Hittin' It Out the Park Read online

  Dear Reader:

  Get ready for a fast-paced voyage in the world of professional baseball with a cast of characters promised to entice fans of the writing duo of Allison Hobbs and Karen E. Quinones Miller. The bestselling authors have teamed up to produce a titillating tale.

  Cheryl Blanton and Sexy Sanchez are two women vying for the same catch, Randy Alston, a young Southerner who clinches a $120 million contract to play for the New York Yankees. While Cheryl marries Randy, Sexy insists on throwing a wrench in the wedding vows. The love triangle offers readers plenty of lust, scandal, and sex.

  Discover who ends up with the coveted player and what surprising secrets are revealed. The writers build up to an unexpected outcome leaving readers yearning for the next chapter in the trio’s lives.

  As always, thanks for the love and support shown toward myself and the authors that I publish under Strebor Books. We appreciate each and every one of you and will continue to strive to bring you cutting-edge, exciting books in the future. For more information, please join my Facebook page @AuthorZane, Twitter @AuthorZane, or Instagram @AuthorZane. You can also find my “toys” at Zanespleasureproducts.com and my main web site remains Eroticanoir.com.

  Blessings,

  Publisher

  Strebor Books

  www.simonandschuster.com

  Thank you for downloading this Strebor Books eBook.

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  For Kha’ri, Kareem, and Kapri—

  You Mean the World to Me.

  —ALLISON HOBBS

  Maferefun Olodumare

  Maferefun Egun

  Maferefun Oshun

  Maferefun bobo Orisha

  I lovingly dedicate this book to both my spiritual and physical family

  —KAREN E. QUINONES MILLER

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all the book clubs and bloggers who have taken the time to post video reviews and written reviews of my work. I also want to thank the many readers who follow me on Facebook and who post so many cute and creative pictures of their Allison Hobbs book collections. All of these efforts make me smile. Additionally, I must thank Charmaine Parker for her patience and dedication in editing this novel. A big thank-you to Sara Camilli for taking on this collaborative project. As always, thank you, Zane for continuing to believe in me. Thank you to my literary best bud, Cairo, whose work I greatly admire and who can have me CTFU with the mere utterance of one word. Thanks, Daaimah S. Poole for being such a kind, sweet, and wise soul. To my BFF, Karen Dempsey Hammond, you are so much more than a friend—you’re my sister in spirit and I absolutely adore you. Last but not least, I’d like to thank my writing partner, Karen E. Quinones Miller. I’m thrilled that our combined talents have provided our dear readers with such a delicious and racy page-turner!

  Much Love,

  Allison Hobbs

  * * *

  I want to start out by thanking The Creator for my life, my talent, and my blessings.

  I also want to thank all of the ancestors—literary, familial, and otherwise—who had to endure so much to ensure that I would be able to enjoy the life that I have all these years.

  A special shout-out to literary agent Sara Camilli, who for some reason stood by me and encouraged me when other people—whom I thought would—had disappeared. Sara, you are simply the bomb.

  And to Zane, whom I’ve known and admired for years for publishing Hittin’ It Out the Park. I’m not going to say more about Zane, because otherwise I’d start to gush, and I hate to gush, and I’m going to trust that Zane doesn’t like people gushing about her. (Okay, I will say one more thing about Zane…there are SO many people in the literary world who say they always try to help others in this industry; Zane is one of only about five people who doesn’t constantly going around saying it, but goes around doing it.)

  This is the very first book I’ve ever written without Evening Star Writers’ Group, but even though we never met to discuss and critique my portion of Hittin’ It Out the Park, it really helped to know I always had the moral support. Thank you, Fiona Harewood, Sharai Robbin, and Akanke Washington. I don’t know what I would do without you.

  My friends and Prayer Warriors—Fiona Harewood, Victoria Christopher Murray, Jenice Armstrong, Kim Beverly, Johnny Black, Senemeh Burke, Sojourner McCauley, and Makeela Thomas.

  I also want to thank the members of the Brothers and Sisters Book Club of Philadelphia/South Jersey—with a special shout-out to Audrey Johnson. Thank you for welcoming me as a member, and thank you for being my friend.

  And a thank you to all the readers and book clubs who have read my books and have hosted me throughout the years. I hope you guys never get tired of me—I know I’ll never get tired of you. Just hit me up…I’d love to come out and meet with you. You can always reach me on Facebook at www.facebook.com/karen.e.miller.14. I look forward to hearing from you.

  It is important that I take this opportunity to remember, and honor, those who have passed since my last book, but who have meant so much to me: Barbara Wallace, Charles Robinson (Shola Remi), Sherlaine Freeman, Jose Manuel (Oyadina), J. California Cooper, Nelson Mandela, and Maya Angelou—May you all rest in peace. Ibaiye.

  I want to thank the health professional who assisted me during my illness and the writing of this book: Brenda Munson Glover and Lynette Lunnon.

  Dwayne Ligon, dear friend, thanks for the use of your name. I hope you enjoy your character namesake.

  Of course I thank my family, Joseph T. Quinones and my lovely daughter, Camille R. Quinones Miller. Nice to know you have folks you can always depend on…and I hope they know they can always depend on me.

  But I really have to give the biggest thanks to my coauthor, the terrifically talented Allison Hobbs. Thanks, Allison, for your patience and understanding—and most of all, your encouragement and support. I hope this won’t be our last collaboration—I enjoyed this one too much!

  In closing, I want to once again ask for forgiveness for those whose names I have failed to remember, but without whom my life would not be the same.

  Karen E. Quinones Miller

  Prologue

  April 15, 1997

  “I thought you didn’t want to know the sex of the baby.”

  “I changed my mind,” Cheryl answered drowsily. “I don’t really care; I was only wondering.”

  The doctor looked down at the teenager and she thought she saw uncertainty in his dark eyes; prompting her to warily tell him: “Dang, Dr. Nehru. Don’t worry, there’s no chance in hell, I’m changing my mind. You and your wife can keep the baby. I’m only curious, is all.”

  Dr. Nehru nodded, but indecision still creased his face. A few seconds passed before he pulled a chair close to the hospital bed and sat down. He took one of her hands in his and gave what looked like a forced smile before finally speaking. “Cheryl, you do realize you made the right decision, don’t you? After all, you’re still a child yourself; there’s no way you’d be able to take care of this baby.”

  The anesthetic she’d been given for the caesarian birth was almost totally worn off, and Cheryl began to feel a little soreness, causing her to grimace as the doctor continued to speak.

  “My wife and I can give—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Cheryl interrupted him. “Listen, can I have some kind of painkiller or something?”

  “Sure.” The doctor nodded. “I’ll have the nurse come in and give you something in a minute. But I wanted to assure you that—�
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  “Hey, I only asked if it was a boy or girl; don’t freak out,” Cheryl snapped. “Make sure I get the rest of the money you owe me, okay?”

  “Absolutely!” the doctor said.

  “It was a simple question; I don’t know why you’re making a freaking federal case outta this. It’s not like I even really care,” Cheryl mumbled loud enough for the doctor to hear. “Shit.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said sheepishly. “It’s a boy. We haven’t decided on a name yet, though.”

  “I didn’t ask you,” Cheryl snapped. “It’s your kid; name it what the fuck you want.” Her facial expression softened almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve all that.”

  The doctor stood up and patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve gone through a lot, and you’re bound to be edgy. And of course, you did say you need some painkillers, right? I’ll have the nurse give you a shot of morphine.”

  The sharp aches were worsening, and Cheryl could only give a weak smile and nod in response. The nurse was in the private room less than five minutes after the doctor left, and injected a shot of clear liquid into the IV attached to Cheryl’s arm. Thirty seconds later, Cheryl drifted off to sleep, and to dream about the events that had brought her to this point.

  “Look, you need money, I can use some extra cash; the plan makes sense,” Jackson said urgently. “This cat is going to lay down ten stacks for the privilege of popping your cherry. Hell, ain’t that better than giving it away for free to some knucklehead in the backseat of some car?”

  Cheryl hated Jackson. Had hated him from the first time she met him, only a few months after her father died and he started dating her mother. And within three years it seemed her hatred was justified. With Jackson’s encouragement, Cheryl’s mother became hooked on cocaine, and went through the almost $2 million her father had left them. After the money was gone, Jackson was gone, and Cheryl’s mother then turned to crack and alcohol.

  Cheryl was fifteen by then, and desperate to come up with money to pay the rent. She had to drop out of the prestigious private school she’d been attending before her father’s death and attend public school, but she was also forced to take over as head of the household since her mother was absolutely useless, and was only interested in scoring her next hit, and next drink.

  They were evicted from their swanky Upper East Side apartment for not paying the rent, and now the rent on their tiny Harlem apartment was three months’ overdue; not knowing what else to do Cheryl had decided to resort to shoplifting. She ventured into Bloomingdale’s on Lexington Avenue, stuffed a couple of dresses in her bag, and headed out the door; but almost peed her pants when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “So you’ve decided on a career as a booster, huh?”

  Cheryl whirled around and found herself face-to-face with Jackson. “What are you doing here? Get offa me,” she snarled, yanking away from him.

  “I should do exactly that, but I’ma do your little uppity-ass a favor.” Jackson gripped her by the arm and propelled her to the back of the store and to the ladies dressing room. “Now get in there, and unload.”

  “What?”

  Jackson stepped closer to her and said in a low voice.“You little idiot. If I saw you putting those dresses in that bag, you think I’m the only one who did? And even if no one else did, the security alarms would have gone off as soon as you walked out the door.”

  Cheryl looked at him without saying a word, and disappeared into the dressing room. Jackson was waiting for her when she came out.

  That’s when he made the proposal.

  “I know I left you and your mom in a bad way, so let me help you out,” Jackson urged. “Look, the cat is offering ten stacks, but I bet I can get him up to fifteen. He’s got lettuce like that. We’ll split it.”

  I hate him. He ruined our lives. If I had a gun I’d shoot him, is what she said to herself, but out loud she could only exclaim: “Fifteen thousand?”

  Jackson nodded. “I think I can get that much out of him.”

  “And what would be your split?” she asked suspiciously.

  “I’m not greedy. I wouldn’t even ask for any of it, but I’m in a little bit of a jam, too.” Jackson acted as if he was giving it some thought. “How about I take two thousand, and you keep the rest?”

  Cheryl’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t trust you. How do I know you won’t keep the whole thing?”

  Jackson grinned. “Moi?” he said, pointing to his chest. “You don’t trust moi?”

  Cheryl sucked her teeth and started walking away. Jackson quickly grabbed her arm again. “Look, you might not trust me, but I trust you. So how about this? The guy pays you, then you give me my cut. Okay?”

  Man, Cheryl thought, with thirteen thousand she could pay off the back rent, buy school clothes, and maybe even pay for her mom to go into some kind of rehab program. But, still, she wanted to save herself until she got married. But, wow, thirteen thousand.

  “Now, here’s the thing,” Jackson said, interrupting her thoughts. “If we’re going to get him up to fifteen thousand, there’re a few things you’re going to have to do.”

  Cheryl’s eyebrow and suspicion rose. “Things like what?”

  “Well, you’re fifteen, right? The younger the cherry, the more men are willing to pay. You’re kinda flat-chested, so if you would, well, shave down there, we can probably pass you off as a twelve-year-old.”

  Cheryl

  July 2013

  “Would you care for another martini, ma’am?”

  Cheryl Blanton leaned her head slightly to the right, and gave a tiny pout, as if the tuxedo-clad drink waiter’s offer warranted serious thought. She finally gave a small one-shoulder shrug, and lifted a long-stemmed glass from the solid gold tray he carried.

  “Thank you . . .” Cheryl quickly glanced at the metal nametag on his chest, “Henry.” She flashed a quick smile designed to make the older man’s heart flutter. “I probably shouldn’t, but I’m so bored I might as well get intoxicated.” She took a small sip from the glass before giving him a quick wink. “Don’t let me get to the point of having to be carried out, okay?”

  “I’m sure you have nothing to worry about, ma’am.” Henry smiled, bowing his graying head as if she had bestowed a thousand-dollar tip upon him rather than a simple off-handed comment. “I can’t imagine anyone as beautiful as you being bored very long.” He gave another quick nod before backing away into the crowd.

  Yeah, well, I hope you’re right, ’cause I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. Cheryl twirled the drink in her hand and watched the olive do a slow spin, then glanced at her watch. Twelve-thirty. She released a deep breath and looked over toward the corner where she’d last seen her escort. She hadn’t wanted to come to the baseball All-Star party at all, but Stephen had insisted.

  “Come on . . . you never come out with me anymore,” he had whined. “And besides,” he added, when he saw Cheryl was still unmoved, “there’s going to be a lot of celebrities and millionaires there. You never know what you might catch. And wear that short, white lace number—show off those long bronze-colored stilts, honey.”

  Cheryl snorted remembering his words. Celebrities. Yeah, Alyssa Milano and one of the Russian chicks from Dancing with the Stars were the only personalities she’d spotted so far. As for millionaires, well, there were none there that she knew or recognized. Besides, there were probably two gold diggers for every possible-millionaire at the party—and she wasn’t in the mood to be pushing someone aside to get to a man whose wealth she wasn’t sure of.

  Stephen was right about one thing, though: the white lace mini was certainly getting her a lot of attention. And it wasn’t only her legs that were getting admiring stares. There was something about the combination of the soft texture of her dress, the temperature in the room, and perhaps her naturally sexual nature . . . but even the slightest breeze made her nipples harden. Looking down, she carefully arra
nged her long brown hair to cover her 36-Ds.

  The drink waiter, Henry, squeezed past her again, and she gifted him a full-tooth smile, and inwardly laughed when he almost bumped into someone because he was smiling back so hard.

  Feeling a slight tap on the shoulder, Cheryl turned to face a tall, gorgeous woman wearing a low-cut, skin-tight, gold minidress that left nothing to the imagination. “Oh, de-year!” the woman said in a voice obviously meant to sound haughty. “Flirting with the hired help again, are we, dah-ling? But then class does always find its own class, doesn’t it?”

  Cheryl struggled to keep a grimace off her face. “No harm in being pleasant, you know.” She paused and gave her adversary an up-and-down look. “But then, again, I’m sure you wouldn’t know, Sheila.”

  “Shay-EE-lah.”

  Cheryl let out a tingly laugh. “If it’s spelled Sheila, it’s pronounced SHEE-luh. Like a female kangaroo.” She looked down at Sheila’s midsection. “Which is kind of fitting, seeing how noticeable your pouch is in that dress.”

  “Oh, puleeze! This dress is from Armani’s—”

  “From Armani’s summer line,” Cheryl interrupted. “I know. I wore it for him at his runway show at Paris Fashion Week last September. But believe me, it doesn’t suit you at all.” She lightly tapped Sheila’s stomach with her Versace gold clutch bag. “So, I’m guessing the rumors I’ve been hearing about you moving over to plus-size modeling are true. I understand you can make quite a lot of money.” She slowly batted her almond-shaped eyes before adding, “And Lane Bryant is always looking for fresh faces, though Ashley Stewart is also an option.”

  “Cheryl, you can be such a—”

  Cheryl rolled her eyes and sighed. “Sheila, if I throw a stick, will you leave?”

  Sheila kept a smile on her face as she looked Cheryl in the face and in a honey-coated voice said: “I’d love to continue this conversation, but I’ve actually spotted someone worth talking to. So, Cheryl, darling, fuck you.”