The Campus Jock: A College Bad Boy Romance

by Serena Silver

  “Who shows her pleasure as plainly as that—as honestly as that. Of course, whores will moan until the brothel falls down around them. But they are paid. I know you are paid, but . . . Am I making any kind of intelligible sense?”

  “Of course,” Alma said, stroking him. She leaned into him, kissed him on the lips. His beard tickled her, but she liked it. “Will you make love to me?” she whispered. “Don’t you want to be inside of me?”

  His gorgeous forest-green eyes widened. She could see into this man’s character through those eyes. He was just a naïve man with a rich father. He was just a naïve man living in a looming shadow. But that didn’t matter for now. All that mattered was the beauty of his eyes and the length and girth of his hard cock. That was all Alma cared about.

  “Of course I do,” he returned, in a low whisper. “Now? Here?”

  “Now,” she confirmed. “Here.”

  She leaned over the desk and pulled down her trousers, baring her slit and her ass, and arched her back to give him a full view. She heard his quick intake of breath. Then she felt his hand on her ass cheek, tentative at first, and then confident, grabbing her flesh. “You are a siren . . .” His voice was low, whispered. Alma did not take it as an insult. She had led men to rocks and seen them dashed and broken before; she could not deny that.

  His finger moved to her hole, wet – so, so wet – and slid inside of her. He stood up. She heard his belt unbuckling, and then the tip of his cock brushed her clit, brushed her lips, and then brushed her hole. “Do it!” she urged him. “Do it! Do it!”

  He pushed his cock inside of her.

  * * *

  After the sex, Alma pulled up her trousers and stood by the door. She wanted to waste no time in making her play. Like a general, she needed to begin her operations, set her soldiers in place, get them marching. There was a lot to do. “I am going to see your father,” she said, her body aching from the rutting, her cunt throbbing from the orgasms.

  “Okay.” Wallace was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. His head drooped, and his chin bounced against his chest. Alma left the room, walked down the hallway, and knocked on Abraham Saville’s door.

  After a few moments, his voice came, gruff: “Come in!”

  Alma walked into the office and stood with downturned eyes. It was better to seem deferential with this man. The very fact that he had kept his son from the business for so long spoke to his desire for power, for importance. He saw himself above other men, more important than them. Alma had learned long ago that men were simple creatures; if you treated them how they wanted to be treated, they would take an instant liking to you.

  “What is it?” Abraham said, sitting behind his desk. He gestured impatiently to the seat opposite.

  Alma seated herself, faced the man. “First of all, sir, I would like to express my astonishment and my appreciation of the way you dealt with your colleagues in the meeting. I certainly learned a great deal just by sitting in.”

  Abraham inclined his head. “Go on,” he said.

  “But I have to say I feel it is beneath a man of your caliber to neglect his son in business matters. Not to be rude, sir, but you are no longer a young man. None of you are. It is my understanding that neither Bill Gaston nor Avery DeBell have sons. Who, then, does this business go to when you perish? Your son, sir, and it is my impression – my conviction – that you have neglected your son in business matters.” All while his seed spills into my undergarments. She did not allow herself to smile.

  She waited for his reply calmly, marble-faced: carved, implacable. Abraham Saville was a taut man. He reminded Alma of knotted rope. His arms and legs were tough, twisted with sinew, covered in thick gray hair. He stroked his long gray beard and then rubbed his bald head, as though it was a magical lantern and his reply would emerge. “Hmm,” he said, at length. “I have to admit I have never been spoken to like that by a woman. You, Miss Abrams, are a curious specimen indeed. A beauty, to be sure . . . The most beautiful woman I or anybody in this town ever laid eyes on. But there’s more to you than beauty, isn’t there?”

  “I like to think so,” Alma said.

  “What would you have me do?”

  “Simply allow your son to take over from you from time to time. Oh, of course, he does not expect to take over completely. But what if he worked in the mornings and you worked in the afternoons? Would that be so problematic?”

  “Did he send you?” Abraham suddenly snapped. “Did my boy send a woman to—”

  “No, no,” Alma laughed like the very concept was hilarious. “He does not know I am here. He is too proud to ask you himself.” Too cowardly, more like.

  “Hmm!” Abraham slapped the table. He leveled his gaze on Alma. She knew that expression well. He was searching for a weakness. He would not find one. Even if Alma’s heart beat marginally faster, even if her palms sweat a little too much, her face never showed a thing. He leaned his elbows on the table and then nodded. “Fine, tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Alma rose and made to leave the room. She was at the door when Abraham called her back.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re a widow, aren’t you? Who was your husband anyhow? And I can’t seem to place your accent. Where are you from?”

  “My husband’s name was Charles Abrams. He was an importer of tea leaves and lived in the east. I came west when he died because the east was too painful to me. As for my accent, sir, I was born in England, but I have moved around so much that my voice, I fear, is a frightful mishmash.” One half-truth, one-half deceit, let him decide which is which.

  “Okay, Miss Abrams.” He waved at the door.

  Alma left and returned to Wallace’s office. He was sitting with the pose of a man desperate for news: back so straight it was a wonder his spine did not break; fingernails tap, tap, tapping the desk, bottom lip caught in his upper teeth. When she entered, he leaped to his feet. “What did the old bastard say? He said no, didn’t he? He doesn’t want a thing to do with me. Me, his only son!”

  “Calm, my love,” Alma said, placing a soothing hand on his arm. “Tomorrow morning you will make the rounds of the mines. You will take the morning shift, now. And you will take me with you.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Chapter Five

  When she returned to Beryl’s, it was late, and the bar was packed wall to wall with miners and whores and serving girls and young boys darting between the tables with trays of food and drinks. The miners were loud and boisterous and dirty, but Alma did not mind them. Her mind was on what she had told Abraham about England, about where she was from. She disliked, greatly, when Father entered her mind. Like a malicious disease, he would enter her consciousness, infecting everything. The memory of a thousand bruises would leave phantom imprints on her skin. The memory of a thousand humiliations would bring twisted sneers into her mind’s eye.

  She sat on a stall and ordered a whiskey. Men gave her sidelong glances, or turned their noses up at her, or openly gazed in lust. She did not mind. She had already tamed two of the most powerful men in town. She was protected. Solomon moved to and fro behind the bar. “Solomon!” she called, hardly thinking.

  He came to her, gaze down. “Yes, ma’am?” he said.

  She realized she did not have much to say; she just wanted his company. She just wanted to blot out Father’s fists and bared teeth and raised voice. “We should have a visit sometime,” she said. “What do you think? What time do you finish this evening?”

  “Ma’am?” Solomon’s voice was shaky.

  Alma leaned in. “Do not worry,” she said. “If you like, it can be a secret meeting. In the stables, when the town is sleeping?” She tried to catch his eye, but he wouldn’t look at her. There was something infinitely fascinating about his muscular body and his shy countenance; that unusual mix of shyness and power intrigued her.

  Though he did not meet her gaze, he nodded quickly.

  “Good. See you then!”
She leaned back and drained her whiskey.

  The night moved around her. Men laughed and called to each other, but eventually, they had to drag their bodies off to wherever they slept. They would rise early in the morning and be down in the pits, smacking the earth with picks and waiting for that manna-like silver. She knew, too, that these men were only the miners from the mines near Calico. The miners from farther out slept near the mines so that their existence was more completely comprised of work alone.

  The bar had emptied around her. Alma’s head was pulsing with the whiskey, a pulse strong enough to push away Father, thank God. Beryl leaned across the bar and gave her an ear-to-ear smile. “You look tired, Alma,” she said.

  “I don’t have time to be tired, Beryl, as I am sure you can sympathize with.”

  Beryl’s smile grew wider. “Do you want to know something? I am finding, to my surprise, that I like you very much. You have an inexplicable effect on people.”

  “Oh, it is not so inexplicable,” Alma said. “People – men and women alike – desire beautiful things. Without being too immodest, one must admit that I am beautiful.”

  Beryl shrugged. “Yes, I suppose you are.”

  Alma left the bar and walked outside and then into the stables. Horses snorted and coughed, and the stable boy approached her. “Here,” she said and handed him some money. “Go and play somewhere else for half an hour.”

  Without a word, he left. She stroked Roach’s nose and tickled her under the chin. “I know you’re restless, girl,” she said. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow, we’ll ride.”

  Somebody coughed behind her. She turned, and Solomon took a nervous step forward. “Ma’am,” he said.

  “You don’t have to call me ma’am or miss,” Alma said. “I am no special person. Just call me Alma.”

  “Alma?” he said uncertainly. She knew this was strange for him. He was not used to ladies – or anybody, she supposed – showing him anything other than disdain. But that was why she was attracted to him. There were strong people and then there were people with the potential for strength. Alma had always found the latter more interesting. Yes, in her work time she would pursue Wallace and whoever else she had to tame to reach her goals. But this was her time . . .

  “Yes,” she said. “Come here.”

  There must have been some part of him that was as intrigued with her as she was with him, for he walked to her, stood so close to her that she could feel the heat of him, smell the sweat of his body. She touched his chin, lifted his gaze, so they were looking eye to eye. “You don’t have to fear me,” she said. Her voice was untouched by the machinations which usually gripped it. She was herself.

  He stared into her eyes; his eyes were wide, fascinated. “Folk don’t usually show me much kindness,” he said quietly, his lips quivering as though the effort of looking into her eyes was too much, too strange.

  “I am not folks,” Alma said. “I pretend to be them, and I infiltrate their lives, and I laugh when they laugh, and I smile when they smile. Yes, I do all that is expected of me. But I am not them.”

  “Why are you telling me, Alma?”

  She moved her hand from his cheek to his chin. “Because I do not want to be lonely. And I see in you something which has long been inside myself.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Fear. Fear of everything. Fear of other people and fear of yourself.” She brushed her thumb along his lower lip. “You are a handsome man, Solomon. Will you kiss me?”

  His Adam’s apple shifted as he swallowed. “Kiss . . . you?”

  “Yes.” She moved her hand through his hair, soft on her skin. “Have you ever kissed a woman before?”

  He shook his head and glanced down. But then, he glanced back up.

  “Would you like to?” Alma asked.

  He nodded.

  “Be brave, then,” she said.

  Slowly, he leaned forward. Alma waited for him. This was an important moment for him, she could tell. She did not close the distance. After a few seconds, his lips found hers. Clumsily, he kissed her. But as she kissed him back – as their lips opened and their tongues touched – his clumsiness was replaced by passion. She heard him moan; she moaned in return.

  Then she broke off the kiss, and wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face in his chest. “We will be good friends, won’t we?”

  “Yes,” he said gravely and embraced her with his strong, safe arms.

  Interlude

  If anybody thought that one year in the Mojave, through summer, autumn, winter, spring, and then summer once again, would dampen the spark of Alma, would reduce her beauty, would in any way diminish the wonder with which she was held, they were disproven. Each morning, she and Wallace Saville made their rounds of the mines, Alma like a queen atop Roach, looking down at her subjects. The miners, when they saw her, gazed up at her as though she was more than a queen, as though she was a goddess. Alma, for her part, was impatient but knew that this would take time, knew she had to make herself a fixture in this place before she tried to fundamentally change it.

  She did not love Wallace. She knew that in her bones. She enjoyed their sex, and she enjoyed exploring his body. She liked the feel of his cock, his breath on her neck; and how he grunted when he spilled his seed, she felt a sort of satisfaction. But when it came to love – that elusive emotion she was not familiar with – she did not feel it. Wallace often asked her how she did not become pregnant. She would answer that she was lucky, for the true reason – Father’s abuse, a curse, or something even sicker – she had never known.

  She spent her days with Wallace and her nights with Elise or Beryl or Solomon. Solomon, most of all was her crutch. They kissed and hugged, but that was all. That was enough. By day she was a seducer, a siren. By night, she was allowed to be a woman in the first whispers of true affection, holding and kissing. By night, she was allowed to be a person.

  And so the Mojave once again blazed with summer light. Sweat once again flecked every inch of every person. Life shone on.

  Alma knew that she had to do something, had to further her goals, had to act. She had not come this far to stop now, to rest on in this position. She had not come this far to become complacent, lazy. No, like a shooting star she would blaze across this town, up, up, until she became somebody important.

  Never again would her past define her.

  The future was all.

  Chapter Six

  “You deserve more. It’s been a year, my love.”

  My love. Has there ever been a less appropriate term for what we are?

  “I know, I know,” Wallace said, in the tone of voice which told her he was not interested. He folded his legs under his chair and leaned his elbows on the desk, the result being he looked like a scared, chastised schoolboy. “But what am I to say to him?”

  “He is old and tired,” Alma said. “Tell him that he has had his time. Tell him that you are thankful for everything he has done. Tell him that it is time for him to pass the torch to you.”

  Alma touched his forearm, moved her hand up to his hand, and interlocked her fingers with his. He gave her hand a squeeze and then let out a long sigh. Alma knew exactly how this conversation would go. She had spent enough time with this man to get the true size of him. He was not as ambitious or power-hungry as she had first judged him. But he did not want to appear pointless, either. “Perhaps you could . . .”

  “Of course,” Alma said.

  She left him, then, alone in his office. She was discovering that watching him mope and self-pity was the most infuriating thing in this town, even more, infuriating than the way Elise the whore licked her lips, or Beryl raised her eyebrows in judgment each time Alma looked at Solomon. She returned to the hotel and waited in her room for the evening when Abraham would return to the offices. When she heard the men returning from the mines, she went to the offices and up to his door.

  She knocked. He answered: “Come in!”

  Abraham looked five years older, though it
had only been a year. His beard was stringy and thin, and he no longer shaved the top of his head so studiously, so thin wisps of fuzz sprouted all over the place. He had lost more teeth. “Alma,” he breathed. “Hello. It’s good to see you.”

  “And you, sir,” she said, taking a seat without asking.

  He had lost much of his aura of power. He seemed like a tired old man more than anything. Alma waited for a few moments to see if he would talk. When he didn’t, she got into it: “Look at you, Abraham. You’re breathing so heavily I’m afraid you might blow this whole office down! Think of your legs! Your back! You must be in monstrous pain.” Alma’s voice was full of sympathetic, caring tones: tones of a woman who is genuinely distraught by what she is seeing. “You need to stop this,” she said, now pleading. “Please, Abraham, I care about you too much to see you in this much pain. Let Wallace take over. There is no shame in it. He is your son. He is ready. You have trained him well.” I have, anyway.

  For a moment he regarded her as though he would throw her out of the office. Some of his old fire came into his face. Alma half expected him to smooth his hand over his wispy hair and exclaim: “I am not an old man yet!” But he didn’t. As soon as the fire entered his eyes, it left. He deflated before her, his shoulders slumping, and let out a heavy sigh. “You’re right,” he said, and Alma felt a moment of triumph. This last year had been worth it, then. She did not let it show on her face; she would never make that mistake.

  “You do not need to think less of yourself, sir,” she said. “You have shown great resilience in lasting this long at your age. Many men would have given up by now. Is it not true that DeBell and Gaston no longer roam as far as you do? Is it not true that both men have under their employ men who do that for them?”

  Abraham admitted that it was true.

  “Is it not acceptable, then,” Alma went on, “to pass on your responsibility to your son, whom you know you can trust above all others?”