Jock Rule (Jock Hard 2)

In the dark, I raise my brows. Yeah right, they say.

I’m almost insulted by his belted-out laughter. His cackle.

I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “What’s so funny?”

“You thinking I want to sleep with you.”

“I do not think that!” We both know I’m lying.

Another laugh. “Yes you do.” Pause. “Look, it’s fine—I’m not going to assault you or take advantage of you, trust me. I have zero interest in women, so your virtue is safe with me.”

“Oh,” I mutter. Then, “Ooohhhhhh!!!”

He gives me a sidelong glance and rolls his brown eyes, which are brightened by the street lights. “I’m not gay.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.”

Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Well then don’t announce it like that. Being gay isn’t a big deal—I wouldn’t care, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you were.”

“I know it’s not a big deal—but I’m not,” he grinds out through perfect teeth. “But I knew that was what you were thinking.”

“Fine. That’s totally what I was thinking.”

His grunt comes out of the dark, blinker for a right-hand turn ticking against the sudden quietness of the cab.

“How could you tell?”

“By the way you went Oohhh!!!” He mimics a high-pitched female voice so well my mouth curves into an amused grin. “All relieved and shit, like you just solved the freaking Pythagorean theorem.”

I shoot him an agitated look.

“It’s a math theory…”

“I know what the Pythagorean theorem is, thanks.”

You don’t earn a scholarship for engineering without adding numbers and knowing some basic geometry.

I might hate math, but I’m good at it, even though I still occasionally use fingers to do addition. Who doesn’t? I have zero shame, unless I’m sitting in front of my geometry professor. “Just so you know what you’re dealing with here. Don’t ever expect me to add my way out of a dangerous situation without a scientific calculator. We will both lose in a big way.”

“Seriously? Math is so easy, I can do that shit in my head. And all the Pythagorean theorem does is state that the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides and—”

“I know all this, jockstrap.” I hold a hand up. “Please just stop.”

I’ve had a few beers and don’t want to talk about classes right now, especially mathematics.

Quick, what’s fourteen plus thirty-seven? Answer: I have no damn idea, leave me alone.

“Do you want to stop by your place real quick and grab a change of clothes?”

I do a quick calculation of the odds I’ll run into Mariah and whoever it is she’s bringing home, figure it’ll be safe to dash in if I make it quick, and nod my head.

“Yes, please. I live in Dautry.”

“Got it.”

“Thanks.”

It takes me less than five minutes to race down the hall to our place (we live on the first floor), grab a tank top, shorts, and underwear out of my dresser, and run back out to the waiting SUV.

It idles in the still of night, a lone figure looming inside the cab patiently, his profile hairy and bearded, the outline of his topknot silhouetted in the dark.

I hide a smile.

“Thanks,” I repeat once I climb back in, and I get a chin tilt in return.

Respecting that he’s not in the mood for chatter, we don’t speak again until we’re finally on the outskirts of campus and out of town, turning into a residential area, the kind with families and professors, not students and party houses.

At the end of a driveway, he pulls into the garage of a red brick Tudor that looks like it came out of the pages of storybook.

“Uhhhh…” I drag the word out because I just cannot help myself. “This is your house? Do you live with your parents?”

I tug at my hemline, dragging it down over my knees. Shit, am I about to meet his mom? What is she going to think when she sees me? I look like a waterlogged Labrador, and I can’t imagine what my makeup looks like.

Perfect. Just perfect.

“No.” He pulls the keys from the ignition and hits the button to shut garage door, closing us in. “I live here alone.”

“You live here. Alone.” In this house, which is a thousand times nicer than the one I grew up in.

He doesn’t look at me, instead pushing on the driver’s side door and hopping out. “Are you coming in, or are you gonna ask me thirty more questions?”

I roll my eyes and grab my purse. “That was only like, three questions.” Hop out of the car. “Why are you being weird?”

But he’s already opening a door, light streaming from a small room at the side of the garage.

It’s a laundry room—he has an actual laundry room!—shoes lined up by the door, a few sets of shirts and pants neatly folded and stacked in tidy piles atop the washer.

I am so confused.

Bending to unzip the booties I’m wearing, I slide them off, placing them by the door. Next to his giant ones. Smoothing my hands down the front of my dress, cringing when I hit the wet spot, I gingerly follow him across the tile floor and into a well-lit kitchen.

Onto the polished hardwood floor.

The kitchen looks state-of-the-art and updated, almost like a showroom, and I rest my hands on the cold counter, clasping my fingers to give them something to do.

I am so out of my element. I wasn’t raised in a place like this, let alone live in one at age twenty-one.

Who is this guy and where does he come from?

Not the backwoods of Arkansas, that’s for damn sure.

I bite my tongue to stop the steady stream of questions in my brain from vomiting out of my mouth.

Why does he live here? Who pays for it? Is he selling drugs on the side to pay for all this? Is he a trust fund baby? Who owns this joint? Why doesn’t he have roommates? Does he have a job?

“Want something to drink?” he wants to know, standing at the sink, running the tap. Filling a glass and lifting it to his lips.

“Uh, surrre.”

His long arm reaches over, retrieving another glass from the cabinet made of rich wood. Fills it and slides it slowly across the center island.

I cradle it between my hands, thumbs stroking the cool, smooth glass. Fidgeting, unable to keep still.

This whole thing is so bizarre.

***

KIP

Me: On a scale of 1 to fucking terrible, how bad of an idea was it to bring a girl back to my place?

Ronnie: Depends on the girl

Me: Hey big sister, I’m shocked you’re awake! What the hell are you doing up?

Ronnie: The text notification woke me up, asshole!

Me: Liar

Ronnie: You’re right—your brother-in-law just got done doing nasty, unspeakable things to me. Oh, sorry, was that TMI?

Me: Jesus Christ Veronica, I didn’t need to know you were just having sex

Ronnie: Who said anything about sex?

Me: ANYWAYYYYYYYYY—about this girl…

Ronnie: Right, well, if she’s already at your place, not much you can do about it, yeah?

Me: Gee, thanks

Ronnie: It’s true. Besides, if you brought her home, she must not be terrible—we all know what you’re like

Me: What am I like?

Ronnie: A complete freak?? I mean, look at what you did to your beautiful face just so girls would leave you alone. Now you’re bringing them home? You must be hard up

“Um…so, you live here alone?” The girl’s sweet but incredulous voice carries through my kitchen, her finger sliding along the edge of the cold, hard granite countertop.

“Yeah.” I can’t look at her as I dump my keys and phone onto the built-in desk next to the double ovens where I store all my crap, the texts from my older sister, Veronica, already forgotten. Everything glistens and shines because the cleaning lady was here yesterday morning picking up my shit, washing my clothes, folding them, and dusting what little putzy stuff I have set out.

Not my choice—she was hired by my mother—and Christ, if anyone found out I had a cleaning lady, I’d never live it down.