by Ney, Sara
I step away from Charlie and go back to the chair at the table, go back to wielding the carving knife, its tiny orange handle like a child’s toy in my hand. Small and damn near impossible to grip.
“What the hell is all that shit,” I complain curiously. Seriously, what the hell do they have in all those bags?
“All the shit for the Pumpkin,” McMillan tells me, setting his two pumpkins on the counter then the paper bag he was holding by the handle.
“We’re not having a party,” I grumble.
“Calm your tits, old man—we’re the party.” Rodrigo is already digging through his bag, pulling out a bag of Cheetos, cheese wiz, and miniature oranges. “These are the little kind of oranges with no seeds that kids go crazy for. The theme is orange, so we got orange snacks.”
Far be it from me to point out the obvious, but, “That shit is going to taste terrible together.”
I get an eye roll—like I’m the moron here. “Duh,” Rodrigo draws out. “That’s why we bought sherbet. It’s orange and it’s a palate cleanser.”
If they say the word orange one more time, I will lose my damn mind.
“How do you know that?”
“I used to bus tables at a fancy-ass restaurant in high school for a hot minute. They served these tiny cones in between courses.”
That does sound fancy as fuck. “You’re going to eat all this? Tonight?”
Rodrigo stares me down like I’ve done lost my mind. “It’s a pumpkin party.”
Jesus Christ with these guys.
At the counter, back to arranging the seeds on the cookie sheet, Charlie laughs, her back shaking with every idiotic word coming out of my friends’ mouths. She moves to preheat the oven, setting it at three-fifty, then opens the cabinet next to the stove.
“Whatcha looking for?” McMillan asks. “Salt?”
He shoots me a sly look before easing up behind her and pulling open a different door—the one directly above the stove and about six feet off the ground—high up for most people, but not for us.
Not for a household of giants.
“Here you go, darlin’.” The asshole is mimicking my accent, my words, and—
Well, she’s not my girlfriend, and I have no claim on her.
But you did just kiss her, I argue. So? I volley back at myself. You were fucking terrible at it and she’s never gonna want to see you again or put her mouth on yours, you out-of- practice, virgin piece of shit.
I have no right to be jealous of his flirting, especially since Charlie isn’t reciprocating.
“Thanks.” Charlie takes the salt from my roommate, her gaze darting to me, a hesitant smile on her lips directed at McMillan, as if she knows what’s going on and doesn’t intend to encourage it. She’s being polite but not returning his over-the-top flirtation.
Any other girl would be playing us against each other. I’m sure of it.
But Charlie isn’t any other girl.
She held out—wouldn’t go out with me when I hinted at it, thinks I’m kind of an asshole.
Right?
SEVENTH FRIDAY 3.0
CHARLIE
“Thanks for tonight. I had a lot of fun.” I glance at Jackson out of the corner of my eye, studying his profile in the dim cab of his truck. His strong jaw is set in a stubborn position, as if his teeth are clenched, tense. As if he no longer knows what to do with me now that we kissed in his kitchen.
That kiss.
I press two fingers to my lips, the heat from his mouth still fresh on my pout. It wasn’t anything particularly sensual, just the meeting of our mouths, but the sensation lingers just the same.
My lips are soft—I exfoliated them tonight before applying gloss—so I imagine he must have liked it, green as he is.
What’s it like for a guy like that to have no experience?
I could tell by the way he hesitated, nature taking over but still uneasy in his movements. Unsure.
Halting. Refreshing.
I haven’t made out with tons of people myself, but I can’t imagine never having done it at my age. What is that like for someone in their twenties and living with a houseful of guys who screw and have casual relationships on a regular basis?
No wonder he was embarrassed and turned bright red.
Still.
I liked it, and I’m glad he doesn’t have a mile-long list of conquests like most athletes; that would turn me off.
Beside me, Jackson taps on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the song softly playing on the radio—some old-school country ballad about politics, religion, and a dog named Blue—as we back out of the driveway and into the main street.
Jock Row… Jock Road. At least, that’s the unofficial name for it. Stanley Drive is what it’s actually called, after the alumna who donated a few million bucks to build the residences situated along the street with the sole purpose of housing athletes.
They’re nice digs, way more grand than the shithole I’m shacked up in with my friends on the other side of campus. I was embarrassed the other night showing Jackson where I live knowing he’s set up in the football house. The floors were disgusting, but the rest of it wasn’t terrible.
At least the door wasn’t falling off its hinges.
I make a mental note to send my landlord yet another message about my front door and gaze into the backseat of Jackson’s truck. My date’s truck.
Yup, it’s official—we’re on a date.
Butterflies flutter within my stomach, waking from their slumber. It’s been a long time since a boy has made me nervous.
Jackson turns a corner, and the small collection of gourds in the backseat rolls from one side of the seat to the other.
We didn’t bring the pumpkin we carved, the guys collectively deciding they wanted to put them all out on their porch—but I have the unmarked gourds and the scarecrow, Biff, and plan on putting them on my porch as soon as I get home.
Cozy my place up for the impending holiday. “Glad you had a good time.”
Good tyme.
I shiver. That accent. That voice, that tone.
Jackson taps the steering wheel again, and my eyes go to his hands.
His big, strong, masculine hands.
Before tonight, I haven’t had a set of hands on my body in
God, who knows how long.
I try not to stare at Jackson’s hands or forearms, dragging my stare away and refocusing my concentration on the road ahead of us. Plucking at the hemline of my dress to distract myself, to keep my own hands busy.
“I did have a good time.” I groan; we sound ridiculous. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I’m surprised you…”
I pause, self-conscious. “Surprised I what?”
“Nothing.” I zip my lip and shake my head.
His irritation is evidenced by his sigh. “I hate when people say nothin’—just tell me what you were going to say.”
He’s right; I hate when people do that too, and he knows damn well I had something to say. Ugh.
So. I do the only thing I can do: I take a breath, suck it up, and say what I was about to say. It’s the only way to save face with him so he doesn’t think I’m a wimp.
“I’m surprised you put the moves on me.”
“I wasn’t putting the moves on you.”
“Oh? Then what would you call breathing all over my neck?”
Jackson laughs, gripping the wheel. “I was sweet-talkin’ you because you were pissed I said we’re hangin’ out.”
The words I waz sweet-tawkin yew go straight to my lady bits.
They tingle.
“You didn’t have to get up and spoon me from behind. You could have just said you were sorry for being insensitive.”
It’s true; he could have. But he didn’t.
He put his mouth on my body—on my neck. His warm breath caressing my skin felt so, so…oh lord, I’m going to end up touching myself tonight when I climb into bed at the memory of those lips…
Hardly the same thing. Not even c
lose.
Too bad I’m not desperate enough to chase after a guy who doesn’t want to date me.
Have fun and hang out? Yes.
Talk and text? Yes. Invite to parties and games? Yes.
Date? No. Have a relationship with? No. Sleep with? No.
It’s just so weird to me. Here he is, this hulking hunk of a guy, outweighing me by at least one hundred and fifty pounds. Jackson Jennings is a mountain of a man with more testosterone pumping through his veins than the average college boy. It makes no sense to me that his hormones aren’t raging, too, and if they are, the guy has more self- control than I can comprehend.
Most guys his age have zero self-control. None. And it shows.
“You weren’t expecting me to put the moves on you. So that’s what you thought I was doing, eh?”
“I mean…yeah?” Shoot, I hate when I’m wrong.
“Well.” He pauses. “Maybe I was.”
My head whips in his direction, eyes so wide the air from the heater in the dash is blowing them dry.
I blink. Blink again.
“Say that again.” I need clarification.
“How about we do this, Miss Know-It-All: when we turn onto the next block—onto Frat Row—if we see any people walking into a fraternity house dressed in costumes, you have to kiss me.”
Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa, where is that coming from?
I scoff. “We kissed in the kitchen—we don’t have to place bets on it.”
“Nah, this is more fun. Besides, I kissed you. You barely kissed me back, and now you have to.”
I turn to face him, twisting my buckled-in body like a pretzel, leaning over to get comfortable, sinking my teeth into this topic. “Okay, so let me get this straight: you’re betting me when we turn onto Frat Row, there will be people wearing costumes, and if there are, I have to kiss you.” I roll my eyes heavenward. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Why?”
I laugh. “It’s just never gonna happen.” “Wanna make a bet?”
“Costumes? Jackson, it’s September—no one walks around in a costume in September, let alone multiple people.”
“All right, so don’t take the bet.”
He can’t trick me into accepting a wager. “Fine. I won’t.”
“Okay, don’t.” He’s laughing at me, taunting.
“I won’t.” Except… “I mean, what are the odds?”
“Very slim.” He nods, seeming to agree with me. Hmm.
“Super slim. Vegas odds at best.”
“Right. The odds are stacked against me.”
“So why would you set yourself up to lose?” He reaches over and surprises me by giving my thigh a squeeze.
It takes a few seconds to recover once his hand is back on his steering wheel, my thigh branded. “Because I know I’ll win.”
I swear, he’s driving down the road at a snail’s pace on purpose, dragging out the moments we have before making a turn onto Frat Row.
“Fine. I’ll take the bet! I’ll take it, so would you just make the turn already so we can get this over with? The suspense is killing me.”
“In a rush, are ya?”
“No.” I almost roll my eyes but resist; he can scarcely see me in the dim light anyway. My sarcastic nonverbal communication is lost on him at this point; he’s barely paying me any attention.
“I think you are.”
“I assure you, I am not in a rush to make out with you.”
Methinks thou dost protest too much…
Jackson wrinkles his face. “No one said nothin’ bout makin’ out.”
Ugh, I’m practically a puddle on my side of the truck; every Southern inflection out of his beautiful mouth has me melting.
I’m disgusted with myself. Well and truly disgusted. “I meant kiss. I’m not in a rush to kiss you.”
The truck makes the right turn, slowly as Jackson brakes for pedestrians and oncoming cars, the cross traffic with a blinking red light and us with a yellow. Frat Row is lit up like the Fourth of July, porch lights glowing, the entire street a welcoming beacon despite the debris on a majority of the lawns.
Red cups, wrappers, and beer cans litter the grass in front of the stately homes, dulling the luxurious properties. They’re worth millions of dollars, housing the occasional douchebag who probably takes living there for granted.
People mill about in front of the Lambda house.
People dressed like a pirate, a giant panda, and a slutty nurse?
A pink bear walks out the front door and begins dry humping the leg of a guy wearing a giant sperm costume.
“Dang, do you see what I see?” Jackson has the balls to ask.
“You mean the kid lying on the ground who’s dressed like a zombie? Yeah, I see it.” The dude is flopping around as if seizing—and maybe he is? But probably not, since everyone is just standing around.
“Looks like some kind of costume party,” he muses, going the extra mile by rubbing the stubble on his chin.
“Jackson?” When I peel my eyes off the road in front of us, it’s impossible to miss the smirk on his face. “Did you set me up?”
“Me? Nooo…”
“Jackson! Oh my god, you ass! Don’t lie!” Ugh, I could kill him!
His wide shoulders shrug; he’s unflappable. “I mean…I knew there was a party tonight, but it was just a lucky guess that there would be people dressed up.”
“You’re such a damn liar! You freaking knew we’d see costumes when we turned the corner!”
He shoots me side-eye. “Are you gonna hit me with those tiny digits of yers? ’Cause you look ’bout as mad as a wet hen.”
Dammit, why is he so cute?
“Am I going to hit you? First of all, no—I don’t condone violence, plus I’d probably break my hand.” Jackson rolls his eyes. “And secondly, that has got to be the weirdest metaphor I’ve ever heard for someone being pissed off.”
“You ain’t—” He stops to correct his grammar. “You haven’t ever heard that before?”
“I have but still think it’s weird. It makes no sense.”
“Chickens hate bein’ wet,” he unnecessarily explains.
“The point is, you knew there would be a party.”
“I’m not an idiot—of course I knew.”
“That’s entrapment.”
His only answer is a deep laugh that reverberates through the cab of the truck, sending tingles to my nether regions in the most unladylike way.
I shift in my seat. “This was so wrong.”
“Didn’t no one ever tell you some athletes don’t play by the rules?”
“Are you admitting you cheated, Jackson Jennings?”
“I’m admittin’ I don’t always play by the rules.”
“So—cheating.”
We both laugh, and I’m glad he’s taking my teasing in stride.
“No, I don’t normally cheat, never a day in my life. My daddy would have…” He pauses, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “My parents would have killed me if I bent the rules.”
He’s giving me a glimpse into his personal life. “Your parents were strict?”
“Understatement.” He doesn’t say any more about it, just keeps his eyes on the road and his truck from nailing any of the people now spilling into the street. As we’ve slowly crept along, a game of Wiffle ball has broken out in a front yard, the players racing into the road to fetch the ball, not even checking once for vehicles.
A clown leaps into the air, dodging a red minivan approaching from the opposite direction.
“Yours?”
I shrug. “Meh, not really. They never had to be—I just always did what they told me to do. Boring.” I yawn for dramatic effect and pat my mouth.
“Same.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
He glances over. “Why?”
“Because? I don’t know, you must have been popular.”
“I wouldn’t know if I was or not.”
“How d
o you not know?”
Jackson lifts one of his massive shoulders. “I was usually home when everyone was out, so I don’t know how popular that made me. Pops wouldn’t allow it.”
“Why?” I know I shouldn’t pry, but…
“Wanted me to get into a good college.”
I smile. “And look at you now!”
“Not this college.” Jackson’s sardonic laugh comes with a forced smile, and I’m not sure whether or not to be offended on behalf of the entire Iowa student body. But, given his enrollment status here, I let the comment slide.
“Where did he want you to go?”
“A bigger Big Ten school. Penn State. Notre Dame.” One large hand taps the dashboard. “Anywhere but here, really.
“Ah, I see. That’s why you chose Iowa.” His one act of rebellion. “Do your parents come to see you play?”
“My daddy was so fuckin’ pissed, he boycotted my games for the first two years.” Jackson rubs his nose. “He’s been to a few lately, but only b’cause…”
I wish he’d finish his sentence, so I prod him. “Because what?”
He twitches, fingers gripping the steering wheel. “Cause…” His throat clears. “This is between you and me, now, yeah?”
This is a major moment—Jackson Jennings doesn’t open up to just anyone. I can see the hesitation in his eyes from my spot in the passenger seat, so him offering up information…
Huge.
I suck in a breath. Let it out. Make a tiny sign of the cross on my chest that he can’t see in the near dark. Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye…
“I promise I won’t say anything.” He can trust me.
“Pops is only comin’ to my games because it’s almost draft season and he wants me to enter, so he’s bein’ supportive to pressure me into it.”
The draft. Wow.
My little brain can barely comprehend what this means in the grand scheme of things. Here I am worried about my bagel supply running low and what internship I want in my hometown, and Jackson has to decide if he’s entering the draft to play professional football.
My problems seem so freaking stupid. Small. Insignificant.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” Again, his answer is to lift one shoulder. “But…”