Jock Rule (Jock Hard #2)(67)

In a panic—because I was always so freaking responsible—I tried covering for her. Pulled a speech out of my ass, gave it in front of the entire student body, then borrowed a shirt from our friend Clarissa, changed, came back as me to give a speech for myself.

It was exhausting, and the entire time, she was shut in a closet kissing some boy.

My sister gives me a dull look over the rim of her glass, waving her hand in the air dismissively.

“Amelia, that happened five years ago, or whatever the math is. Why do you keep bringing it up? We were in high school.”

“I keep bringing it up because I was terrified we were going to get caught! Just like I am now!”

“You’re so dramatic. We both won, so I don’t know what your problem is.”

“The problem is, you’re always doing this. Remember that time I dressed up as you to meet Kevin Richards at the movies so you could go do God knows what with Dusty Sanders? The entire movie Kevin kept trying to put his hand on my thigh because you’d let him get to third base the night before.”

“And you whacked him in the balls,” she deadpans dryly. “Yeah, who could forget that?”

“Whatever,” I mumble. “He had it coming.”

“Can we focus on Dash here, please?”

“We are twenty-one years old—don’t you think we’re a little old to be pulling tricks on people?”

“Um, no? There’s a reason God gave us the same face.”

That makes me laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But you love me, don’t you?” She bats her sooty lashes. “You’re totally going to help me out—I can tell by the look on your face.”

“What look?” I pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about. “I have a look?”

My sister claps her hands, excited. “Yes, you totally do, and you’re totally doing this for me!” She lifts her brows and quirks the corner of her mouth into a cocky grin that mirrors the one I have on my face right now.

Shit. She’s right.

My twin leans in, hands folded on the table like she’s just entered negotiations in a business meeting.

“What’s it going to take for you to help me out?”

I mimic her pose. “I don’t know, Lucy. You tell me—what’s my time worth to you?”

She stares for a few long moments, lost in thought, trying to measure my sincerity through narrowed eyes. She’s trying to gauge if I’m being flippant or sincere about helping her. The thing about my sister is that everything always come so easy for her. She’s beautiful and relies heavily on her looks, uses them to her advantage. She’s outgoing and uses that, too.

Not that I’m not—I’m all of those things, but I’m not a user.

My sister is.

She doesn’t do it on purpose; she just…wants what she wants, when she wants it.

Lucy isn’t mean or malicious, goodness no, nor has she ever stood in the way of me being happy. She’s never pulled any deviant twin crap or made me feel bad about our differences.

She’s just…Lucy.

When I continue eating my salad and ignoring her hard stares, she sighs loudly, resigned. Pushes a carrot around its plastic container and sighs again.

Drama is my twin sister’s middle name.

Her hair is too big, her lips are too red, and her personality is too wild.

Around campus, in certain circles, we’re called the Barbie twins. It’s not because we have blonde hair—which we don’t—but because of Lucy’s bombshell appearance. We’re tall and slender with thick, wavy hair. My sister has hers shorter by a few inches, layered around her face, and it’s a rich chestnut color. Mine is longer and darker.

“What’s your time worth to me? I’ll buy you an extra gift at Christmas—”

“Which Mom and Dad will pay for.”

She sighs at me a third time, this one ending with a little drawn-out groan.

I throw her a bone, rolling my eyes. “So what’s up with this guy—what does a Dash person do?”

This opening perks her up considerably, and she immediately sits up in her seat, enthusiastic. “He’s on the baseball team—the catcher.”

“The catcher, ooh la la! Exciting.” I’m such a sarcastic jerk sometimes. “And why are you saying the word catcher like that, all whispery?” My head gives a shake. “Am I supposed to be impressed?”

I bet he’s the captain or something cliché. Lucy only dates the most handsome, popular guys she can sink her long, manicured claws into. These days, those claws are painted hot pink, and when she’s impatient, she taps them on the laminate tabletop to irritate me—like she’s doing now.

“Let me guess”—I smirk—“they call him Dash because he’s soooo so super fast.”

Her smile fades. “You’re a smartass, do you know that? But also, you’re correct.”

“What else does he do quickly?” I joke.

“I don’t know.” She chomps down on her vegetables. “We’ve only made out once, but I’m hoping to find out soon. He’s giving me blue balls.”

“What do you mean you’ve only made out once? He’s a flipping baseball player. Forgive me for sounding confused or for buying into stereotypes, but aren’t most athletes major horn dogs?”