Jock Road (Jock Hard 3)

Gosh, listen to me.

I steer my car to the side of the road, getting as close to the curb as possible so I’m pulled over on what little shoulder room there is, careful not to hop the curb. God forbid I scuff my tire—I can’t afford for them to get damaged.

“What are you doing?” Savannah finally notices we’re not in the turning lane—we are, in fact, pulled over. “Uh, hellooo.”

“Give me a second here.” I have to think about what I’m going to say.

“We’re not stopping for a hitchhiker.”

“This is a college town—there are no hitchhikers. Plus, there’s Uber for that.”

“Oh yeah—good point. So. What are we doing?”

I ignore her question to ask one of my own. “Roll down your window, would ya?” She has to do it for me because my car is so old, the windows are manual, not automatic.

“Why? What are you going to do?” She’s so nosey.

“Can you just do it without arguing?” Ugh, when did I get so bossy? “That guy is someone I recognize and I want to, um—say hello.”

Not.

My friend complies, shooting me a look as if I’ve lost my damn mind—and maybe I have, because I’m about to shout out the window in the middle of the road at an idiot who probably couldn’t care less.

“Hey! Hey, asshole!” I’m loud, projecting as best I can so he hears me.

He straightens to stand, turning slowly toward my idling vehicle. Crosses his arms and smiles—as if he’s actually pleased to see me, pulled over and shouting at him.

“Well if it isn’t Little Miss Priss.”

Miss Priss? “Is that what you’ve been calling me?”

“Yes ma’am.”

We’re going to add ma’am to the list now?

Great.

Everyone knows it’s a shortened version of the word madam, which we all know was the formal way to address a woman back when etiquette and common courtesy were common.

Yes ma’am does flow off the tongue nicely—if you’re a Southern gentleman.

Which this guy is not.

Southern jackass is more accurate.

“Is this your Friday routine? Blinding unsuspecting girls and hitting on them on the side of the road?”

His laugh fills the darkness, confirming my suspicions.

“That’s sick and twisted, and it could get you arrested.”

Couldn’t it? Surely that can’t be legal. I’ll have to google it later when I get home.

“Just havin’ a little fun, darlin’. No harm done.”

Gross. “Please stop calling me that,” I shout.

“Stop calling you what?”

It sounds like ‘Stop cawlin you wut?’

Ugh. The accent is too, too much.

“What the hell is going on right now?” Savannah asks, head whipping back and forth between me and Biff McMuscles. “Charlie, do you know that guy? I think I recognize him from somewhere…”

“No, I don’t know him. There was just an unfortunate incident involving chicken and a burger that I don’t have time to tell you about it right now,” I mutter, fixating my glare in his direction and narrowing my eyes. Lower my voice and whisper, “I wish he’d choked on it.”

The big jock peels himself away from Co-Ed Barbie to amble toward my vehicle, all toned arms and muscular legs and tight abs. I mean—allegedly.

“One of these nights, I’m going to have you arrested for harassment,” I hiss to him around Savannah, whose eyes have gone wide at my tone.

I’m normally so sweet and easygoing.

Truly.

I don’t know what it is about this guy that’s turning me into a livid little dictator.

“For real though, how is he harassing you? You’re the one shouting out the window,” she mumbles. “What is happening right now? You’re acting manic.”

McMuscles continues walking toward my car, all cute and good-looking.

“We’ve got to stop meetin’ like this.” His deep voice is a silky Southern caress as he lumbers toward my car, large body imposing in the dim dusk of what’s nearly midnight. When he reaches the passenger side door, he rests that big, monolith of a body against it and leans in, forearms propped on the metal frame.

They’re tan, veins popping.

Savannah is inches away from the intrusion, reclining in my direction—as if we were in an exotic animal park or on a safari and a lion was approaching the car.

“Oh shit,” she mutters. “You’re…”

He winks at her, presses a forefinger to his lips so she doesn’t finish her sentence—and she sighs.

Wait. What?

No.

Savannah, no.

Do not fall under his spell!

“At least one of you knows how to be agreeable,” he drawls.

Yeah—and it isn’t me.

My chin tilts up, incensed. “Can you kindly remove yourself from my car? The last thing it needs is a dent.”

“You’re feisty tonight.” He laughs deep in his chest then regards Savannah. “Is she always like this?”

“Her name is Charlie.”

I swat at Savannah and land a soft blow to her upper bicep, near her boob, punctuating it with a, “Shut up, Van.” Jesus, whose side is she on? The last thing I want is him knowing my name.

“Charlie, eh?” Suddenly, he’s keenly interested. “Like the boy’s name or somethin’?” He seems to think he’s amusing—I want to wipe the smirk off his face with the back of my hand. Besides, this isn’t the first time someone has made a wisecrack about my male name.