Jock Road (Jock Hard) - Sara Ney Page 0,6

is sitting behind the wheel of this honking truck. “What the hell is your problem? Are you purposely trying to blind me?”

The driver does as he’s told; the window on his side starts to lower little by little, revealing the guy perched behind the wheel.

Big.

Blond.

Bulky.

Oh. My. God—I recognize his face immediately. It’s the jocktacular asshole from the cafeteria last week! The jerk who took my chicken sandwich and then tried to take both my burgers! What the hell is he doing, driving around in the dark terrorizing people?

I walk straight up to his window so I can get in his face.

“You!” Now I’m pointing at him, forefinger aimed at the middle of his mug. “Roll down your damn window!”

He rolls it down all the way. Then I hear the laugh.

“You don’t look happy to see me again.”

“Because I’m not, you…you…” Words escape me, I’m so pissed. “Ugh, what the hell is your problem?” I shout into the dark, hands on my hips, indignant and outraged. I give the hood of his truck a pound with the palm of my hand for good measure, to punctuate how mad I am. “What are you doing? You’re going to get someone in an accident!”

His laughing is loud, booming, and amused—three things that are pissing me off and not welcome right now. He can save his good humor for when he’s not being a thoughtless imbecile.

“Well, well, well—look what the cat dragged in.” His twang is lazy and drawn out and—I won’t lie—really kind of cute.

Shit.

I do not have time to get mushy over that damn Southern accent. It sounds even hotter when he uses metaphors and slang that make no sense whatsoever.

Focus, Charlie.

“Your careless driving is what dragged me in.” I use air quotes around the word, stabbing the air with my forefingers.

“There you go again, mockin’ my accent.” He grins, arm propped on the open window. “Not such a sweet thang, are ya?”

Damn right I’m not—especially not when it’s Friday night, I’ve been scared shitless, and I’m standing in the middle of the road yelling at the rudest guy I’ve ever met.

“How dare you tail me like that? How dare you! Are you trying to get me killed?”

His eyes are so blue, and with the light from passing traffic, I can see their vibrant color clearly—though they hardly need a spotlight shining on them to be beautiful.

I take another a good look at him, something I didn’t do in the student union last week. Tan. Blond.

Lots of stubble. Hair still too long.

My gaze drifts to the hand that’s lazily hanging half out the window; it’s big and rough. He sees me looking and flexes his fingers.

Curls his lips into a knowing smile.

Cocky bastard.

When he smiles, dimples press into both cheeks like two fingers pressing into dough; a visible gap between his teeth winks at me, too.

How did I not notice that before? Oh yeah, it’s because I wanted to smack him in his arrogant face.

“Babe, ya need to relax.”

Babe?

I stare.

Give my head a shake to get the dust off my brain. I mean, honestly, there are cobwebs on my vagina—it makes sense that I’d be attracted to him. I simply don’t know any better.

So what if he’s cute? He’s a danger and a menace to society.

“I need to relax? Listen to me, you dick, watch how you’re driving. What you’re doing is dangerous.”

“What is it I’m doing? Are your panties twisted up ’cause my truck is bigger than that piece-of-shit car you’re drivin’?”

Piece of shat yer drivin’.

My car isn’t winning any beauty contests, but it’s hardly a piece of shit.

Okay. It’s a total piece of shit—but it’s mine. I bought it myself, so Biff McBurgerThief here can shove that insult down his pie hole.

And choke on it, too.

“You need to calm down,” he says again, in what he probably considers a soothing voice meant to calm me down.

I refuse.

“You need to take this more seriously.”

Those wide shoulders shrug. “No harm, no foul.”

“Are you serious? Your lights were blinding me. I could hardly see where I was going, and you were way too close to my bumper.”

Still is.

“You’re spittin’ mad, aren’t ya? Like you just chewed up nails and spit out a barbed wire fence.” The brute has the nerve to laugh, as if the metal chrome of his super duty pickup truck isn’t currently butted up against the tail end of my car.

The nerve.

My stance widens, fists curled at my sides, clutched into tiny balls of anger.

Ugh!

The nostrils on my nose flare.