Talk Nerdy To Me (The Sterling Shore Series Book 13)

by C. M. Owens

  By some miracle, I swallow my laugh before it escapes.

  “No,” Maverick bites out. “I’m currently wondering how well I’ll fare in prison after I smother you in your sleep.”

  Sean glances at him from head to toe before seriously answering, “Not too well. You’re too pretty.”

  “You’re—” I glance around, remembering there are kids out here, briefly forgetting a kid is in on this conversation as I word it semi-cautiously. “—hooking up with your stepsister?” I decide to ask, doing the math on that now.

  Maverick points a finger at me. “Past the point of heckles, singer boy. She and I met before that revelation came to light. This is not about me.” Then he glares at Sean. “Go. Away. I don’t like you right now.”

  Sean just smirks as he looks back over at me.

  “You’re small for twelve,” I say without thinking, and the kid’s smirk falls as a flat expression steals his features.

  “It’s always the ones they underestimated that they forgot were coming at all,” he says, the veiled threat not even subtle. “Remember I gave you six years. I’m charitable like that.”

  “Thanks.” I can’t help it. I grin. How can I take this kid serious?

  He shrugs. “Just don’t get jealous when I’m hitting her up on the game. I do my best work when girls forget I’m a kid.”

  I’m not so sure he is a kid at this point. I think it’s an optical illusion.

  “I’ll try to contain my jealousy.”

  “Keep underestimating me,” the kid fires back, smirk on his lips once again. “I’m taking an interest in her interests. Can you say the same? Even Dale is pulling on tights to be closer to his woman. You just expect to play your guitar and make her swoon. I bet you put forth zero effort.”

  “I really need more information about these damn tights,” Maverick says under his breath, glancing toward Dale like he’s desperate to learn now.

  “Maverick misses the days when he used to wear tights for ballet,” Sean supplies.

  “I’m going to kill you,” Maverick tells the wicked little spawn, his tone even.

  Sean just grins up at me before winking. “Six years, rock star. Until you’re past your prime, a total wash up, and looking desperately pathetic while carrying around your guitar from club to club,” the kid goes on. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

  Maverick stands beside me, both of us staring at the psychotic kid as he walks away. Sean winks at Britt, who waves absently at him as he passes her.

  Britt is still talking to Dane, and he’s smiling at her as he keeps her “distracted.” I think Maverick failed at his task, due to the unpredictable, untamed serpent he tried to use.

  To be fair, that kid is entirely too bizarre.

  “Does it make me a horrible person to hate a kid?” I ask Maverick.

  “No,” he says immediately. “But he does fucking grow on you.”

  “Fungus can grow on you too,” I decide to point out. “Doesn’t mean you enjoy it.”

  He snorts out a laugh, then clears his throat, narrowing his eyes as though he momentarily forgot he’s supposed to hate me. I just grin.

  “You’re really going to be an issue, aren’t you?” he asks.

  “You really think you can keep all men away from her until she’s a spinster with a full head of gray hair?” I volley.

  “Not our goal,” he grumbles. “We simply don’t want her getting her heart smashed to pieces this young and never being able to try again.”

  I stiffen for a second, mostly because he sounds sincere.

  “Careful, Base Masters,” Maverick says a little quieter, his tone serious but thoughtful as Britt smiles over in our direction, her eyes on me. “She doesn’t even realize how much she likes you yet,” he adds before walking away.

  Britt makes her way toward me, and I tug her to me. If Maverick gets in my head, then the Sterlings automatically win.

  “You’re still here,” she says as though she’s surprised.

  “They can’t figure out what to do about me,” I tell her, toying with the ends of her hair.

  “Were you going to stay longer?” she asks somewhat abruptly. “Because I was going to ride with you if you’re going back to the house. I need to work on my paper some.”

  “I have zero reasons to hang around if you’re leaving,” I tell her, causing her smile to grow, even as she looks away.

  My arm goes around her shoulders as I start guiding us out. As we near the gate, I hear Ruby shouting something like she’s cheering.

  “He. Could. Go. All. The…” Her words trail off when I pause in front of the gate, looking over my shoulder at her as she holds a suspended fist in the air, her mouth parted like she’s waiting to finish the chant.

  Everyone is legit staring at us.

  Shaking my head, I turn back, guiding Britt out, and hear Ruby finish with, “Way!” Then a round of feminine cheers follow.

  Just as we get to the car, Britt pauses, her eyes widening like she’s just recalled something.

  Wordlessly, she turns and jogs back through the gate, and I wait, considering she didn’t exactly explain what she’s doing. She returns with a grin and a stack of cash that she’s neatly sorting as she moves toward me.

  “What’s that?” I ask, only because I’m still confused.

  Her bright green eyes meet mine as her grin spreads. “I won the bet. I think they finally understood you weren’t my date.”

  I just smile to myself, shaking my head. Fucking rich people.

  Chapter 22

  BRITT

  “Sticks is not his real name, right?” Base shakes his head in answer to my question. “Is it because he plays the drums then?” I ask, carrying on our conversation about the band as Base lies down on the opposite end of the couch from me.

  He’s lying mostly on the couch, but his feet are on the ground. He laughs, grinning as he idly starts massaging my ankle. “He instantly hates anyone who asks him that question.”

  Ankles are not notably erogenous zones, so why does that simple touch have me working to form more words?

  “It’s an obvious deduction, given the fact he is a drummer, and numerous drummers are reported to have the same nickname,” I point out.

  “Oh, that nickname is definitely because he’s the drummer. But it’s so obvious that he hates anyone who he feels is asking a rhetorical question and awaiting an answer. That’s just how Sticks is.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to fully understand that.

  “What question do you hate the most?” Base asks me suddenly, eyes coming up to meet mine as his massaging hands move up to my calf.

  He’s yet to discover I’m not wearing anything but lacy underwear under this long T-shirt. Harley told me to stop wearing pants at home if I really wanted him.

  Usually, I shy away from physical contact, for the most part. I thought if anything was an issue during my quest to remove maidenhood that would be it. But Base touches me a lot. And I like him touching me.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, clearing my throat as I try to focus.

  “For instance, I hate it when someone asks me if my name is Base because I play bass.”

  “You play electric guitar, not bass, and the two forms of the words are homophones spelled differently,” I state, confused.

  His grin spreads. “That’s why I hate the question.”

  After thinking about it a second, I finally come up with an answer. “I dislike it when people expect a simple answer as to why certain social interactions are more difficult for me than they should be.”

  His lips twitch as he continues massaging my calves, his eyes on his hands as he does so. I’m exceptionally happy I’ve kept my legs shaved.

  “It’s not as much of an issue now as it used to be,” I go on, relaxing as I let his fingers do magic, finding his touch far more enticing than usual.

  Maybe that’s why he makes me panic. I like his touch too much.

  “Adults are better at hiding how terrible
they are than ruthless kids,” he surmises, causing me to smile even as my eyes drift shut.

  “That’s what Maverick says. It’s also because I try harder.”

  “To fit in,” he says as though he’s disappointed.

  I say nothing. He seems unable to comprehend the why to this unending disagreement, and he’s entitled to his opinion. He just likes to try and make me agree with him as well.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  “I’ve never understood why people can’t just disagree dispassionately, understanding where the other person stands on a matter. They want people to think the same way they do, yet rave for people to ‘think for themselves’ in the very next breath, simply because they disagree. None of us have to agree about anything, yet we can still exist in harmony.”

  His hands pause on my leg, and I shake my head in refusal to his silent request, feeling thoroughly trained at this point to open my eyes. I never gave much thought to psychology when they stood firm on the matter of “conditioning” a mind to perform specific reactions unconsciously.

  Until I started sensing when I was supposed to look up for his camera without being asked. In a very unreasonably short amount of time, I should add.

  I bet I’d be susceptible to hypnosis too.

  “I’m not succumbing to your need to photograph my eyes, because I don’t want you to stop massaging,” I tell him.

  A soft rumble of laughter has me tempted to open my eyes, but before I can fall prey to temptation’s snare, his hands start doing those really incredibly movements again, resurrecting my momentarily disrupted relaxation.

  “Yet you want to fit in. Doesn’t that make you a hypocrite?” he asks.

  “No,” I state confidently.

  “Why?” he asks, sounding overly amused.

  Or…constipated.

  One day, I will figure that out.

  Bella has it written down as number one of my life goals. I don’t find it quite that pertinent.

  “If I explain myself, then it’ll sound like I’m trying to convince you I’m right. And it’s not important to me for you to see it my way.”

  “You only argue if it’s important?”

  “I dispute incorrect facts, but I don’t usually argue a point, mostly because I’m usually confused about the topic and am on the wrong path of conversation. But I only try to make someone understand me when I want them to see it my way. Or when they’re genuinely interested in seeing things my way. Not just looking for a thread to tug so they can unravel my stance and impose their own views on me as though it’s the only option.”

  Again, his hands pause, and I heave out a breath, fortifying my belief in conditioning.

  “Just one,” I hear him saying as he shifts, my legs falling to the couch. “And I swear I’ll finish your massage.”

  Why am I smiling?

  My face hurts from the wide smile that won’t go away as I feel him sliding up my body. Adjusting my legs wider for no logical reason, I let him settle in between my thighs before I blow out a breath of mock frustration and open my eyes.

  The camera is predictably hovering over my face, and I catch a glimpse of white teeth peeking through his smile before the flash goes off. The second I stop blinking, another flash restarts the action.

  “I said one,” I remind him, holding my hand out in front of me when I worry he’s going to do it again.

  He laughs under his breath as his body presses down on mine while he leans over, making me acutely aware of how intimately we’re positioned…and the fact he’s definitely aroused. Because I can feel it. Against me. And there’s no panic. Yet.

  It’s more of a physical reaction and not necessarily a conscious one. I’m sure.

  Actually, I’m not really sure of anything when it comes to Base Masters. Like if he’s this touchy with everyone.

  He drops his camera to the table, then rights himself over me again, smirking as his gaze rakes over my face.

  I have no idea where my eyes should be, so I just stare at his, as his thumb traces over my bottom lip.

  My gaze mirrors his, now riveted to his bottom lip and the hoop he’s wearing again.

  “You don’t have class on Fridays, right?”

  “I have two classes, but I’ve already gotten too far ahead on the material, and both professors have asked that in the future I only come to class on testing days,” I tell him.

  “Why did they ask that?” he muses.

  “I don’t know. Though, it wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”

  I’m rambling, because the panic is starting just a little. How is his touch as comforting as it is nerve-wracking?

  He resumes his grin, still tracing his thumb over my lower lip, his gaze riveted to my mouth.

  “Then come with me this weekend,” he says, flicking his gaze up to meet mine. “We’ll be leaving Thursday night—”

  “Karaoke is Thursday night,” I quickly remind him.

  His grin grows. “After karaoke,” he assures me. “We’re going to drive forever on Thursday night. Friday we’ll finish the drive after we make a pit stop in our town. The gig is Sunday night—not a prime spot, but the venue is solid. And there’s a party Saturday night where there will be a lot of small, but still worth-while, contacts we could make.”

  He studies me like he’s waiting for me to answer, and preparing to argue in case I tell him no.

  I answer, “Yes,” before I can stop myself. It’ll save us the argument where he’ll easily talk me into it.

  “Good,” he tells me with a grin.

  “I can reschedule karaoke for next week,” I go on, clearing my throat as I actively try not to arch up into him. “Rain will be okay with that.”

  “Only if that’s what you want. It’s not a big deal to hit karaoke first.”

  “It’s fine,” I assure him on a shakier tone, since it’s getting harder and harder not to focus on the very intimate pressure he’s putting on my vagina.

  A dull ache has started to grow more and more noticeable.

  In my vagina.

  Also, to take my mind off said pressure, before I do something to embarrass myself again, I’m idly recalling an article on erotic writing that Rain was reading over. It said it made readers cringe when they read the word vagina. There were a number of options listed under the clinical word.

  “Is pussy, snatch, love-cave, lady parts, or cunt more or less acceptable than the use of vagina in your opinion?”

  At his raised eyebrows and seemingly confused expression, I add, “Which word or wording do you personally prefer? Because Rain assures me there is not a universally agreed upon word for the most talked about piece of female anatomy.”

  He scrubs a hand over his mouth, and it looks as though he’s attempting to stifle a grin.

  “I won’t even ask how your mind got from our conversation to there in less than three seconds,” he tells me before he pushes off me.

  A cold wash floods over my body in the absence of his heat that my body had gotten too accustomed to. His eyes dip down to my chest, and holds there.

  Since I was also instructed by the girls not to wear a bra—as long as I wanted him—my very painfully hard nipples are on display, pressing against the fabric.

  His eyes settle on mine again, and without warning, he comes down on top of me, his lips finding mine. I can’t believe the no-bra thing actually worked!

  The metal of that hoop barely tinks against my teeth, before he slants his head and starts kissing me from a different angle, kissing me deeper, as his hips grind against me.

  “You’re like a fucking drug,” he murmurs against my lips, his hand sliding up my side. “And I’m really not a motherfucking saint,” he adds, as his lips start dragging down my neck.

  My breath hitches, and my eyes open as I try to force my body to show no signs of resistance. My shirt starts to slide up, his fingers dragging across my skin as it makes the fabric climb over my ribs.

  Just as his fingers brush
the underside of my breast, I shiver and tense at the same time. His hands still, and I mentally chastise every stupid bodily reaction I have to him.

  I feel his smile against my neck as he presses a kiss there, leaving his fingers just under the bottom swell of my breast, teasing me with a touch I barely got and that he now keeps out of reach.

  “How many bases have you…touched?” he asks, confusing me.

  “Just you.”

  His entire body stiffens. Then, as if I just told a joke of hilarious proportions, laughter erupts from him. He has to turn his head away as his body shakes with the violent force of it.

  I’m not even sure what is so funny, and still I’m tempted to laugh just because of how infectious the sound is.

  He groans, shaking his head as though he’s trying to stop laughing. “Fucking hell, Britt,” he says like he’s amused, still laughing lightly as his eyes come back to mine, a smile lingering on his lips. “I was asking how far you’ve been with a guy, and bases are—”

  “Oh,” I say, suddenly getting it as my eyes widen. “Oh. I actually don’t know the bases. I know of their intended purpose, but I’ve heard numerous versions of what second and third base really are. First and home were fairly simple, until someone referred to what I thought of as home as a ‘homerun,’ which is an entirely different—”

  He shuts me up when his lips come down on mine, kissing my thoughts silent, making me once again forget what I was even saying. He’s the only one to ever be able to kiss me stupid.

  Another term I’ve come to finally appreciate after years of wondering how a kiss could render one stupid.

  My fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer. But he pulls back just when I convince myself to be a little aggressive.

  “Why aren’t you wearing pants?” he asks on a breath that sounds like utter frustration, as his hand slides up and down my side in soft grazes.

  I suppose he’s now noticed the lacy underwear.

  “Because Harley suggested I not wear pants in the house if I wanted to seduce you.”

  His lips drag over mine, and his grip on my side grows a little tighter as he presses into me more.

  “You can be scared and still be ready,” I go on, leaving it ‘on the table’ as Tria suggested, without putting myself out there for rejection again, even though I’m very close to simply asking again.