Stud Muffin (Donner Bakery #2) - Jiffy Kate Page 0,89
in order for her to feel strong. She preys on those she views as less than her. And unlike ninety percent of society, who move on from high school and realize none of that shit mattered, she’s stuck there.
Those were her glory days and she’s taking up permanent residency.
Stella’s expression changes and a look of complete and utter disgust paints her fake-ass features. Pulling her hand back, she not so discreetly wipes it down the leg of her over-priced jeans. Batting her obviously glued on lashes, she says, “There are a few seats up there.” Pointing to the top of the bleachers. “Enjoy the game.”
Giving her a smirk I hope conveys what I can’t say, like suck a dick, I nudge Tempest. “Let’s go… I need a better view.”
When we finally settle into a seat, sitting on the blanket Tempest brought, I ask, “So where is he?”
“Who?” Her eyes are on the field, watching the game, or at least pretending to.
“You know who,” I mutter, not wanting to draw the attention of anyone sitting around us since we’re packed in like sardines.
Sitting up a little straighter, she cranes her neck, sweeping her gaze one way and then the other, before groaning quietly. Leaning over, she points her finger to the right. “There,” she says. “Three rows down… dark hair… popped collar.”
Looking like the douchebag he is. I can’t see his face, but when he turns to follow a play, I catch a side profile. He kind of looks familiar. Maybe I’ve passed him at the Piggly Wiggly or when I’ve been out on a run. This is a small town, there’s a good chance we’ve crossed paths and I didn’t even know who he was.
That’s probably a good thing.
“Is she here?”
Tempest shakes her head. “Doesn’t look like it. If she was,” she whispers, “she’d be sitting with Stella. They’re kind of a packaged deal. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve had a threesome.” She snorts and I hold back a chuckle.
I love when she’s candid and just speaks her mind.
Keeping one eye on Asher, I try to enjoy the game, rooting for the home team—cheering and booing when it’s called for—but the whole time, my mind is on Tempest. She’s so close I can feel the warmth of her body and I want nothing more than to get closer. Shit, I’d pull her onto my lap if I thought I could get away with it, but I settle for slipping my arm around her back.
At first, she tenses, but then eventually relaxes into it, leaning over and letting me hold her to me.
It’s enough.
For now.
“I have to be to work by eight,” I tell her, looking up at the scoreboard and watching the seconds until halftime.
“We can leave whenever you want,” she says, glancing up at me. “I’ve made my appearance. That’s all I needed to do. Besides, tomorrow night will be a late one.”
“I’ve asked for tomorrow night off,” I tell her. “So, we can stay as long as you want.”
She laughs. “Probably not long…again, I just need to make an appearance, see a few old faces, and do what I need to do.”
Show them they haven’t beat her. I already know, without her telling me, why she has to do this. It’s like when you eventually stand up to a bully and they leave you alone after that. This is Tempest standing up to her bullies, putting them in their place.
We stay through halftime. The old guy in the press box announces the class of 2009 and Tempest smiles and shakes her head as the stands around us erupt. “Go Pirates,” I tease, mimicking Stella from earlier.
“Woo,” she says, laughing.
The band takes the field and we watch their performance. When the third quarter starts, Tempest stands and looks down at me. “Let’s go.”
As we make our way down the stairs and across the bleachers to the ramp, I chance a glance up at Asher, wanting a good look at his face. Leaning down and placing my lips near Tempest’s ear, I lock eyes with him, whispering, “I know him.”
Her steps falter, but she quickly recovers.
“Where from?” she asks as we squeeze past people coming back to their seats for the second half. It’s like swimming against the tide. I put my arm out in front of Tempest, clearing a path for her and keeping people from knocking into her.
“Pink Pony,” I tell her once we’re clear of the crowd. “He’s a regular.”