the corner was an inset of Kurt Gillette’s photo. Her beloved father.
“…still pouring in,” the man was saying. “The public is still divided almost equally on whether they want the team to remain the Bisons or keep the new name, the San Antonio Hawks.”
The female reporter laughed. “Like it or not, Kurt Gillette won’t be changing it back. Since the big switch, with a new logo, new colors, and new uniforms, the team has rebounded from the slump it’s been in since the loss of star quarterback Tate Manning.”
“Gillette says they’ll get used to it as the team keeps racking up wins. You have to admire the man for taking such a bold step, but it seems to be working.”
God! It seemed no matter where she went, Tyler couldn’t get away from her father or his precious effing football team. As the television reporters continued to discuss the topic, nausea roiled up into her throat. She needed to get out of here. Fast. Get away from both Dewey and yet another news blast about the vaunted Kurt Gillette.
She slid from the bar stool and grabbed the thin strap of her purse. “Be right back,” she said, slurring just a little.
“Hey, wait.” He grabbed her upper arm with his thick fingers. “You’re not gonna run out on me, are you? I got drinks invested in you, Marie.”
She forced a smile. “Would I do that? I just need to head to the little girls’ room for a minute.”
She glanced pointedly at where he held onto her. With a frown, he released her, but took the moment to stroke his fingers the length of her arm. Tyler managed to keep from spitting in his face. After all, the whole thing was really her fault. If she hadn’t been here in the first place, having her usual pity party—
She shook herself. “I’ll be right back. Promise.”
“You’d better be.” The tone of his voice had an unpleasant cast to it. “If you take too long, I might have to come after you.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “In the ladies’ room?”
“Wherever.” He grabbed her arm again. “I don’t let my women run out on me. Not until I get my money’s worth.”
“Your women? Damn, Dewey, all we had was a couple of drinks.”
“You gave me the come-on, sweetie. Don’t try to deny it.”
She yanked her arm away again and took a step back. Arguing with him would get her nowhere so she dug up a smile. “I told you. I’ll be right back. You just order us another round of drinks.”
As if he needed one. She managed to make it to the restroom although inside she was shaking. Usually she was a pretty good judge of the guys she met. If they got a little too aggressive, she could back off and they looked somewhere else. Apparently Dewey didn’t fit into that category.
Inside the ladies’ room, she took a good look at herself in the mirror. What a mess. The hair she’d arranged so artfully to fall just so to her shoulders looked as if she’d been combing it with her fingers. Okay, so she had. BFD. The black dress that she’d thought so sexy when she got dressed now looked like a cheap come-on. Her makeup, well, it didn’t look too bad, but her vision wasn’t quite as sharp as it had been early in the evening. All in all, she was bordering on a mess.
She was doing herself in. At this rate, she’d be dead before Kurt Gillette had a change of heart.
She had another little problem to deal with, too, one she hadn’t told a single soul about. Mostly because she had no idea who to bring it to. She really hoped it would just go away.
Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen.
Sighing, she took care of business, washed her hands, and pulled her cell phone from her purse. She’d taken a cab so she didn’t have to worry about driving, but she needed an alternative now. She was pretty damn sure good old Dewey would put up a huge fuss if he saw her trying to get into a taxi. No, she needed a better solution to the mess she’d gotten herself into.
Taking out her cell, she dialed her friend, Betsy. She’d definitely come and bail her out. But all she got was Betsy’s “Leave a message.” She tried ten more numbers, people she felt comfortably asking to help her with this ugly situation, but she only got their voice mails.
Damn! Damn! Damn!
Did no one have their cell phones on tonight, when she desperately needed to reach someone?
Bam, bam, bam.
The heavy pounding on the door startled her.
“Hey, Buttercup. You comin’ outta there tonight?” Dewey’s voice was edged with anger, an anger no doubt fueled by his consumption of alcohol.
Holy crap. No way was she opening the door. Still, she couldn’t spend the night in the ladies’ room.
“Miss?” A strange man’s voice. Oh, wait, it sounded like the bartender. “Miss, are you okay in there? You need to open the door.”
Not for any amount of money. But she had to get herself out of this mess and away from a drunken Dewey.
She had one more number she could call. She referred to it in her mind as her when-the-sky-is-falling-and-no-one-else-is-around number. The number for a man she’d been lusting after for a long time, who was unfailingly polite to her whenever their paths crossed yet as much as possible avoided her. She had hoped she’d never have to use it, for a number of reasons. A woman didn’t want to call the man she’d dreamed about for so very long to get her out of this kind of trouble, a mess of her own making. She didn’t want to see the disgust and censure in his eyes. But the sky was definitely falling tonight and this number would reach the one person she knew would get her out of it swiftly and cleanly.
She’d probably have to pay for it by listening to a good lecture and beg him not to tell her father.
Swallowing her misgivings, she dialed the number with hands that trembled. No one knew she had his number, that she’d programmed it in just in case. This was definitely a just in case. She prayed that he wouldn’t hang up on her. Surely he couldn’t refuse a plea for help, right? After all, he worked for her father, so how could he say no?
* * * *
“Okay, Ortiz, what do you think of the big name change for the Bisons?” Cal Hopewell looked at his poker hand, pulled out two cards, and threw them down on the table.
Rafe Ortiz studied his hand while he tried to form an appropriate answer. As the head of security for the San Antonio Hawks as well as Southern Bank Stadium, he had to be careful what he said, even in the company of his closest friends.
He slipped a single card free and tossed it down. “I’ll take one,” he told Andy Milliken, who was dealing, as he took his time putting his thoughts together. This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked this question.
“The name change,” Cal prompted.
“I think Kurt is a smart businessman who wants to inspire both his team and his fans. Whatever you might think of this, it’s working.”
“Yeah, but you played for the Bisons,” Andy reminded him. “Don’t you feel
