Tempted: A Bad Boy Next Door Romance

by Willow Winters

  His cocky little grin is back, playful and, if I can use that word, arousing. "What's that?"

  "Another few of those amazing kisses?"

  Troy keeps to my condition and is actually a gentleman, cleaning up our mess and walking with me back to the car. When he opens the door, I turn to him and take his hand. "Just a moment," I say, tugging on his arm.

  Troy turns and give me a quizzical look. "What?"

  In a move that I can't even believe I'm doing as I do it, I take his hand and lift it, putting it on my right breast, where by instinct, he cups it, sending shivers down my body and heat between my legs. I let him stroke with his thumb for a few seconds, then reluctantly, I lift his hand off, and it's my turn to kiss his knuckles. "There. You can tell your buddies you at least got to second base. I know they're going to bug you about it."

  Troy shifts, and I smile when I see that his pants are fitting him, well, a little more snugly around the crotch than they were a minute ago. Troy shakes his head and takes my fingers in his again, kissing my knuckles. "No, I don't think the guys need to know what happened here tonight. Some things are too good to share, and you want to keep them all to yourself. Come on, let's get you home before your Mom wants to kill me, and that would totally ruin our plans for Saturday."

  Chapter 6

  Troy

  I sit in the stands of Fox Stadium, wearing my number 12 jersey, hanging out with the rest of the guys. We just completed our final walkthroughs for tomorrow's game, and Coach Jackson handed out our game jerseys. Some of us, me included, put them on before we head home. We're ready.

  "You looking forward to the pep rally tomorrow?" Cory asks. He's really stepped up over the past two days, and he's feeling good about things. I understand, because Wednesday's practice, and then today's walkthroughs, went like fucking clockwork. "You know, I'm kinda looking forward to it."

  “You're just looking forward to seeing the cheerleaders in those skirts and tops," Russ shoots back, laughing. "You're trying to see if Dasha is going to wear that thong like you've been trying to talk her into."

  "Fuck that, man, that was just a side joke," Cory says, "but yeah, I'd tap that ass if I had a chance. Nah, to be honest, I'm looking forward to seeing Whitney's ti . . . sorry, her figure in the uniform."

  I raise my eyebrow, and Cory clears his throat. Russ, however, doesn't get the clue. "Those are some bodacious ta-tas. You got to sample them yet, T-man?"

  "She's not that type of girl," I reply, leaning back. I know the guys, and they're still not convinced that I'm really serious about Whitney. Not that we've exactly been seeing each other long, I mean, it's only been three days. "I'm going to take this one slow."

  "Holy shit," Russ replies, his eyes wide with wonder. "Is that Troy Wood, or am I seeing a fucking unicorn? Three days and she's got you pussy whipped? She must be magical. Unicorn Nelson!"

  "Call her that again, and you're going to be watching tomorrow's game from the sidelines in a cast," I growl, looking into Russ's eyes. "I don't care if you're the free safety or not. Say something again about Whitney, and I end you."

  The guys fall silent, and there's some nervous shuffling. Russ and I have been buds since freshman year, and of everyone on the team, he's the one who is closest to standing up to me. Coach Jackson says that if Russ hits the weights hard and gets serious, he'll also have a chance to play college ball, but Russ is normally too laid back, a party kind of guy. Russ stares at me for a second, then gets up, brushing off his jersey. "Whatever. I'm gonna go sit down there, see what Watkins is up to. He doesn’t have a bug up his ass."

  Most of the guys kind of drift off after that, until it's just me and Cory. He's got a look on his face, and I give it back. "What?"

  "Nothin'," Cory says. "Just . . . you're changing. Last year, you were the guy, on and off the field. I figured this year would be more of the same.”

  Out on the field, the marching band is doing a review of their halftime show, minus the ridiculous uniforms they wear. I never have figured out how a team from a town named Silver Lake Falls, and whose high school colors are Silver and Blue, calls themselves the Scarlet Regiment and wears red as their main uniform color. Damn near treasonous, if you ask me. I shrug, “Things can’t always be the same.”

  Cory leans back and shakes his head. One of the drummers, a girl with a cute face, drops her stick, causing Cory to cup his hands over his mouth and holler, "If you need a bigger stick, I've got one for ya!"

  The girl turns bright red, and Cory laughs while a few of the guys, who've gathered around Watkins, laugh as well. Cory shakes his head and looks back up at me. "Where was I? Oh yeah, you and your changing. I noticed it during summer workouts first. You got more serious about the football. I just chalked it up to you pushing for the scholarship. I know you've got verbal feelers from some schools, but nothing's set in stone until you get something on paper."

  "Which you know I can't get for another month at least," I say. "Signing day's a long way off, Cory. But I feel like you’ve got more to say."

  "I do. Past week, man, since Monday, you've really gotten, I don't know . . . serious? I won't go as far as Russ and sign my death warrant by saying something about Whitney, but you two looked pretty damn chummy at lunch today, ignoring the rest of us. Even her girlfriend—what's her name?"

  "Danielle Vaughn," I remind Cory, who nods. I know Cory hadn't forgotten. He's had Dani on his 'to bang' list ever since Dani joined varsity cheerleading. He's got a thing for dangerous looking blondes, and Dani's the epitome of that. "But your point?"

  "I'm just saying—you stepped up Tuesday after screwing up. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.”

  "But?"

  "But you're showing a softer side too, and that includes Tuesday. I guess what I'm asking you is, which Troy Wood is going to show up tomorrow night? The one who smashes heads on the field, or the softheaded fuckup? I know which one I'd prefer . . .”

  I look out on the field and pat my friend on the shoulder. "Don't sweat it. First time I put my face mask in the Blueridge QB's chest, you'll see."

  "Boys . . . no, I guess the time has come to stop calling most of you boys," Coach Jackson says as we gather around in the locker room. My blue and silver jersey is tied back, and on my left hand is the lineman's glove that I wear. It's a strange thing for a QB to wear, but with a tacky palm and a lightly padded back, it's great for me when I play linebacker as well. My other glove is tucked in my belt, in case we go on defense first. I can't wear the glove when I'm on offense. It screws up my grip on the ball for throwing.

  "The time has come for you upperclassmen, you seniors and juniors, to step up and be men," Coach continues, and I glance over at Cory, who gives me a nod. He's painted up like he does for every home game, the eye black taken to ridiculous extremes until both of his eye sockets are completely black, with a single line drawing down his cheeks. He says that he's copying the look of the ancient Spartans, and I have no idea if he's correct or not, but I do know that when he pulls his helmet on, it’s pretty terrifying. "You know what to do. This is your season now, gentlemen. I can only send in plays or give guidance. It's up to you now to make a difference."

  After we go out of the locker room, I look down in my helmet, a little smile on my face as I see the folded up square of paper that I've wedged in between the air pocket and the outer shell. Even though it’s folded up, I know what's on it.

  Dear Troy.

  I know this may be weird. After all, I'm planning on giving this to you in about twenty minutes when we have lunch together. But I wanted to say good luck tonight. Just know that I wish I were out on the field with you, instead of on the sidelines just cheering. Actually, I take that back. There's no way I could do what you do, but know that I'm going to be cheering loudest for you.

  Whitney

  "You ready, Troy?" Coach Jackson asks, coming by. "Like I said, son, the future's in your hands."

  I grin and pull my helmet on. With my teammates, we line up behind the big paper b
anner that the cheerleaders painted up for us, and I see Whitney out of the corner of my eye, standing on one of the other girls’ shoulders, holding the paper tight for us, and she gives me a smile, even if it is a bit scared from being up in the air like that. I smile back and wink.

  I hear the band that's lined up on the other side of the banner start up the fight song, and I turn. "All right, it's SHOWTIME!"

  We charge through the banner, and I lead my team onto the field. We win the toss, and as I watch Watkins take the opening kickoff, everything drops away. It's a comfortable feeling, one I've felt before. The rest of the world can be fucked up. But this field, this space that's a hundred and twenty yards long and fifty-three yards wide, this is pure and right, and I know I own this spot.

  "Split left, forty-four blast," I say in the huddle, looking around. "That's you, Gabe. You got this?"

  "See you in the end zone," Gabe replies, ready. I look around and grin. This is going to be fun.

  The game goes by in a blur, and it isn't until the next day that I read my final stats. Seven of thirteen passing for eighty-seven yards and one touchdown, which isn't really all that great, but with our offense, it works. Fifteen carries for a hundred and eight yards rushing, and another two touchdowns . . . much better. But I'm proudest of the seventeen tackles, including three sacks, a tipped pass, and a forced fumble as we blow out Blueridge 35-7, their only points coming in garbage time of the fourth quarter after Coach had put in the second stringers to get them some game time.

  I shake hands with the other team, then turn, looking for something more important than the newspaper guy who I see is hunting for a quote for the local paper. Fuck it, let Coach give him his quote. I'll let my play do my talking. Instead, I'm looking for Whitney, and I see her, still looking fabulous in her uniform, even if she's nearly as sweaty as I am after two hours of bouncing around, doing dances, and yelling her head off in the heat of the last week of August. I'm out on the field too much to pay attention to the cheerleaders during the game, but a couple of times, when Coach would pull me out to get water or during special teams downs, I caught a glimpse, and once, she returned my look, sending little quivers down my back and to my stomach.

  "Whitney!" I call, jogging over. She's picking up her gear, and I see that she's struggling with the two pom-poms, megaphone, and her bag all at the same time. I grab her bag before it can fall on the ground and sling it over my shoulder. "Hey. Here, let me carry a little bit."

  "Thanks," Whitney says, smiling. We're both flushed from exertion, and to me, she looks so hot I can barely believe it. Whitney blushes with the way I'm looking at her, and she brushes her hair back over her ear. "You did great out there."

  "Thanks," I say, and it's my turn to feel warm, which gets even warmer when I hear some of the girls laughing.

  "Whoa, she tamed him quick," Andrea Bissonette, one of the other seniors and a girl I'd fooled around with for a hot minute when we were juniors, says. "Damn, Whitney, you must be giving him something special."

  Whitney looks mortified, which pisses me off. "Unlike you, Andrea, Whitney doesn't need to offer up a blowjob on the first date in order to make a good impression."

  The laughs that greet that comment increase as Dani comes over, raising an eyebrow. "Troy. Good game. Do we have a problem?"

  "Nope," I reply. Dani and I are pretty much the king and queen of campus, but we'd never hooked up. Not that she isn't hot, but I never really had the urge with her. Maybe I just respect her too much. "But you might want to have a talk with your cheerleaders about appropriate inter-team comments before I need to say something again."

  "That may be, but I'll handle that," Dani replies. "And while I appreciate your willingness to help Whitney with her things, cheerleading rules—no outside help. We haul our own shit on and off the field. Unless, of course, you want me carrying your balls for you?"

  I smirk, letting Dani know I'd caught her pretty smooth comment and how it could be taken a lot of ways. I don't know if Whitney understands, but her friend has just taken some heat off her. "Nah, I'm good. All right, I gotta go anyway. Hasta luego."

  "You're paying attention in Spanish now? I’m impressed," Dani says and turns back to the other cheerleaders. "Come on, girls, lets get this cleaned up. Some of us have dates tonight!"

  In the moment when Whitney and I are alone, she gives me a shy little smile. "Thanks. You tried."

  "No problem. See you tomorrow afternoon."

  Unfortunately for me, I'm sporting a brand new bruise on my shoulder when I pick up Whitney from her house. Her mother greets me this time, and as she looks me over, I feel like I'm being split in two, the guy I was as a junior fighting against the person I'm not even sure I am now.

  Damn. If that's what Whitney's going to look like in twenty years . . .

  Shut up, you idiot. I'm here to see Whitney, not horndog on her mom.

  "Troy?"

  I blink and realize that Mrs. Nelson is talking to me. "Sorry, Mrs. Nelson. Just daydreaming I guess. What did you say?"

  "I said Whitney's getting dressed now. Why don't you come inside? And it's Ms. Nelson. There is no Mr. Nelson."

  I nod, understanding and following Ms. Nelson inside. I’m shocked at their house, which is like the complete opposite of mine. It's picked up, with no dirty laundry, liquor bottles, or other crap lying around. There are even little curtains in the window of the kitchen, and the sink is totally empty, cleaned out. "This is a great place, Ms. Nelson. Thank you."

  "You're welcome," she says, and my eyes catch the big cross on the wall next to the fridge. Whitney did tell me her mom is big on the church at lunch on Friday. I remember. "Troy, since you and I have a minute, I'm going to take this time to ask you a few questions."

  "Uh, okay. I guess." Shit. The interrogation. Not what I want. I've called off dates for less, but there is something about Whitney that says I should put up with it.

  "You have a reputation, to put it nicely," Ms. Nelson says, giving me the hairy eyeball. "What are your intentions with my daughter?"

  "Mom," Whitney interrupts us, like an angel saving me from certain destruction. "I told you, Troy's been a total gentleman. Aren't you the one telling me that I should give people second chances and believe in redemption?"

  Ms. Nelson looks pissed, but she nods and gives me a glance that is very clear. I got lucky. "All right. Well, Whitney tells me you'll have her back before three thirty, so I guess you two can't get up to too much trouble. Just know, Troy—I won't hesitate to protect my daughter."

  "I understand, Ms. Nelson. I'll be on my best behavior. I promise."

  Whitney and I drive over to the park, where she surprises me by taking off her sandals and splashing through the kids’ wading pool. "Come on, it's fun!"

  I feel silly, but what the hell? I take off my shoes and wade in next to her, only to be met with a splash of water and a sparkling grin that warms me more than the sun. "Gotcha."

  "Oh, you're so going to get it," I say, and we're splashing and engaging in a water fight like the little kids around us, much to their surprise and delight. I get Whitney once, but she gets me right back with a double handful that totally soaks my shirt and gets me right in the face, and I'm left sputtering and laughing. "Okay, okay, I'm whipped!"

  Whitney stops her splashing, and I wiped the water out of my eyes. "What does that mean?"

  I look at her, and I realize a few things. Her t-shirt is wet in all the right places, and the bra she's wearing underneath, while modest, is still very visible. She isn't talking about our water fight. Also, if she doesn't know, she's even more innocent than I thought she was. "Uhm, well, maybe we should talk about this where a bunch of little kids can't overhear," I say. "You know, sensitive ears and all."

  Whitney looks around and sees the kids I'm talking about, who are still smiling at us for a minute before they go back to their playing. We make our way out of the wading pool, and I gather up our shoes off the grass. There's a picnic table nearby, and I follow Whitn
ey over there, where she sits down on top of the table, which is nice and warm from the sun.

  Whitney looks at me innocently. "I mean, I know what the word is supposed to mean—pussy whipped—but the way you guys use it and the ways the other girls use it . . . it's just weird."

  "It is," I say, and suddenly, I feel like the mature one again. It's weird and wonderful with Whitney that way. She sometimes makes me feel like I'm the one learning from her, like when we talk at lunch, but then there are conversations like this, where I feel like I'm the one who knows everything. "I think it comes down to the fact that guys want to feel in charge, and it looks bad for us to be running around all the time like a puppy dog on a leash."

  "But you don't do that," Whitney says, and I look at her. "I mean, you came over to try and help last night, but it wasn't like I asked for it."

  "No, but some girls, well, they get to expect it. I think that's what Andrea was talking about, saying you'd tamed me. That’s not exactly my thing.”

  "Like I don't know that?" Whitney says with a smirk. "Remember, Dani's best friend? Troy, I may not know all the intimate details, but I do know the general gist of your social life. You're not a manwhore like your buddy, Cory, but you're no saint either.”

  I laugh at the term. "Manwhore? I’m certainly no manwhore. I guess you could call me a man-slut maybe—I don't charge for my services, after all.”

  Whitney laughs, then grows serious. "I'm not going to say who said what to whom, but I heard about your little blow up at Russ Thursday night. That sort of stuff gets around."

  "I've lived the past three years in a kind of social microscope, and only my home life has been exempt, although I bet there are jackasses who talk about that, too."

  Whitney's quiet for a moment, then she touches my shoulder. I hiss and pull back, and Whitney's face goes into immediate concern mode. "What did I do?"