by Gail McHugh
The whole team, except for Brock’s target, rocks with laughter. After another growl from Beefman and a series of numbers yelled out by the quarterback, Brock’s off and running, zigzagging down the field as he dodges Beefman and his pack.
With serious NFL precision, the quarterback Hail-Marys the ball down the field. I stop breathing, watching as gravity carries the spinning bullet through the sticky air. Brock stops, whirls around, and the ball nails him in the chest. With little to no effort, he catches it. A split second before a duo of amped-up whatchamacallits reach him—neither of whom are Beefman—Brock turns and takes off again, howling his way into the end zone for an in your face, fucker touchdown.
The air rips with excited squeals from cheerleaders who are also in the midst of practice. Unable to contain my own enthusiasm, I follow suit, squealing in a less gag-worthy way than the team’s little groupies. I’m behind the fence where Brock scored his in your face, fucker touchdown, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that my ridiculous squeal catches his attention. But it does, my heart screeching to a stop as he jogs his fine ass toward me. He pulls off his helmet, the mother ship of sexy grins landing on his lips.
“Ah, she came,” he says triumphantly. He drops his helmet and threads his fingers through the fence separating the bleachers from the field, resting them over mine. “So?”
“So?” I stare into his smiling eyes as I mentally tell my fingers to chill out despite his touch.
“So what’d ya think?”
“I think it’s hot as hell.”
“I already know you think I’m hot as hell,” he points out, smacking his lips together.
I shake my head, my need to kiss those lips increasing with each uneven breath I take.
Inching his face closer to the fence, his grin broadens. “Get your mind off my pecs and try to concentrate on the play that just took place. I know it’s difficult, but I know you got it in ya.”
“It’s actually closer to impossible, but I’ll make an honest-to-God attempt.” I let out a pseudo-dreamy sigh.
Brock chuckles, his face showing his amusement.
“In all seriousness, it was great,” I continue. “Between you and the quarterback, it was a kick-ass play.”
“Thank you, Twizzler girl.” He taps my nose. “Me and Ryder are good like that.”
“Ryder’s the quarterback?” I hear the shock in my voice as my attention shoots to the sideline.
Though he’s surrounded by a flock of please pay attention to me and I’ll be the next to suck you off cheerleaders, Ryder still manages to catch my gaze from across the field. I look away, unnerved yet enthralled by everything about him. I’m not sure why I react that way around him. Maybe it’s because he reminds me too much of myself.
We’re both broken whores.
Still, I can’t help but inwardly laugh at the way some chicks have no shame in demonstrating their whoriness to him, let alone the world. I’m a silent whore, a different breed, the shocking kind. I’m the whore a dude can safely bring home to his mother without fearing that she’ll suspect I’m swallowing her baby boy’s seed better than the best of them.
“I didn’t know he played anything but the role of an arrogant bastard.”
“I’m arrogant,” Brock says with a shrug.
“True.” I nod, tapping his nose. “But you’re arrogant in a different way.”
“Shit. You think I’m arrogant?” Brock asks, concern edging his eyes.
“You even just said you’re arrogant.” I giggle, a little confused. “Are you trying to prove to me that you indeed do have a little schizophrenic man living in that arrogant head of yours?”
He grins. “I’m really not arrogant, but I just may have a little man talking to me in my head.”
“I’d be shocked if you didn’t.”
“Wanna know what he’s telling me now?” he whispers.
“I can’t deny that I’m somewhat fearful about what he’s telling you, but you both have piqued my curiosity. Shoot.”
“He’s insisting you watch the rest of my practice, wait a few minutes while I hop in the shower, and then take a drive with me.”
“Tsk, tsk. No dates yet, Cunningham. You’re halfway up that ladder but not quite to the top.”
Several of his teammates call to him from across the field. Without tearing his eyes from mine, Brock holds up a finger, signaling them to wait. “It’s not a date. It’s just a ride, Amber.”
“A ride can turn into a date.”
“And a dance can turn into a kiss,” he counters. “A kiss can turn into relationship. A rich asshole can turn into a poor bastard. Get where I’m going with this, beautiful?”
I drop my hands to my side. “Yeah, I get where you’re going with it. But still, I told you that you’re going to have to work hard to get into my head.”
“Then give me the chance to work hard,” he implores, his eyes intense as his teammates kick it up a notch, chanting his name in loud unison.
I look off to the rowdy crew, my eyes landing on Ryder. With his elbows resting on his knees, he’s sitting on the bench watching me and Brock like a hungry hawk scouring his next kill. I stare at him a long moment, our gazes locked in some kind of showdown. I bring my attention back to Brock and gnaw at my lip, my unhealthy fear of falling in love settling on the conveyer belt of distrust circling my frozen heart.
“Get your fingers back up here.” Brock flexes his on the fence, an easy smile spreading across his lips. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite.”
After a second of debate, I bring my fingers to the fence. I have to remind myself to breathe as he touches his fingers to mine, slowly intertwining them together.
“Something about you feels . . . right, natural,” he says, his voice soft and calming. “I can’t explain it. I just know that you’re different in a good way, and I like it. I want different in my life. You have no idea how much I fucking need it.” He shrugs and studies my face, reading me in a disturbing way. “My heart’s no less bulletproof than yours. Believe me. But if you feel like you have nothing, then you have nothing to lose, right? Give yourself a shot at being my . . . different.” He looks at the ground then back at me, his breath unsteady, somewhat nervous. “Take a ride with me after practice, Amber.”
I’ve never been confronted by so many messy emotions all at once. On top of that, I’ve never once been struck speechless. Words, feelings, memories, instinct, fear, longing, adrenaline, want, and anxiety all digging their razor-sharp claws into my brain. My wretched past has always been mine to keep hidden from the world, and whether or not he knows it, Brock’s asking me to expose the wreckage of my life to him. He’ll ask questions and expect answers. When I can’t answer them, he won’t think I’m different in a good way. He’ll just realize I truly am a freak, a freak he’ll wish he’d never tried to figure out.
Still, despite everything inside me screaming for me to run, to flee faster than I ever have, as I stare into Brock’s eyes I feel like a magnet’s grounding me to this spot, to this moment, this very second in time. An internal clock’s ticking, the crashing sound of its pendulum tocking through my ears and reminding me that I’m running out of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years. We’re each given only so much life, and I have yet to live a speck of anything that resembles one.
Running on empty and having absolutely nothing to lose, I nod. “Okay.”
“Yeah?” Brock asks, his expression a mixture of shock and uncertainty.
Another nod.
“Thank you.” A slow smile tilts his mouth, his gentle voice a caress. “You know if I weren’t behind this fence, I’d kiss you, right?”
I quirk a brow. “You know I may or may not let you, right?”
He taps my nose again and picks up his helmet. “I think you’re gonna be the ride of my life.”
“That’s possible,
” I call as I make my way toward the bleachers. Rounding the track, I watch Brock jog over to his teammates with a smile worth a million Polaroids.
Nerves a scattered mess, I’m pretty sure the sun is melting the flesh from my bones as I climb the bleachers, finding a spot under an overhang. It offers little reprieve from the heat but will do for now. Considering I won’t get much in the way of studying done for the remainder of the day, I retrieve Paradise Lost from my satchel. Before I can read three words, I hear giggling along with footsteps traipsing their way toward me. I raise my eyes, noticing one of the cheerleaders headed in my direction is the chick who hijacked my spot in Ryder’s lap the day he decided to . . . devour me.
“Great,” I mumble, positive she’s about to start with me. Though Ryder said she was a hit-and-go type of thing, girls can go all Carrie over shit like this.
With a perfect button nose, waist-long chardonnay-hued hair, and full lips any girl would kill to have, the chick could seriously be a supermodel. “Amber?” she says in a Tinker Bell voice, extending a perfectly manicured hand to me. “I’m Hailey Jacobs. I’ve heard . . . a lot about you.”
I take her hand, convinced she’s up to something. I can hear it in her overly sweet tone, see it in the way her periwinkle eyes are slightly narrowed, and feel it in the way she’s gripping my hand a little too tightly.
“Well, hi there, Hailey Jacobs.” My tone is sugar, spice, and everything nice multiplied by a thousand. “I haven’t heard a thing about you. Odd.”
Her eyes narrow further. She’s onto me as much as I am her. She turns and quietly dismisses her redheaded friend, who’s as equally snotty and uppity-looking. Hailey’s accessory casts me a shark’s smile, all teeth, letting me know she’s also hungry for my blood. On a huff, she turns on her heel, swinging her dainty little ass back down to her crew of jock-worshipping followers.
Hailey brings her curious gaze back to me, a fake-as-they-come smile plastered across her glossy lips. “So you’re dating Brock Cunningham?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m taking a ride with him after practice.”
A shadow of a pout darkens her face, just enough to let me know they must have some kind of past. “Brock’s not what he appears to be on the outside.” She snaps her bubblegum inches from my nose. “He wears an overcoat of some of the best charm out there to hide what lies beneath his . . . front. You’ll soon learn what that is. But he knows how to fuck for hours like a pro, and something tells me that’s exactly what you want. You ooze slut.”
She drags her attention out to the field, where Brock’s hauling his duffel bag over his shoulder, heading toward the locker rooms. She rolls her snake eyes back to me, a sneer curling her lips. “He’ll definitely take you for a ride, that’s for sure. And once he’s finished with you, he’ll toss you aside just like the rest.”
“You mean, he’ll toss me aside just like he did you,” I grit out, my mind warped by this bitch’s audacity. “That’s what you’re talking about, right? ’Cause something about you leaks bitter ex-girlfriend. A bitter ex-girlfriend who’s going Fatal Attraction because she lost a freak who can fuck like a pro.”
A muscle twitches in her jaw, a clear indication that I’ve pissed the bitch off.
I continue, not quite finished. “Let me tell you something, Hailey Jacobs. I’m glad Brock knows how to fuck like a pro, because otherwise I’d get bored and toss him aside. Just to be safe, I plan on teaching him a few fresh tricks that you probably couldn’t think of. So while you’re chucking your sparkly pom-poms from one end of the field to the next, just know that I will be fucking the captain of the football team in ways he’s never been fucked before. I doubt that’ll garner me a toss aside.”
Eyes wider than tires, her dot of a nose scrunches up as she surges to her feet. “Fuck you!”
Trying to contain my laughter, I give an unaffected shrug, my eyes pinned to my book. “I go both ways, sweetie. Actually have been told I lick a memorable pussy. Just give me a time and a place.”
Though I have yet to swing to the other side—I like to keep my options open, thank you—that bit of made-up information works its charm. Speechless, Hailey whips around on an aggravated heel and bolts down the stairs without a backward glance. As I watch her join her cult, I can’t help but acknowledge that today is turning out to be far more exciting than I’d pictured.
• • •
“Okay, you have to answer two questions for me,” I say as Brock and I drive west on I-68.
“Anything.”
“The first is where are we going?”
“That’s a secret.”
“Hey,” I pout, “you said you’d answer anything.”
“I changed my mind.” With a smile, he rests his hand on the nape of my neck, massaging my skin. It takes everything in me to keep my eyes from fluttering closed. “What’s your second question?”
I clear my throat, trying to regain my bearings. “How does a guy who’s twenty-one—”
“Twenty-two,” he corrects. “Soon to be twenty-three.”
I sigh. “Whatever. How does a guy your age afford a brand-new Hummer? One that’s pretty decked out, no less.”
He shrugs. “My parents are two of the most well-known defense attorneys in Maryland. They share the wealth with their kids.”
“You have siblings?”
“I do.” He turns onto Route 219. “An older sister.”
“Aww, you’re the baby in the family.”
“No ‘awws’ required. It was hell growing up with her.” Grinning, he pitches me a sidelong glance. “Between her monthly visitor and fighting over the phone and bathroom, I nearly lost my fucking mind before I hit puberty.”
I giggle, seeing his point.
After a moment, I relax my head against the window, watching the scenery melt into nothing but lush green. Thin ribbons of blue sky cut through an array of trees against a mountainous backdrop. For a brief second, a sense of peace runs through me, something I’m not used to. Before I can settle into the foreign feeling, my attention jolts from the rare beauty when guitar chords from a song I haven’t heard in years begin to strum from the speakers.
I clear my throat, my body instantly plagued with unwelcomed memories. “Is this the radio or your personal playlist?” I ask, hearing the shakiness in my voice.
Brock holds up his phone. “It’s my playlist from Spotify.” He gives me a reluctant smile. “Go ahead, just say it.”
“Say what?” I question, confused.
“That I’m weird for listening to Ray LaMontagne.”
“No, it’s not that at all. I love him. I grew up listening to all his songs.” The haunting words of “Lesson Learned” reverberate in my ears, Ray’s smoky voice as familiar as a cozy sweater. “My . . . my father used to play this for me on his guitar.”
“On his guitar?” Brock turns down a barren gravel road, and I already know the question perched on the tip of his tongue. “Is he a musician?”
Shit. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Still, I had to ask. Ray LaMontagne isn’t an artist many in my generation find appealing. Just another reason my age bracket sucks. They wouldn’t know a good piece of music if it hit them on their heads.
Though he’s unaware of it, Brock Cunningham’s managed to sneak his way into my heart just from being different, in a good way.
“So come on. We’re in the middle of nowhere.” I gesture to, well, absolutely nothing. There’s nothing but nature around us. Pouting my lips for effect, some of the most disturbed horror film scenes spring through my mind as I attempt to change the subject away from my father. “Please tell me where you’re taking me.”
Diversion accomplished, Brock grins and points at a colossal sign saying: deep creek lake.
Duh. “A lake?”
“Not just a lake.” He stops the vehicle in front of the most breathtakin
g, God-touched creation I’ve ever seen. “It’s the largest, deepest lake in the state of Maryland.”
“It’s amazing.” I jump from the Hummer and with my arms spread wide, I spin in a circle, breathing in the fresh air. I come to a stop, my brow spiked in curiosity. “Do you have fishing poles with you?”
“Why, you fish?” Brock slips from the vehicle. “If ya do, I’m pretty fucking sure you’re the coolest girl I’ve ever met.”
I take a graceful bow. “Well, then consider me the coolest fucking girl you’ve ever met. Fishing is one of my better addictions.”
“No shit, Miss Moretti,” he says with a smile as he opens the trunk and produces not only a cooler but two fishing poles.
“Would you stop calling me Miss Moretti?” I roll my eyes, getting annoyed with the whole Christian Grey thing. “And do you always carry a cooler with you?”
After he closes the trunk and sets everything on the ground, amusement glides along his face as he leans against the back passenger door. “No, but I had a feeling that a certain beautiful girl would show up to my practice. I also had a feeling that a certain beautiful girl would take a ride with me to the lake after practice. This here boy came prepared.”
I shake my head, a smile lifting my lips.
“And you don’t like when I call you Miss Moretti?”
I shrug and lean against the vehicle too. “Maybe if I were close to retirement I would.”
“It’s settled, then.” He sidles up next to me, lightly jerking his hip against mine. “I’ll kill calling you Miss Moretti, but I’m all for nicknames, especially for cool, beautiful girls who have a fishing addiction.”
“Are you?” My voice comes out thin, gauzy. I turn to look at him. Jesus. He’s as beautiful as they get, an eye-orgasm-worthy blend of rough and rugged, hard and soft.
Another jerk of his hip against mine, his breath curling over my neck as he dips his head to my ear. “I am,” he says, candy-shop seduction melting from his voice, the look in his eyes breaking down my battlements as a slow smile works his lips. “And I’ve decided my nickname for you will be . . . Ber.”