Jock Reign: Jock Hard Book 5

by Sara Ney

  You and I both know that, given the chance, Kaylee would steal him right out from under your nose if the roles were reversed.

  Would she? Is she that cutthroat?

  I’ve always seen the softer side of her, but lately she’s been different. Maybe Lilly is right; she has been edgy because Jack hasn’t been messaging her back, and it’s driving her crazy that he’s rejecting her.

  Have you only seen the good things in her because she’s never viewed you as competition? She’s highly competitive. As a cheerleader, she’s spent most of her life participating in championships and events, spent most of her life being scored and judged—it seems fitting that if something (or someone) got in her way, she wouldn’t be happy about it.

  I’m not in her way because Jack and I are just…

  Friends.

  Friends?

  Weird.

  I’ve never had a guy friend before, and he is an interesting choice as my first. But you know what they say: sometimes you don’t choose friends, they choose you.

  Kidding—I don’t know anyone who has said that.

  I just made it up.

  The water keeps coming down and feels incredible, so I let myself stand here doing nothing for a few more minutes—not washing my hair, not conditioning it, not lathering myself up with soap. I am in no rush. I have nowhere to be except bed.

  My hand slides down my body, finger dipping into my belly button on its way over my stomach, into the valley between my legs.

  I don’t touch myself intimately often; I never felt like I knew how until Beth, my friend from high school, had a sex toy party over the summer and I bought a vibrator. Didn’t know how to use that, either, until I was peer-pressured into trying it.

  I call it my “starter vibrator.”

  Purple.

  Small, the size of a lipstick tube, it has tiny purple rhinestones around the base. I’ve often worried about them falling off while I’m using it—god forbid I end up with a glittery vagina.

  It gets the job done, and now at least I know what a decent orgasm feels like, not the sort-of wannabe orgasm you get when having sex with a guy as unsure about pleasuring a woman as you are about pleasuring a guy.

  I let my hand fall to my side and press my forehead against the fiberglass shower wall, giving up on the idea of getting myself off as the door to the bathroom flies open and Lilly enters.

  “Sorry,” she calls. “I have to flat-iron my hair a bit before Kyle picks me up, it’ll take one second.”

  I don’t mind that she’s busted in unannounced—it’s not like I’m standing around naked and it’s not as if she hasn’t done it a hundred times before—but I would like to eventually get out of the shower.

  I shut the water off and grab the towel so I can dry off while my roommate is primping, wrapping the towel around my torso once I’m dry-ish.

  Step out and smile at Lilly in the mirror as I pass her, leaving her to the counter so I can put my pajamas on.

  Leggings?

  No, too tight.

  Sweatpants?

  Perfect.

  I yank a pair out of my dresser. They have bleach stains, but they’re my favorite and have been saved from the several times my mother has attempted to toss them in the garbage.

  My phone pings as I’m sliding them up my hips.

  There are 24 new messages, except…

  Except my phone isn’t mine.

  This one is huge. Newer.

  It’s a black device I don’t recognize, with a wallpaper I did not choose, no case, no pop socket.

  What the heck?

  Whose…

  I swipe on the screen and open the green message icon, staring down and reading the list of names in the contacts.

  Ashley

  Kaylee Rugby House

  Mum

  Caroline The Old Battle Ex

  Oh god. This isn’t my phone; it’s Jack’s, and the last message he received is from…

  Me?

  It’s my number but clearly not one of his added contacts; still, he’s sent me a text to his phone.

  Jack: Seems we mixed up our mobiles when we pulled my books out of your bag.

  Me: How did your cell get in my bag to begin with?

  Jack: I put it there when I was pulling things out so it wouldn’t get wet on the ground.

  Does that make sense?

  Kind of but not really. In any case, we have one another’s phones.

  Me: Wait. How did you get my number?

  Jack: Easy, I snuck a peek when Kaylee was in the loo.

  Having a go in the loo? Does he mean in the bathroom?

  Regardless…

  Me: Shoot, we’ll have to swap them back.

  Jack: Right. What are you doing right now?

  Me: I just got out of the shower! I am not traipsing around at eleven o’clock at night for a phone. I think we can manage until tomorrow?

  Jack: You just got out of the shower? You work fast—I’m still sodding wet.

  Me: It felt amazing—you should get on that so you don’t get sick.

  Jack: I’m not going to get sick because I’m in wet clothes.

  Me: Suit yourself.

  Jack: Fine, I’ll take a hot shower.

  Me: LOL wow, you’re way too easy to convince.

  Jack: I’ve loads of free time.

  I begin towel-drying my hair and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror; there’s a smile on my face that wasn’t there before. Setting Jack’s phone on the bathroom counter, I continue with my nightly routine, brushing my teeth and putting on moisturizer before returning to my bedroom to sleep.

  His phone pings several more times. One message is from him, to me, and another is from my roommate to Jack.

  I’m not quite sure what to do.

  Me: I’m not prying, but you’ve gotten tons of new messages. My roommate has sent you about 9? Did you want me to reply, or… I know that’s forward, but she’s going to go crazy if she doesn’t hear back from you.

  Jack: I’ll handle it tomorrow, don’t worry about it. But thanks for asking. Anyone else?

  Me: Um, your brother?

  Jack: What did he say?

  I screenshot the messages and hit SEND.

  Jack: LOL can you tell him I don’t have my phone—explain a bit, perhaps, and tell him I’ll shoot him a message tomorrow.

  Me: Will do.

  Jack: I already sent your roommate dick pics of my wanker. Hope you don’t mind.

  Me: YOU DID NOT!!!

  Jack: ’Course not, but can you imagine?

  Me: I would actually kill you.

  Jack: Ah, the petty threats.

  Me: So you just want me to reply to your brother and that’s it?

  Jack: Yes, please. Won’t do for him to think I’m dead over here. The chap worries about me.

  I love that. Love hearing about his family, actually, something he hasn’t told me much about. I’m dying to know more, but I would never ask over text message—that seems tacky for some reason.

  Me: Have you taken that shower yet?

  Jack: You know I haven’t.

  Jack: Oh, fun fact: I have a Darth Vader shower curtain.

  Now he’s speaking my language!

  Me: Ugh, you’re lucky—I share a bathroom and ours is pink.

  Jack: I know, I saw it.

  Me: When?

  Jack: Took a tour last time I was there.

  Ah.

  There’s a tiny flutter in my stomach, a feeling I can’t put my finger on that feels something like…jealousy? Although I can’t fathom a single reason I would be jealous—Jack and I are newfound friends, not in a relationship. In fact, he’s more involved with Kaylee at this point than he is with me, so it doesn’t surprise me that she would give him a tour of our house.

  After all, she won’t admit it, but she is trying to get him in bed…

  I refuse to acknowledge his last text because honestly, I have no idea how to reply to it without sounding bitter.

  Jack:
Your room has lots of pink in it, too.

  Me: How would you know?

  Jack: Tour.

  Me: She showed you my room?

  Jack: Yup. Your other roommate’s, too—with the boring room. Looks like no one lives there.

  Me: Yeah, Lilly wants to be an architect. She’s very serious and regimented.

  Jack: You’re not though.

  No, I’m not. I’m definitely the creative type, and the ironic part is I didn’t bring half of my room decorations to school with me this year—it’s way too much work taking that stuff down at the end of each year and storing it. A lot of my posters and drawings are still at my parents’ house.

  Me: No, I’m totally right-brained. Creative.

  Jack: What’s your major?

  Me: Eh, business. I’m not in love with it, but it’ll pay the bills *fingers crossed* What about you?

  Jack: I studied finance at Uni back home—or that was always my plan because that’s what my father does, and what my brother does, so that’s what I will do. But here, for now, I am undecided.

  Jack: I’m certain at some point it will be business, too. Seems inevitable—I can still collect comic shite on the side and have fun doing it.

  Me: You collect comic shit?

  Jack: Have always done. Since I was a lad. Kept me busy while I was at school and made me less homesick.

  Me: I got into cartooning and comic books in middle school. I went to art camp once with my best friend Larsa and we took a cartooning class, and my art was so different than everyone else’s, but I still won an award.

  Me: That’s when my parents first started taking my art seriously—after I won that award on the last day.

  Jack: What else do you like doing?

  Me: Writing. Stories. Watching movies, of course.

  Me: You?

  Jack: NOT rugby. I like cricket, but zero people play that here. Car boot sales.

  Me: What’s a car boot sale?

  Jack: I think you call them flea markets? I fancy those, they’re fun. Great place to search for old memorabilia and vintage.

  Me: Oh you’re right, that is a great place to look. Is it weird that I’ve never been?

  Jack: You really should. They’re loads of fun. I like to go really early and then eat a hot dog or hamburger for breakfast at around dawn as the vendors are setting up. Just walk around when it’s cold and still damp because it’s so early.

  That sounds so idyllic it actually makes my heart pitter-patter—the thought of doing something like that, especially with him. I imagine us walking around holding hands while we look in each booth for treasures.

  Stop it, Eliza.

  You shouldn’t even be chatting with him right now. Kaylee would absolutely have a heart attack if she knew—the poor thing has been trying to contact him all evening, totally blowing up his phone.

  I watch as another notification from her comes through. She needs to stop.

  Her messages are becoming slightly excessive—I am embarrassed for her on her behalf.

  She seems desperate, and I know for a fact she is not—she’s simply not used to guys who do not pursue her.

  Another message from her comes through—this is number twelve in a matter of hours—and I will myself not to open it up, but the curiosity is killing me.

  Don’t look at what it says.

  DO NOT look at what it says.

  Don’t do it, Eliza.

  This isn’t your phone—these texts are private, and Jack has no desire to know what they say.

  I busy myself by fluttering around my room, pulling back my bed sheets to prepare it for sleep. Give my pillows a fluff. Spray a little lavender where I lay my head. Check to see if I have a bottle of water for my nightstand.

  I don’t.

  I’ll have to go to the kitchen and grab one so if I wake up in the middle of the night, thirsty, I have something to drink.

  Please let me be the only one in the kitchen, I pray as I crack open my door and sneak down the hallway. The lights in the house are off, and only soft whispers can be heard throughout—Kyle and Lilly in her bedroom, and the television from Kaylee’s room.

  When I get back to my own sanctuary, I ease the door closed slowly and cringe when it clicks noisily back into place. I feel like I’m creeping around—as if I’m going to be caught in some lie when all I’m doing is texting a guy whose phone I ended up with accidentally.

  Don’t be naïve, Eliza—this isn’t just any guy. This is the guy your roommate has a crush on.

  Does she though? Or is she just trying to control him?

  There’s no way I’m going to know because there is no way I have the courage to ask her—not to her face anyway. Maybe I could ask Lilly, but she’s so wrapped up in Kyle I doubt she knows what’s going on either.

  Jack’s phone dings.

  Jack: You still there?

  Me: I am—I went to get some water from the kitchen. Shouldn’t you be in bed?

  Guilt eats at me that he seems to want to chat, that we went on a movie date and I never said a word about it. I had every opportunity to come clean when I walked through the door, and I didn’t say a peep.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire…

  Jack: You’d think I’d be in bed I’m so knackered, but I’d rather sit up and talk to you.

  Jack: You have some interesting apps.

  Me: HEY!!! DON’T BE NOSEY!!!

  Jack: I’m sorry, mate, but what’s this dating app? Are you actually…

  Me: JACK JONES PUT MY PHONE DOWN.

  Yes I have dating apps, but I haven’t been on them in forever—maybe a few months? What single person doesn’t?!

  I swear to God if he opens them, I will die.

  Jack: This bloke Adam seems nice, and he’s only .01 miles away…

  Me: DON’T YOU DARE START SWIPING OR I’ll…

  Jack: Or you’ll what?

  Me: Put an app on YOUR phone and start matching you with people.

  Jack: Sounds fun. Go right ahead. I could use a wingman.

  Is he serious?

  Or is he calling my bluff?

  Not to be outsmarted, I go to his app store, find the world’s most popular dating app, and download it onto his device.

  Jack: I think your bio needs to be updated. Allow me.

  That’s it.

  I can’t take it anymore.

  Punching in my own number, I call myself—or him—and raise the phone to my ear as it rings.

  “Hallo?”

  “I swear to God, Jack Jones…”

  “Actually, it’s Dryden-Jones, but for you I’ll make an exception.”

  “You’re not funny.”

  “I’m not trying to be.”

  “Leave my phone alone, would you? No screwing around on any of my apps.”

  “Too late.” He yawns. “This is way too entertaining. Did you a favor and updated your bio—you can thank me later.”

  “I’ll not be thanking you at all!” Is it just me, or do I sound a bit British?

  “Hmm…looks like Adam is also interested in you, and there’s this chap Steve who looks like he’d crack on as well.”

  “Fine. If you want to be that way, I’m going to create an account for you.”

  “Goody. Perhaps we’ll match. I’ll watch for me and swipe if I see me.”

  Huh?

  I cannot tell when this guy is joking. Not sure if it’s his accent or his dull, bored tone that’s completely throwing me off, or something else.

  He makes me nervous.

  “Are you taking suggestions for my bio, or do you want me to be surprised?” he asks.

  That makes me laugh. “You’re a dork.”

  “A dork, hmm? Can’t say anyone has ever called me that. A dunce, maybe.”

  “Dunce does sound more British than dork does.” I pause. “What did you change my description to?”

  “I’m not telling, but it’s good—I’m very clever when I’m in the mood.”

  God. He did not refer to himse
lf as clever.

  “Well,” I say at last, “I’m hanging up then so I can work on your account.”

  Another yawn on the other end of the line. “You’re the one who called me, love. You hang up whenever you want.”

  Ugh! “Were you this infuriating earlier tonight?”

  “No. But I told you—I’m in the mood.”

  “Good day, sir.”

  I end the call with a heated poke to his cell screen then check to see that the dating app has completed downloading. Satisfied that it has, I go through the motions of setting up his account.

  Name: JACK

  Hmm. Maybe I should give him a nickname instead.

  Name: KING OF CAMPUS

  Much better and far more accurate.

  Age?

  Dang, not sure about that one, but I’m guessing he’s the same age as me.

  Age: 20

  Height?

  Again, this I’m going to guess, estimating he is around six foot four—at least I’m pretty sure that’s what he told me at the coffee shop a few weeks ago—has zero children, and is from Great Britain. I tag a location and add a radius for searches, completing the basics for his profile. Now it’s on to adding photos, and I need up to six.

  It feels slightly bizarre going into his photo gallery—like going through someone’s closet, or their desk, or their private things…but I immediately begin smiling when I see the first few photographs.

  Pictures of Jack and a guy who is the spitting image of him.

  This must be his brother, Ashley.

  They could be twins, both of them tall and exceedingly handsome, although Ashley looks way more rugged—bit like a lumberjack, with dark tattoos peeking from beneath his shirt sleeves and over the collar of his shirt.

  That can’t be normal for a British blue blood.

  Give me a break, Eliza—what do you know about the aristocracy?

  Zero things.

  There are pictures of Jack on a horse, playing polo, about to take a whack at the ball that’s on the grass. More photographs of him at some party, more recent pictures of him at the rugby house laughing with his head tipped back.

  I wonder who could have taken those…

  He has a few selfies, but not many. Pictures of an older woman with dark hair twisted into a coif at the base of her neck. She’s wearing pearls and a button-down shirt tucked into a tweed pencil skirt.

  His mother, no doubt.

  I hem and haw, debating on which photographs to use for his profile—which ones represent him the best—realizing he has very few of himself alone. That means I may have to crop a few people out or at least blur the images so I’m not showing the faces of any of his loved ones, privacy and all that. I root around for an editing app and find one quickly.