Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(14)

“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.

“Where did you find this place? Jesus, it’s so nice.”