Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(11)

Stop watching me, I implore the hairy guy, still feeling his eyes on the back of my head.

The skin on my neck prickles.

Stop it. I’m not turning around.

My nose twitches despite itself, my head gives a little shake.

No.

Jeez. Doesn’t he have anything better to do other than stand there and creep on people who want to be left alone? I mean, not that I’m alone, alone. We are, after all, in a room full of people.

My gaze wanders.

Is he still looking? I’m dying to look over my shoulder but square them instead, standing taller on the heels of my tall, brown boots. Tap a toe impatiently, craning my head to survey the room.

If I tilt it just so, maybe I can catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye without actually having to turn my head? I test the theory, adding a hand to the column of my neck, faux-massaging it, lifting my cup to my lips.

So smooth.

Shift my eyes to the right.

Heart plummeting to my stomach because those sullen brown eyes of his are indeed locked on my short frame. I’m not facing him, but they’re so bright and striking I can make them out nonetheless. Even shrouded amongst all that hair.

Is he judging me? He must be—why else would he be attempting to telekinetically drill holes into the back of my skull? No doubt he thinks I’m a loser with no friends.

No—he thinks I’m a loser with shitty friends.

Big difference.

He doesn’t like them and doesn’t even know them. Or me, for that matter.

Judgy, arrogant asshole.

My throat hmphs indignantly.

A noise from the kitchen has my head jerking in that general direction. Two huge guys spill through the narrow door and into the living room. It looks like they’re fighting—or wrestling?

I recognize one of the moves as a half nelson, and the entire scene suddenly escalates when one of the guys maneuvers his meaty right arm, hooks it around the others guy’s neck, and pulls the guy down. Down onto the dirty, disgusting shag carpet.

Gross.

They’re both grunting, feet smashing into end tables. The wall.

One booted foot kicks. Entire body thrashes.

The guy on the bottom is unsuccessfully trying to untangle himself from whatever hold he’s in now, floundering like a fish out of water. Flopping, too drunk to remove himself but giving it the old college try.

Face bright red, he’s sputtering, getting pissed.

Steam practically rolls out of his nostrils as he throws his head back, trying to knock it against his opponent’s sweaty forehead.

No luck.

“Fuck you, Kissinger,” he slurs. “Let me the fuck up.”

Kissinger laughs, squeezing his arms like a python, wrapping them tighter.

The crowd shifts, girls gasping, people calling out. Cheering. Stumbling around, trying to make room as the boys tussle.

An elbow is released, nailing Kissinger in the gut. It’s not a taut stomach; he clearly hasn’t missed a kegger in months, beer belly pronounced.

A punch.

Someone gets kicked and falls over as blood gushes from his nose.

Girls scream—so dramatic—and a few guys on the perimeter of the room start shoving people forward, toward the fight. Why? I have no idea, but it creates chaos and more fists are thrown, this time from spectators, not the two dudes still on the floor.

The person closest to me stumbles backward, and I take a step back to prevent myself from getting jostled. Another and another and my back is almost pressed firmly against the wall, eyes bugging out when half the room erupts into right hooks and punches.

“Oh my god,” I say breathlessly as I exhale, the scene playing out in front of me a far cry from how the evening began.

I measure the distance to the front door, the bodies in my way. The noise. The chanting and cheering from the idiots watching instead of breaking up the brawls.

A large hand cuffs my arm and I barely have time to look down before I’m being ushered toward the exit, full cup of beer still clutched in my hand.

When that warm hand leaves my bicep and juts out, clearing the way, I have time to glance over my shoulder for a look at my rescuer.

The hairy guy whose name I haven’t figured out yet.

Roy?

Paul Bunyan without the ox. Without the axe.

Rescuing me.

But why?

I whip around, an errant elbow slamming into my body, sending me lurching forward—backward? I don’t know. I can’t stand straight and would have hit the wall if not for…

My beer cup goes soaring; his does too, splashing down the front of my dress. His chest. Cold and wet.

Soaking us both.

“Jesus H. Christ.” He sighs loudly enough for me to hear over the racket. The ruckus. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

A giant paw is at the small of my back, his mammoth body shielding mine as he shoves through the people standing in our way. Like a linebacker on the football field—or, a rugby player, I guess? Whatever position blocks people on the rugby field.

I’ve never seen it, so I have no clue.

The air outside is cold, or maybe it just feels like it because I’m drenched in alcohol, the yellow stain on my pretty dress running the entire length of the now sheer cotton.

The best part? I’m not wearing a bra.

Shit.

“I should text my friends to let them know I’m outside.”