Jock Road by Ney Sara

Author:Ney, Sara
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-09-04T16:00:00+00:00

* * *

Jackson

I know why Charlie is looking at me that way, but I’m doing my best to avoid her question by playing dumb.

This was a bad idea.

She didn’t want to come out with me in the first place, but I couldn’t resist the fucking challenge, and now she’s sitting in my goddamn kitchen, at my goddamn table—in that dress and those shoes, with that hair and that smile.

The blush on her cheeks make the freckles across the bridge of her nose brighter.

So I say the only thing I can think of to avoid softening those blue eyes any further.

“Hanging out.”

Her full lips turn down and I know I’ve disappointed her, but shit. Emotionally, I can’t afford to actually date her—I can take her on dates, but that’s it.

One date here, one date there.

When I have time, which is rare.

Girls always want more. Expect more. Demand more.

Time, energy, attention.

Everything.

I watched my mama do it to Pops for years—it was never enough attention. He was just too busy, obsessing over football from the time I could walk, and raising me to be a star athlete, like he was in school. When I showed promise, my daddy found his passion: getting me on track to play pro ball, something he could never do himself.

They fought. She cried. He left.

They fought. She cried. He left.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

“Hanging out,” Charlie repeats. “Gotcha.”

She pushes her chair back and rises from the table, taking the cookie sheet of seeds along with her, walking to the counter. Back to me, ramrod straight.

Legs, tan and smooth.

Ass, firm and round.

She’s removed her jacket, pushed up her sleeves, shoulders baring, hair falling to one side of her neck, long and silky.

I clear my throat and get back to my task. “This was fun, yeah?”

“Yup.”

Shit. I know that particular version of yup—I’ve said it a dozen times myself, in that tone. She’s pissed, but she’ll deny it now that I’ve soured the mood with the truth.

What does she want from me?

I watch her at the counter—my counter—I feel…

Guilty as fuck.

I should never have asked her out. She’s going to develop expectations, and I might not have the balls to shut her down completely when it turns out, I’m not ready.

Not really.

I have no practice dealing with women. Guys, yes. Girls? No.

I’ve never dated a single soul. Never taken a date to a high school dance, never made out with anyone in the back of a car. Or my truck. Or a cornfield.

I have felt tits before, but they were on a stripper, during a guys’ trip to the strip club for a teammate’s twenty-first, out of town and past the city limits so we wouldn’t get caught—though every single person there had to have known who we were.

Man-children the size of giants don’t waltz into gentlemen’s clubs every day of the week.

Fake tits I paid to feel.

Not my finest moment.

“Want help with those?” I offer, desperate. The last thing I want is for her to be mad; we were having fun, and now…we’re not.

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