Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

“What dorm are you in?”

“I’m not in the dorms. I still live at home.”

“How do you still live at home?” I remember her voice sounded as shocked as the expression on her face. Live at home? Why the hell would you do that? it said.

Because I thought my family needed me there, and I’ve only just now realized my being home simply enables my mother to gallivant around and do whatever she damn well pleases while I pick up the slack.

“I’m local. It only takes me fifteen minutes to get here, so to save money, I’m not living in the dorms.”

“Oh.” She paused, still not convinced living at home as an adult made any sense at all. “How is that working out for you?”

It was working out…until it wasn’t, and here I am schlepping boxes into a house with two people I’ve only known a day so I can finally break free and have some independence.

The room I’m renting is actually larger than the one I have at home—my parents didn’t make any of the bedrooms big because they didn’t want us to hang out in them, rather they wanted us to hang out in the loft above the living room and in the basement with the large entertainment and media room.

Family time is what my parents cherish most, and so, my bedroom in their very large house is actually quite small, which was their attempt at forcing us out.

Of the rooms, I mean.

Well.

It worked because I have no privacy.

I didn’t bring a ton of things to move into this new space, but Mom did let me bring all my bedding and the curtains I had hanging in my room so it will feel like this one is my own. I make short work of folding up and storing the current comforter and sheets in the closet, tucking them out of the way in the top right corner.

Next, I unpack my toiletries and stock up the bathroom cabinet with shaving creams, aftershave lotions, and hair products. Things I never thought I would actually use on a regular basis have become my regular routine. It’s not that I’m a metrosexual, but I’m probably close enough.

I run a finger through my shaggy hair, the one thing I let go while I was overseas, the longer locks falling to my shoulders in dirty blonde waves. Next, I run a hand across the stubble covering my cheeks and chin, in no rush to shave any of it off. I feel more masculine this way—my appearance is probably the reason Lilly didn’t recognize me.

After I’m done putting things away, I survey the bathroom: burgundy shower curtain that actually matches the quilt on my bed and a coordinating rug on outdated tile floor. They’re tiny gray squares straight out of the seventies.

I pull back the shower curtain to put my shampoo, conditioner, and razor on the small ledge. Suction-cup a round mirror beneath the showerhead so I can shave there if I feel like it. Less mess to clean up at the sink.

I take a quick piss then return to the bedroom and unpack a box of school supplies I brought, starting with the many science books I’ve acquired over the years written by numerous experts in the mathematics field. Just some light reading, you know. It’s actually been ages since I’ve read anything fictional for pleasure, not even to put myself to sleep at night. There are only so many hours in the day, and I like to use them to fuel my brain with knowledge—I’m always on a quest to get ahead and graduate early.

I don’t always have a mind for mathematics, but it typically ties into everything and therefore I want to stay sharp.

My mind goes back to Lilly.

I could kick myself for the missed opportunity when she asked if she knew me. She cocked her head and studied my face, and in that instant I could feel the recognition in her gaze—the problem is I’m too much of a pussy to have said anything even though she presented me with the perfect opportunity. I’m always missing out on perfect opportunities unless they’re academic, and sometimes I hate myself for it.

I wish I were more ballsy. My younger brother has bigger balls than I do most of the time. But maybe that’s just because he’s younger and spoiled and hasn’t had to work for anything.

My parents weren’t always wealthy—I remember them being on food stamps when I was younger because my dad was just starting at my grandfather’s business—they never received a dime from the family unless they earned it.

Both of them had to pay for college, working full time while going to school—which I personally can’t imagine doing; not with the course load I have now.

Mom doesn’t have much of a hand at the office anymore—she stopped working there when my brother was born—before that, they leveraged the only car we had to get a small loan for the tiny house I grew up in, robbing Peter to pay Paul as my dad said.