The Jock by J.L. Beck Page 0,22
sweet scent my way. I hold back a groan, sucking the fruity scent into my nostrils. It goes straight to my cock, causing the organ to press firmly against my zipper.
I need to get fucking laid.
“That’s cute, I mean, that you gave your car a name.”
“It’s okay, you can call me cute.”
Her soft gaze becomes a glare, and I can feel the icy daggers against my skin as I slow the truck and take the exit.
“Your ego is enormous if you think I was referring to you as cute.”
“My ego isn’t the only enormous thing.” I turn and wink at her.
Rolling her pretty eyes, she sighs and sinks back against the leather seat.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“You’re whip-smart, I don’t even know what that fucking word means.”
Another eye roll and we’re turning onto the main road that leads into town. “Looks like math isn’t the only thing you need help with. I’ll be sure to bring a dictionary to our next session.”
“Touché.”
Blair smiles again, her soft pink lips pull up at the sides, and I want to bottle up that look on her face and take a picture so I can stare at it later. Smiles with her are rare, and I want to make her smile always. Driving us into town, I see the sign for Pops ahead, and my stomach growls in anticipation. I can already taste the greasy cheeseburger, the sugary strawberry shake, and the salty hand-cut fries on my tongue.
“Was that your stomach?” Blair asks.
“Yes, I’m hungry as fuck.” I say, pulling into the parking lot of the tiny little diner.
“Do you know how not to swear? Every other word is a swear word with you.”
“Nope. Fuck, shit, ass, and several other words are my favorites.” I grin, put the truck in park, and kill the engine. “Ready, Nerd?”
“Call me a nerd again and see what happens.”
I’m tempted, so fucking tempted to see what wrath she’ll bring down on me, but I’m hungry, and I really don’t want to piss her off, at least not yet.
“Come on, let’s go inside. I get the feeling you’ll kill me if I say something else stupid, and I’d like to eat one last good meal before my impending death.”
“Fine, but I swear to God, Cage, quit calling me names,” she growls, and I chuckle beneath my breath as I climb out of the truck. She follows suit, and together we walk toward the entrance. It isn’t until now that I see our true size difference. Blair looks like Tinkerbell beside me, tiny, fragile, breakable.
Her head only reaches my pecs, making me almost a foot taller than her. My hand is the size of two of hers, and our size difference alone pushes an emotion I’ve never experienced before. The need to protect. To protect her from me and from other douchebags like me.
How can you do that with the bet hanging over your head, idiot?
The reminder of the bet makes me snap out of it, and I grab the door handle at the same time Blair does. Our fingers briefly touch, and a zing of energy rushes down my arm.
Blair pulls her hand away as if my touch is fire, “Sorry,” she mumbles. Would it be so bad if I touched her? I swallow the thought. Of course, it would be.
Bells above the door jingle as we enter. There is no hostess, Pops is old school. You pick a booth, and menus are already at the table. The decor is that of a total mom and pop place. I guide Blair to a table at the back, and she slides into the booth on one side while I take the other. There are only a few people in the place, mostly older people, which is surprising for a Friday night. Grabbing a menu, I hand it to Blair.
I don’t bother getting one for myself. I already know what I’m going to have. Blair’s eyes move over the menu with interest. She’s had it in her hands maybe five seconds before a waitress comes sauntering up to the table. The waitress is a middle-aged woman, with frown lines, and blonde hair that’s tied back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her light grey eyes dart between Blair and me, disinterest filling them a second later.
“What can I get ya?” she asks the simplest question.
“You ready to order?” I direct my attention to Blair and ask while knowing her answer is most likely no.
Blair looks between the waitress and me