Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(31)

If I can hear every word, no doubt the fucking neighbors can, too.

Nevertheless, I chuckle, listening to the banter coming my direction from down the sidewalk. The girls are loud enough I hear them before I see them—chattering and laughing, declarations echoing down the very quiet street, the usual weekend activity having been moved to a different location.

There is no party here tonight.

The girls are earlier than usual, clomping down the street in heels, with purpose, shrouded in the dark until they’re illuminated under the first set of streetlamps.

There are five of them, all trussed up like miniature streetwalkers.

Correction: all but one. One of them stands out in the crowd of tight dresses and high heels. Only one of them isn’t heavily made up; all but one stomps in high heels, clicking and determined against the concrete.

Scarlett draws in all my attention in her black and white Chucks, thick winter coat, and black leggings, tote bag slung over one shoulder.

Who would have fucking thought?

I stand straighter at the sight of that bag, wondering what’s inside, my stomach as interested as my eyes just became. I know it’s food because she’s too fucking sweet, and I’m excited. The anticipation has my gut rumbling.

Scarlett’s recognizable laugh rings out for the second time, unabashed and drifting up the block toward the house, making me smile. Making me anxiously shake out the palms of my hands.

Too much nervous energy, I muse, dismissing the actions. I missed my run this morning, that’s all. Nothing else to it.

One hundred feet.

Eighty.

Thirty more. Come on, come on.

I bounce on the balls of my feet, hands crammed in the pockets of my jeans.

Ten feet.

Five.

Her hair is screwed up into two buns atop her head, and as they get even closer, I make out furry earmuffs pulled down over her ears. They’re black, the fur wispy, lightly grazing her cheeks.

The buns and the earmuffs? A goddamn adorable combination.

I could eat her up.

My smile broadens—Scarlett is dressed for a trip to the Arctic Circle, clearly not giving a shit what anyone thinks of her, halting to a stop behind her friends when our eyes finally meet. Stops at the edge of the yard, her tennis shoes stalled at the edge of the walkway, hands hoisting her bag higher on her shoulder.

She props it on her hips and stares back.

Wiggles her brows.

My hands come out of hibernation when I lean forward to brace them on the bannister railing.

One of her friends giggles, high-pitched and way too enthusiastic. “Are you the official welcoming committee now?”

“Something like that.”

Everyone, including Scarlett, is giving their attention to the house behind me, obvious confusion falling on their expressions like fans doing the wave in the stands at a baseball game. And it’s no wonder—the lights inside are off, it’s eerily quiet, and no one is home.

“Where is everyone?” one of the blondes asks, biting down on a hot pink bottom lip. “Why is the house so dark?”

I lift my palms with no offering. “No party tonight.”

Protests of disappointment follow. “But we walked all the way over here—”

“—and my feet are already killing me—”

I interrupt them both. “Party has been moved to the Lambda house, ladies. The night isn’t over yet.”

Someone clears her throat. Another gets nudged in the back, stumbling forward a few feet.

“Are you coming out tonight, Rowdy?” the beautiful Latina blurts out, unable to stop herself. “You can walk with us.”

I glance down at Scarlett to gauge her reaction, our eyes meeting over four perfectly coiffed heads. Silently, she and I regard each other, and I can’t tell in this light what she could possibly be thinking.

“Yeah. I’ll walk over with you.”

I tell myself I’m only doing it to be chivalrous, and because anything can happen between point A and point B, regardless of the safety in numbers system. But, the truth is, I don’t live in the baseball house and had no reason to be loitering on the front porch.

I don’t bother checking to see if the door behind me is locked, or if all the lights are turned off, or if anyone is squatting inside.

Instead, I bound down the stairs to Scarlett’s side, giving her a playful bump with my shoulder, the contact of our bodies making the pit of my stomach turn over despite the heavy jackets separating our skin.

I shiver and obviously need to check myself, because this shit with her is getting so fucking weird.

Shaking off whatever the hell that electric spark was, I help steer the group to the left, down the walkway toward Greek Row. The large houses loom in the foreground, lit up, music so loud the bass can be heard several blocks over. From here, I can see people spilling onto the lawn of the Lambda house, and the desire to head home is strong.

“Thanks for waiting for us tonight—you didn’t have to,” Scarlett finally says, her friends booking it a few feet in front of us with newfound urgency.

Not them—you.

I waited for you.

I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. Scarlett would have gotten there, seen there was no party, and within minutes, found out where everyone was through the power of social media, like everyone else tonight did when they arrived tonight.

“I know I didn’t have to.”