ERIC COCKER
COCKER BROTHERS BOOK 12
FALEENA HOPKINS
CONTENTS
Eric
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Cocker EXTRAS
About the Author
ERIC
"I t had me laughing out loud and sniffling into my pajama top. I stayed up way too late and got up WAY too early! I love this series and this family." - JanG
Love is a game that two can play and both win.
EVA GABOR
CHAPTER 1
ERIC
“Hey sweet tits, can we get another pitcher over here or what?” Mott yells. Actually, it was more of a loud grunt, but whatever.
The ponytailed brunette arches her pretty eyebrow above densely packed, tipsy bodies, her copper eyes locked on Mott. For a second it feels like she’s going to give a nod, a smile, something normal for a waitress. But after two suspenseful beats, with everyone in our group of twelve watching, she throws a tattooed hand up, heavy with silver rings, middle finger extended in a salute he can sit on. If he had wings.
The team guffaws with laughter.
I slap his oversized shoulder. “Read it and weep, Mott!”
“You think you can do better, Cocker? Go get us some beers! On you!”
Throwing my million-dollar hands in the air I announce, “Watch and learn, fuckers. If you need to take notes to improve your game, there’s an app on your phone to store ‘em. Be prepared. You don’t want to miss this!”
They chortle, joyous that Mott got served a dish of humble pie and hoping I’ll make him eat it. Everyone’s in a mood. We’re about to start the season and we Falcons are ready for it. Training Camp was grueling and we loved every sweaty second. Now we’re revving up, the second Exhibition game went well today. We’re feeling glorious, impervious, and that makes Mott getting flipped the bird that much funnier.
It’s an eighty-two degree, seventy-seven percent humidity Sunday. Sticky bodies undulate in conversation and cravings of every kind.
I make my way through the throng, eyeing all the sweet-scented females who are silently begging me to choose them for the night.
“Lookin’ good, Eric!”
Flicking a glance to my right, it takes me a second to recognize a girl I’m pretty sure I fucked last season. Can’t remember her name though. Regardless, I pull her willing hips against mine. “Hey there…Long time. Looking good yourself.”
Long eyelashes flutter to my mouth as she pouts, “They didn’t play you very much today.”
“You were looking for me?”
Along with a sultry smile comes the slow tease, “Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t.”
My eyes are locked on her bottom lip as she bites it.
Because I’m still interested, I teach her, “These pre-season games are for evaluating rookies, getting them used to big crowds so they don’t lock up when the pressure hits. I’ll be playing, just not as much. Can’t have the quarterback getting hurt before go-time.”
“Can’t have that,” she purrs sliding her hands up my back and pressing everything closer. Her volume drops as she smiles, “I had fun last time.”
Last time?
Did we fuck more than once?
What the hell’s your name again?
Burrowing into her neck I offer a vague, “You were a blast.”
“Hey Cocker! We’re thirsty!”
Well, look at that.
Totally forgot my mission.
Glancing over to Mott I grin at him. He points me to the bar and swirls his finger like, get it done!
Tearing free from the girl who’s practically a stranger to me, I offer an absent, “You take care now.”
Disappointment replaces flirtation.
Her friend blurts, not quietly, “He could have at least lied and said he would call!”
“I don’t lie.”
Their mouths drop open and I head for the waitress.
I grew up in a family where confidence was taught as soon as we took our first breath. You don’t get the name Cocker without being raised to own it. Especially because during grade school the nicknames are brutal. Never heard so many children gleefully say the word cock in your life. Never bothered me. For the most part nothing can. And I have my dad to thank for that. I remember the nights he’d tuck me in, deep voice filled with determination while he instructed...
Believe in yourself.
Everyone is unique—that means you.
Everyone means everyone.
When you go to sleep tonight, little man, ask yourself these two questions: Who is Eric Cocker? Who do I want to be?
Ask every night.
You get to decide.
Nobody will do it for you.
You are your own master.
You either hold your power.
Or you give it away.
That decision is always up to you.
No matter what anyone says.
Hold your power.
Keep it.
Feed it.
Understand?
Yes, Dad.
Good. After you’re done asking, get some rest. I love you, buddy.
And I did what he taught me. All three of us did—my siblings Emma, Ethan and I—we all asked that question nightly.
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
It’s why the three of us are so different. And why nothing can shake us for long.
When you bring a foundation with you there’s no need to rely on other people to give you theirs.
Our cousins are the same. Every one of us is different and we all know our own worth. We’re Cockers. That name must be lived up to. For funny reasons and not so funny ones.
But Dad nor any of his brothers, even with all the ass I know they got as young men, could have prepared me for the surplus of tail I’m offered since I was made quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons.
Today is like any other day no matter where I am. Breasts out, eyelashes wagging, lips pouting, fingers suggestively licked. The only thing missing today is a girl climbing up a tall bar-table on all fours with her ass in the air like a cat in mating season. Believe me—it’s happened.
But this place especially is where we get our pick of any number of options if we’re interested. No strings.
O’Neal’s Irish Pub—that’s where we celebrate or commiserate after home games. The ambitious females of Atlanta know it, those who are dying to ball a baller. How they yearn to snap our pictures while we’re sleeping in their beds, covers tangled around our satiated, mammoth-sized, nak
ed bodies. The girls without a brain in their heads share these pics on social media, thinking it gives them importance. Do we mind? Hell to the fuckin’ no. That kind of free publicity keeps our personal and professional reputations pumping hot and hungry.
It sells tickets.
Gets us laid more.
Win win.
The waitress is unaware I’m standing behind her as focused fingers tap onto the sole computer screen at a cluttered service station. I scan her voluptuous body. She’s got some meat on her. Nice round ass accentuated by jeans designed to show it off. Her racer-back tank top gives anyone interested a sneak peek of ink etched into her right shoulder, but I can’t make out exactly what it’s of. Now I want to slip my fingers under the cotton, pull it back and uncover the mystery.
The hand tattoo we all got a glimpse of earlier, I can see up close now. Tiny birds perched on a slender branch that travels from her wrist down her middle finger, stopping just above the first knuckle. It’s done tribal-style—no color, just black. But the needle used had a fine point, artwork delicate and feminine.
As Mike sets down drinks meant for someone else, I motion to tell him I’ll order what I need from the waitress.
He gives me a knowing smirk and heads away, under the wrong assumption that I’m intent on getting in this brunette’s tight pants.
I haven’t made my decision about who I’ll take home tonight—I came over here to get some beer for my buddies and at the same time, show Mott up.
But now that I’m standing here behind this body…
Mmm.
Mmm.
Mmm.
CHAPTER 2
ERIC
Since it’s swamped, she’s got a lot to type in, so I skim a curious glance around the service station. In the darkness of walnut shelves lie unopened boxes of straws beside stacks of empty trays that could use a cleaning. And that’s a lot of fuckin’ drinks to take to the floor. How many orders are waiting to be delivered? No room for any more, that’s for damn sure.
Craning my neck I search the place to see if she’s got backup out there. Is she the only waitress working this crazy shift today?
Now that I think about it, nobody’s served us since we arrived but her. The staff here wears jeans and t-shirts, so maybe I didn’t notice another girl working the floor besides Sweet Tits. Right over there is a bar-back doubling as bus boy. Look at him sweat, poor kid. Other than them, I think it’s just the bartender, Mike. And he’s just one skilled guy handling her drinks, plus all the locals sitting at a crowded counter, plus the impatient excess.
That’s nuts.
Suddenly feeling like a jerk for barging in on her when she’s clearly overwhelmed, I ask, “Hey, how many waitresses are on today?” just so I can get some clarity and apologize.
A quick glance over her shoulder and we lock eyes. First good look I’ve had at the copper beauties. She’s got what I call laughing eyes, like she knows a secret she’ll never tell. Without missing a beat she says, “We’re servers, not waitresses. Get it right,” and turns back around, swiping a paper napkin from her tray with words scrawled on it, stuffing it in her pocket.
Chuckling I repeat the question my way, “How many waitresses are on today?”
For another hot second we lock eyes before hers drop to rake down my body. She gives me the once over like I’m handsome but a total asshole she wishes would go away. Turning away from me, she stacks her tray so full I’m sure something’s going to topple, telling me while she works, “I’ll get to your team of jackasses when I can. Or you can order from the bar. Kinda busy here, Cocker.”
My thumbs hook into my pockets as I lift an eyebrow. “Oh, so you know who I am.”
“Yep,” she mutters, tucking cocktail napkins in her short apron. “Now ask me if I care.”
Laughter ripples through my muscles. “Do you care?”
Lifting the tray like the pro that she is, those dancing coppers sparkle like wild. “You know how big an ant’s foot is? That’s how little I give a shit. Bye bye.” Maneuvering around me with the skill of a running back dodging the opposing team, she disappears into a throng of bodies and leaves me staring after her with a nagging urge to make her care.
And that nagging is all in my cock.
Fuck is that waitress sexy.
Have to get on that a.s.a.p.
With this in my head I glance back to my team and discover them laughing their butts off. The sound gets louder, surfing over both the playlist and the mob of indiscernible conversations.
I burst out laughing, realizing how that exchange must have looked to them. Through my hands I call back, “Fuck you guys!” and turn to call over the amused bartender who caught it all, too, “Mike, stop smirking and get us some beer. On my tab this round.”
“You got it, Eric!” While he pours I watch the girl move, flitting about and not spilling a drop in the process. I keep waiting for her to look my way, but she never does. When two overflowing pitchers thump next to my elbow I glance over, a little surprised. Guess I got lost in watching. Forgot where I was for a second.
“Hey, Mike, what’s her deal?”
“She’s just like that.”
“Playing hard to get or really hard to get?”
“Really hard to get. One, she’s not into jocks. Two, she’s taken.”
CHAPTER 3
ERIC
G rabbing the handles I hike my chin in thanks and head off.
Mott fakes concern and he’s a terrible actor. “Cocker, will she ever forget you, man? You got her wrapped around your pinky-sized dick, dontcha?”
Loads of snickering from the team. I hand off the pitchers and announce with a laugh, “First of all, you all know I’m hung like a horse because all of you have blown me. And second if you hadn’t been such a pinky-sized dick in the first place, Mott, she would have been more receptive and your throats wouldn’t be as dry as you made her.”
The guys hoot, the nearby ones shoving Mott’s huge body.
He snickers, “Yeah, right,” announcing louder, “Cocker is losing his touch! Undefeated with women no more!”
With my glance flicking to the waitress I smirk, “Just watch. I’ll break her down.”
Tony throws a thick arm around a girl named Bethany, a dirty-blonde with man-made breasts, heels and a spray tan. She’s looking at me like she’d switch sides if I crooked my finger. He doesn’t know this, and if he did, probably wouldn’t care. This is not his future wife. But he’s got the grin of a man who’s going to get laid as he challenges me, “Bet you money you won’t be able to get her!”
Pouring into my mug I eye him. “When the most careful wallet on the team wants to bet me, I know something is up.”
Grunts of agreement from other Falcons.
Tony smirks, confessing why he’s so sure he’d win. “I know her.”
“Yeah? What do you know.” It’s more challenge than question as I take a soothing gulp of local craft brew.
“Had a couple classes with her in college. Those legs are closed, my friend. Even your slick moves won’t loosen that vise. She doesn’t like jocks. Goes for musician, hipster types. Skinny jeans, tats, eyeliner, the works.”
Rhami mutters in a voice for our group’s ears only, “Guess she likes to be the man in the relationship.”
Lots of chuckles travel ‘round, but me, I’m even more curious about this girl now. Is what Tony says, true? She likes weak men? The spark in those eyes didn’t say that to me. And those curves are craving hands that know how to make them shudder with pleasure. I believe women—no matter how strong in spirit and in public life—want a masculine touch in the bedroom.
Hell, my sister…perfect example. Never thought I’d see her with who she picked, but her choice serves my theory. And my cousin Hannah married an MMA fighter after all the pussies she tried to muster excitement for. And now she does everything to keep him excited. Never seen her happier, and don’t think I ever could.
As my gaze follows the waitress back to th
e service station, tray thirsty for a refill, her eyes haven’t flit my way once. They stayed focused on her goal. And I just found mine.
Bet she doesn’t like jocks because of the stereotype that we’re dumb. When her mind opens, so might her legs. I’m half-hard just thinking about it.
I’m going to melt that icicle.
Tony sees my interest, charcoal eyes glinting. “Thousand bucks says that she won’t catch your throw.”
The boys all whoop and howl.
Sarcastically I smirk, “Yeah right.”
Mott, Tony, Dion, Rhami, and all the others grin, holding up their mugs. I think it’s to the joke so mine is raised, too, but when Mott says, “To Cocker losing,” I scan their faces.
“You really think this is happening, and I’d lose?” Scanning the group I see the girls temporarily attached to my teammates, for the first time noticing how interested in this bet they really are. So I touch my chest. “Ladies, sorry you have to witness our debauchery. We’re a bunch of horny primates. And while I’m at it, would any of you care to switch over to my side?” Holding out my arms in invitation I glance to my crotch and smirk, “Rumors are all true.”
While the girls consider it, the Falcons yell, “No fuckin’ way!”
“Cocker, you asshole!”
Tony mutters an irritated, “Don’t listen to him, Bethany, I’ll show you a good time.”
On a shrug I drop it. “You know I could. I know I could. That’s all I’m saying.”
Mott grumbles, “Horse Dick.”
From behind my mug I grin, “Ah, don’t pout. You’re bigger than average.”
CHAPTER 4
WREN
“Bold move,” Mike chuckles as I tap fresh drink orders into the computer.
From the corners of my eyes I ask, “What are you talking about?”
“Snubbing our very own star quarterback.” He jerks his chin toward the horde of testosterone. “And the only reason we’re making so much dough today.”
I return to typing. “His friend called me Sweet Tits, Mike. I don’t have to take that from anybody. Carla even said so.”
Eric Cocker (Cocker Brothers Book 12) Page 1