Chapter 1

I got into online fantasy sports because of my brother. He made a macho comment about it being a guy thing so I had to prove him wrong. I started with baseball, but pretty soon I was doing everything—all the real sports plus NASCAR and golf, just because they were there.

I guess it was an addiction. At times I was managing a dozen fantasy teams, when the seasons overlapped like with hockey, basketball and football. That was okay, because I didn't have much of a life, plus I was really, really good at it. And not just because I was willing to put the time into poring over waiver lists and keeping track of the stats. I think I had a sixth sense about picking players.

Being a woman made it even more fun. The other fantasy owners were mainly guys, and they never took me seriously until it was too late. I had to put up with a lot of stupid comments on the league message boards, but it was worth it when I ended up kicking everyone's butt.

My name is Jessie. It's really Jessica but no one called me that. At work everyone called me Ms. Parker, usually in squeaky, slobbery, finger-in-the-nose voices because I taught second grade. They were great kids but, believe me, when I got home I needed a diversion.

I'd been teaching for eight years, and—even though I still liked it—the enthusiasm I had when I first got out of college was fading. I was thirty years old and all I had to show for it was a six-year old car and a seventy-year old house.

My house was my other hobby. It was a great old Victorian-style two-story that I got cheap because it needed so much work. It's in an older part of Baltimore, but the neighborhood was pretty stable—no gangs and not much crime. The house had fantastic bay windows and deep moldings and dark hardwood floors and two fireplaces. And bad plumbing, and fuses that blew if you had two appliances turned on at the same time, and a basement that leaked.

I know what you're thinking. She's into sports big time, handy with tools and lives alone. Well, you're wrong. I like guys, a lot. It's just that I never met any nice ones. I was engaged for a while, and I thought Ned was Mr. Right. But after we got engaged he moved in with me, and everything changed. He drank a lot, and it seemed like nothing I did was okay. The first couple of times he hit me I made excuses for him.

Then Ned hurt me pretty badly. I was in the hospital for a while, and when I got out the cops made sure he stayed away from me. After that I guess I was scared of getting close. I dated, but rarely more than a couple of times with any guy, usually with friends of friends.

So I was by myself a lot, with my collection of vibrators. I had my dog, Binky, to warm my bed at night. He's a Westie, the white, Scotty-looking dogs that are on all the dog food packages.

And I had my fantasy teams. We were in the sixth week of the NFL season, and three of my four teams were in first place. I spent more time on one of them, because the league was fun. Well, one of the other owners was fun. He was in fourth place in my division. Not because he was stupid—just distracted. Sometimes he'd surprise me and beat me out for players on waivers and do really well. Other weeks he'd forget to take guys on bye-weeks out of his lineup.

His name was Dave Camp, and I guessed that he lived in California. His team was called the LA Raiders—he said he never forgave them for moving back to Oakland. We did a trade early on, so he had my IM address. Sometimes I didn't hear from him for a while but he usually congratulated me on Sundays, and sometimes I got messages from him late at night. I loved that.

It wasn't kinky, like cyber-sex. He asked about my life and sometimes gave me advice. It was easier to talk about my problems with him because I didn't know him that well, at least not in person. Sometimes I thought about what he might look like. Okay, I usually had a vibrator in my hand at the time. I knew he was smart, and had a great sense of humor. He knew a lot about sports from twenty or thirty years ago, so I guessed that he was older than me.

Anyway, it's not like I didn't have real friends. I hung around with women I knew from college sometimes, but most of them were married. And I did stuff with the couple that lived next door—George and Alice. They're both accountants and they entertained a lot. And they tried to fix me up with guys.

They invited me to a party at their house, a mix of people they knew from work and from the neighborhood. It was couples except me and this guy named Sean who worked with Alice.

Sean seemed nice, and he sure was cute. He acted like he was impressed with me, too. I was in a daring mood and went in a halter-top and shorts. It was the beginning of October, but it was unseasonably hot. Global warming and all.

I've got a pretty nice body for my age. I'm tall—almost five-nine—and slim because I work out a lot. I have long, chestnut brown hair that's naturally wavy and that I usually wear loose. The halter-top made my boobs look bigger than they are, and Sean noticed. I think being a second grade teacher made me want to dress sexy when I was around adults, for the change of pace from modest pant-suits and sensible shoes.

I'd had a few beers, and was feeling good. I think Sean was trying to get me drunk—he kept bringing me fresh bottles of Corona. We were sitting outside with Alice and some of the neighbors.

"Well, I don't care why. I like it," Brenda Goldman said. She lived across the street. I hadn't been paying attention to the conversation because I was trying to decide if Sean would be good in bed. He was attentive, had nice eyes, and couldn't keep them off my tits—all good signs.

"You like what?" I asked.

"All the cops," she answered, frowning. Sean came to my rescue.

"Brenda says they've been patrolling the neighborhood a lot lately."

"Not just patrolling," she corrected. "There's a car down by the convenience store almost all the time. Where you got mugged by those kids."

Brenda was kind of a busybody. She lived alone, was maybe ten years older than me, and she taught at the local junior college. I guess you'd call her something like "voluptuous", if you were being nice about it. She was short, with big boobs and a really big butt.

"I didn't get mugged. They just hassled me a little," I said. Come to think of it, I had noticed more cops lately. "I guess calling to complain did the trick."

"Bullshit," Brenda said. "We've been complaining for a year and all they did was send us Neighborhood Watch stickers for our windows."

"Maybe they got a grant or something," I said, smiling at Sean. The top two buttons on his shirt were undone, and I could see dark, curly hair on his chest. Mmmm... I like that.

"Sure as hell wasn't from the Feds," Sean said, shaking his head.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my antennae going up. Alice and George are Republicans. I could overlook it because they were nice, but we'd learned to stay away from politics.

"Not with that fairy Sinclair in the White House. You don't get squat unless you're gay, or on the endangered species list, or both," Sean said, grinning. All thoughts of fucking him disappeared. Crap! Why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut?

Alice cringed, and put a hand on Sean's leg. "Oops. Jessie's our neighborhood liberal, Sean. She likes Grant Sinclair."

"And he's not gay," I said, temper rising. "His wife died, for Christ's sake."

A month after the junior senator from California became the President on a tide of hope for national reconciliation, his young wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. She died nine months later.

"That was a while ago, and he doesn't date. Unless you count hugging trees," Sean said, still trying to be funny.

"Yeah, well most of the country agrees with me. He's way better than that last loser. At least he has a brain."

Sean rolled his eyes. "Okay, calm down. I'm sorry." His gaze wandered back to my tits. The moron still thought he might get his hands on them.

"Hey, Jessie—why don't we go check on the hamburgers?" Alice said, standing and forcing a smile. "George is a terror when he grills."

"Sorry, Jessie. I should have warned you," she said as we moved away. She put a hand on my shoulder. "You have to admit he's cute though."

"If he'd kept his cute mouth shut, he might have gotten lucky tonight. I'm pretty horny," I said, grimacing. Instead it was going to be me, Binky and battery-powered toys again.

After dinner I told Alice I was tired and left. Sean turned his attention to Brenda Goldman, who was getting sloppy drunk and apparently didn't care if the guy was an idiot.

I changed out of my party clothes and took Binky for a walk. By the time I got home I worked up a good depression and decided that I needed another beer, or maybe six. I was the idiot. Why did I always have to screw things up by being so serious? Who cared if Sean was a Neanderthal—he had nice muscles and he was tall and dark and you didn't need to change his batteries.

I got my beer and sat down at the computer, blinking away hot tears. Even though I didn't feel like doing it, I started getting my teams ready for Sunday. The regimen of it would do me good, and take my mind off my aching libido.

The little chime announced an incoming message, from Dave.

Hi! I need wide receiver help. Should I pick up Curry or James?

I thought about ignoring it. I sucked down half my beer and typed.

I took a deep breath and wiped my face. I did want to talk, but typing was too impersonal. I decided to take a chance.

Not like this. Could I call you on the phone?

There was a long pause.

Dave didn't reply right away, and I realized that I might have offended him. Maybe he was a right-wing crazy too. We'd never talked about politics.

That was when I broke down and told him everything. I cried and typed and cried some more. I told him about Ned and all the problems, and about being so lonely it hurt. And about how depressed I got when I turned thirty, and how I was worried I'd be alone forever. I told him I was tired of spending all my time around other-people's seven-year old kids, and how good it felt to look sexy at the party. I even told him I was so horny I thought about bringing Sean home with me.

Dave was great about it. He asked questions and told me what he thought, and somehow made me feel like everything was okay. By the time we signed off we'd been talking almost two hours, and I realized that I still knew next to nothing about his life.

I went to bed and turned off all the lights, because in the dark I didn't need to know what Dave looked like. I imagined him whispering to me, soothing and gentle, as his hands stroked my body in all the right places.

I imagined his tongue probing my ear, my neck, and my nipples until they were hard and aching with need. And then he moved on, lower. His fingers traced little patterns on my tummy and on the insides of my thighs as I rubbed his back with my heels. His breath was hot and rapid on my pussy until I grabbed his head and pressed his face against me. I felt his desire feeding mine as he licked and sucked...

I came really hard, and I must have screamed because I scared Binky. He started barking and running around the end of the bed in the dark. As my breathing returned to normal, he calmed too, and returned to his spot at my feet. I held onto the fantasy, hugging myself and thinking about Dave until I fell asleep.

We traded instant messages almost every night after that. Sometimes only for a few minutes and sometimes he was on a palm pilot instead of his computer, so the messages were short. He had some kind of a management job—it seemed like he had people working for him. And he traveled a lot, often working at night.

It was turning colder, but I still ran before work. My neighborhood was fairly safe, especially with more cops patrolling, and at six in the morning the streets were usually deserted. Running helped give me the energy to get through the day, and it was a good time to think and plan.

That Tuesday morning there was a lot of fog but, by the time I sucked down a cup of coffee and pulled on my sweats, it seemed to be clearing. The first mile was always tough, until muscles loosened and I got into a zone. I cut through campus at Johns Hopkins and took side streets to Druid Hill Park. The hilly, winding trails of the Park along Druid Lake, and past the zoo and conservatory, were my favorite place to run—challenging and beautiful.

That day the air was crisp and the fog clung to the little valleys and over the surface of the lake. I was looking at the lake when I saw him. He looked out of place—a man running in jeans and a bulky jacket.

He was cutting across the grass, heading toward the path I was on. I picked up my pace to get ahead of him. When he adjusted his course to meet me, I knew I was in trouble. He was big—well over six feet and broad, with the build of an athlete too long out of training. Long dark hair, ragged looking, and dirty—it clung to him, barely moving as he ran. Bursts of steamy breath obscured his face. His feet pounded hard on the dry, brown turf of the park.

Panic building, I started to sprint. The park was deserted at that time of the morning, and I was at least a quarter of a mile from a busy road. No one would hear me if I screamed, and the woods offered too much cover. If he caught me, he could drag me into the scrub and low trees.

I had pretty good endurance but had never been blessed with much raw speed. The man was gaining on me. I could hear his labored breathing, combined with low grunts of exertion as he pulled closer.

"Stop, bitch. Or I'll hurt you. Bad."

He was only ten feet away now, starting to reach for me. I thought about turning away from him, cutting and evading, but that would take me off the path, and deeper into the park.

My hair was tied in a loose, tangled ponytail, and my old, baggy sweatshirt was billowing behind me. His outreached fingertips were in my hair, and brushing my arm. He was going to catch me.

"I'm going to fuck you. You running cunt."

I glanced back and saw his face. Flushed, mouth open, eyes leering and glazed with the excitement of the hunt. My mind flashed to an image of an antelope about to be pulled down by a predator, and I knew the raw terror of that moment. I was prey, and this bastard meant to kill me.

His hand grabbed my shoulder, and spun me. I stopped, regained my balance and turned, running toward the lake. Maybe he wouldn't follow into the frigid water. Maybe he couldn't swim. My lungs were aching, the cold air burning. God, why couldn't I be faster!

He dived and caught me around the knees. I fell headlong. My face hit the ground, and my wind was knocked out.

His hands moved to the waistband of my sweatpants, trying to pull them down. I held them and squirmed, trying to get my breath. He grabbed a handful of my hair and stood, pulling me to my feet. His other hand squeezed my breast viciously, and I thought I would pass out from the pain.

His erection pressed against the small of my back. His face was against my cheek.

"I got me some sweet pussy here," he said, panting. "I'm going to fuck you good, bitch."

I hadn't seen a weapon, but he was too strong for me. He picked me up easily with the arm that was around my chest and started toward the woods. I tried to scream but couldn't get enough air into my lungs and there was blood in my mouth from when I hit the ground. My lips were numb and swollen.

My legs were free, though, and I kicked wildly, trying to trip him or catch a kneecap. He had to let go of my hair to get a better grip. I whipped my head back, connecting solidly with his mouth and nose. The bastard howled in pain and dropped me. I tumbled forward, but didn't go all the way down. My hands hit the packed dirt before I got my feet under me and started to run—away from the woods, away from the lake, back toward the path.

"You fucking cunt! I'll kill you for that!" He was only a few feet behind me. I didn't hurt him badly enough, and he was going to catch me again. I was still gasping for breath, and blood was spraying from my mouth.

"Fuck you!" I wheezed, whirling to face him. I wasn't going to let him pull me down from behind again.

There was a blur of movement from my right. Another man, running fast, hit my attacker like a linebacker blindsiding a receiver. They both went down, the new guy on top, driving a forearm into my attacker's neck.

I backed away, staggering. Then I turned and ran. I had to get away, as far and as fast as I could.

"Wait! It's okay," the new guy yelled. I glanced back. My rescuer was clean cut, with short dark hair, navy windbreaker and sweatpants. He had the attacker face down, a knee in his back. But I didn't trust anyone. I ran.

I didn't stop until I got home, until I was inside with the door bolted. Then I collapsed onto the floor in my entry hall, exhausted and aching everywhere. My mouth hurt the worst, but my hands were still stinging from when I fell the second time and one of my wrists throbbed. The back of my head was tender, and wet with blood from where I face-butted the bastard.

I didn't care about any of that. I was safe. I curled into a ball, hugging myself and rocking. Binky was whining, licking my hands, then my neck. I fell asleep.

The next thing I knew, the phone was ringing. I felt groggy, dazed. Trying to remember what happened. It had to be the school calling. I struggled to my feet and found the phone.

"Hello?"

"Jessie! Is that you? Are you okay?"

"Who's this?"

"It's... Dave. You're hurt, Jessie. You have to see a doctor."

"Dave?" I shook my head, trying to clear it. It couldn't be Dave. "How did you know?"

"It doesn't matter. You have to open the door. There's a man outside and he's there to protect you. An ambulance is coming."

"Dave?" I felt dizzy. I heard a knock at the door, hard and insistent.

"Open the door, Jessie. It's okay."

So I did.

I woke up in bed. Crisp white sheets and the smell of disinfectant. Busy sounds of people working, and a voice on an intercom paging someone. My left arm felt funny and I lifted it and saw surgical tape and a clear IV tube trailing off the side of the bed. I was in a hospital.

I closed my eyes again and tried to concentrate. My head felt like it was floating, and I was a little nauseous. The park, and me running. The bad man, catching me. The good man, stopping him. I opened my eyes again, and looked at the room.

Mid-day sun shone through a large window. There was a bouquet of spring flowers next to the bed—chrysanthemums and daffodils. There was a man sitting on the other side of the room, near the door. He was wearing a dark suit and he was watching me. He smiled when I looked at him. He was cute, with short, light brown hair and nice teeth.

"Dave?" I asked. My voice was weak and scratchy, my throat very dry. He walked over and offered me a glass, with a straw.

"Would you like some water?" he asked. I nodded, then drank. It was cold and wonderful. When I finished he returned the glass to the table.

"I'm Ron, Ms. Parker. How are you feeling?"

"Not Dave?"

"I don't know a Dave. Not here anyway. Is he a friend?"

I nodded. I must have imagined the phone call—it couldn't have been Dave. He was in California, and it made no sense for him to call. He didn't even know my number. How could he know there was a man at my door?

"Are you the police?" I asked. He had that look, with a tiny badge on the lapel of his jacket and a thin cord trailing from his left ear.

"No, Ma'am. Just here to look after you," Ron said. He touched the ear that had the phone thingy in it.

"She's awake. Seems fine," he said, then paused, listening. "Yes, he said a couple more hours." Another pause. "I understand."

I took stock of myself as he talked. I raised my right hand and saw the soft cast on the wrist. I touched my forehead and felt bandages.