Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

I try to get a good look at this Tyson, but it’s difficult given the dim streetlights above and the lack of one in the cab of the truck.

What I do see, however, is the telltale glow from a cell phone, illuminating this mysterious passenger person’s face.

“Wait a second—are you filming me?” It most definitely looks like this guy is pointing the camera of his phone in my direction.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Proof.”

Proof? Of what! Of all the ridiculous, stupid things to say!

“Uh, excuse me, I’m the one who should be taping you—you’re three times my size, and you’re the one harassing me.”

“No one is harassin’ you, and no one made you get out of your car.”

“Do I have to keep repeating that you could have gotten me in an accident with your headlights?”

He turns and says something to his friend that sounds suspiciously like, “It might be easier to forget about this one.”

I strain to hear the rest, but it’s difficult above the sound of cars easing their way around us on the street.

I step a bit closer, confident that although this bo-hunk is an imbecile, he’s harmless—not a kidnapper, not going to sexually harass me, not going to harm me in any way.

Call it intuition.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say to him?”

He turns his attention back to me. “I’m not the one screamin’ on the side of the road.”

Huh? That makes no sense.

I might be mad, but I’m not screaming.

“That’s not what you said.”

McMuscles chuckles when Tyson bumps him in the universal, bro-code kind of way. They laugh again. “Nope. It ain’t.”

“What did you say?” I know he was talking shit about me.

“Now why would I go and tell you that? You’re already in a hair-tossin’ mood—no need to ruffle them feathers more.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re pissed enough already,” the other guy says from the deep recesses of the truck, translating the Southern mumbo-jumbo.

“Thanks for the translation, genius. Pretty sure I could have figured it out on my own.”

Biff looks down at me, eyes shooting a cursory glance into the side mirror, finally noticing the steady line of cars gathering behind his giant vehicle.

“How ’bout you get in your car and head home—home where it’s safe.”

Where it’s safe? “I was safe until you started riding my tail and your lights temporarily blinded me.”

“Just go home.” His eyes harden a bit, mouth drawing into a serious line.

“How ’bout you don’t tell me what to do.”

The nerve of this guy.

Seriously.

His giant, hulking body leans in my direction, arm still resting against the door. “Suit yourself. We’ll just sit here in the middle of the road while everyone stares until you buckle your seatbelt and drive off.”

Why am I still standing here arguing with this Neanderthal? Obviously he doesn’t get the reason I’m pissed. It doesn’t occur to him that I got out of my car because his actions were reckless.

What I should have done is call the freaking cops.

“I’ll go—but not because you’re telling me to.”

“Good. You should go.”

“Just so we’re clear, I’m leaving so I don’t keep blocking traffic, not because you’re telling me to.”

He winks.

“Don’t wink at me.”

He smiles.

My eyes narrow into suspicious slits.

“I’m watching you, bucko.”

“I would love it if you were.” He has the nerve to laugh again, to shoot me another cocky wink.

“Stop flirting with me.” I have no interest in this guy. Not only is he a creep, he’s the furthest thing from my type. I give my hair a toss over my shoulder. “Whatever. I’m leaving.”

“Go.” He hangs out the window a little, giving his fingers a wiggle. Revs the engine of his giant truck once when I walk in front of it, his dumb headlights a spotlight on my retreating ass.

Great. Just great.

Jackson

The girl glares daggers at my windshield as she walks back to her car. If looks could kill, I would be a dead man.

For a split second, I have the thought that if I were interested in women and dating, she would be exactly the type of girl I’d date: a little spitfire, full of passion and sass. Any girl riled enough to climb from the safety of her car to scream at a stranger sitting in a dark truck has gumption.

“Do you know her?”

“No.”

My friend and teammate Tyson pushes. “Because it definitely seemed like you know her.”

I sigh, putting my car in drive. “Can’t you just leave it be?”

Tyson raises his brows at me. “Goddamn I love it when y’all country boys say y’all shit like ‘leave it be.’”

He totally misuses the word y’all, plugging it into all the wrong spots, but I don’t have the time or the energy to school the idiot on its proper use. It’s nothing new; Tyson loves repeating the shit I say, following me around like a puppy—or a kid chasing after his favorite player on a team.