Chapter 7

7

Cutter

Iwake up later than I expect, even after having what I would call a mostly boring night. Of course, I'm talking about after the Piper incident.

I sat out back, had a drink and raised my glass to the stars like some fool and thought about Piper in her bathing suit and that made me smile. I thought about her being so damn mean to me and that made me smile too.

When I slept though, I did not have a single dream.

I reach for my phone, just like any other person does.

The usual bullshit waits for me. Tony driving me nuts with messages.

Then there's a message from a number not stored in my phone.

GET YOUR EMAIL ASAP

There's a scissor emoji too.

Cute way to say Cutter I guess.

I sit up in bed and groan as the right side of my body is mad at me for getting an extra hour or two of sleep. It's either the extra sleep or the extra swimming last night. Forcing myself to stay in the pool… because of Piper.

I open my email and look for a suspicious email.

I pride myself for keeping a very clean inbox. I have my standard fake and bullshit email accounts for signups, social media requirements and media stuff. Those I don't even bother with. Tony deals with that. The perks of being a famous baseball player.

An email appears.

When I see my name—CUTTER BUCKLEY—I think nothing of it.

When I see the subject line…

I know about her and I'm going to tell the world!

I clear my throat and pretend like I have no idea what that could possibly be.

I mean, hey, what ballplayer hasn't traveled the country and had a little fling here and there, right? My college days weren't crazy wild, but I kept myself busy with baseball and women. My pro days… well, just about the same.

Except this email…

Cutter Buckley -

You've been warned. You're seen. Your email is known. Same with your number. I will be in contact again. This is not a joke. This is not spam. This is not something you're going to want to tell your agent and have your fancy public relations team try to kill.

We both know the story is real. The story is true.

And you thought pushing an old woman in front of a car was bad?

I'll be in touch soon. That's when we can talk about money.

(My advice, Cutter Buckley, is to get yourself back in the game because you are really going to need those game checks!)

Sincerely,

A Person Who Knows

My stomach doesn't feel sick. My stomach doesn't drop either.

Sadly, all I can think…

Not this shit again.

I hate being backed into a corner. And blackmail is maybe the worst kind of that.

I close the email and open the text.

My thumbs are ready for a fight.

No.

I touch the number and my phone asks if I want to call.

Fuck yes, I do.

I put the call on speakerphone and it rings once before a kind, robotic-type voice tells me the number is no longer in service.

"Fuck," I growl.

I drop my phone next to me and stare across the bedroom.

It wasn't real. It wasn't anything it would look like if this gets out. Especially with what happened with that elderly woman. And the injury. I'm one rumor away from being a real liability…

My phone rings.

I grab for it.

It's Tony.

My stomach sinks a little then. I wonder if this person who emailed me has emailed Tony too.

"Tony, talk to me," I say.

"Cutter! Where the hell have you been?"

"In bed. Sleeping."

"Oh. Right. Busy night? Staying out of trouble?"

"Tony, you got me a ride back to the house. I went to sleep. Is something going on?"

"No. Nothing. I'm just checking on my favorite client."

"Your favorite source of income."

"Remember when I wanted to call you Cutter Cash or something like that?"

"I remember. I should have fired you right then and there."

"Bet you're glad you didn't. You wouldn't have gotten the contract I got you. Right, Cutter?"

"If you want to make yourself useful right now, Tony, send over some food."

"I can do that for you," Tony says. "I bet I can even do you one better than that."

"Oh?"

The doorbell to the house rings.

It's loud. Obnoxious. Plays a few notes.

"I have to go," I say and hang up on Tony.

I throw the covers off my body and climb out of bed wearing nothing but shorts.

The doorbell keeps ringing now.

Every time it stops, it starts right back up.

"What the hell…" I whisper to myself.

I think about that text. The email.

The blackmail.

I'll be in touch soon… we can talk about money…

Now I'm racing down the stairs, two at a time. In my mind, the person who is blackmailing me will be at the door. It'll be some punk twenty-something-year-old looking to make a quick buck. And I'll punch every damn tooth in their mouth down their damn throat so they can shit out a smile tomorrow.

I rip the front door open.

And there's a gun pointed at me.

The first shot of water hits me right in the mouth and I stumble back.

My body and brain cannot compute what's happening for a second.

"Right in the face!" Trey yells with his cackling laugh.

Trey squirts at me again with the water gun as PJ charges, shoulder down, trying to tackle me to the floor.

Ranger has the most common sense of the three and he grabs at PJ.

"Watch his shoulder and leg! We need him back!"

PJ pulls back and stands up, going nose to nose with me.

"Still nursing that injury, you big pussy," he says.

"When was the last time you brushed your teeth?" I ask.

"Last time we made the playoffs," PJ says.

"He probably has gingivitis by now," Ranger says.

"Oh, man, how nice of you to play shortstop and still find time for dental school," PJ snaps.

I feel another squirt of water get me in the left ear.

I jump at Trey, pry the gun out of his hands and break it over my knee.

Water spills all over the floor.

"Tony called us and said to head over," Trey says. "Surprised?"

"He couldn't have sent strippers or escorts?" I ask.

"Want me to strip for you?" PJ asks.

He lifts up his shirt, showing off a growing beer belly.

He takes pride in what he calls his authentic baseball figure.

"Must be nice to be that out of shape and get paid what you do," I say.

"Not to mention only work once every five games," Ranger says.

"Should have learned to throw a ball," PJ says.

Believe it or not, PJ is a top ten pitcher in the league. The guy is big and burly, can hit triple digits on his fastball and has a sinker that can bring the smartest ballplayer to one knee, trying to make a cut on a ball.

"Hey, we brought more than water guns," Trey says.

"Food?" I ask.

"Booze," PJ howls as he rubs his stomach.

"And food," Ranger adds.

I follow the guys out onto the porch and shake my head when I see the size of PJ's pickup truck. It's two inches shy of being a monster truck. Ranger has his convertible, a foreign car that I don't know the brand. But I do know he paid a hefty six figures for it.

Trey climbs up to the passenger side of PJ's truck.

They start unloading food and booze like they're staying for a week.

I know better than that. They have to be back in the city tomorrow to catch a train to New York for a game two days from now. It feels like a kick to the stomach as I know I won't be joining them.

"Cheer up, pussy," PJ yells to me as he begins to climb the porch steps, a case of beer on each shoulder. At the top step he stops and grins. "Speaking of pussy… what's this small town like?"

"You can't stop yourself, can you?"

"Should've been a rock star instead," PJ says. "Play guitar. Travel the world. Sleep with beautiful women."

"You do the same now, minus the guitar," I say.

"Excellent point. Now tell me about the women around here."

"The only women I've met are elderly women who were swimming in a pool. And the lifeguard."

"Female lifeguard. Sounds hot."

"Go inside," I growl at PJ.

He laughs way too loud, just to be a prick.

"So you're already out on the town?" Trey asks as he passed by with a cooler.

I open the lid and see catered food. I peel back some foil and snag a couple pieces of cold, cooked bacon.

It tastes amazing.

"You know they want to get you all worked up, right?" Ranger asks.

"That's what friends are for," I say.

"But, hey, you do deserve some time off and some attention. I mean, if someone were to catch your eye and all while you're here…"

"Of all the advice and guidance I need in my life, I don't need you or anyone talking about what I do with my dick," I say.

"With that said, let's have a drink!"

I check my phone to see what time it is.

It's probably too early for a drink.

But, hey, nothing like waking up, getting blackmailed, then having your best friends show up with bacon and beer…

In other words - it's never too early for a drink.