Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(25)

“That’s the second time this morning you’ve said that—keep it up and I’ll almost believe you.” He sets the mug down on the white countertop. Brushes his hands off on his gray sweatpants and rises to his full height. “Let me grab a sweatshirt and we’ll go.”

Why am I powerless against this guy? He is so bizarre and bossy.

And rude.

“Fine.” If he insists on driving me home, I should shut my mouth and stop complaining about a warm, free ride.

When Kip is done gathering up a hoodie and pulling it down over his mass of messy hair, he grabs his keys and yanks the back door open. With a sweep of his hand, he ushers me through first—like a gentleman would do if one were here—and then we’re out in the frigid cold.

“Thanks for the ride,” I mutter when I’m buckling my seat belt. The least I can do is thank him for his hospitality.

“Don’t sweat it. My sister would kill me if I let you walk home by yourself—last night or right now.”

“Your sister?”

“Yeah, Veronica, but I call her Ronnie because she hates it. She’s older and into manners and all that other bullshit.”

“Ahh, I see. Did she raise you?”

“My parents are not dead, remember?” he deadpans, shooting me a raised eyebrow.

Oh shit, that’s right. Why do I keep forgetting? It’s pretty much the worst slip-up, ever. “My god, I am so sorry.”

“You’re going to give me a complex if you keep talking like that. I’m going to want to actually call my mother to hear the sound of her voice, and that will only confuse us both.”

“Why? Don’t you ever call home?”

“God no.” He pauses, hitting the turn signal and heading toward campus. “No, that’s not true. I guess I call enough—mostly texts and shit, though. My asshole sister’s favorite thing to do is put us in group texts.” Kip hangs another left, already knowing where I live and how to get there, and it feels like he’s driven it a thousand times before. “Family group texts seriously want to make me gouge my eyes out.”

“Why?”

“Dude, because. My mom never finishes her sentences. She will send three words, hit send, then type another two words and hit send. Then another two—hit send. To make one complete sentence, instead of typing the whole thing out, right? Then she’ll send a GIF. Then four more words. Send. It makes me fucking mental. Ronnie knows I can’t handle it.”

That does sound horrific, but not unlike any of the group chats I’ve ever been in with my friends.

“My mom does the same thing. Kind of. But then again, there are only two of us, so I don’t have to worry about an entire family chiming in.”

“You’re not missing out.”

“I’m not?” Honestly, it sounds kind of nice.

“Fuck no!” Kip’s SUV makes a right at the stop sign before he asks, “So, no brothers or sisters?”

“Nope. It’s just me. The lonely only.”

“And your mom.”

“Yup, just me and my mom—always has been, since, you know…my dad left.”

Most people ask what happened to my dad—or sperm donor, as I started calling him when I realized what a piece of shit he actually was—and I hope Kip isn’t one to pry.

He is.

“You said your dad left, but what happened? Did he die?”

“No, nothing like that, although I’m sure my mom wishes that were the case. Haha.”

“Hey, sue me for asking. You seem fixated on death for some reason, so I thought maybe that was why.”

He has a very good point. “My birth father and mom were never married, and he took off when I was little; I don’t remember him being around. After he left, we lived with my grandparents for a while.”

“Ah, I see.”

Yeah.

“So what’s your mom do?”

“Like, what’s her job?”

“Yeah.”

“She…” I clear my throat and straighten my spine. “She’s a bartender. And she waitresses.”

I wait for the awkward pause that usually follows that statement, but it never comes. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t embarrass me that my mother is a bartender and waitress—it’s other people who get all weird and judgmental about it.

Especially women her age, ones with husbands and families and minivans and carpools. That was never my mother, never us. We never had the money for that kind of life—barely had the money for me to play sports or join clubs.

Always just squeaking by.

I was left alone a lot. Not only did my mom work a lot when I was growing up, she couldn’t afford babysitters or whatever. Taking every available extra hour, working overtime to pay the rent and utilities, at the same time saving for my college education.

“Damn, do you ever get to see her?”

“Sure I get to see her. I mean, not a ton…not really.” If I’m being honest, my mom works way too much and I rarely get to spend time with her. “I, uh, I’m here on a partial scholarship, so…” The sentence trails off. “And I was just awarded a grant from the engineering department.”

“Is that your major? Engineering?”