for Danielle Monroe. You never cease to amaze me with your kindness . . . and love for baseball. This one is for you!

  Lincoln

  “I’M AWARE THIS ISN’T WHAT you wanted to hear.”

  Pulling my cap down a little farther over my forehead, I try to squeeze the voice of the Arrows’ team doctor out of my mind. He can’t help what the test results say. Hell, his life would be easier if he could’ve slapped some salve on my shoulder and called it a day. Unfortunately for both of us, no such luck.

  The elevator dings as the doors extend and I step inside. Hitting the button for the therapy floor, I smile, tossing the blonde chick leaning against the back wall a bone. Not my bone, of course. I can’t think about that right now. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy how her tongue darts to her bottom lip and drags slowly across.

  “Where’re you headed?” she asks in her best Marilyn Monroe impersonation.

  “Therapy,” I say.

  “Really? So am I.”

  Following her gaze as it dips from my face, across my sternum, down my abs, and hovers over my bulge, I grin. For her amusement, and maybe for mine, I grab my junk and give it a little shake. She whimpers.

  Every. Time.

  We stop our ascent just as Blondie starts to find her voice, the doors swinging open to what is, by all accounts, complete and utter chaos. Kids, probably fifteen of them and all under the age of ten, are clamoring for one person’s attention.

  I find the button to close the doors when I see her: shiny, raven hair pulled away from a round face accentuated with full, pink lips. Her body is the shape of an hourglass, apparent even under the pale pink dress that just skims her voluptuous curves.

  “Fuck me,” I mutter as my hand lurches forward to stop the doors from shutting.

  “Excuse me?” Blondie chirps. “If that’s an offer, I’m willing.”

  I ignore her. My eyes trained on the woman crouching in front of me so she’s eye-to-eye level with a little red-haired boy, I find myself taking a step off the elevator.

  “Hey! This isn’t the therapy floor!” Blondie yelps.

  “I know.” But it might be the best kind of therapy if things go right. The bell chimes behind me as the elevator whisks her away.

  The little boy joins the others in a makeshift line before they exit the room. She stands, grabbing a cup of coffee off of a ledge next to her before turning and catching me watching her. “Oh!” she says, startled, wobbling slightly on her heels. Heels that make her legs look lean and toned with a high probability of looking fantastic around my neck.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” I smile.

  “I, um.” She clears her throat like she’s trying to compose herself. “I’m sorry. Can I help you?”

  Oh, I’m sure you can.

  My smirk betrays the neutrality I’m attempting to convey. As her hand reaches for the small, golden charm at the hollow of her throat, all I can do is imagine pressing my lips against it. Touching her skin. Smelling her, what I’m sure is a sweet, sexy aphrodisiac. Skimming my hands down those curves, committing them to memory.

  Slipping my hand into the pocket of my sweatpants, I adjust myself. If she notices, she pretends not to.

  Classy too? Fuck me. Literally. Please.

  “I was looking for Therapy,” I tell her, hoping to spur some conversation I can work into something more. Of course I know damn good and well where I’m headed. It’s become my new home away from home.

  “You need to go up three levels,” she replies. “This is Child Life. There’s no therapy happening here, although you might need some if you stay too long.”

  Her words are punctuated with a hint of sarcasm in the prettiest way. No malice. No attitude. Just a dose of playfulness that makes me want to keep her talking. Even as she turns down a hallway, effectively ending the start of a conversation, I effectively restart it by following her.

  Does she think she can just walk away from me? If so, she underestimates the power of her ass.

  Her dress dips at the small of her back, just above the arch of her behind. I ram both of my hands into my pockets to remind myself not to touch. I’m not that kind of guy, but it’s that perfect. Just as I wonder whether it jiggles as she’s getting slammed from behind and what noises would escape her little mouth, she glances at me over her shoulder.

  “Three floors up,” she reiterates.<
br />
  “What?”

  A giggle floats through the air, my abs clenching at the thought of hearing that same sound charged with my name. While I’m inside her. Or her lips are coating my cock. Or—

  “Are you listening to me?” she laughs.

  Her voice pulls me from my daydream. We’re standing at a doorway. She’s flipping on the lights to a little office and stepping inside. I follow her, like a puppy looking for someone to play with. At least I’m not drooling . . . I don’t think . . . but I probably am panting. I need played with. What can I say?

  The room is painted an off-white color with dozens of finger paintings and macaroni art like we used to make in elementary school tacked to the walls. Glancing around, I wonder if she’s some sort of art teacher.

  I search for something with her name on it, a photograph to give me a clue as to who she is and what she does. Nothing. Just construction paper chains hanging off of a fake tree in the corner.

  The notepad in her hand hits her desk with a smack. Fighting a smile, she gives me a quick once-over. “Do you need an escort?”

  “Thanks, but escorts aren’t my thing,” I grin.

  She leans on her desk, her cleavage just peeking out of the top of the fucking dress I want to rip off her body. She’s doing this on purpose, the little minx.

  She drags her gaze down my body, letting it linger on my lower half, but returns her baby blues to my eyes, smirking. “So you just prefer to wander around and see what turns . . . up?”

  My head angles to the side as I watch her assess my reaction to her innuendo. Before I can respond, the phone on her desks comes to life. She places a hand on the receiver. “I need to get this,” she says. “Three floors.”

  “Up,” I wink. “Got it. What’s your name?”

  “Danielle Ashley, director of Child Services.”

  “I’m Lincoln Landry.”

  “I know.”

  She seems to think she has an upper hand because she knows who I am. Truth is, she obviously doesn’t really know who she’s up against because I always stay ahead of the count.

  “See you later, Dani.” I’m out the door, leaving her standing there with her jaw open.

  “It’s Danielle!” she shouts behind me, but I don’t look back.

  Danielle

  “HELLO?” MY GAZE FALLS ON the spot he just occupied on the other side of my desk.

  He’s so tall, so wide, so broad, so . . . big. My cheeks burn, a grin splitting my cheeks as I remember the definite outline of just how big he probably is. If the old wives’ tales are true and penis size and shoe size are related, he must wear at least a thirteen.

  “G’day,” Macie responds through the line.

  “G’day? Are you Australian now?”

  She laughs. “I have a patient that’s Australian. I’m in love with the accent. Will says he’s going to kill me if I don’t bloody stop.”

  “I can see why,” I joke. “What’s happening in Boston?”

  “On lunch break. Called to see what my best friend is doing.”

  Falling into my chair and squeezing my thighs together to try to quell the ache throbbing between my legs, I look once again at the doorway. His cologne, a musky, rich fragrance, still permeates the air. It’s like he’s still taunting me without having to even be here. So unfair.

  “Thank God you called,” I mutter. “I’d probably be on my back on my desk right now if you hadn’t.”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I can’t help it. I’m just a woman. A badass one with the restraint of a saint, if the last ten minutes prove anything, but I was cracking. I’m only human.”

  “Slow down there, Saint Danielle. What are you talking about?” she laughs.

  “You’ll never guess who was just in my office.”

  “Probably not. So tell me.”

  “Lincoln Landry.” The line goes quiet. After a few long seconds, I realize she has no idea who I’m talking about. “Star centerfielder for the Tennessee Arrows?” I offer.

  “Ohhhh . . .”

  “Yeah, ohhhh.”

  “Sorry. If it’s not a fighter or a player for Boston, I don’t know them. I’m fairly certain Will would break up with me if he suspected I liked anyone other than his Red Sox.”

  “Google Lincoln. It’s worth the possible break up,” I say, fanning my still-red cheeks. “He’s literally the best looking guy I’ve ever seen, Macie.”

  “That’s saying a lot coming from you, Miss Hottie Magnet.”

  My mind goes through the photo album of men I’ve met or known in my life. It’s a pretty spectacular list, thanks to being the child of Bryan and Tracey Ashley Kipling. Athletes, movie stars, models? I’ve seen them all. And none of them hold a candle to Lincoln Landry in person.

  The confidence he carries is such a turn-on. Borderline cocky. Halfway arrogant, yet he pulls it off because he has every right to be those things. He’s delicious. Hot. Talented. Wealthy. From what the media says, he’s also funny and kind and sweet.

  Screw him and his perfect resume.

  And flawless face.

  And delicious body.

  And probably game-winning stamina. I’m going to be a mess today just thinking about it.

  “Why was he in your office?” Macie asks, right as I was ready to mentally remove his clothes. “Oh my God, Danielle! I just pulled him up. Why can’t I be you? Just for a day?”

  “I’m quite happy I’m me today,” I laugh. “He just walked off the elevator on the wrong floor and followed me to my office.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter? Now I’m sitting here with wet panties, his ‘Fuck me’ cologne filling my office, and all sorts of ideas as to what his body looks like under those sweatpants and t-shirt.”

  “He wore sweatpants?” she gulps.

  “Yup.”

  “Shit,” she breathes, a squeak in her voice. “Those are the sexiest things ever. Shouldn’t be, but they are. Don’t even tell me they sat low on his hips.”

  “I won’t,” I sigh dreamily. My eyes flutter closed as the broadness of his shoulders fill my memory, the way his chest tapered down on the sides to one trim, hard waist. My fingers sing as I imagine running my hands down what I’m sure is an etched V. “He swaggered in here like a rock star. He wore sweatpants like most men wear a tailored suit, Mace. Like . . . he must really be good if he’s that confident.”

  “Oh, I bet he’s good. Check out that arm porn in his pictures. And those hands—dear Lord! Think of what they could do to you.” A camera shutter sounds through the phone. “Here, I’m texting you a screenshot of this one.”

  “That’s precisely what I’m trying not to think about,” I laugh. “I have to work for the next five hours!”

  Macie sighs right along with me. “On that note, I need to get back to work too. No hot baseball players here, but one can hope, right?”

  “Two words: Will Gentry.”

  “I need to call you later and tell you about last night. I’m being invaded by families right now, so I can’t get into details. I’ll just say that boy had me panting for hours, Danielle. Hours.”

  “Call me later,” I laugh.

  “Cheerio!”

  I replace the handset and settle back into my seat. A shiver tears through my body, an aftershock from being in the center of the Landry storm. I consider locking the door and getting myself off. I need the release. My body needs to return to normal working order, having been thrusted up the—

  Thrusted? I’m never going to get through this day. The worst part is that the good-looking asshole knew exactly what he was doing to me.

  They always do.

  Which is why they’re in my no-fly zone.

  Lincoln

  IT’S FUNNY WHAT YOU LEARN at two in the morning when you’re bored, sober, and a little uneasy. It’s a trifecta I’m just getting acquainted with. I might be sober a lot during the season, but boredom and anxiety aren’t familiar. Or fun.

  Around.


  Around.

  Around.

  I’ve tried to watch one blade of the ceiling fan, focusing on it and trying to block out the other four as they whiz above me. Over the last thirty minutes, I’ve learned it’s impossible to count the number of rotations in a minute when it’s set at medium speed. I’ve also learned that Skittles make violent projectiles when launched into the blades of the fan, regardless of the setting.

  I already knew that though. That was a painful lesson learned at a party a few years back.

  Rubbing my shoulder, I see the slight purple indent of the candy against the white paint of my bedroom. It will be gone tomorrow. Rita, the housekeeper, is thorough like that.

  I snatch the remote off the bedside table and flip the fan off. It slows, shuddering just a bit before the spinning comes to a halt. Immediately, I remember why I turned it on in the first place: it’s the silence that kills me. It’s the quiet that allows all of the worries to wage a sneak attack against me. It slams into me from every direction since my meeting with the Arrows’ General Manager after my therapy appointment today.

  “It’s still too early to know anything, Lincoln. All I can tell you is that we want you back in an Arrows uniform next season,” Billy Marshall, the GM, says.

  “I want that too. This is my city,” I gulp, purposefully not looking at the report on the table between us.

  “Let’s work through the rehab and see how it goes. You know it’s not up to me. It’s up to the owners. I’ll have a say, and you know I’m pulling for you. Hell, we all are. You’re a franchise player, Landry. But you know, at the end of the day, this is business.”

  “Ugh.” I lift myself off the bed. My back muscles strain from the stress of the day, little sleep, and more than a little pain. Glancing in the mirror, my voice cackles across the room at my reflection. “You’re a mess, Linc. But your abs look awesome.”

  Inch by inch, a smile slides across my face as I envision other awesome-looking things. Namely, Danielle Ashley in her pale pink dress.