Over the Fence Box Set

by Aarons, Carrie

  “Why?”

  “So I can put my number in it. I’d really rather not go a week without talking to you after I groped your ass again,” he deadpans. I narrow my eyes at him, keeping my phone safely in my grasp. “I’m kidding, Minka. I’d like to call you. So, let me give you my number.”

  Reluctantly, I hand my phone over. “I’m only letting you do this because you’re so annoying and relentless.” My smirk gives away my lie. So maybe I like him, but I am being cautious, looking for any signs to duck and run.

  He taps at the screen on my phone for a minute or two, his cell phone rings, and then he locks my phone and hands it back to me. “I called myself so I have your number. Now we can text all the time.” He winks. I have to bite my lips to stop from smiling at his adorable gesture.

  “Well, I gotta get outta here. Summer training waits for no one, especially this stud,” he jokes, pointing his thumbs at his already spectacular upper body. Would it be weird if I asked to watch him lift weights? Perhaps without his shirt on? Yeah, okay, that would be weird.

  “All right … well, I’m going to go find my friends … I guess I’ll, uh, see you around.” I shuffle my feet awkwardly not quite knowing how to end the exchange.

  Waking up on him this morning had been … nicer than I expected. I’d slept really well, surprisingly well, and as weird as it is to admit it, waking up in his arms felt natural. It had me freaking out a little.

  He reaches out, using his thumb and forefinger to frame my chin and lift it up so that I’m looking him in the eye. Rubbing his thumb over my cheekbone, he gives me that devastating lazy grin. “Yeah, you’ll definitely be seeing me around.”

  10

  Minka

  Walking through the grocery store always calms me down. The aisles and aisles of choices, the singular decisions needing to be made. If the store wasn’t full of bumbling morons getting in the way, then it was almost zen-like.

  That’s why I always come at 10:00 a.m. on Tuesdays. No one is here to bother me. I can mull over my problems in peace while picking out which slice of meat will cook best.

  That is, usually no one is here to bother me. Chloe decided to tag along to pick up a new notebook and she will not let sleeping dogs lie on the Owen issue.

  “So, what are you feeling?” she asks me for the fiftieth time since we pulled out of the gravel lot of The Field Sunday morning.

  Grabbing a few steam-in-bag freezer pouches of vegetables and throwing them, rather aggressively, into the cart, I turn to her.

  “I don’t know. Can we please just shop in blissful peace?” I grunt and push the fallen strands of my hair out of my face.

  “I don’t understand why you like this? You should definitely harangue this duty onto your dad.” Chloe skips down the aisle and does a little turn. She’s always dancing to get from place to place. Hazard of being a ballerina and all.

  And no, I couldn’t schlep this responsibility on my dad. Mostly because then I would never eat, because he would never shop. But I think this is one of those things that reminds him of Mom. And I typically try to spare him any pain when it came to that arena.

  “I just do. Now zip it or we won’t lie out later.” I move toward the bread aisle, quietly weighing whether I want wheat bread or deli thins.

  The truth is, I don’t know how I feel. I have been really trying to avoid Owen since the summer started. Of course, a girl isn’t perfect and she must have a few slips. Like when he thrust his hand up my shirt and his other down my pants after our run. Or how I ended up on his lap last weekend. I thought those moments of pure stupidity would have cleansed my system of him. Given me the satisfaction I needed to move on.

  But now that he’s gotten into my bloodstream, the addiction seems stronger than ever. I can’t forget his corded, muscled arms around me as I woke up from one of the best sleeps I’d ever had. I can’t forget the sexy, arousing noises he made in his groggy, morning voice as he ground me against his lap.

  When a moan almost slips past my lips, I have to check myself and remember where I am. I have to forget those moments. Owen, and everything he brings with him, is bad news. He is exactly what I have been trying to avoid going into this summer, not to mention the rest of my life.

  He’s one of the golden ones. Part of that group who can do wrong, who get away with everything and take anything that catches their eye. I swore to myself that I wouldn’t get tangled up in that fucked-up spider’s web once again. And I need to stick to it.

  Now, if only someone could tell my body that. And not that I would ever, ever admit this out loud or even consciously to myself, but someone needed to tell my heart that too. Because ever since that night, Owen has been texting me nonstop.

  Ding! My phone chimes with yet another text from him.

  “Oh my God, is that him again! He definitely likes you. Or at least wants to feel you up again.” Chloe shrugs as if they are one and the same. Jesus.

  Owen: Okay, are you a dog or a cat person?

  He’s been doing this “get to know you” game for almost three days straight. I told him this classified as stalking and he told me it wasn’t creepy unless he held me down against my will and forced me to spill my favorite ice cream flavor.

  Which is an image I still can’t get out of my head. My panties can’t either.

  Huffing, I answer. He only gets more annoying if he doesn’t get a response.

  Minka: Dogs. But not those little rat dogs. If it’s smaller than a cat, it’s really not a dog, is it?

  Owen: Thank God. If you said cats, I probably would have had to stop talking to you. And we both would have been disappointed.

  Smirking, I send a response back.

  Minka: Scratch that. I like cats. Love them. I want to die with like eighty-seven in my house.

  Owen: Smart-ass. Okay, now if you had a magic carpet to take you anywhere, where would you go?

  Was “back in time to correct the biggest mistake of my life,” an appropriate answer? Probably not. But, I’d had this answer in my head for a long time.

  Minka: England. Remember, Pride and Prejudice, favorite book.

  Owen: Oh yeah, right. You’re so sexy when you talk 19th century lit to me, Braxton.

  I smile, an earnest, genuine smile, at his funny jab.

  Shit, what was I doing? Looking up, Chloe is at a dead stop in front of me, a bored look on her face.

  “When you’re done toreplaying with golden boy over there, I’m ready to go.” She taps her foot for emphasis.

  “Toreplaying?” I seriously don’t know what the hell she is talking about half the time.

  “Text foreplay. Massaging each other through the phone, romantically. That’s what your smile would indicate anyway.”

  “Ew, that sounds disgusting. Also, you’re a complete, hopeless romantic. A beautiful, graceful one, but hopeless, nonetheless.”

  She grabs the side of the cart, as if she’s my five-year-old child, and motions for me to start walking. I wheel us toward the checkout, turmoil building in my head.

  I have to stop this with Owen. It has gone on long enough and I really don’t need to genuinely like this guy any more than I already do. Yes, he is sweet, funny, and has really great abs. But he will hurt me. I can feel it in my bones that if I go any further, get any more wrapped up in his orbit, the golden boy will burn me up in his rays.

  I simply can’t afford it again.

  11

  Owen

  There is no better smell than that of a worn-in glove. The whiff of crushed-in leather, form-fitted to the hand of the owner, mixed with fresh-cut grass and sand pulled right off the track. The tinge of November air that still lingers in the seams. If you lean in close, you can sniff the trademarks of the ballpark: hot dogs and cheap beer. Maybe even a tobacco stain or two.

  Forget religion, baseball is my church. And the mound is where I come to worship.

  I launch ball after ball at the net set up behind home plate, glancing now and then at the radar display board
85 MPH … 89 MPH … 97 MPH. Curveball, fastball, slider. Rinse, repeat, and perfect.

  It’s somewhat ironic that the very thing I feel the most pressure about in life is also my therapeutic outlet. Which explains why, after a father-son battle that could rival World War II, I’ve been standing on my little league field for the last two hours. Dusk has begun to set in, but I have no intention of dragging my ass home to hear more about “priorities” and “expectations.”

  You would think that I wasn’t the most highly scouted college player this year. That I didn’t have six or seven calls a month from the agent who had already signed me, telling me which farm team was asking me to leave college now and play full time. That I didn’t put every ounce of my energy, drive, blood, and sweat into this game. Yet Carl Axel always expects more.

  You’re looking a little pudgy, son. Sure you aren’t overdoing the beer and under doing the workouts this summer? What was your latest pitch speed? You need to be working on perfecting that slider, boy. Remember that Southern Virginia scored three home runs off you after you fucked that pitch up.

  Leave it to Dad to remember every single strike, or in this case hit, against me. And Mom, yeah, she tries to keep him off my back, but she isn’t much help.

  Raquel Axel is a former Brazilian supermodel who moved to the US in the late 80s, meeting, and shortly thereafter, marrying my father when they both lived in New York. They didn’t have the perfect marriage, but she was just stubborn enough to keep him in line for the most part and is still just as beautiful as when they met, meaning he stayed faithful as far as I could tell.

  My mom is great—nurturing, encouraging, supportive—but that’s overshadowed by anything he says. A father’s approval is what every son chases.

  “Keep throwing ninety-fivers for shits and giggles and your arm will be deader than Thurman Munson.”

  I turn around to see Farris walking leisurely through the chain link dugout, grinning like a moron at his stupid-ass joke.

  “The baseball gods are seriously going to smite you one of these days, bro. And it was ninety-seven, not ninety-five.” I whip the ball half-heartedly at his head, but he’s always one move ahead of me with his shortstop ninja skills.

  Miles Farriston and I have been best friends since the day we discovered our mutual hatred of the hitting tee. Shithead little punks that we were, we thought we’d swing our Louisville Sluggers au natural from the word “go.” While we’ve improved over the years and leaned on coaches and trainers for advice, our friendship has always been a constant.

  “Yeah, well, all I’m saying is you gotta cool it, man. We need that arm to try to take us to championships this year. Not flame out in regionals. Not saying it was your fault.” When we were applying to colleges, it was an unspoken agreement that we’d end up at the same one. Miles has been cleaning up my mistakes on the field since elementary school and we weren’t splitting up now.

  “What’re you doing here anyway, man? I thought Olivia was coming to visit this week.” I walk into the dugout with him, joining him on the bench and hunching over, resting my elbows on my knees.

  “Nah, man, she bailed again. Had some last-minute emergency come up.” He tried to shrug it off casually, but I could sense the unease behind his movements.

  He’d been dating Olivia for the past year, but she’d yet to come visit this summer like she promised. In my opinion, she was a spoiled groupie brat who was milking Miles for his campus celebrity status and money—the Farristons basically owned half the East Coast—but it wasn’t my place to tell him who to date.

  Before I could dole out some lame-ass remark about it being okay, Miles goes for the jugular. “So, what’s with you banging the high schooler?”

  What? How did he know I’d been hanging around with Minka? “What do you mean?”

  “I saw you traipse off with that hot brunette at The Field. Hinkley told me she’s in his grade. You tap that? ’Cause she has a seriously nice rack man.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that. And no, I haven’t ‘tapped that.’” I shoot him a pissed-off glare. I have the sudden urge to punch him for eyeing Minka’s tits.

  “Whoa, calm down, A-Rod. Get it? ’Cause he was on the ’roids?” He flashes me his trademark goofball smile.

  “Dude, we’ve gone over this, if you have to explain the joke, it’s not a good one.”

  “Whatever. But, bro, do you like this girl or something?” He eyes me curiously and a beat of silence passes when I don’t give him an answer.

  “Wait a second, you do! You gushy son of a bitch.” Miles punches my arm and starts bouncing his legs up and down, vibrating the metal bench we’re perched on. “Did you throw rocks at her window? Stand under her balcony with a radio over your head? Man, was your first kiss in the pouring rain?”

  I think my jaw hangs so low in shock that it’s hovering over the tops of my shoes. “Dude, your knowledge of romantic comedies astounds and nauseates me. Also, if you talk about her tits again, I’ll take a bat to your junk so hard, you won’t be able to walk for a week. I’m seeing where it goes. Leave it at that.”

  “Axel, I knew you always wanted on these nuts, but you gotta warm me up before you take your bat to me.” He winks and then doubles over at his own joke. Miles is all about the laughter, jokes, and fun. Although he’s never officially confided in me, a thought that still disappoints me because of how long we’ve been friends, I have a feeling his home life is a lot worse than mine. His jokes are his shield.

  “All right, dickwad, I gotta split. See you next week for arms? I’m gonna kick your scrawny ass.” Walking toward my car, I throw a cocky smile at my best friend, who no one would ever in their life describe as scrawny. Farris is a beast; he has at least three inches and fifty pounds on me. But bicep and tricep work is his worst area and I rag on him whenever I get the chance.

  “In your dreams, pussy.” I hear as I reach my black pickup. Just then I feel my cell vibrating against my thigh. Pulling it out, I see I have a text.

  Minka: White chocolate anything.

  Since our night of cuddling at The Field on Saturday, I’ve been texting her on and off for the past four days. I’m trying to take things slow, because if I know anything, it’s that she spooks easily. Or that any girl will kick you out after basically humping them like a horny gorilla without asking their middle name. Nonetheless, I am trying to get back in her good graces.

  My previous text had asked her what her favorite candy was. My plan is to try to pry information from this stubborn, formidable girl. So far we’ve covered favorite movies, books—of which she had an itemized list—foods, colors, and music.

  She desperately wants to travel to England, hates roller coasters and thinks video games are the spawn of Satan. And she’s funny. Hilarious, actually. She spoke out loud or texted in this case, what people are usually too afraid to say and has no qualms about spouting her opinions.

  But for the past couple of days, I could tell she was trying to push me off. Her answers were getting less and less involved. Her responses were less frequent. So, she doesn’t want to let me in? Too bad. I’ll bulldoze through that wall and make her get to know me.

  Folding myself into the driver’s seat, I check the time on my dash radio, 7:04 p.m. I’ve waited long enough to make my next move. And in all honesty, I am dying to see Minka’s face. She is quickly becoming an addiction, drinking in her sun-kissed complexion, those dark oval eyes framed by long, sexy lashes. I need to see her more, study those features that seem to be burned into my brain these days.

  Yeah, decision made. I swing my truck out of the parking spot and plan my next course of action.

  * * *

  I stand in front of her door, Mitch’s Deli bag in hand, forty-five minutes later. I knock lightly, hoping to God her parents aren’t home and that she doesn’t get pissed that I’m here. I also hope that she is in a towel, fresh from the shower. I’ve definitely been watching too much porn this year.

  The heavy oak door of Minka�
�s spacious ranch-style home opens, revealing the most breathtaking sight. Seriously, this girl literally takes my breath away every time I see her. I mentally kick myself again for not noticing her those two years we attended high school together.

  She’s wearing short olive green pajama bottoms that look like they are blanket-soft to the touch. They rest about two inches down her thigh and the rest of her shapely, sexy legs are bare. Above, she’s wearing nothing but a brown strappy tank top. Her beautiful, round tits are straining against the material and when I see her nipples start to harden beneath my stare, all the blood in my body drains directly into my now stiff cock. Shit, she’s not wearing a bra. Taking this slow is going to be very, very hard. Literally.

  “What’re you doing here?” she asks suspiciously but doesn’t look pissed. Actually, she looks kind of happily annoyed. I can work with that.

  “Did you know that white chocolate isn’t even really chocolate? It’s sugar. And it’s nasty. But … I’ve learned, through my superior investigative skills these past few days, that we both have the same order from Mitch’s.” I shake the brown paper bag at her.

  “You brought me a cheesesteak with extra pickles?” Minka asks in disbelief.

  “Wait, I thought you said you liked pulled pork on potato bread …” I trail off and smile when she scowls at me. “Yes, I brought us cheesesteaks, with extra pickles. But, you can only have it if you invite me in.”

  My offer dangles in the air, she’s leaving me hanging on purpose while she hops back and forth from foot to foot with a thinking face on. The little brat.

  “Okay, fine, you may come in. But only because I’d give up my first-born child for a Mitch’s cheesesteak.”

  She turns, leading the way into her house, giving me an outrageous view of her mass of curls sweeping over the curve of her ass. I groan inwardly, trying to keep my lust in check.