Must Love Jogs (Must Love Series Book 2)

by Xavier Neal

  She’s not wrong. Never really stuck around women long enough to do the ‘love’ thing. Never understood the point either. You both wanna hop in bed and hop out as soon as possible to do shit with people you like more anyways. I’ve always been honest. I’m good for one night, maybe a week if I don’t have other shit going on. But long term? I’m never what a woman’s looking for. Truth be told, they’re never what I’m looking for either. I’m a pretty basic guy. I wanna drink with my family, laugh when I should be working, and get off at a consistent rate. Not looking to be anyone’s saving grace or hero. A companion for the night is really what most women need. Just a few hours to be free, let loose, and remember how great it is to have someone worship them between their thighs. Most people think that makes me some sort of disgusting asshole. Honestly? I don’t care. We were raised not to give a shit what other’s thought about us so much as what we thought about ourselves. I think I’m a pretty decent man, even if the one woman I want to text me has her pretty little mind wrapped around me being just another jackass looking to get off. Huh. I mean I do wanna get off with her. But there’s more to it than that…even if I never admit it for longer than a split second.

  I casually nod my agreement.

  “Now I wanna sing titties and beer,” Pop says on a chuckle, leaning back in his chair.

  “That’s a song?” Ollie squeaks.

  “Rodney Carrington,” I reply with a wide grin.

  My music knowledge truly is more vast than it seems. Still. Who doesn’t love a little Rodney Carrington in their life? Comedian and artist. Pretty awesome.

  Innocently she questions, “Should I look it up?”

  Ford and I reply with opposite answers in unison sending our parents into another round of laughs.

  Typical Sunday night dinner. I know most people wouldn’t make the time to do this every weekend they could with their parents, but again, not most people.

  My brother picks up his beer and returns to probing on the prior subject, “What are the terms of the bet?”

  “It varies from month to month,” Mama explains with a devious smile.

  I place my fork down. “Month to the month?”

  “That’s what I said,” her head bobbles at me, like I’m the one out of line. “Sometimes we bet on hair. Height. Size. Place-”

  “Opportunity,” Pop interjects.

  With another shake of my head, I ask, “And jus’ exactly how long have you two been doin’ this?”

  “Couple years,” Mama says sweetly.

  “Are you kiddin’ me?!”

  Ford breaks into laughter, which prompts her to state, “I’m not sure why you’re laughin’. We used to place bets on you and Carol Ann breakin’ up all the time.”

  “Mama!”

  “Ha!” I snap in his face.

  “Why are you bettin’ on your boys?” Ford practically whines.

  “Keeps life entertaining,” Pop joyfully answers. “Between that and tryin’ out stuff we’ve seen in porn, we’re pretty happy people.”

  “Pop!” Ford and I shout in unison.

  Mama snickers and scoops up a bite of her food as if she couldn’t care less who knew what they did behind closed doors.

  He grouses, “This….is so not dinner conversation.”

  “Ollie’s not complainin’,” Mama casually points out.

  “She’s probably too traumatized to think,” Ford defends.

  “They’re happy,” his girlfriend retorts. “I don’t really see a problem. They’re spending their personal time in a personal way.”

  Another reason she’s perfect for Ford. Aside from her fumbling attitude, which in its own way is kinda cute, she’s never appalled at the family antics. She takes them with huge smiles and does her best to just go with the Shaw flow. Probably another reason remaining a bachelor for the rest of my life is the best call. Takes a helluva woman to put up with this bunch.

  “Did you retire and not tell us?” I question slowly.

  “Basically,” Pop replies unexpectedly. “Marty pretty much handles the entire business, and I just have to make the tough calls when the time comes. Ranch pretty much runs itself when you make it to this point. I rarely work more than five hours a week. Plenty of time to play with my grand boys, sleep with my wife, and bet on the shit my idiot sons will do.”

  “And now that we’re back to this topic, who are you hoping’ will call you?” Mama asks, her tone more curious than ever. “Was it the woman you slept with last night?”

  “I didn’t sleep with her.”

  The volunteering of information is instantly regretted by the glee in her eyes.

  “Why not?”

  “Yeah,” Ford echoes, amazement in his voice. “Why not?”

  Less than comfortable with the corner I’ve been backed into, I defensively snap, “You all know I am capable of not sleepin’ with every woman I meet, right?”

  “Married, engaged, and currently in a relationship aside?” Pop playfully jabs.

  My brother quickly sells me out. “Nope. He’s slept with at least one of all of those.”

  “Blake Jenkins, I oughta come across this table and pop you in the mouth! You know better than to be a homewrecker!” Mama shouts.

  I turn my face to Ford’s. “Happy now?”

  It’s his turn to childishly nod. “Extremely.”

  “Blake!” She snips.

  “Let me start by clearin’ the air and informin’ all of you, I do not sleep with every woman I spend more than five minutes talkin’ to.” Ford starts to hum his objection, but I cut him off quickly, “Second my sex life should be none of your concern-”

  “Then why do you frequently post vague comments in regard to it on Facebook?” Mama glowers. “Example. ‘There was plenty of room for me in those jeans.’.”

  The reference to a post I made a couple weeks ago, which was quoting a 2000s R&B song briefly makes me smirk. While the woman wasn’t anything special, it did have me listening to Ginuwine non-stop for that next week.

  I shake away the thoughts. “Why are you on Facebook?”

  “That’s where Dawn and Sienna frequently post the pictures of my grandchildren!”

  “Why are you bein’ so touchy about this?” Pop leans onto his elbows. “You’ve been chasing skirts since you were thirteen and bragging about it just as long. Why are your boxers in a twist now? What makes this woman special?”

  She’s not special. She’s…Well she’s…I don’t know what she is other than a little unpredictable. I was expecting her to text me seconds after I walked away from her. With the way she could barely breathe and was practically moaning every time I licked my lips, I figured, hook, line, and sinker, yet nothing. Not a word. Not even a second glance as she left the restaurant just minutes after she finished her meal. It’s not about conquering a challenge or childish bullshit like that. Just because I’m not afraid of one, doesn’t mean that’s what I’m about. I’m 34. Too old for games when it’s clear we both want the same shit at the end of the night. Maybe I just feel more obligated to give her some reprieve from the obviously stressful life she chooses to live because it feels like she’s less likely to give it to herself. Maybe something inside of me wants to know why I want to see her smile more than I want to see her naked.

  My silence doesn’t go unnoticed, but thankfully it goes unacknowledged verbally.

  Mama picks her fork back up. “Well, when this woman does call or text-”

  “When?” Pop tries to lighten the situation. “Are we takin’ odds on when versus if?”

  “I want in on that action,” Ford declares, mirth in his voice.

  She shoots them both scowls before dropping her eyes back on me. “When she calls or texts, Blake, just remember to be yourself.”

  “I’m always myself.”

  “No.” The quick shake of her head ceases my reaching for another dinner roll. “You’re always who women want you to be. Who you think they need you to be. The shoulder to cry on. The protective type. Th
e asshole who smacks her on the ass and tells her she looks fat in that dress-”

  “That’s an image…” Ollie mutters.

  “You are a chameleon of sorts, Blake. It’s what makes you so charming and great at your job. You know the right things to say to make people feel the way they want to feel.”

  That doesn’t sound like a terrible thing.

  “But in doing all that you never give anyone outside the family a chance to know the real you. Give this woman the opportunity. From your actions at supper alone, it’s not hard to see she’s different. And you Blake Shaw, need different.”

  I abandon the idea of grabbing another roll and drop my attention to the barely touched plate in front of me.

  Why is being who someone needs you to be a terrible thing? Isn’t that a great thing to be? Isn’t that a service? Shit. That is probably exactly what an escort service is…Is my mother actually calling me a male whore who doesn’t get paid? No. Wait. That’s not…I’m missing the point. Truth is, when you’re whoever someone else wants you to be, you don’t have to really invest yourself. It’s like playing a role for a few hours and then stepping back into reality. No. I never lie about my name, what I do, or the bullshit topics we discuss. I’ve just learned the art of choosing which aspects to flash for the better results. It’s an easy thing to accomplish when you let a woman do all the talking. That doesn’t mean I’m not myself. That doesn’t mean I’m not okay showing someone who I really am…Why is it the more I think about it, the more I feel my mother is right?

  I adjust my black cello case in my grip and continue my fight against the bitter January wind. The walk from the parking garage isn’t terribly long, but with the wind as harsh as it is, it’s making me regret my decision on skipping the offered valet parking.

  My eyes slyly observe the Monday morning crowd that seems less lively than normal. It’s probably the unexpected change in weather. After a beautiful, almost fall like Saturday, freezing temperatures swept through the city forcing me into flannel pajamas and to dial my heater up to unspeakable levels. Most of the time, I prefer it cool if not cold while I play. Sweaty, slippery fingers are not conducive to productivity.

  “Angel?”

  The voice stops my movements.

  No…There’s no way that’s-

  Blake’s body slides in front of me proving my worst nightmare has come true.

  Okay, so not my worst nightmare come true. As much as I hate to admit it, not any nightmare, but more like guilty fantasy I hate myself for having. Loathe myself for having. Daydreaming about him doing dirty, unspeakable things is against all of my better judgment. Kinda like walking a 5K.

  I fight the urge to give his heaving body a good stare. “Are you seriously following me? Do you need me to explain to you the distinct difference between persistent and stalking? Should I invest in pepper spray?”

  Despite my snapping, he grins wide. “So you do remember me?”

  Of course I remember him! It’s not like we met seven months ago instead of just two days. However, if it had been seven months there is a high probability I still wouldn’t have forgotten him. It feels like an impossible task. How could anyone ever forget his solid, sculpted arms or impressively cut face? How could anyone forget his bright brown eyes or his deep beautiful laugh or the save the damsel accent? Oh, and let’s not forget the fact he’s gigantic. 6’3? 6’5? God, I wish I knew other women who have forgotten him so I could contact them for help because his face, his words, and his own the world attitude have been all I can think about when I’m not rehearsing.

  “Taking your silence as a yes.”

  My eyes twitch a glare yet are immediately distracted by the sweat dripping down his neck. Like a helpless slave to his sex appeal, I allow my eyes to follow it down to his black fitted t-shirt covered chest. Once it hits the shirt, my attention drinks in the remainder of his presence. His low hanging sweats give me small peek of the waist band to his underwear and my mind quickly wonders how amazing he probably looks naked. How his muscles tense from being touched. If his thighs are ideal for being grabbed onto while licking the pre-cum off his cock…

  I give the collar to my coat a tug.

  Why does it suddenly feel like there’s a heat wave on the rise? Is the sun going through menopause?

  “I live a few blocks away,” he speaks again, redirecting my eyes back to where they belong. “This is part of my usual jogging route.”

  “Then why haven’t I seen you before?”

  “Maybe you have and you just didn’t know it.”

  It’s a valid rebuttal. Besides I get so focused on getting my mind in the right headspace for rehearsal, I rarely remember how I got where I was going in the first place. I often wear metaphorical blinders, which is a huge contributor to the reasons why I haven’t dated much in my life.

  “I was jus’ squeezin’ in a quick run before my doctor’s appointment. You know, have to make sure the herpes haven’t magically disappeared.”

  The rude reference I made during our last encounter heats my cheeks at the same time I slightly smirk.

  “Is that…Is that the start to a smile, I see?” He teases, which only makes it harder to deny. Overdramatically he clutches his chest. “Are you actually sacrificing a smile for me?”

  Against my will…

  Blake promptly continues, “Where ya headed?”

  “To work.”

  He gives my body a slow, rolling stare that causes me to hold my breath.

  It’s like his eyes are trying to undress me, but he can’t decide where to start. Would it be so bad to let his hands do it instead? Wait. Yes. Yes, it would. Very much so would. How do I make these thoughts stop and why the hell have they begun now after basically a lifetime of not having them?

  Blake attempts to gather more information. “Work. Alright. Which is…?”

  “Are you asking me where or what it is I do?”

  The push for a clarification receives me another heart stopping smirk. “What you do. Contrary to the conclusion you’ve gathered, I am not and have no interest in actually followin’ you, Angel.”

  “I’m a principal cellist.” I adjust the grip on my case. “Do you know what that instrument is or do I need to waste seven minutes of my life trying to explain it to you?”

  Blake folds his arms across his chest. “I’ll take seven minutes of your time anyway I can get it.”

  Frustration and fluster collide in my expression.

  Why does he insist on flirting with me? What will it take for him to get the clue I’m not interested? Which I’m not! Sure, he’s sexy, sweet, and oddly irresistible, but he’s also egotistical, obnoxious, and screams avid one nightstand fan. Not interested in only being remembered because I forgot my bra under his bed or panties on top of his nightstand.

  A couple brushes past us, reminding me we are in the middle of a busy downtown sidewalk filled with people who need to get to work, myself included.

  Before I can stroll away, Blake grabs my free hand, and pulls us out of the main walking traffic. “Do you have a band or something?”

  I refrain from my rolling my eyes. “No. I’m not a nineteen-year-old girl in a rock group with dreams of being the next Aretha Franklin.”

  Blake’s head tilts. “You do know she was soul, pop, gospel, jazz…basically everything that’s not a rock band, right?”

  His music correction causes me to scowl.

  I knew that. Well. Sort of. My knowledge of music history and music in general is more limited than people imagine. I have an extensive knowledge of what is beneficial to my career or playing. It’s the way I was raised. It’s the way my parents preferred.

  Shifting my head a bit higher, I announce, “I’m part of the Highland Symphony Orchestra.”

  “Wasn’t aware we had an orchestra.”

  “My guess is it’s because you prefer to only listen to music that includes a twang that matches your own.”

  Blake shrugs unaffected by the snide comment. “Actually,
pretty easy going when it comes to music, hence my knowledge about the queen of soul, but why don’t we discuss my tastes and your preferences tonight over dinner?”

  “You really don’t give up, do you?”

  “Not when it comes to you, Angel.”

  Line. A very over used, line….but kick me because it sure sounded amazing falling from his lips.

  Defiantly, I state, “Rehearsal won’t be over before six.”

  “How early do you have dinner?”

  Is that not the time everyone else has dinner?