Hard Fall (Trophy Boyfriends 2)

“Gee, thanks.” Her eyes skim my physique, lingering on my biceps. “We are not turning the lights off. We’re going to wait out your mother like mature adults.”

Before I can give her shit for undressing me with her eyes, there’s a knock at the door. Hollis and I step farther apart, guiltily, as if we were doing something wrong, about to be caught doing something we’re not supposed to.

“Knock-knock, it’s Mom! Are you both decent?”

Decent? Jesus, Mom, for once could you just not embarrass me?

My mother pushes the guest room door ajar a few inches, peeking her nose and eyes in, discovers that we are in fact dressed, and proceeds to come the rest of the way inside. “I just came to say good night and see if you needed anything before I turn the lights out.”

My mother makes toward the double bed, pulling down the quilt in neat folds—just low enough for us to crawl beneath the covers—spreading the blankets neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles. Gives each of the four pillows a fluff while Hollis and I stand idly watching. Useless and mystified.

“There. All set.” She looks at us expectantly, first Hollis, then me. I’m standing here like a dumb fuck, not knowing what to do with myself, my mother hovering over me like I can’t get laid on my own. “Don’t be shy—climb in,” she urges us. “Dad and I talked about it, and we do not mind having you down the hall—you just pretend we’re not there.”

Pretend they’re not there? Not likely. Not that we’re going to be doing anything for them to overhear, because Hollis can’t stand me and isn’t going to let me within an inch of anything on her body. Hard facts.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think my mother was playing matchmaker; was Hollis right when she said Mom suspects we aren’t an actual couple?

“Um…thank you for the turndown service, Mrs. Wallace. This was so nice of you considering Buzz shouldn’t be driving.” Hollis still looks unquestionably ludicrous in that t-shirt and shorts.

I snicker.

She hears me and shoots a death glare. “You better only be laughing because you’re drunk.”

There is a teasing glint in her eye along with the biting words; she knows damn well a couple of beers weren’t going to get me drunk and that we’re being held prisoner here by my meddling mother on purpose.

If looks could kill…

I watch as Hollis Westbrooke climbs into the too-small bed, in her too-big pajamas, and smushes her entire body to the far side before climbing in myself.

When I spread out on my back, Mom stands next to the door, looking so pleased, beaming down at us as only mothers who have successfully manipulated their adult children do.

“Good night, kids.” She disappears. Then reappears. “Oh—should I do eggs and bacon for breakfast?”

“No Mom, we’re heading out of here wicked early.”

She nods her head and clicks her tongue. “So just eggs.”

I groan.

“I’ll be up for a few more hours if you need anything. Dad’s already fallen asleep, but I’ve been looking at houses on Zillow and can’t stop.” She giggles. “Do you know how much land you can buy in Tennessee? We could be land barons!”

“Are you and Dad moving to Tennessee, Mom?”

“No sweetie, I just like looking at houses. It’s not a crime.”

Hollis laughs softly. “Good night, Mrs. Wallace.”

And with that, my mother backs out of the bedroom, flipping down the light switch, the pitch-black room starkly quiet.

“Well. She sure knows how to play you.”

“Hi—you’re stuck here too, or has that escaped your notice?” Then, to rub salt in the wound: “How’s that plan working out? You know, the one to keep the lights on until one of us can sneak out?”

“Shut up.”

“You know I’m right. You’re not going to win against my mother.” I yawn to let her know how right I am and how bored.

“Whatever.”

“Say ‘Trace, you were right.’”

She scoffs with a huff, adjusting the pillow beneath her head. “I’m not saying that.”

“But I was right. So just say it.”

Silence.

“Come on, say it.” I’m whispering in the dark now, the chance that my mother is lingering in the hallway rather high. She’s always been like the prison warden, patrolling to keep us teenage boys in line—and prevent us from sneaking out our windows.

A cold foot touches mine, an appendage so frigid it could freeze an iceberg. Or shrink a cock three sizes.

“Jesus Christ!” I hiss. “Warn a person before you do that! What the hell are you so cold for? Dammit!”

Hollis’s body begins shaking with muffled laughter. “Dear lord, could you be any more dramatic?” Her foot touches mine again, and I almost come off the mattress.

“Stop it!”

“Shh, keep it down. You’re being so loud.”

I am being loud, but she’s being obnoxious, so… “Then stop touching me with your cold, dead, lifeless feet.”