Rebel Heart

by LK Farlow

  Stacia starts to laugh, but West claps his hand over her mouth to silence her. Amanda stares at my firecracker in disbelief. “Brocky! Are you going to let that white trash Barbie talk to me like that?”

  “I’m not her keeper; Abby Jane is a grown-ass woman. She can talk to you however she damn well pleases, but you best believe, you’re gonna watch how you speak to her.”

  “Not to mention,” Abs cuts in. “I’d rather be trashy than fucking fake.”

  Amanda scoffs at her but turns her focus back to me, a calculating gleam in her eyes. “Whatever. We’re still on for dinner tonight, right?”

  I know her aim was to piss Abby Jane off, but my firecracker sees right through her. “No, honey. He won’t be eating with you tonight. He’ll be eating me. Now, run along.”

  Rob steps forward, and I do too, thinking he’s about to step up to my girl. Luckily, he’s smarter than he looks; I relax when he wraps his hand around Amanda’s wrist. “Come on, babe, let’s go.”

  Thankfully she fucking listens.

  AJ

  When Amanda and her stupid crew clear out, Brock walks over to me and crowds my space, running his hands down my sides and around my ass. Squeezing, he pulls me into him. “You were so fucking hot just then,” he growls in my ear, causing chill bumps to dot my skin despite the sweltering heat.

  “Yeah? You liked watching me tell that little twat off?”

  Brock flexes his hips into mine, showing me just how much. “More than you fucking know.”

  West attempts to break through our lusty fog. “Y’all ready or what?”

  Thank all the angels, Brock steals the words from my lips. “Nah, y’all untie from us and head on. We’ll catch up.”

  “Whatever, dude.”

  Next thing I know, Brock is on me, nipping at my bottom lip, demanding entrance—which I immediately give. He kisses me until I’m weak in the knees. When we break apart, I notice Stacia left the blanket—she really is the best friend ever—and that gives me an idea.

  With my mind made up, I snag the blanket up and grab Brock’s hand, pulling him along behind me. “Where we going?” he asks.

  I twist back to look at him and wink in lieu of a reply.

  Once we’re in the cover of the trees, I shake out the quilt and lay it on the ground before lowering myself down onto it. I crook a finger at Brock, indicating he should join me. “What are you doing, bad girl?”

  “Anything I want,” I whisper the words across his lips before I push him down onto his back, crawling into his lap and straddling him. I press my lips to his jaw, kissing my way down to his neck and then farther down his broad chest.

  I’m almost to the promised land when Brock grabs me and hauls me back up so he can capture my lips with his. “Want you so bad, Abby Jane.”

  “Then have me.” I whimper out the words.

  He reaches up and slides the triangles to my top to the side before palming my breasts, testing their weight before pinching my nipples. Soon his tongue and teeth join his fingers, working me into a frenzy. I roll my hips over his hard length, desperate for friction. Unable to take his torture any longer, I reach down and untie the strings holding my bottom together.

  Brock reads my intent loud and clear and taps my leg. “Raise up.” I do, and he quickly shucks his swim trunks down his legs. “Birth control?” he asks, his tone like gravel.

  “Yes,” I moan, sinking down onto him. Brock lets me set the pace, and I take my time, working my hips in small, slow circles until we’re both sweaty and writhing. Finally, he takes control and flips us so he’s over me. He thrusts back into me, filling and stretching me. He sets a brutal, punishing pace, taking me right to the edge and into oblivion. The pressure is almost unbearable—right on the edge of pain but still deliciously good, and Brock keeps going, chasing both his release and mine.

  “You feel so fucking good. So tight,” he grunts as he hikes my right leg over his shoulder.

  “God, yesss,” I hiss as I crash over into white-hot, blinding pleasure. He follows right behind me, pulling out and finishing on my belly, with my name on his lips.

  Brock rolls off to the side of me and pulls me into him. “Damn, Abs. Everything feels better with you. But I’m not gonna lie…I think I’ve got sand and dirt in places they got no business being.”

  I can’t help but crack up at his words and our situation. Here we are, basically naked in the woods, with semen all over my stomach, while random people float down the river close enough that we can hear them as they pass. Jesus. What if someone would’ve wandered back here and stumbled upon us?

  “Yeah. Safe to say we got a little wild. But” —I bite down on my lip— “I kind of like seeing you wild.”

  “It’s all for you, firecracker.”

  I slide my top back into place and retie my bottoms. “Good. Now give me something to clean up with.”

  Brock quickly pulls up his bottoms and looks around for something I can use. “Uh. Bad news Abby Jane…”

  “Dammit!” I’ll just use Stacia’s blanket and wash it. Twice.

  BROCK

  By the time we get our float back on the water, the other tubers are long gone. It’s just me, my girl, and nature. And with the sun starting to dip below the tree line, it’s not quite as warm as it was when we started. Abby Jane shivers, and I pull her body closer to mine—well, as close as I can with the two of us and her bag all on one innertube—and rub my hand soothingly over her shoulder, trying to offer her some extra body heat.

  “What time does the last trolley leave?” she asks, sounding sleepy.

  “Around dusk.”

  “You think we’re gonna make it?”

  “Pretty sure. If I remember right, we should be almost finished.”

  And sure enough, as we crest the next bend, the little docking area comes into view. “Stay here, I’ll hop off and guide us.” I drop a quick kiss to her slightly sunburned cheeks and slide into the cool water. Once we’re close enough to shore, I help Abby Jane off and the attendant finishes reeling in the raft.

  I take her bag and heft it up over my shoulder before taking her hand in mine. We’re the only people on the trolley back, and even though the drive is short, Abby Jane dozes off on my shoulder.

  “Hey.” I nudge her shoulder. “Gotta wake up, pretty girl. We’re at the outpost.”

  She shakes her head, looking around. “Huh? Oh! We’re back!”

  “We are. C’mon. I’m sure West and Stacia are ready to read us the fucking Riot Act.”

  As we get closer to the truck, Abby Jane lets out a little laugh. “I don’t know about that…I think they found something to do.”

  I follow her line of sight and see that my truck’s rocking and the windows are fogged. “Oh, come the hell on. In my truck? Really?” Never in my life have I regretted giving my cousin a spare key more than I do right now.

  I fight the urge to barge in, mainly because I don’t want to see anything I can’t un-see. Such as my cousin boning down with my girl’s best friend. Abby Jane, however, has no such qualms and marches right over to the passenger side door and flings it open. Jesus. They didn’t even lock it?

  “Stacia Iris Kellan! Put your titties away and get off of his lap!” Abby Jane turns her back to face me, giving them a few moments to get situated. Two or so minutes later, Stacia calls out the all clear.

  I help my girl into her seat before rounding the truck and climbing into my mine. Without looking back at my cousin, I say, “Not my truck. Anywhere but my fucking truck.”

  “We didn’t—”

  I cut him off. “Don’t wanna know.”

  We settle in a mostly comfortable quiet. A quick glance at Abs and I see she’s once again out cold. I check my rearview and see Stacia’s asleep as well, with her head on West’s shoulder.

  “Seriously, dude, not cool.”

  “Nothing really happened. Well, no bodily fluids were exchanged.”

  “Swear to God, I’m gonna kill you,” I grumble, turning u
p the radio to drown him out.

  AJ

  It’s been a few weeks since our tubing trip, and things with Brock are fucking amazing. Talk about words I never thought I’d say. But for once, I’m happy to be wrong. Because while fuck yes, I’m an independent woman, it feels good to have someone who truly gets me. The fact that he looks like a dream and dishes out orgasms like Costco does free samples doesn’t hurt either.

  Our free time, though limited, is spent together. If we’re not grabbing a meal, we’re studying…only now our study sessions are held at my apartment and typically end in my bed. Or the kitchen island. Sometimes the shower. Even against the wall a few times. Safe to say, studying has never been so fun.

  Today, Brock is taking me golfing with him. While I don’t particularly care for the sport, I’m excited to see him in his element. Plus, I bet his ass will look great in his khakis.

  The question is, though, what on earth do I wear to play golf? Obviously most of my wardrobe isn’t exactly country club appropriate, and while most days I don’t give a fuck, I care about him and don’t want to mess anything up for him.

  After much debating, I finally settle on a somewhat modest black pleated skirt and a white polo I happen to have from high school—it’s a bit snug, but not indecent. I slip on a pair of black knee socks and my black Converse…this is as good as it’s going to get.

  Brock told me to meet him around noon, so after a quick bite to eat, I’m out the door and on my way. It’s one of those weird days where even though it’s overcast and gray, it’s bright as fuck. I rummage through my bag for my sunglasses and slip them on before exiting the building. It’s so disgustingly humid that I’m sweating from making the short trek from my building to my car.

  My car being black on black doesn’t help things either. The hot leather of the seat stings my thighs and the steering wheel is almost too hot to grip. Nevertheless, I get my baby cranked and crack the windows before turning the air to full blast. I’ve finally cooled down just as I turn into the parking lot for the golf course…figures.

  As I approach the clubhouse, I wind my hair up into a knot on the top of my head. In this sauna of a climate, I’ll take comfort over cute any day. I’m about to head up the steps and go inside when two strong hands grip the dips in my waist from behind. A scream lodges itself in my throat, but I swallow it down when Brock’s familiar, sexy scent envelops me.

  I pivot around to face him and lightly smack his chest. “Holy fucknuggets! You scared the crap out of me!”

  “Take a breath, firecracker.” His voice is a deep rasp that hits me right between my thighs. “I didn’t mean to. I just saw your fine ass over here looking like every naughty schoolgirl fantasy I’ve ever had come to life. I had to touch.”

  I can feel myself melting, and this time, it’s not from the sun. “Well, warn a girl first next time, Jockstrap.”

  He pulls me a little closer, and thanks to the step I’m standing on, we line up perfectly for him to press a kiss to my lips, hard and fast and over way too quick. “C’mon, I’ve already got our token, so let’s grab a bucket of balls and start at the driving range.”

  “I don’t know what anything you just said means, but yeah, let’s do it.”

  Brock chuckles and grabs my hand, leading me to what looks like a weird, squatty vending machine. I watch as he places a yellow basket in an opening at the bottom and then places his token into a little slot, much like the ones on arcade games. I jump when the machine starts clanging and shaking as it releases golf balls into his basket. He goes through the process a second time, leaving us with two buckets of balls to hit.

  Balls in tow, Brock then guides me to the range. There are only two other golfers hitting balls right now—probably due to the stifling heat. We walk down to the far end where Brock’s golf bag is already set up and waiting. Like a kid building a sand castle, he quickly flips the bucket upside down, careful to keep its contents inside. When he pulls the basket away, our balls are arranged in a neat little pyramid. Pretty fucking neat, if you ask me—not that I’d ever admit it.

  “Tell me, Abby Jane, you ever swung a golf club?” he asks as he tugs a white leather glove onto his left hand.

  Instead of answering his question, I ask one of my own. “You’re right-handed; why is your glove on the left?”

  “Noticed that, huh?” He brings his left out in front of him and flexes his fingers. While innocent, the motion still gives me shivers because I know exactly what those fingers can do. “Your glove goes on your top hand; it helps your grip.”

  “Weird.”

  “You’re so damn cute,” he murmurs as he boops me on the nose with his leather-covered index finger. “First things first: we need to stretch.”

  “Stretch? Like yoga?”

  “Nothing that intense. Just to warm up. The kind of shit we did gym class.” We work our way through a few poses and then Brock grabs a club from his bag. “This is a 9-iron. You typically use it when you’re less than two hundred yards from the green. We’re using it now because it is a good club to learn with.

  “Downside, I’m a little taller than you, so you’re gonna have to choke down on your grip. C’mere and I’ll show you the proper way to hold it.”

  I walk over to him, and he moves behind me. He brings his arms around me, guiding them just below my own. “You want to start with your left hand.” His voice is a husky murmur in my ear.

  “Place it toward the top, almost like you’re shaking hands with the club.” He shows me what he means, holding his hand over mine.

  “Then you’re gonna wrap your right hand just below it, sliding your pinky into the space between your middle and pointer finger.” He once again guides my movements, and I swear to God, his proximity has his words going in one ear and out the other. Seriously, how did we ever get any studying done at the start? It’s like he bathes in pheromones fine-tuned for my libido. Even when he made me want to stab him, he was sexy as fuck.

  “Abby Jane?” he says my name in a mildly exasperated tone, cluing me into the fact that he’s probably had to say it more than once.

  “Yes?” I bat my lashes, making myself the picture of innocence, which he promptly calls me on.

  “You can take those fluttery lashes and shove ’em. We both know you’re far too naughty to pull off the whole good girl act. And before you get offended, I fucking love it and wouldn’t have you any other way.” He swats my ass and carries on. “Now, as I was saying. We need to talk about posture and stance. Move your feet so they’re shoulder-width apart and square your hips.”

  I try my best to do as he says, but my brain and my body are not on the same wavelength. Maybe my brain has become a hussy and is in cahoots with my body, and this uncoordinated rebellion is all a ploy to get Brock’s hands back on me.

  “Here, let me show you.” He trots over to his bag and grabs two more clubs, laying one at my feet with the head facing the range and the second parallel to it. “Okay Abby Jane, this first one is your target line.” He kicks at my feet until they’re properly spaced. “Remember your grip?” he asks, and I move my hands into the position he taught me.

  “Good girl. Now we’re gonna square these sexy hips of yours parallel to the target line.” He wraps his hands around my hips and pulls them into the proper position.

  “What next?” I ask breathlessly. Who knew golf could be so erotic?

  “Now you’re gonna address the ball.” I let out a giggle.

  “Not that ball, firecracker. Imagine there’s a golf ball in front of your club. I want you to bend forward at the hips with your knees flexed a little—almost like you’re holding a beach ball between them.”

  He runs a hand over my spine and my skin breaks out into gooseflesh. “Keep your back flat.” I straighten my posture, rubbing my ass into his groin as I do. His voice is strained when he praises me. “Fuck. Just like that.”

  Once Brock is satisfied with my stance, he moves into working on my swing. He starts me with a small quarter s
wing, slowly working me up to a full one.

  Watching his muscles flex and bulge, I can’t take my eyes off of him as he demonstrates how to shift my weight for my backswing and my downswing. After a small eternity of practicing without a ball, Brock finally graduates me to the big leagues. We spend an hour driving balls down the range. Well, Brock drives them. Most of mine flop and roll, and on the off chance I manage to get one airborne, it either slices to the right or cuts to the left.

  Eventually, I give up and decide to enjoy the view., a.k.a. Brock in the stance he worked so hard to teach me, swinging that club like he’s fucking Arnold Palmer. After experiencing the viewing pleasure of Brock working through half of my basket and all of his, I can say with one-hundred percent certainty if all golfers looked like him, golf would totally be a spectator sport.

  We’re walking back to the clubhouse when I ask him, “What do you plan to do after you graduate?” And then it hits me—holy shit. We’ve never talked about our majors. Not once.

  BROCK

  Her question causes my steps to falter. We’ve talked about this, right? Right? I dip my head and cup the back of my neck. “Uh. I’m poli-sci.”

  Abby Jane blinks at me a few times. “Oh. Yeah. I guess that makes sense…” She trails off and nibbles her lip.

  “What?” I can tell she wants to ask me something. Her wide eyes and fidgeting are a dead giveaway.

  “It’s just…is that what you want? To be a lawyer? To work for your dad?”

  It’s crazy how even after all these years she still knows me so well. “Why do you ask?” I keep my voice neutral, not wanting to give way to the emotion clogging my throat.

  “I remember as a kid how much you hated the fact that your dad helped the bad guys escape jail time. And how sad his long hours made you and how upset you were when he missed birthdays, and…” She trails off again, and I’m struck speechless—because even though we drifted apart, my girl remembers almost everything about me.