by Cathryn Fox
Keeping Score
Cathryn Fox
Contents
Copyright
1. Rocco
2. Reagan
3. Rocco
4. Reagan
5. Rocco
6. Reagan
7. Rocco
8. Reagan
9. Rocco
10. Reagan
11. Rocco
12. Reagan
13. Rocco
14. Reagan
15. Rocco
16. Reagan
17. Rocco
18. Reagan
19. Rocco
20. Reagan
21. Rocco
22. Reagan
23. Rocco
24. Reagan
25. Rocco
Epilogue
Also by Cathryn Fox
About Cathryn
Copyright
Keeping Score
Copyright 2021 by Cathryn Fox
Published by Cathryn Fox
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ISBN 978-1-989374-37-5
ISBN Print 978-1-989374-36-8
1
Rocco
Hate is a pretty strong word.
It’s not one I use frequently, or even flippantly. I use it only when I mean it. When it’s justly deserved, and when no other expression fits. Like that time when I was sixteen, and one of my foster parents dragged the new kid into the bathroom and flushed his head in the toilet because he didn’t eat the broccoli on his plate—because getting a serving of fresh greens once a week was a privilege, not a right.
Hate.
That’s the only word to describe what I felt for that cruel bastard. He deserved the ass kicking I gave him for hurting a fellow foster kid, but I didn’t take joy in hurting him, or in all the hating—and there was a lot of hating. That stunt landed me in a new foster home, with a whole new set of problems.
But that’s not what I’m thinking about at the moment. I’m thinking about the only other person I can truly say I hate, and I’m currently sitting across the table from him, my legs relaxed, my feet kicked out in front of me, as beads of sweat trickle down Cochrane Montgomery’s too perfect face as he stares at the cards in his hands.
I don’t hate rich folks as a rule. Hey, whatever hand we’re dealt is the hand we have to play, right? I learned to deal with poverty and violence early on, but Cochrane here, he’s had it good up until now, which is why he’s having a hell of a time dealing—or rather laying his cards down.
Am I taking enjoyment in his misery? Would it be awful if I said yes? Horrible if there’s this satisfying pleasure washing over me as he squirms? I might have grown up on the mean streets of Chicago, and learned to use my fists for survival, but I like to think I’m a civilized human being—thanks to my sophomore year gym coach. He saw potential in me, and taught me to use my hands for something other than crime. He even gave me his old 1969 Honda CB 750 motorcycle.
No one has ever given me anything before, other than an ass kicking that I probably deserved. That bike has been with me since I graduated high school, when Coach handed her down to me—a ride for college, he’d said with pride, knowing he was a big part in shaping my future. I didn’t want to take her, but he insisted. In return, I promised I’d take good care of her and now she’s my pride and joy and I wouldn’t trade her for the world. Sometimes I think it’s the bike—Coach’s belief in me—that gave me the motivation to make something more of myself and make him proud of me. That’s why I’m here at Kingston College on a football scholarship, staring at the rich fuck who made my freshman year miserable by making sure I, as well as everyone else in our house and on campus, knew I was trash from the wrong side of the track.
He licks his lips, and his head lifts. I almost laugh as he tries to play it off, play it cool, like I can’t see right through him. Christ, I’m a hood rat, and can read a room, a situation, an opponent with my eyes closed, and if he thinks I’m not aware of his stress, of every muscle twitch in his body as he tries to beat me at poker, he’s out of his fucking mind. I guess he figures a baller like me, a kid from the streets, must suck at math. He’d be wrong. Cards come naturally to me. Joining in the monthly underground secret game at Wolf House, however, was not my thing…until tonight.
“Are you going to play or look at them all night?” I taunt, shifting a little deeper into my seat, not at all worried he’s going to win. I have a straight flush, and he’s shit out of luck, in more ways than one. Rumor has it Daddy cut him off, put him on an allowance, because he’d been draining his account. The truth is Cochrane—I prefer to call him Dick, a play on his name, but mostly because he hates it—has a gambling problem.
But it’s not the douche bag’s money I’m after. Rich boy just needs to be taken down a notch or two for treating me like trash when we roomed together first year. Guess he’s not the cock-of-the-walk tonight. Back in our freshman year, he’s lucky I didn’t give him a Burnside beatdown—that’s what we called it back in our Burnside neighborhood—but my scholarship to bigger and better was far more important to me. Plus, revenge really is a dish best served cold, and while I’m quoting proverbial phrases…Karma is a bitch.
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters and swipes at his face. He might be rich, and tall and good looking, and might know how to charm the girls, but everything about him rubs me the wrong way. There’s more to him, something insidious lurking beneath his perfect exterior. Maybe the girls are too dazzled by his perfect white teeth to see it.
“Come on, Dick. We don’t have all night.”
He glares at me through beady blue eyes and I grin. My confidence is shaking him to his core and I almost—almost—give a shit.
“The name is Cochrane,” he seethes through clenched teeth.
I glance around the basement of Wolf House, at the other intense, and illegal, games going on around me. I turn to our dealer, Andrew, as he waits for Cochrane to make a move. Andrew was the one who told me Cochrane was broke and looking to win back some money. He’s really one of the good guys. Rich, but treats everyone equally. We bonded my first year at Wolf House, when I was roommates with Cochrane. I have no idea who made that mix-up. Putting a scholarship baller in with the captain of the college’s elite rowing team? Obviously, someone mixed the papers up or had a brain tumor. I suffered through freshman year at Wolf House—I never belonged
there to begin with—then switched houses during sophomore year, going off campus with a few of the guys I met on the football team. It was a much better fit, and I never looked back, until Andrew, the only guy I ever liked from Wolf House, sent me a message about tonight’s game. He never was much of a Cochrane fan either.
“So, where’s that girl of yours tonight?” I ask, knowing it will just rattle him. “Such a sweet thing.” Reagan might be sweet to look at, the perfect California blonde and a killer body, but I don’t like her much either. I don’t hate her. She doesn’t deserve that harsh label, but she is one of the rich girls, following in her folks’ footsteps. Truthfully, I don’t begrudge her that. Good for her for having the grades and ambition to aim for the senate like her parents. I don’t know why I know that about her, only that I do. Really, she means nothing to me.
Then stop thinking about her, Rocco.
“Where she is and what she’s doing is none of your business.” He turns his attention back to his shit hand, and the table begins to vibrate with the nervous shaking of his foot.
I go silent, and just smirk at him. He takes a fast breath, and I’m pretty sure he’s throwing up a silent prayer to God, which makes me laugh. Where the fuck was the mighty being when I was getting the living shit kicked out of me when I was barely a teen? Never mind that, where was my mother? Oh yeah, I remember. She fucked off when I was a toddler, leaving me with a mean bastard of a father, who resented everything about me and blamed me for her departure. When I got older, he used to like to show me how much he hated me, either with his fists, or his belt. He said it was to toughen me up, make a man out of me. He used to say that’s what his father did to him, and he turned out just fine. Wrong. He did not turn out just fine. I was taken away in my early teens, and have no idea where he is today. I don’t care.
He plays his hand, and I stare at the pair of kings. I exaggerate my movements, slowing everything down to drag out the moment as I lean forward and lay my hand out, showcasing a gorgeous straight flush. Cochrane goes so silent, I think he might be having an out of body experience, and not a good one. His head lifts slowly, and his nostrils flare. He stares at me for a long moment.
“Pay up, buddy.” I say, breaking the silence between us as the other games go on in the basement.
He glares at me, his blue eyes hard, and almost…pleading. Man, it really shouldn’t give me pleasure to see the guy who taunted me, went out of his way to exclude me—make me feel less, especially in front of his girlfriend—called me gutter trash, and every other derogatory name under the sun, because I wasn’t born into a prominent family, squirm. He got away with it because I couldn’t fight back and risk losing my scholarship. Guys like him, with powerful fathers, would get me kicked out of college. I had a future to focus on. Still do, which is why showing up at this illegal game is out of character for me.
“Again?” He glances down, reaches for the cards, but I put my hand over his to stop him. His head lifts, his perfectly styled blond hair a little mussed from running his shaky hand through it. “Double or nothing?”
“No time.” I pick up my phone to check for messages. “I have somewhere to be.” I don’t, but I’m not playing him again. I’m sure I could beat him, but taking his money isn’t the point here.
“Listen, I can’t—”
“Can’t what?” I ask, and take my coat off the back of my chair as I cast Andrew a glance, wondering if he’s going to step in. Looks like he’s going to let me handle things my way and that’s fine. I give him a nod to let him know I’ve got this and he steps away, leaving us to battle it out.
Cochrane leans in, and steals a glance around. “I can’t get the money to you tonight.”
I give a low, slow whistle. “That’s against the rules, bro.”
“Yeah, look, can you give me a week or two?”
I click my tongue and give a slow shake of my head. “Don’t think so. There’s a new ride I’ve had my eyes on.” I put my hands out, and mimic the action of revving a motorcycle. Yeah, he owes me a shitload of money. I lift my hand, like I’m about to gesture the private security guard over, and Cochrane pushes his chair back.
“Don’t.”
I drop my hand. “Don’t what? Don’t tell anyone you can’t pay?”
“I can pay, it’s just going to take me a while.”
I shrug into my Falcons coat, and fold my arms. “I’ll wait while you call Daddy.”
He curses under his breath, and pulls his phone from his pocket. He scrolls, but he’s stalling.
“I want my money, Cochrane. Tonight.” I bite back a chuckle, and decide to let him squirm just a little while longer. The truth is, I already won. I don’t need his money, or a new motorcycle. My old one serves me well.
“Look.” he leans closer, all conspiratorial like. “My girl…”
Okay, now he has my interest. “What about her?”
“You like her. I know you do.”
I don’t. Sure, I was nice to her when I shared a room with Cochrane. Why wouldn’t I be? But all right, let’s see where he’s going with this. “What does that have to do with any of this?” I wave my hand over the disarray of cards. “You want me to play her or something? I mean, if you’re desperate for me to take her money—”
“You can take her.”
I sit there, my ears buzzing with the hum in the basement, positive I’m not hearing him correctly. Cochrane did not just offer his girlfriend up in exchange for money, right? No way, no how did he mean that. If he did, I might just have to beat the shit out of him once and for all.
I stare at him, trying to regulate my breath, slow the pulse at the base of my neck as I wait for him to continue, and he finally does.
“I don’t have the money right now,” he lowers his voice and continues with, “Reagan, maybe you can…I don’t know…”
“Fuck her?” I blurt out for shock value, and his nostrils flare as he scrubs his face.
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t mean that.” He tugs on his hair, clearly digging himself in deeper and it’s going to be fun to watch him try to come out of this with a shred of decency left. Who offers up their girlfriend? “I just, maybe you can hang out with her or something. I’m not suggesting sex. It’s not on the table.”
“Yeah, because that would make her a whore, Cochrane.”
“She’s not a whore. She’s just the only thing I currently have of value.”
Holy fuck.
My heart beats a little faster against my chest, and as my shock ebbs, rage takes its place. To think this guy would actually use his girlfriend for payment…I mean…I can’t even wrap my brain around that. I always knew he was a dick. I just never knew he was this big of a one. Reagan does not deserve a douche bag like this for a boyfriend, one who is willing to trade her to cover his own ass.
Speaking of asses. Reagan has the sweetest ass I’ve ever set eyes on. The sweetest everything…but I am not going to take her in exchange for money. That is fucking ludicrous.
I crack my knuckles. “What the fuck would I want with Reagan?”
“She could maybe help you with your homework.”
“I’ve got straight As, dude.” I gesture to the cards. “I’m good in sciences and math.”
“Yeah, okay, well. Maybe she could…cook for you. She’s a great cook.”
“Keep going.”
He sits up a little straighter. “You could—”
“Show her what a loser you really are? Spread a little of this Rocco charm and take her from you, make her my own?” I’m just egging him on. Reagan is a nice looking princess, but a princess nonetheless, and we don’t belong together. Not in this world or any other.
He snorts. “Yeah, like she’s going to choose you over me, Rocco.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. She’s smarter than that.”
“Maybe I’ll prove you wrong.”
“Not going to happen.”
I glare at him, and don’t like the gleam in his e
yes. “Listen, you fuck with me, I’ll fuck with you.”
“How?”
“By getting sweet princess Reagan to fall for me, to prove you wrong.” I’m bluffing. I’m not an ass who goes around playing with other people’s feelings.
“You can’t.”
He obviously wasn’t worried about that when he put her name on the table. Now though, as he averts his gaze, I catch a small hint of worry. I can’t help but think she should see what a disrespecting douche he really is, ready to hand her over to bail himself out. Anything to save his own ass. Fight your own battles, dude. Christ, if I had a girl I loved—and I’m questioning Cochrane’s love for Reagan—she’d be on a damn pedestal, and I’d fight tooth and nail to protect her.
“You can’t touch her. She doesn’t deserve that.”
I snort. “She doesn’t deserve any of this now, does she? But here’s what I’ll agree to. I won’t touch her, unless she wants me to.”
“She won’t,” he bites out harshly.
That’s fine by me, I don’t want to touch her either and I am one hundred percent sure Reagan is going to shut this shit down. Although there is another part of me, a small part that sees the obedient daughter, the doting girlfriend, the strait-laced college student who might do whatever it takes to save her boyfriend’s balls, as little as they might be.
I crack my knuckles. “If she says no, we’ll have to find another way to make you pay.” I’ve been keeping score of all the hateful things he said to me, all the cruel pranks to make me look like a loser to his buddies at Wolf House freshman year. Yeah, it was Cochrane who had a huge end of year bash at a posh downtown hotel and invited everyone from Wolf House—everyone but the loser from the wrong side of the tracks. He did love to flaunt his money, and drive home the fact that I didn’t belong. I can’t help but think there was more to it though, that there were other reasons he hated me. Maybe it was because his girlfriend was always nice to me, and I was always nice to her. Maybe on some level he felt threatened. Or maybe not, and I’m not even sure I care.