Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,50
this straight: you’re betting me when we turn onto Frat Row, there will be people wearing costumes, and if there are, I have to kiss you.” I roll my eyes heavenward. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Why?”
I laugh. “It’s just never gonna happen.”
“Wanna make a bet?”
“Costumes? Jackson, it’s September—no one walks around in a costume in September, let alone multiple people.”
“All right, so don’t take the bet.”
He can’t trick me into accepting a wager. “Fine. I won’t.”
“Okay, don’t.” He’s laughing at me, taunting.
“I won’t.” Except… “I mean, what are the odds?”
“Very slim.” He nods, seeming to agree with me.
Hmm. “Super slim. Vegas odds at best.”
“Right. The odds are stacked against me.”
“So why would you set yourself up to lose?” He reaches over and surprises me by giving my thigh a squeeze.
It takes a few seconds to recover once his hand is back on his steering wheel, my thigh branded. “Because I know I’ll win.”
I swear, he’s driving down the road at a snail’s pace on purpose, dragging out the moments we have before making a turn onto Frat Row.
“Fine. I’ll take the bet! I’ll take it, so would you just make the turn already so we can get this over with? The suspense is killing me.”
“In a rush, are ya?”
“No.” I almost roll my eyes but resist; he can scarcely see me in the dim light anyway. My sarcastic nonverbal communication is lost on him at this point; he’s barely paying me any attention.
“I think you are.”
“I assure you, I am not in a rush to make out with you.” Methinks thou dost protest too much…
Jackson wrinkles his face. “No one said nothin’ bout makin’ out.”
Ugh, I’m practically a puddle on my side of the truck; every Southern inflection out of his beautiful mouth has me melting.
I’m disgusted with myself. Well and truly disgusted.
“I meant kiss. I’m not in a rush to kiss you.”
The truck makes the turn right, slowly as Jackson brakes for pedestrians and oncoming cars, the cross traffic with a blinking red light and us with a yellow. Frat Row is lit up like the Fourth of July, porch lights glowing, the entire street a welcoming beacon despite the debris on a majority of the lawns.
Red cups, wrappers, and beer cans litter the grass in front of the stately homes, dulling the luxurious properties. They’re worth millions of dollars, housing the occasional douchebag who probably takes living there for granted.
People mill about in front of the Lambda house.
People dressed like a pirate, a giant panda, and a slutty nurse?
A pink bear walks out the front door and begins dry humping the leg of a guy wearing a giant sperm costume.
“Dang, do you see what I see?” Jackson has the balls to ask.
“You mean the kid lying on the ground who’s dressed like a zombie? Yeah, I see it.” The dude is flopping around as if seizing—and maybe he is? But probably not, since everyone is just standing around.
“Looks like some kind of costume party,” he muses, going the extra mile by rubbing the stubble on his chin.
“Jackson?” When I peel my eyes off the road in front of us, it’s impossible to miss the smirk on his face. “Did you set me up?”
“Me? Nooo…”
“Jackson! Oh my god, you ass! Don’t lie!”
Ugh, I could kill him!
His wide shoulders shrug; he’s unflappable. “I mean…I knew there was a party tonight, but it was just a lucky guess that there would be people dressed up.”
“You’re such a damn liar! You freaking knew we’d see costumes when we turned the corner!”
He shoots me side-eye. “Are you gonna hit me with those tiny digits of yers? ’Cause you look ’bout as mad as a wet hen.”
Dammit, why is he so cute?
“Am I going to hit you? First of all, no—I don’t condone violence, plus I’d probably break my hand.” Jackson rolls his eyes. “And secondly, that has got to be the weirdest metaphor I’ve ever heard for someone being pissed off.”
“You ain’t—” He stops to correct his grammar. “You haven’t ever heard that before?”
“I have but still think it’s weird. It makes no sense.”
“Chickens hate bein’ wet,” he unnecessarily explains.
“The point is, you knew there would be a party.”
“I’m not an idiot—of course I knew.”
“That’s entrapment.”
His only answer is a deep laugh that reverberates through the cab of the truck, sending tingles to my nether regions in the most unladylike way.
I shift in my seat. “This was so wrong.”
“Didn’t no one ever tell you some athletes don’t play by the rules?”
“Are