Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  A large hand cuffs my arm and I barely have time to look down before I’m being ushered toward the exit, full cup of beer still clutched in my hand.

  When that warm hand leaves my bicep and juts out, clearing the way, I have time to glance over my shoulder for a look at my rescuer.

  The hairy guy whose name I haven’t figured out yet. Roy?

  Paul Bunyan without the ox. Without the axe. Rescuing me.

  But why?

  I whip around, an errant elbow slamming into my body, sending me lurching forward—backward? I don’t know. I can’t stand straight and would have hit the wall if not for…

  My beer cup goes soaring; his does too, splashing down the front of my dress. His chest. Cold and wet.

  Soaking us both.

  “Jesus H. Christ.” He sighs loudly enough for me to hear over the racket. The ruckus. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  A giant paw is at the small of my back, his mammoth body shielding mine as he shoves through the people standing in our way. Like a linebacker on the football field—or, a rugby player, I guess? Whatever position blocks people on the rugby field.

  I’ve never seen it, so I have no clue.

  The air outside is cold, or maybe it just feels like it because I’m drenched in alcohol, the yellow stain on my pretty dress running the entire length of the now sheer cotton.

  The best part? I’m not wearing a bra.

  Shit.

  “I should text my friends to let them know I’m outside.”

  A curt nod. “You do what you gotta do.”

  Me: Outside

  A few minutes slowly tick by before Mariah replies: Outside where?

  Me: The party.

  Mariah: I left.

  What does she mean, she left? Without telling me?

  Me: Where are you?

  Mariah: I left like, an hour ago?

  Me: Why didn’t you tell me???

  Mariah: You were busy filling beer cups and stuff.

  Me: No, I wasn’t. I’ve been waiting for you all night. I didn’t even want to be here.

  Mariah: Whatever. The point is, I’ll be home in 20. Right now we’re at some guy Lance’s house and then I’m bringing him home.

  Me: What am I supposed to do while you have some guy in our apartment?

  Mariah and I share a room because we pay our own rent, live in a one-bedroom, and can’t afford anything bigger. It sucks, but at least we have our own place and don’t have to live in the traditional dorms—or one of those horrible off-campus rental houses infested with bats and outdated everything.

  I grew up living like that; I’m not doing it anymore.

  Mariah: It’s not a big deal, Teddy—just stay out on the couch.

  Me: And listen to sex noises all night?

  Mariah: I mean…don’t you have those noise-canceling headphones?

  Mariah: Shit, GTG. See you in like, half hour. K bye.

  There is no way I can spend the night at home if she has a guy there! No freaking way do I want to listen to them banging all night—Mariah is stupidly loud when she has sex, I don’t think I could stand her bringing someone home tonight. She thinks being loud is a huge turn-on for guys, but really it sounds fake and porny, and I can’t believe she’d bring someone home without discussing it with me first.

  That’s always been our rule: before bringing home guests, male or female, give the other roomie a heads-up first.

  My brows furrow, dipping deep, creasing my forehead.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I spit it out in the way girls do when they’re pissed but don’t want to admit it.

  A snort. “Is it really nothing? Or are you doing that thing girls do where they say it’s nothing when it’s actually something, and deep down inside you’re pissed off and want to explode?”

  I can’t help it—I laugh because he’s right. It is something, and I am kind of pissed.

  “My roommate left an hour ago, went to a guy’s house, and didn’t tell me.” I give him the abbreviated version. He doesn’t need to know there is going to be a dude in my room having sex with my roommate in less than an hour.

  “Well let’s get you home then.”

  I wave him off with a sigh. “I can’t go home. She’s bringing the guy back to our place.”

  He glances toward the rugby house, gives his beard a few strokes. “So?”

  “She and I…share a bedroom.”

  “Well shit.” His drawl drags out, and this time he does sound like a hillbilly. It sounds like he’s saying whale sheet. “That ain’t cool.”

  No, it’s really not. Mariah knows I won’t want to be in the apartment with a strange guy there. She knows this and yet she’s doing it anyway instead of staying at his place. Or asking me first.

  “It’s fine. I’ll sleep on the floor in the hall outside our apartment.”

  Fluorescent lights. A stiff couch thousands of people have sat on. Probably a student or two or fifty will see me sleeping there and think I’m a loser.

  Awesome.

  The guy’s chuckle is deep, vibrating deep in his broad chest. He’s thoroughly amused. “You’re not sleeping in the GD hallway.”

  “The GD what?”

  “God damn.”

  The amused look on his bushy face turns to unexpected irritation, making me laugh despite myself and the circumstances, one of my shoulders shrugging. Pulling at the wet dress plastered to my chest, sending a cool shiver down my spine.

  I hug myself, rubbing at my upper arms. Shiver. “It’s not like I’ve never done it before. It’s only one night and I can take a nap tomorrow.”

  “No. Fuck that.” He runs a hand through his hair, fiddling with the rubber band holding it back. Yanks it out, pulling it loose and shaking out his hair.

  It’s a lion’s mane, hitting just below his shoulders, wild and tangled and beautiful. A beautiful mess.

  With two hands, he scoops it back up, twisting it into a knot, the black rubber band looping around the strands as he mumbles, “Your friends are assholes, I swear to fucking God. Why do you put up with their shit?”

  I allow my mouth to fall open, because honestly? This night has gone to complete shit.

  “Please don’t start with that again. You don’t know them—or me.”

  “I know enough. They’ve ditched you three weekends in a row. If those were my friends, I would have told them to fuck off by now.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yup.” His nod is terse. “Just like that.”

  “I’m not you—I’m not a barbarian, I can’t just…” I wave my hand in the air aimlessly, searching for words. “I can’t.”

  He turns his broad back, starting toward the stairs leading down into the yard, long strides taking them one at a time. When he glances back at me, he says, “Are you coming with me or not?” I hesitate, one foot inching forward. “Yes or no?”

  Seconds pass and I bite down on my bottom lip. Where is he going?

  It’s dark out, obviously, and the only thing in the yard is him, some trash, and a few cars parked along the curb.

  Still, I haven’t gotten any creeper vibes from him; if anything, he’s been strangely…protective? Considering we don’t know each other whatsoever, it’s strange that the way my friends have been treating me lately seems to annoy him to no end.

  So weird. So…intriguing.

  I hustle down the steps after him, trying not to trip and kill myself once I hit the bottom, my shoe catching on the lip of the concrete slab anyway. Thankfully, I keep my balance.

  Look up, watching as he cuts across the grass, hands reaching for the hem of his black T-shirt, pulling the fabric up and over his long torso, presenting me with his bare back.

  His toned, ripped back.

  Muscles defined, his lattisimus dorsi is… Is…

  Um.

  I try not to stare even though he can’t see me, afraid that when he does finally whip around, he’ll find my eyes molesting his front side th
e way they’re molesting his rhomboid and trapezius, and holy shit, I can’t believe I know what these muscles are actually called.

  I also can’t believe how incredible his body is.

  It flexes when he balls up his shirt, walking to a shiny, black, luxury SUV parked at the curb. Its headlights flash brightly when he hits the remote to unlock it, cab illuminating as his voice calls out, “Get in.”

  Wow he’s bossy.

  And yet, before I know it, I’m inside the lavish vehicle, buckling the seat belt over my soaking wet dress, eyes fixed straight ahead out the window, carefully avoiding the naked upper torso he’s strapped in on the driver’s side.

  The engine roars to life, purring. “Where are we going?” I ask quickly.

  A long stretch of silence follows as he hits his turn signal and eases into the street. “My place.”

  What? No!

  “To do what exactly?”

  “Sleep?”

  “No! No, it’s fine, really. Just take me to the dorms—I’m in the upperclassman apartments on McClintock.”

  “I have a really nice place. You can crash with me. I really don’t give a shit.”

  “I-I can’t do that. I thought maybe we were going for cheeseburgers or something.” God I’m an idiot.

  “Why?” His face is contorted. “All we’re going to do is sleep.” In the dark, I raise my brows. Yeah right, they say.

  I’m almost insulted by his belted-out laughter. His cackle.

  I cross my arms over my chest defensively. “What’s so funny?”

  “You thinking I want to sleep with you.”

  “I do not think that!” We both know I’m lying.

  Another laugh. “Yes you do.” Pause. “Look, it’s fine—I’m not going to assault you or take advantage of you, trust me. I have zero interest in women, so your virtue is safe with me.”

  “Oh,” I mutter. Then, “Ooohhhhhh!!!”

  He gives me a sidelong glance and rolls his brown eyes, which are brightened by the street lights. “I’m not gay.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Well then don’t announce it like that. Being gay isn’t a big deal—I wouldn’t care, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you were.”

  “I know it’s not a big deal—but I’m not,” he grinds out through perfect teeth. “But I knew that was what you were thinking.”

  “Fine. That’s totally what I was thinking.”

  His grunt comes out of the dark, blinker for a right-hand turn ticking against the sudden quietness of the cab.

  “How could you tell?”

  “By the way you went Oohhh!!!” He mimics a high-pitched female voice so well my mouth curves into an amused grin. “All relieved and shit, like you just solved the freaking Pythagorean theorem.”

  I shoot him an agitated look. “It’s a math theory…”

  “I know what the Pythagorean theorem is, thanks.”

  You don’t earn a scholarship for engineering without adding numbers and knowing some basic geometry.

  I might hate math, but I’m good at it, even though I still occasionally use fingers to do addition. Who doesn’t? I have zero shame, unless I’m sitting in front of my geometry professor. “Just so you know what you’re dealing with here. Don’t ever expect me to add my way out of a dangerous situation without a scientific calculator. We will both lose in a big way.”

  “Seriously? Math is so easy, I can do that shit in my head. And all the Pythagorean theorem does is state that the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides and—”

  “I know all this, jockstrap.” I hold a hand up. “Please just stop.”

  I’ve had a few beers and don’t want to talk about classes right now, especially mathematics.

  Quick, what’s fourteen plus thirty-seven? Answer: I have no damn idea, leave me alone.

  “Do you want to stop by your place real quick and grab a change of clothes?”

  I do a quick calculation of the odds I’ll run into Mariah and whoever it is she’s bringing home, figure it’ll be safe to dash in if I make it quick, and nod my head.

  “Yes, please. I live in Dautry.”

  “Got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  It takes me less than five minutes to race down the hall to our place (we live on the first floor), grab a tank top, shorts, and underwear out of my dresser, and run back out to the waiting SUV.

  It idles in the still of night, a lone figure looming inside the cab patiently, his profile hairy and bearded, the outline of his topknot silhouetted in the dark.

  I hide a smile.

  “Thanks,” I repeat once I climb back in, and I get a chin tilt in return.

  Respecting that he’s not in the mood for chatter, we don’t speak again until we’re finally on the outskirts of campus and out of town, turning into a residential area, the kind with families and professors, not students and party houses.

  At the end of a driveway, he pulls into the garage of a red brick Tudor that looks like it came out of the pages of storybook.

  “Uhhhh…” I drag the word out because I just cannot help myself. “This is your house? Do you live with your parents?”

  I tug at my hemline, dragging it down over my knees. Shit, am I about to meet his mom? What is she going to think when she sees me? I look like a waterlogged Labrador, and I can’t imagine what my makeup looks like.

  Perfect. Just perfect.

  “No.” He pulls the keys from the ignition and hits the button to shut garage door, closing us in. “I live here alone.”

  “You live here. Alone.” In this house, which is a thousand times nicer than the one I grew up in.

  He doesn’t look at me, instead pushing on the driver’s side door and hopping out. “Are you coming in, or are you gonna ask me thirty more questions?”

  I roll my eyes and grab my purse. “That was only like, three questions.” Hop out of the car. “Why are you being weird?”

  But he’s already opening a door, light streaming from a small room at the side of the garage.

  It’s a laundry room—he has an actual laundry room!—shoes lined up by the door, a few sets of shirts and pants neatly folded and stacked in tidy piles atop the washer.

  I am so confused.

  Bending to unzip the booties I’m wearing, I slide them off, placing them by the door. Next to his giant ones. Smoothing my hands down the front of my dress, cringing when I hit the wet spot, I gingerly follow him across the tile floor and into a well-lit kitchen.

  Onto the polished hardwood floor.

  The kitchen looks state-of-the-art and updated, almost like a showroom, and I rest my hands on the cold counter, clasping my fingers to give them something to do.

  I am so out of my element. I wasn’t raised in a place like this, let alone live in one at age twenty-one.

  Who is this guy and where does he come from?

  Not the backwoods of Arkansas, that’s for damn sure.

  I bite my tongue to stop the steady stream of questions in my brain from vomiting out of my mouth.

  Why does he live here? Who pays for it? Is he selling drugs on the side to pay for all this? Is he a trust fund baby? Who owns this joint? Why doesn’t he have roommates? Does he have a job?

  “Want something to drink?” he wants to know, standing at the sink, running the tap. Filling a glass and lifting it to his lips.

  “Uh, surrre.”

  His long arm reaches over, retrieving another glass from the cabinet made of rich wood. Fills it and slides it slowly across the center island.

  I cradle it between my hands, thumbs stroking the cool, smooth glass. Fidgeting, unable to keep still.

  This whole thing is so bizarre.

  * * *

  KIP

  Me: On a scale of 1 to fucking terrible, how bad of an idea was it to bring a girl back to my place?

  Ronnie: Depends on the girl

  Me: Hey
big sister, I’m shocked you’re awake! What the hell are you doing up?

  Ronnie: The text notification woke me up, asshole!

  Me: Liar

  Ronnie: You’re right—your brother-in-law just got done doing nasty, unspeakable things to me. Oh, sorry, was that TMI?

  Me: Jesus Christ Veronica, I didn’t need to know you were just having sex

  Ronnie: Who said anything about sex?

  Me: ANYWAYYYYYYYYY—about this girl…

  Ronnie: Right, well, if she’s already at your place, not much you can do about it, yeah?

  Me: Gee, thanks

  Ronnie: It’s true. Besides, if you brought her home, she must not be terrible—we all know what you’re like

  Me: What am I like?

  Ronnie: A complete freak?? I mean, look at what you did to your beautiful face just so girls would leave you alone. Now you’re bringing them home? You must be hard up

  “Um…so, you live here alone?” The girl’s sweet but incredulous voice carries through my kitchen, her finger sliding along the edge of the cold, hard granite countertop.

  “Yeah.” I can’t look at her as I dump my keys and phone onto the built-in desk next to the double ovens where I store all my crap, the texts from my older sister, Veronica, already forgotten. Everything glistens and shines because the cleaning lady was here yesterday morning picking up my shit, washing my clothes, folding them, and dusting what little putzy stuff I have set out.

  Not my choice—she was hired by my mother—and Christ, if anyone found out I had a cleaning lady, I’d never live it down.

  “Where did you find this place? Jesus, it’s so nice.”

  “The landlord takes great care of the place,” I joke, because

  I’m the landlord—but she doesn’t need to know that.

  She scoffs. “Who the heck are you renting from? No one who owns anything around campus, that’s for sure. None of those guys give a shit—those houses are complete dumps.”

  She’s correct; most of the houses are total shitholes, which is why I don’t rent. I own this place—well, my parents do, but that’s always been their thing: buying whatever house my sister and I happen to be living in at the time so we don’t have to deal with rent and landlords.