Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(27)

“What’d you do? Have, like, slumber parties and shit?”

“Something like that.” I laugh, biting back my smile, pausing with a new train of thought. “You know what I couldn’t stop thinking about when Ben and Derek were hitting on my friends?”

“What?”

“All I could think about was what it would be like to date them. They were so boring—no personalities.”

“How so?”

“Ben kept lying about the dumbest shit, like winning the title for the College World Series, and his pick-up lines were so terrible even I knew the punchlines. Zero effort. Do you know what that tells me, Rowdy Wade?”

Rowdy shifts on the railing. “What does that tell you?”

“He’s going to be selfish in bed.” At this point I’m wishing I’d gone with a beer instead of water. “I bet he’s not a giver.”

Rowdy chokes a little on his water. “Come again?”

My arms cross and I smirk at his pun—come again—giggling into the collar of my coat because occasionally I’m as juvenile as a fifteen-year-old boy.

“I’d rather date someone good in bed, wouldn’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question I don’t expect him to answer. “Derek and Ben are blah. Total nail and bail.” I drop the line casually, as if I deliver quips like this all the time.

I don’t.

I just want to see the look on his face.

Rowdy Wade does not disappoint; his poker face sucks, and he’d be an awful card partner in Vegas. His eyes are too wide. Obviously shocked. His brows, once a neutral line, are now shot up in his hairline.

My nose wrinkles at the thought of that Derek kid in bed and I stifle a snort, satisfied that I’ve managed to surprise Rowdy.

“What?”

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Nail and bail?” My expression is pure innocence. “You’ve never heard it? It’s like a pump and dump—you know, a one-night stand?”

His laugh is almost maniacal. “Oh, you don’t have to explain it to me—I’ve heard of them, all right. I’m just surprised you’re saying it. You seem so…you’re…”

I lean toward him, curious. “I’m what?”

“You’re—you seem like you’re, you know, someone with strong morals.”

That’s true. I lean back, pleased I’ve managed to surprise him with my foul mouth. “I do have strong morals—that doesn’t mean I can’t throw down a few trashy catchphrases.”

“I mean, you seem like the kind of girl who’s saving.”

“What do you mean?”

I’m not saving myself; I just haven’t found anyone I wanted to lose my virginity to, although I did come close after senior prom in high school. He was cute and we’d been casually dating, so I let him rent a hotel room and plan the whole thing.

Things when south went he tried to get me drunk—so gentlemanly—and instead we ended up fighting about all the liquor and condoms he’d brought.

Fun fact about me: I’m a virgin.

All my “pleasure parts” are intact, never been breached (unfortunately), though one thing is for certain: I’m most definitely not saving myself for marriage. I just haven’t found anyone worthy of my V-card.

Silently, Rowdy watches the wheels spinning inside my head, content to watch me think, to watch as I stew over the lack of orgasms in my life that aren’t self-induced.

“You’re right.” My shoulders rise and fall nonchalantly. “Maybe I am saving myself—I’m saving myself for a connection. I want to feel good about my decision after I make it, not regret it. So until Mr. No Regrets comes along…”

“Mr. No Regrets,” he repeats. “Wonder what he looks like.”

He looks like you.

He looks like Rowdy, and I don’t even know what his real name is. A discontented noise rises from my throat, much like a hmph, so I clear it, deploying my dimple on him. Twiddle my thumbs between my bent knees.

“You know what I’d like to know?” I muse. “Your first name.”

For a few seconds, while the music is changing inside, we have utter quiet. Quiet while he rises to his full height, taking a few calculated steps in my direction.

It’s a short jaunt, and then he crouches, plucking the empty water bottle out of my hand, still squatting when he lobs it. Tosses the bottle so it’s soaring in an arch to the garbage. Hits the back of the can, bounces, and disappears inside with a swoosh.

Knees bent, Rowdy squats in front of me, getting in nice and close, a mere three inches from my face, warm breath blowing on my lips.

All his features are shadowed by the dark.

“Promise not to tell?” His deep voice is a conspiratorial whisper.

“Is it a secret?”

He shakes his head. No.

I swallow the lump in my throat, giving him a cheeky, “It’s not all over the internet?”

This time he nods, his white teeth playing peekaboo through his lips. “Yeah—it is all over the internet, but it appears you’re the only one who hasn’t looked it up.”

“I’m looking for it now.”

“I can see that.”

And he can, so up close and personal, breath fanning against my skin. I can smell the beer he had earlier, and the cold pre-winter air clinging to his skin.