Switch Hitter Page 3

  ***

  Amelia

  I’m not expecting the next song to be slow, just like I’m not expecting my body to sway, hips gently rocking to the music.

  I haven’t had much to drink, but it’s enough to loosen me up and forget myself, if only for a few moments. Enough for me to enjoy the company and the big, warm palms that slide around my waist.

  It’s a full house tonight, stuffy.

  “¿Está bien?” Is this okay? “Sorry I keep bumping into you, but the dickhead behind us keeps knocking into me.” His smooth voice speaks into my ear, the rich sound of his Spanish hitting all the nerves in my spine. “Te sientes diferente—una diferencia buena.”

  You feel different, he says, rolling his tongue. A good different.

  Since I’m pretending to be my twin sister—who doesn’t know a lick of Spanish—I don’t acknowledge the words, giving a feeble little nod without betraying myself.

  In reality? My entire body is in complete and utter chaos.

  I can understand him—perfectly.

  I don’t want Dash speaking Spanish in my ear, whispering words meant for someone else. I don’t want Dash touching me—not because he repulses me.

  But because he doesn’t.

  He’s the antithesis of everything I thought he’d be. For the sake of my sanity, and to get me through this farce of a fake date, I desperately hoped the guy walking through my sister’s door would be a jerk.

  A jockhole.

  I prayed he’d be a stereotype, a caricature of what I perceive the average student athlete on our college campus to be. My sister is the jersey chaser, not me.

  Pompous.

  Boorish.

  Egotistical asshole.

  Dante Amado is none of those things.

  He’s easygoing. Kind. Personable.

  Every gentlemanly gesture out of Dash Amado has been sincere. His nice-guy routine is not an act; it’s who he is.

  His mama raised him right.

  And I’m so confused by it.

  I wasn’t prepared for him to be like this.

  Dammit! I’m not supposed to be attracted to my sister’s boyfriend— the guy my sister is dating—no matter how serious it isn’t, no matter how good-looking he is.

  Honestly? I kind of hate myself right now.

  A knot of guilt twists inside my stomach at the same time Dash’s hands ease around my waist, sliding over my rib cage, giving me a little squeeze. If I had to speak, there’s no way I’d be able to form a cohesive sentence.

  The knot gets heavier, tighter, weighing me down. I’m the world’s worst twin.

  The world’s worst sister.

  “Having fun?” His baritone vocals hit my cerebellum, shockwaves finding their way down to all my best girly parts. “I really thought they were going to sound like complete shit—thank God they don’t.”

  My throat is tight, and I have to clear it before I can speak. “I’m really impressed—I can’t believe they’re in high school.”

  As many times as I’ve told myself I would try to fill Lucy’s high-heeled shoes on this date, I’m failing—so miserably. I want so desperately to be myself. I want my damn body to stop responding to Dash Amado. I want my damn heart to stop beating so wildly it feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest.

  If only my cheeks weren’t so flushed, my palms so sweaty.

  I’m a complete mess.

  Dash’s giant catcher’s paws grip my body, loosely resting on my hips, thumbs hooking inside the front pockets of Lucy’s jeans.

  He lowers his head, gently resting his chin on my shoulder, lips intermittently brushing against the exposed skin of my jawline as he stares straight ahead, watching Scotty.

  I let my lids flutter closed, allowing my lashes to rest on my cheekbones for the briefest of seconds, giving myself this one moment.

  This is how it would feel if we were a couple.

  It feels too good.

  He feels good.

  So good. “Tan bueno,” I say, forgetting myself, muttering out loud. “Tan bueno.”

  Dash goes still.

  “¿Que es tan bueno?” His mouth is right there, lips grazing my neck. What’s so good? he wants to know.

  Jesus, it’s driving me absolutely freaking crazy—the Spanish, his cologne and his breath and the heat from his body. Even the hair on his arms is giving me goose bumps, the baby fine strands tickling the skin of my forearms as his thumbs dig gently into my hips.

  “Huh?” I ask in a daze.

  “You said so good.”

  “Mmm, nope. Don’t think so.”

  “Yes you did.” His lips skim the shell of my ear, speaking in a foreign language I spent years mastering. “I heard you, and you said it in Spanish.”

  “I did?”

  “¿Hablas español, Lucy?” Do you speak Spanish?

  What the hell am I supposed to say to that? My sister doesn’t speak a word of it. “Um…?”

  “¿Qué más no me estás diciendo?” What else aren’t you telling me? “Be honest.”

  “Nothing.” Shit, I just answered him again.

  He pulls back, turns me to face him, lightly setting those massive palms on my bare shoulders, fingers spreading over my skin, guaranteed to leave scorch marks in their wake.

  His fingers brush the hair off my collarbone.

  “¿Puedes entenderme?” You can understand me?

  Crappers.

  “Sí.” I cast my eyes away, chastised.

  His are too intense.

  Something changes in his expression then; he studies me under the lights of the stage, the red, blue, and green flickering strobes casting a glow across his skin.

  Across mine.

  Dash can’t quite figure me out, and I don’t blame him; I’m acting like I have multiple personalities. How could I let that Spanish slip out? Lucy is guaranteed to be pissed about that once she finds out.

  Lucy, who could barely do her own English papers in high school.

  I’m not my sister.

  Not even close.

  And call me crazy, but for a fleeting moment while Dash stands watching me—learning my tells—his brows lower and rise, concentrating on my face, reading every line imprinted there, eyes traveling over my chest, hair, and face.

  The corner of my mouth.

  In an instant, he knows.

  He just doesn’t know that he knows.

  And he’s confused.

  “Come on.” He bends now, talking loud. “We need to talk. Let’s go grab another beer.”

  “Where?” I shout back.

  Those mammoth shoulders shrug. “What about the bar? At the back of the room? We’ll be able to hear each other better.”

  “Okay. Sure.” I think I’d follow him anywhere.

  Dash takes my hand without hesitating, without asking for permission, weaving us through the crowd, and I follow, fingers wrapped around his tightly.

  My lifeline.

  He gives them a squeeze, lacing them together, glancing back at me over his broad shoulders. It’s then that I realize: I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking; I’m just watching him.

  The muscles in his strong back contract as he works his way through the crowd. His thick neck corded, sexy. I’ve always liked that part of a guy’s body, always found it attractive.

  Masculine.

  My hungry eyes rake down his backside, down his tapered waist, over his firm ass, and I allow myself the luxury of every part of him, pretending the large hands and imposing form tugging me along belong to me.

  Pretending he’s mine for the taking.

  We reach the bar, where the crowd has thinned out considerably since the music started, the sound of Scotty’s band blasting through the subwoofers and speakers drowning out any laughter and loud chatter.

  Dash orders us beer, ice water.

  Faces me while we wait, one arm resting on the bar top.

  I wonder how long it’s going to take for him to bring up the fact that I speak Spa
nish.

  For now, he seems content to stand here surrounded by the concertgoers, the loud music, and my quiet company. If he thinks it’s strange that I, as Lucy, finally have nothing to say, he would be right. My sister is always chattering away, and she’d be talking non-stop right now, too.

  The only things I can think of to ask Dash are personal; I want to know more about him, want to know things that are none of my business.

  Does he have brothers or sisters?

  Where is he from?

  What’s his major? What does he want to be if he doesn’t play baseball after he graduates?

  Are these things he and my sister have already talked about?

  We stand at the bar, regarding each other, his cool black gaze caressing my exposed shoulders. I respond to it by coolly lifting the beer bottle to my lips and taking another drink of liquid courage, hoping to avoid his disconcerting scrutiny.

  I don’t know what it is, but Dash is someone I want to get to know more, someone I’d want to know if the circumstances were different.

  I sigh.

  The fact is that tonight, I am not supposed to be myself.

  And I’m doing a really crappy job being my sister.

  “So, you wanna tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Chapter Four

  Dante

  Lucy speaks Spanish.

  And not just the I was required to take two years of it in high school version. She actually knows how to fucking speak it, fluently.

  I don’t know what to do with this strange new information. It’s certainly a game changer; I’ve never dated anyone who could have a conversation with me in any language other than English, and it’s really fucking sexy.

  We’re sidled up to the bar, my arm draped on the lacquered wooden top, elbow propping me up as I study her.

  Study her in a new light, riveted.

  This Lucy isn’t just a pretty face.

  This Lucy isn’t just a grasping jock chaser.

  This Lucy has layers.

  This version fascinates me more than the two versions that came before her.

  Her striped baby blue shirt is understated but sexy, hair still falling in loose waves despite the growing humidity from all the warm bodies inside this packed concert hall.

  Wavering unsteadily on high heels, she leans against the counter, mimicking my stance, mimicking the way I let my gaze trail over her, returning the favor.

  She peruses me up and down, expression unreadable.

  It’s so fucking unsettling.

  Lo amo. I love it.

  “So, you wanna tell me what’s going on with you?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I think you know what I’m talking about. I’ve never met a single person on this campus who speaks Spanish as well as you seem to, besides other Latinos.”

  “I spent a semester in Mexico teaching English at an immersion school.”

  That makes no fucking sense. Lucy is a fashion major—why would she be teaching classes in Mexico?

  “Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

  The beer bottle hits my bottom lip and I tip it. Chug. “I’m trying to figure you out.”

  “I know,” she returns unhappily. “Please don’t.”

  “Are you intentionally trying to be evasive?”

  “I’m not playing games with you, I promise, but it’s complicated.”

  The bartender finally gets to us, setting two new bottles on the counter. Lucy reaches for one, taking a dainty sip, delicate fingers wrapped around the long neck of the bottle. Nails painted baby blue, the second to last one a glittery silver.

  “You know Luce, I’m really fucking busy with school and baseball, so I don’t date a lot, and this right here is why: I can’t stand drama.”

  “Neither can I,” she volleys back. “Maybe I’m just not good at this, did you ever think of that?”

  “Not good at what?”

  “Relationships. I’ve never dated a single guy for more than two weeks.”

  “Well that’s good to know.”

  Her eyes roll toward the ceiling dramatically. “This is only your third date—I can’t even believe we’re discussing this.”

  This is only your third date? That’s an odd way to put it.

  “Besides,” she continues, “aren’t you ballplayers all just looking for a little fun between seasons?”

  “I’m not a stereotype, but thanks.”

  Her expression falls. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…I’m not comfortable having this conversation with you right now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I…it’s…” She’s reluctant to finish her sentence. “It’s personal.”

  “You know, Lucy, relationships don’t usually work when one person is hiding something.” Jesus, why am I trying so damn hard with this girl? I couldn’t stand her the last time we went out, and I’m only here with her tonight so I didn’t have to come alone.

  “Hiding something?” Her eyes are wide. “What would make you say that?”

  “You’re either really good at faking who you are, or you have no fucking clue what you want.” I can’t describe the look on her face right now, couldn’t if I tried, not for a million fucking bucks. It’s a cross between crestfallen and oddly captivated…stricken but expectant?

  Like she wants to cry and laugh all at the same time.

  So bizarre. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

  Lucy swallows a lump in her throat, eyes shining. “I literally just asked you that same thing, so how am I staring at you?”

  “Like you’re dying to say something.”

  Her chin tips up, that little dimple by her bottom lip drawing attention to itself, imprinted in her skin.

  My eyes fixate on it, narrowing. “I’m not fucking stupid. Something weird is going on with you, and I want to know what it is.”

  “Nothing weird is going on.” Her nostrils flare, eyes get bright. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “So it’s going to be like that, huh?”

  Her arms cross. “What do you think is weird?”

  “To avoid the risk of feeling like a fucking dumbass, I’d rather not bring it up, okay?”

  She’s in my space now, fingers splayed on my forearm. “Tell me.”

  “Your hair is different,” I blurt out.

  “How?”

  Jesus Christ, this is going to sound so stupid. “It’s longer…and darker.” I go for broke. “And I swear you didn’t have this the last time I saw you.”

  I extend my arm, placing my finger on that perfect spot by her mouth. Her dark lips part.

  Lucy’s breath catches. Something in her eyes…

  “What else?” she whispers.

  “Your—” My eyes drop to her breasts then rise again. I’m such a fucking hornball. “Never mind.”

  Behind us, Scotty’s band interrupts, striking another chord, his adolescent voice croaking into the microphone. “This is going to be it for us tonight, Bettys and gents. One last lullaby before the big show. Enjoy, and have a great fucking night.”

  The slow rifts of guitars still the crowd.

  Still Lucy.

  Her lips are curved smugly. “Were you going to say my boobs look bigger?”

  There’s no getting out of this one; she totally caught me checking out her tits, which I can barely see beneath her blousy top. “Maybe.”

  “What if you were right?” The words fall out of her mouth before her lips clamp shut. “Please forget I said that.”

  Yeah…not happening.

  Lucy clears her throat. “So should we—”

  “Dance? Sure.” Why the hell not? Everyone else is.

  Neither of us smile, but she lets me take her beer bottle and set it on the bar, lead her to the edge of the ballroom floor where the concert crowd is gathered, couples dancing to little Scotty’s kickass garage band.

  My hands c
atch skin when they slide around Lucy’s waist, accidentally skimming above the waistband of her jeans. I let my fingers stroke the skin of her ribcage before they behave, dragging back down to the swell of her denim-clad hips.

  Tentatively, her hands run up the front of my black t-shirt; it’s the second time she’s touched me tonight, and her warm palms, with their pretty blue nails, are doing some seriously fucked up shit to my libido as they settle on my chest.

  Her chin tips up so she can look in my eyes. “You realize you finished my sentence before, and I finished yours?”

  “We did?”

  “Yes. No one ever does that with me except my sister.”

  I have nothing to add to that.

  “Scott is great.” She breaks the silence, fingers toying with the cotton of my shirt. “Does he come around your house often?”

  “Yeah, just about every week. He plays ball, and he’s mildly obsessed with our pitcher, Rowdy Wade.”

  “Rowdy, Dash—do you all have nicknames?”

  “We call some guys by their last names.”

  “And you get yours because you’re fast?” Affirmative. “But you’re a catcher…how does that work?”

  Does she not know anything about baseball?

  “Everyone on the team has a turn at bat, and when my bat connects with the ball, I run like hell.”

  The song Scotty’s band plays is actually really fucking haunting. Beautiful.

  Just like Lucy.

  My arms move from her hips to her waist, pulling her in so we’re flush, her palms sliding down from my pecs, smoothing themselves across my shoulders, brushing imaginary lint away. I want to kiss her and we both fucking know it; I’ve been dying to put my mouth on that dimple of hers.

  I home in on it.

  “Where did this suddenly come from?” I tease, bringing my hand up to float my thumb over the tiny indent, back and forth, unintentionally brushing the satiny flesh of her bottom lip. “I swear this wasn’t here last time.”

  “I-I don’t think we should do this,” she protests against my finger, lids fluttering shut when my thumb caresses her cheek. “Maybe we should go back to the bar and finish our beer.”

  “Hey, it’s all right.” My brows rise. “We’re just dancing.”

  My fingers trace her jaw, slipping to the back of her neck, raking through her soft hair. Her eyes meet mine, a thousand words I know she wants to say shining up at me, but it’s nothing I’ll hear out loud. This girl has secrets she doesn’t want me finding out, and I want to know what they are.