Jock Row

by Sara Ney

  Not them—you.

  I waited for you.

  I didn’t have to, but I wanted to. Scarlett would have gotten there, seen there was no party, and within minutes, found out where everyone was through the power of social media, like everyone else tonight did when they arrived tonight.

  “I know I didn’t have to.”

  Without realizing it, our pace has slackened from a brisk walk to keep up with the group to a slow stroll, and soon, we’re a good hundred paces behind her friends, almost an entire block separating us, Scarlett’s tote bag swinging along with her stride.

  “What’s inside your bag? It’s been driving me nuts.”

  “Oh!” She perks up, remembering herself. “I made brownies yesterday and wanted to get them out of my house before I ate them all myself.”

  “Liar. You made these for me.”

  “Pfft.” When she doesn’t deny it, goddamn if my heart doesn’t flutter.

  I poke at her bag. “Are you going to make me beg for a taste?”

  I have to admit, I threw down that innuendo to measure her aversion, grinning when she shoots me a sardonic sideways glance, clamping her lips shut, tempted to retort.

  Scarlett isn’t the conservative she appears to be; I would bet money on it. She just hides it better than others, burying it beneath that damn jacket.

  I wonder what her body looks like under all those layers. Is she skinny or curvy? Big boobs or flat-chested? Is she shy and modest or self-confident?

  Jesus, I want to find out so damn bad.

  “No. Of course I’m not going to make you beg.” Her voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, and husky, like she’s having dirty thoughts about me, too.

  We stop onto the sidewalk so she can rifle through her tote, pulling out a clear Tupperware container with a red lid and handing it to me. I pop the lid, inhaling the smell of rich chocolate.

  “Fuck yeah. I love brownies.”

  “Me too.”

  We resume our walk.

  I bite down into a large square, groaning. “Goddamn this is good.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Moist,” I can’t help adding, just to see what she’ll say.

  Scarlett groans. “God, I hate that word.”

  Yeah, I figured—who doesn’t?

  “You hate the word moist?”

  “Stop saying it,” she says on a laugh, the dimple in her cheek winking at me.

  “I would if these brownies weren’t so…moist.” Her laughter is low as we resume walking, side by side, in the dark. “You want a bite?”

  Her teeth rake her bottom lip indecisively. “I probably shouldn’t.”

  “Just a little. Here, nibble some of mine.”

  We pause under a streetlight, and I raise my arm, brownie pinched between my fingers, offering her some.

  “Try it,” I cajole, pulling back with a warning. “Just a bite—don’t hog it all.”

  Scarlett steps closer, leaning in, breath a billow of steam into the cold, fall air. Her lips part, teeth nipping at the corner of the chocolate confection, doing her damnedest to avoid my fingers with her mouth.

  Eyes slide closed. “Mmm.”

  Mmm is right.

  Her pretty pink tongue darts out, licking her lips.

  “Want more?”

  Scarlett touches her finger to her mouth just then, hesitating. “I’m good, but thank you.”

  “I’ve got a whole container of them if you change your mind,” I tease, patting the plastic container riding her hip. “Made them last night.”

  I take the opportunity to stuff another chunk into my mouth, teeth hitting a chocolate chip. It melts unhurriedly on my tongue before I swallow.

  Heaven. So fucking delicious.

  “Wow, look at all those people,” Scarlett mutters, slowing her pace as the Lambda house comes into full view, up front and center of the show. We’ve rounded the corner and it seems the whole block has ignited, blazing lights beckoning everyone to the enormous, red brick fraternity house.

  It’s located in the middle of the street, a massive monolith with Palladian white columns. The house is so fucking cool it ought to be a crime for these drunken idiots to live here.

  Scarlett takes a few steps back instead of forward, hands clutching the strap on her tote.

  “Uh, you know what? On second thought, I don’t think I want to hit a frat party tonight.”

  “You don’t want to go in? Why not?”

  “Rowdy, look at me.” She makes a jerky gesture down her torso. “Look at my outfit.”

  “I am looking at you.” And I see nothing wrong with what she’s wearing—nothing at all. She’s adorable with her hair all rolled up into those cute motherfucking buns. Face flushed, eyes bright. And when she bites down on her bottom lip?

  Totally makes me want to kiss her.

  Still, we’re stuck standing in the middle of the sidewalk, in front of a fraternity party, and she doesn’t want to stay.

  “I can walk you home.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “Where do you live?”

  “Back the way we came, closer to the baseball house, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. About three blocks toward campus.” Scarlett hikes her bag. “What about you?”

  “I’m across from the stadium.”

  “Which stadium?”

  If this was anyone else, I’d throw my head back and laugh in their face for asking such a dumb fucking question. But this is Scarlett, and somehow she’s managed to weasel her way into my life like a bad habit.

  “The baseball stadium.”

  “Oh.” She laughs nervously, miming smacking a palm to her forehead. “Duh.”

  God she’s adorably clueless.

  “Here, let me take your bag.” I reach for it. “I’ll walk you home.”

  “No, no! Gosh, you don’t have to carry it,” she demurs.

  I grab her tote, ending whatever other argument or protests are about to come out of her gorgeous mouth, giving her hip a little bump in the process to nudge her along.

  “Never have I ever—”

  Scarlett’s groan interrupts me, and now that her hands are free, she throws them in the air,. “Oh lord, here we go.”

  I glance down at her. “What? Would you rather play something else?”

  “We can’t play Never Have I Ever—we don’t have anything to chug down if we lose.”

  “But we have brownies.” I hold up her bag containing the tub of desserts, giving it a shake, totally willing to sacrifice the lot of them on our walk back to her place.

  “If I eat all those chocolate brownies, I will barf.”

  “Are you that confident you’re going to have to eat them?”

  “With the questions you like to ask? Definitely.”

  “It’s not that many blocks. You’ll live.” Once we fall into line, I dig into her bag to retrieve the container, our steps in sync. “Never have I ever read anyone’s diary.

  “Ugh, dammit Rowdy!”

  I pop the top so Scarlett can retrieve a small piece from the plastic container and pop it in her mouth. Chew and swallow.

  “Whose diary?” I want to know.

  “My older sister’s when we were younger. She had some damn good stuff in it, too, like the first time she got felt up by a guy, she detailed the entire experience and I got to read about it.”

  “You sneaky little shit.”

  Scarlett shrugs. “It’s not like she hid it—kept it on her bookshelf along with her other junk. But honestly, I was notorious for going through her stuff. It was all just too good to keep my hands off of.” She sighs, and then smirks. “Have you ever been slapped across the face?”

  I hesitate then bite off a chunk of chewy, moist brownie. “Yes.” A smug grin spreads across her mouth, and it makes me scowl. “You don’t have to be self-righteous about it, smartass. I wasn’t slapped by a pissed-off girl.”

  “Stop it right now. You’re telling me you were sla
pped by a guy?” Her skepticism is spread across her entire face.

  “Yup. Bitch-slapped by a dude, if you want to get technical.”

  “Bet this is a good story.” She giggles, dancing alongside me, her black Chucks hopping on the pavement. “Are you going to tell me about it?”

  It’s not a story I’ll likely ever forget. “I was out with a few guys my freshman year, and I had this friend on the team who was gay, right? Well, we went out during orientation week, and he’d been seeing this guy—real theatrical type—who thought Landon was having an affair or cheating on him or whatever because he’d been practicing so much. Spending way too much time with the team, you know?” I pause for dramatic effect. “Landon’s boyfriend finds us out one night playing pool after Landon had told him he was lifting. Dude taps me on the shoulder and slaps me as I turn around. It was one of those limp-armed hits though, not a full-on slap, and he was terrified I’d hit him back.”

  “Did he clutch his hand to his chest?”

  “Totally. Gasped too.”

  “Did they get into a fight after that?”

  “Nah, I think they probably went home and screwed.” I palm another brownie from the container, stuffing it into my mouth. “God, these things are like crack.”

  “I like to bake.” Scarlett stares straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the scenery, but I catch a glimpse of her smile when I call her brownies crack, see when she bites down on her lower lip.

  “Have you ever had pot brownies?” She sounds so scandalized just asking the question that I chuckle.

  “No. Have you?”

  “No!” comes her indignant reply. “Of course not.”

  “Have you ever wanted to?”

  “No! Would you want to?”

  My lip curls arrogantly. “Have you seen this body Scarlett? This body is a temple—we don’t wear it down, we build it up.” I invite her to ogle, wishing she could see more of my body. “Feel free to worship at the shrine.”

  I watch as her gaze flickers down my torso, to my feet, then back up to my face. It’s too dark to tell if she’s blushing, but I bet a few hundo that she is.

  Grinning, I change the subject. “Would you rather eat a meal or help cook it?”

  “Oh, we’re doing that now? Playing Would You Rather?”

  “Are you brave enough? It could get dicey.”

  “Dicey—my dad says that.” She giggles. “I’d rather have someone cook me a meal, but I’d rather bake for someone else.”

  I ignore the dad comment. “Would you rather not shower for a week or not brush your teeth?”

  “That’s gross.”

  “No it’s not. I can go a few days without showering, easy.”

  She considers this. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. That’s the reason dry shampoo was invented—now they just need to make dry shampoo for my body.”

  “Uh, pretty sure that’s called perfume…”

  “You can’t spray perfume under your armpits.”

  “Uh, pretty sure that’s called deodorant.”

  Scarlett makes a tsking sound, clucking her tongue. “Well, aren’t you just full of the answers to everything.”

  I roll my eyes, because I usually do have the answers to everything. “If you had to save a reef of coral or a school of clownfish, which would you save and which would you let die?”

  Scarlett gasps, a puff of steam escaping from her pursed lips. “What kind of a monster are you? That is such a mean question! Both! I’d save both!”

  “You have to choose!” I argue. “Those are the rules of the game, Scarlett.”

  “Ugh, fine, you tyrant. Probably the clownfish because it can look me in the eye, but I’d regret the decision forever.” She turns to me, glaring. “Forever.”

  We’re quiet a few seconds as she thinks of a new question to ask me.

  Then, “Okay, here’s one for you: would you rather have your catching hand broken or break your entire arm?”

  What the fuck!

  “What the fuck kind of question is that, Scarlett? Neither!”

  Jesus, she’s a sadist.

  “You have to choose—those are the rules of the game, Sterling,” she mimics, her straight white teeth shining beneath the street lights, the little shithead. “Broken hand or arm?”

  “You’re savage, Scarlett…” I have no idea what her last name is so I can’t chastise her properly. “What’s your last name?”

  “Ripley.”

  Scarlett Ripley.

  “Stop avoiding the question.”

  “Fine,” I huff. “I’d rather break my throwing arm—no, wait, my catching hand. Dammit! Arm.” I clutch that arm, cradling it tenderly, sweet-talking it with a stage whisper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. She made me choose because she’s the devil.”

  Scarlett’s laughter echoes in the dark, bouncing off the sky and clouds and houses, light and carefree and amused. Then, when I finally focus on our surroundings, I see we’ve stalled in front of a little white house at the end of a block I’ve passed dozens of times, a narrow stone sidewalk leading to a tidy front porch. It has a green awning and a short stoop. A single light glows from what I assume is the living room, but the curtains are drawn, so it’s impossible to tell.

  “Why did we stop?”

  “This is me.”

  We stand on the sidewalk, both of us staring toward the house, me still clutching my poor, hypothetically broken baseball arm as if it actually pains me.

  “Do you, um…do you want to come in for a bit? I think I have a few frozen pizzas in the freezer if you’re still hungry.”

  Is my hunger even up for discussion? “Why are you always feeding me?”

  “Because you’re always hungry?”

  I nod. “Fair.” Follow her up a short, narrow sidewalk, staring down at her ass, just below the hem of her coat.

  The backs of her calves.

  Her slim, bare ankles as they tread along the concrete walkway.

  She smiles over her shoulder, unlocking the deadbolt. Pushes through the door, flicking on the light to the right of the entrance. We enter in the kitchen; it’s miniscule, all white and neat as a pin. The outdated appliances are clean, a lone bowl and glass set next to the sink, waiting to be washed.

  How the…

  “This place is fucking tiny.” I glance around. “How the hell do you all fit in here?”

  The kitchen and living room combined are smaller than my bedroom, so I can’t imagine the rest of the place is any bigger.

  “How the hell do I fit who in here?”

  “You and your roommates. There’s barely any room for anything.”

  “I don’t have any roommates.” Scarlett hangs her keys on a hook by the table, glancing over her shoulder. “It’s just me.”

  My brows shoot up, surprised. “Wait, what?”

  She lives alone? Well, well, well, isn’t this a pleasant new development.

  Scarlett laughs and turns toward me, unzipping her jacket, its whirring metal the only sound in the kitchen. She parts it. Shrugs it down her narrow shoulders. Hangs the puffy winter coat on the kitchen chair and kicks off her shoes before moving to the fridge.

  As she pulls open the freezer, my eyes trail after her, fastened on her backside, on the tight rear end in her black leggings—the ass I’m seeing for the first time.

  It’s round and high, and I bet if I held out my hands, the whole thing would fit perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle.

  “I live here alone.” Her arms rise, retrieving two pizzas from the freezer, wielding them like a waitress carrying a tray of drinks, jutting out a hip as she speaks, slamming the freezer closed. “I decided I didn’t want to live with a group of girls my senior year, so I don’t, and it’s been awesome.”

  Scarlett turns to face me again, pizzas in her arms, all smiles.

  Under the soft lamps in her cozy little kitchen—without the earmuffs and the coat and the warm clothes—I can analyze everything about her as if it’s the first time I�
��m seeing her.

  For the first time in four weeks, I’m seeing what she looks like under all the jackets and scarves and bulky sweaters. The chocolate-colored hair she usually keeps under a knit cap is shining under the kitchen light, wrapped up in two bite-sized buns.

  Insatiably curious, I rake my inquisitive green eyes down her body in the comfort of this small room, from the top of her head to the tips of her bare toes.

  They are painted a bright, brilliant, glittery blue.

  Her long-sleeved top is thin and white, tight. Slim waist with picture-perfect boobs, I can’t help but notice the outline of her white bra beneath the shirt. The smooth column of her neck. Notice for the first time the silver hoops in her ears.

  With her hair twisted into those buns on the top of her head, she looks prime. Like a ballerina—one that actually has tits.

  Sweet and sexy, both at the same time.

  My gaze lowers again.

  Man, those tits. The tops of them spilling out of her bra, defined by the fabric of her shirt.

  Scarlett lists her head to one side, watching me devour her. Then, “Sterling?”

  “Huh?” My head gives a shake. “Sorry, what?”

  “If you’re staying, can you please take your shoes off? Not to be a pain in the ass, but I wiped down the floor on my hands and knees yesterday, and I hate cleaning, so…”

  Scarlett on her hands and knees…

  “Staying? You mean overnight?” Please say yes, please say yes.

  Scarlett laughs quietly. “No, staying for food.”

  Oh. Right. “Shit, yeah—sorry, I’ll take off my shoes. Sorry.”

  Another megawatt smile from her and my stomach does a high dive off a steep ledge.

  I busy myself then, kicking off my sneakers by the door, content to watch her fuss about her quaint kitchen. Preheating the oven. Fetching oven mitts. Tossing the cellophane pizza wrapper into the garbage can under the sink. Wiping the errant, frozen grated mozzarella cheese off the counter and into the sink.

  “Two pizzas is good, right? You can eat a whole one all by yourself, I’m assuming.”

  Four weeks and she knows me well.

  Pulls open the stove, round ass sticking up, sliding the two pies on the racks, then shuts them in.

  “Got anything to drink?”