and leaned across the desk, glaring at Jason. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you? I’d expect this from one of those stupid kids out there but not you.”
Good question. Jason wished he had the answer. The rage had boiled over so quickly, so immediate. He thought he had had it under control, like always. But one nasty comment and he blew like a kid. Was this how the rest of his season was going to go, anger, frustration? Was it worth it?
“I’m sorry, Skip. No excuse. It won’t happen again.”
“You bet your ass it won’t. Now, get the hell out of here. And Friar? Stay out of trouble for one night, please?” Sam turned away, muttering under his breath. “One freakin’ day back. One day and this is what we get? Jeezus.”
Jason stepped out of the small office and restrained the urge to slam the door. Called to the manager’s office like a kid in school. It was the second time that week that he felt like a failure, an idiot, a child. And he hated that feeling. It was just another sign of how far he had fallen. Two years ago, everyone would have rushed to his aid, excusing him, defending him, not assuming Jason was to blame. Now, he had no credit, no one to take his side.
God help him if Stacia ever found out.
*
Nice job with his new teammates. Nothing like making friends and influencing people . His thoughts were morose as he sipped a beer in the hotel bar. The bartender slid a steak under his arms.
“Water, please. Thanks.” He didn’t need any more alcohol dulling his senses. One beer was enough.
“Oh, my God! Jason Friar! It’s been years.” A shrill, female voice echoed through the bar.
A niggling recognition danced at the fringes of his brain. He slowly turned around just in time to catch the woman who threw herself at him, kissing him passionately.
Holy shit. Danielle. Or Debbie. Or Sue. What was her name?
Shit, that’s the last thing he should be worried about. He should be getting her away, not trying to remember her name. A flash caught his eye. Goddamn vultures. His old buddy, Stan, sat in a corner booth with members of the traveling press corps.
Stacia was going to kill him. Since when did he care?
Chapter Seven
S tacia sat on a dais in front of the capitol building as her father stepped up and put his hand on a Bible, his words garbled and disjointed. She tried to stand, but her feet were planted on the ground, butt firmly in the chair, as she watched the disaster unfold. At the end, he turned and glowered at her, his finger pointing at her.
“It’s all your fault.”
She jerked awake, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across her body. A binder crashed to the floor, papers scattering around her. She lunged for her laptop before it slid also. She struggled to catch her breath, trying to figure out her weird dream. Her cell phone buzzed, Hail to the Chief , the theme for the President of the United States, which was her father’s ringtone.
Realization dawned.
She grabbed the phone and clicked it on. “Father.”
“Where have you been? I had to call you twice.”
His thoroughly put-out tone made her cringe; the familiar urge to apologize welled up in her and the words were out before she could catch them. “I’m sorry. I was sleeping.”
It was after eleven at night, but her father never cared. He expected everyone to be available at his convenience, never mind their own lives.
He grunted, clearly not happy or pacified in the least. “I hear you have a new client. I told you I would find you a place.”
She grabbed the remote and turned down the volume before settling back against the pillows. “I thought it was best to step away from politics for a while.”
“So, you went to sports? Anastasia, I raised you for something higher, better than…than something so bourgeois, so blue collar.”
She smothered a laugh. “And politics is cleaner? Please.”
“It may not be cleaner, but it’s noble. Making our country a better place to live.” His high and
Good question. Jason wished he had the answer. The rage had boiled over so quickly, so immediate. He thought he had had it under control, like always. But one nasty comment and he blew like a kid. Was this how the rest of his season was going to go, anger, frustration? Was it worth it?
“I’m sorry, Skip. No excuse. It won’t happen again.”
“You bet your ass it won’t. Now, get the hell out of here. And Friar? Stay out of trouble for one night, please?” Sam turned away, muttering under his breath. “One freakin’ day back. One day and this is what we get? Jeezus.”
Jason stepped out of the small office and restrained the urge to slam the door. Called to the manager’s office like a kid in school. It was the second time that week that he felt like a failure, an idiot, a child. And he hated that feeling. It was just another sign of how far he had fallen. Two years ago, everyone would have rushed to his aid, excusing him, defending him, not assuming Jason was to blame. Now, he had no credit, no one to take his side.
God help him if Stacia ever found out.
*
Nice job with his new teammates. Nothing like making friends and influencing people . His thoughts were morose as he sipped a beer in the hotel bar. The bartender slid a steak under his arms.
“Water, please. Thanks.” He didn’t need any more alcohol dulling his senses. One beer was enough.
“Oh, my God! Jason Friar! It’s been years.” A shrill, female voice echoed through the bar.
A niggling recognition danced at the fringes of his brain. He slowly turned around just in time to catch the woman who threw herself at him, kissing him passionately.
Holy shit. Danielle. Or Debbie. Or Sue. What was her name?
Shit, that’s the last thing he should be worried about. He should be getting her away, not trying to remember her name. A flash caught his eye. Goddamn vultures. His old buddy, Stan, sat in a corner booth with members of the traveling press corps.
Stacia was going to kill him. Since when did he care?
Chapter Seven
S tacia sat on a dais in front of the capitol building as her father stepped up and put his hand on a Bible, his words garbled and disjointed. She tried to stand, but her feet were planted on the ground, butt firmly in the chair, as she watched the disaster unfold. At the end, he turned and glowered at her, his finger pointing at her.
“It’s all your fault.”
She jerked awake, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out across her body. A binder crashed to the floor, papers scattering around her. She lunged for her laptop before it slid also. She struggled to catch her breath, trying to figure out her weird dream. Her cell phone buzzed, Hail to the Chief , the theme for the President of the United States, which was her father’s ringtone.
Realization dawned.
She grabbed the phone and clicked it on. “Father.”
“Where have you been? I had to call you twice.”
His thoroughly put-out tone made her cringe; the familiar urge to apologize welled up in her and the words were out before she could catch them. “I’m sorry. I was sleeping.”
It was after eleven at night, but her father never cared. He expected everyone to be available at his convenience, never mind their own lives.
He grunted, clearly not happy or pacified in the least. “I hear you have a new client. I told you I would find you a place.”
She grabbed the remote and turned down the volume before settling back against the pillows. “I thought it was best to step away from politics for a while.”
“So, you went to sports? Anastasia, I raised you for something higher, better than…than something so bourgeois, so blue collar.”
She smothered a laugh. “And politics is cleaner? Please.”
“It may not be cleaner, but it’s noble. Making our country a better place to live.” His high and
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