Blue Smoke

their seats and balanced food on their laps. “First game I remember,” she began and took a hefty bite of her barbecue sandwich. “I think I was six. I don’t remember the game—I mean the stats.” She swallowed, studying the field. “What I remember is the sensory spike. The movement of the game, you know? The sounds so specific to it. It was the start of my love affair.”
    “I didn’t make it down to a major league game till I was in high school. Talk about sensory spike. My whole conception was from TV. TV makes it smaller, and less spiritual.”
    “Well, that’ll give you something to talk about with my father. They want you to come to dinner on Sunday. If you’re free.”
    “Really?” Surprised pleasure ran across his face. “Is this like an initiation? Will there be a quiz?”
    “Might be.” She turned her head. “You up for that?”
    “I’ve always tested well.”
    They ate, watching the stands fill and the light soften in the spring evening. They cheered when the Orioles took the field, rose for the anthem.
    They each nursed a beer through the first three innings.
    He liked the fact that she shouted, she cheered, she booed and swore. No ladylike applause from Reena. She pulled her hair, punched his shoulder, held a short conversation with the guy on the other side of her on the possible sexual proclivities of the third-base ump when he called their base runner out.
    They agreed he was a myopic asshole.
    She ate a Dove bar in the seventh—he didn’t know where she put that one—and nearly creamed him with it when she leaped up at the crack of the bat to follow the path of a long ball.
    “Now, that’s what I’m talking about!” she shouted, did a celebratory boogie and dropped back down. “Want some of this?”
    “Nearly had some.”
    She turned, grinned at him. “I love baseball.”
    “Oh yeah.”

    They lost, by one painful run, and she pinned it on the bad call by the third-base umpire.
    He didn’t think he’d win her heart by confessing he’d never enjoyed a loss more, or a game more. He would cheerfully consign his beloved Birds to a losing season if he could watch her rev at every game.
    Outside the gate, she pushed him back against a tree, clamped her lips on his. “Know what else I like about baseball?” she whispered.
    “I’m sincerely hoping you’ll tell me.”
    “Makes me hot.” She nuzzled his ear, breathed into it. “Why don’t I take you to my place.”
    She took his hand, headed back to the sidewalk. They walked together through the crowds, taking the shortest route home.

19
    He was so worked up by the time she unlocked her front door, he slammed it shut behind them by spinning her around, shoving her against it.
    She dropped her shoulder bag, dragged his shirt over his head. Hooked her teeth in his shoulder.
    “Right here. Right here.” She was already pulling open the button of his jeans.
    He couldn’t think. He couldn’t stop. The sound of her hips slapping against the wood of the door as he pounded into her was viciously arousing.
    It was violent and fast and amazing, and when they’d emptied each other out, they slid to the floor like rags.
    “Jesus. Jesus Christ.” He stared at her ceiling, breathing like a steam engine. “What happens when they win?”
    She laughed so hard she had to grab her own ribs. Somehow she managed to roll over on him. “Damn it, Bo. Damn it. You might just be perfect.”
    She pulled her jeans back up when her phone rang. Her head was still buzzing when she picked up the receiver.
    “Surprise.”

    She cursed herself for being sloppy, not checking the ID, not switching on the recorder. She did both, quickly. “Hi. I’ve been waiting for you to call back.” She held up a hand, signaling Bo to remain silent.
    “Brendan Avenue. You’ll see it.”
    “Is that where you are? Is that where you live?” She checked the time. Early for him. Not quite midnight.
    “You’ll see it. Better hurry.”
    “Shit!” She swore softly when he hung up. “I’ve got to go.”
    “Who was that?”
    “I don’t know.” She hurried to the front closet, got her weapon from the top shelf. “Jerk’s been calling me—cryptic, sexual messages,” she continued as she clipped on her holster. “Cloned cell phone, most likely.”
    “Whoa, wait. Where are you going?”
    “He said he had something for me on Brendan Avenue. I’m going to check it out.”
    “I’ll go with you.”
    “No, you won’t.” She grabbed a jacket to