Jock Reign: Jock Hard Book 5

by Sara Ney

  As mine was.

  It seems to me we’re both similar in that regard, although it’s just an assumption and not based on facts.

  I didn’t actually come right out and ask if she was there hiding like I was, or if the coffee shop is just a place she loves enough to hoof it across town.

  Kaylee pokes me in the ribs, reminding me she’s there.

  “Whatcha thinkin’ ’bout?” she asks in her perky accent—one I just began noticing, and I vaguely recall that she’s from the South and not local to this Midwest region where we’re in school.

  We’re at another party, the one place I can’t stop bumping into her, on the rickety old porch swing out front.

  I can’t very well tell her that right now I’m thinking about her roommate. I can’t tell her I’m thinking that later, when the night is over, I’m going to ask to walk her home due to the likely event that I will bump into Eliza like I did last week.

  I can’t tell her any of this because I know how women are. She would get jealous and want to scratch my eyes out.

  And I certainly can’t sleep with her—not when my mind is on someone else completely.

  Weird, right?

  Not that I’m interested in Eliza in a romantic way; she just felt comfortable to me, and I had a good time relaxing with her and being myself. Nothing felt forced, and it was casual and…nice.

  Or perhaps I’m merely interested because she is the antithesis of the women I’m used to—and by that I mean she is not interested in me romantically, either, which I’m certainly not familiar with. Women tend to throw themselves at me. Women who:

  Are from England and know my father is a baron. Doesn’t even matter that I’m not the heir.

  Are social climbers.

  Hear my accent and lose their minds over it. Doesn’t matter what words are coming out of my gullet. They would listen to me spout off nonsense—which I oft do.

  Girls who are only enrolled in university to earn their MRS degree, i.e., find a rich husband.

  Newsflash, ladies: I am not rich—my parents are.

  Someday, maybe. But right now? I’m surviving on their good graces and my monthly allowance, something I’ve always had and wish to maintain.

  Would it have behooved me to get engaged to Caroline? Probably.

  She comes from a wealthy, high-born family. Not titled, but landed and old—a fact that thrilled my mother more so than anything. Didn’t matter that Caroline was a bit of a shrew from the time we were in secondary school; what mattered was her pedigree.

  Matters in my family, though my brother managed to shirk it beautifully, and I aim to follow in his footsteps.

  Not that I’m here to land myself a wife.

  Too young for that…

  Ash is too, but he has plans to stick it out and make the thing with his wife Georgia work…though if my mother had her druthers, the entire “Vegas wedding” part would be erased clean and replaced with a lovely, English church wedding.

  Tails and top hats and the like.

  “Yoo-hoo, earth to Jack…”

  Beside me, Kaylee tries to regain my attention. I shake my head to sift out the fuzz, lifting a bottle of beer to my mouth.

  Bottled this time and not in a cup. Seems the rugby team is moving on up in the world—or rather, has a wealthy alum visiting from out of town who is paying for the party.

  Some Goliath who looks like Big Foot—Sasquatch they’ve called him. Bearded. Graduated a few years back but in the city to volunteer for something or other.

  “Sorry,” I apologize to Kaylee. It’s not her fault she can’t hold my attention, though she is sweet as can be.

  Hot piece of ass, the guys have said about her.

  We don’t have that phrase in the UK, but it sounds as derogatory as it feels saying it, thus I haven’t repeated it out loud.

  Mum would kill me if she heard half the new shite slang I’ve picked up while living here.

  Kill.

  Me.

  Kaylee’s chatter isn’t horrible; I’m just not in the mood for it.

  She found me inside, cornered me by the makeshift bar the guys erected out of wood and nails and staples, then proceeded to wrangle me out the front door and onto the porch where it’s quiet and the traffic is low.

  No one’s bothered us, and now we’re stuck here making small talk.

  “We should plan a date or something,” she hedges, choosing her words slowly.

  We could, I suppose. No harm in that…unless you count the fact that she seems to be smitten with me.

  Emotional attachment and all that, plus, as sweet and cute as she is, Kaylee strikes me as the type of girl who doesn’t actually have career aspirations.

  Babies and boob jobs and Botox more like.

  Whatever.

  I’m not here to judge.

  “Anyway,” she says, “I was talking to some of the girls on the team and we thought it would be really super fun to go like, apple picking or something. They have these super cute places where you can drink wine and apple pick?” She’s talking as if she’s asking actual questions and not telling me about these things. “Or like, I have a few friends who go drink wine and paint? We could do that?”

  Both of those things sound bloody awful.

  I have no idea what to say, but I’m spared because she continues rambling on hastily.

  “Okay I can tell you don’t like either of those options. What if we like, go to a movie or something?”

  I glance over. “What kind of movie?”

  I love the cinema. Went all the time as a lad, especially on the weekends at school with my friends—it was the perfect escape, especially since we were stuck there.

  Ha!

  “I hate to use the word chick flick…”

  Then don’t.

  Action flick, yes.

  Chick flick, no.

  “Um. What about we go have wings and beer and watch a baseball game?”

  Eh. I don’t love the thought of that either. We don’t have baseball in England and I’ve never understood the rules, so watching it is boring for me. I’ve never been to an actual baseball stadium in America and most likely never will, though I’m well aware that I should embrace the customs here, and it is baseball season…

  Guilt eats away at me because I know Kaylee is trying to have a conversation.

  It’s about as deep as a puddle, but still. She’s trying.

  “I wasn’t even sure you were going to be here tonight,” Kaylee says, and I’m not sure I quite believe her.

  I’ve been hanging out at the rugby house since the very beginning. Since the guys found out I was on campus and basically hunted me down so I would not only hang out with them, but join the team and participate and play.

  “Yeah,” I grunt. It’s not like I have a whole lot going on right now. When I’m not at the house or class, I’m typically found in the den watching movies or doing what Eliza was doing, which was…

  Actually I’m not sure what she was doing.

  “Hey, what exactly is your roommate working on in that notebook of hers? She didn’t tell me.”

  Kaylee looks at me flirtatiously and shrugs. “Well if she didn’t want to tell you, why should I?”

  She raises a very valid point. Still, I’m insatiably curious.

  “Oh? You don’t want to tell me?”

  “I didn’t say I don’t want to tell you. I said if Eliza didn’t want to tell you, why should I? What’s my motivation?”

  Kaylee has her brows raised flirtatiously, and I swear her lips are puckered, too.

  Or maybe it’s the dark night sky and the dim light on the porch playing tricks on me. Surely she doesn’t want me to kiss her? In exchange for information?

  That’s like—extortion.

  Or blackmail.

  Not really sure which one, but…something.

  “I’m not sure what you mean by motivation.” My fingers are still wrapped around the beer bottle, and I’m holding on to it for dear life. “Yo
u’re going to have to be more specific.”

  Kaylee observes me in the dark shadows, and I can see she doesn’t believe I’m confused about what she means; nonetheless, she braces herself to explain. Sits up a little bit taller on the porch swing, throws her hair over her shoulder confidently.

  “You know what I mean.” She giggles.

  “Are you trying to get me to kiss you?”

  Her shoulders square up a bit. “I have never in my life had to motivate someone to want to kiss me. Stop being weird.”

  “I’m not being weird,” I allow. “I’m being…shy.”

  She sits back, resting against the swing. “Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. Is that like, a British thing?”

  No, it’s an I don’t like being told what to do thing.

  “Bet you would kiss me if I had scones stuffed down my shirt.” She laughs, and my eyes are drawn down her face to her chest.

  “Do you have scones stuffed down your shirt?”

  ’Cause that would be amazing. Scone tits?

  Hell yeah.

  She laughs again. “I feel like you would know—my boobs would be all lumpy.”

  Kaylee giggles again.

  I’m not sure what she thinks is funny because I quite personally think the whole thing would be awesome, but whatever. I would eat those scone tits in a heartbeat.

  Apparently she’s given up trying to kiss me because she’s crossed her arms and her legs both. One of her legs gives a jaunty little bounce, causing the swing to rock a bit, back and forth, back and forth.

  Back and forth…

  “What’s your favorite color?” she asks out of the blue. It’s such a weird random question to ask for no apparent reason, and I crane my head to look at her. Does she actually give a shite what my favorite color is?

  Who gives a fuck?

  I’m just salty because I’m knackered and would rather be sleeping right about now, questioning the wisdom of this Friday night out.

  “You going to knit me a sweater in blue?”

  “I would if I knew how to knit,” she flirts.

  “Well…my favorite color isn’t blue, it’s gray.”

  A fact that always drove my mother mad. When I was younger, I wanted everything to be gray, gray, gray and would wear only that color. Threw fits if my tiny pants weren’t my color of choice. Then, when I went to boarding school, obviously I had to wear the uniform colors.

  Poor me.

  “Gray?” Kaylee wrinkles her nose. “Why?”

  I shrug because what other reply is there to that? My favorite color is my favorite color!

  “What’s your favorite color?” I mean—I don’t actually give a shite, but why not ask to be polite?

  “Oh my gosh—so many. I love pink. And blue. And…purple. No, lavender.”

  Okay…

  “So your favorite color is rainbows?”

  Kaylee giggles. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  The laughter is followed by silence as we rock back and forth, swing creaking, chains rusted.

  Glancing up at the ceiling of the porch, I sigh.

  There is no rugby meeting or practice in the morning, but a sudden urge to head home—or at least get moving—has me standing.

  I cannot keep sitting here making idle chitchat with Kaylee. I will lose my mind.

  “Where are you going?” She looks up at me, big doe eyes wide.

  “Taking you home?” I hedge, gambling on the knowledge that she will jump at the chance to leave with me. We’ll walk to her house and maybe I’ll get to see—

  Shite.

  You are not thinking about the roommate, you are not thinking about the roommate, you are not thinking…

  I wonder what the roommate is doing and if she’s home on the couch with a bag of chips, sketching and watching the telly, hair tossed up in a cute messy bun.

  “Come on, let’s get a move on.”

  We rise, swing hitting the porch railings, the wood clashing with a loud bang.

  It continues swinging in the breeze as we make our way down the steps at the front of the house.

  “So…” The silence drags out. “You’re really not going to tell me what she works on in that book of hers?”

  Now why did I just blurt that out? She’s going to think I’m dicked in the knob.

  “Ha.” Kaylee scoffs. “I’m shocked she didn’t tell you herself.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I don’t know—she loves drawing those little cartoons of hers, so I would think she would have shown them to you.”

  Kaylee’s hand moves from her side, materializing on my bicep.

  “Little cartoons?”

  She waves her free hand in the air as her eyes focus on the stairs, her steps measured. “You know—comics or whatever.”

  Comics.

  Eliza is into comics?

  Interesting.

  And coincidental because I am into comics as well.

  Perhaps not drawing or sketching them like she has apparently been doing, but I definitely have an interest and always have. It was one thing I loved doing at school to occupy myself, watching movies and collecting memorabilia.

  In fact, I have so much comic memorabilia it’s almost embarrassing. I couldn’t bring much of it with me because there are totes upon totes upon totes of action figures, posters, movie collectibles.

  Magazines and comic books.

  Marketing toys from vintage movie adaptions to shows on the telly.

  No franchise or universe is off limits.

  I did bring along a few framed pieces and a poster or three to hang on the walls of my new place to make it feel more comfortable, and yeah, my bedspread is Spiderman. The shower curtain? Captain America.

  I won’t apologize for all the money I’ve spent over the years collecting all that shite—it’s something I have always loved. Kind of kept me company when I was lonely at school without my family.

  I remain quiet—no need to continue talking about Kaylee’s roommate when the roommate isn’t around.

  Maybe she’s home and you’ll get to see her…

  Knock it off, Jack.

  That’s shitty.

  Bringing one girl home to chat up the other? Real shitty.

  “So I have a question…” Kaylee breaks another long silence in the cold, dark night. “When your dad dies, who becomes the earl? You or your brother or what?”

  Uh.

  What?

  Did she seriously just ask what happens when my father dies?

  “Pardon?” I know I heard her—but I’d like more clarification.

  Kaylee’s little laugh fills the air. “Ha. I was just wondering what happens when your dad dies. Like, how old is he?”

  Christ, is she being bloody serious?

  I never would’ve known by looking at her, but it seems Kaylee is a bloodthirsty little thing, more mercenary than I gave her credit for if she’s asking questions like this already. She and I haven’t even been on a date yet. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure if I want to take her out, and now this?

  No, I’m not sure I want to take her out even as a pity gesture though she’s been sniffing around.

  Kaylee couldn’t be making it any more clear.

  I’m not sure how to reply to her question about when my father is going to die, and I’m not sure if I should dignify it with a response because it’s a very rude thing to inquire about—no one in Britain would ask such a thing.

  You’re not in Britain, Jack…

  You’re in the States.

  That thought sobers me.

  I haven’t been that terribly homesick since moving here, but it hits me now. The guys on the rugby team have been great mates, but I spend so much time by myself I’m beginning to wonder if it could possibly be healthy, if I can stand being this isolated for as long as I need to be here to get an American education.

  Lonely.

  It’s a word I don’t think about very often other than those mornings I’m standing at the bathroom sink
washing my face to get my day started. I’ve found myself glancing up at my reflection, looking into a set of tired eyes, wondering if there’s anything behind them.

  Do I recognize myself anymore?

  You should’ve stayed home, Jack. You should never have left.

  But then I wouldn’t have known, would I?

  I spent most of my life believing I didn’t need anyone, mostly because I spent most of my life at boarding schools without my family, typically only seeing them during holidays. And yes, I have my brother—but we never saw each other all that often, passing like two ships in the night, never really in school at the same time, and our courses didn’t ever overlap.

  He would leave and I would begin, and that’s the way it has always been.

  Listen to me, I’m a rhymer now.

  “My father is in his prime.” We’re turning the corner at the end of the block and I automatically head straight, easily remembering that the house is on the other side of campus. “He won’t be passing any time soon.”

  “Passing.” She thinks. “Oh, you mean dying.”

  “Yes, I mean dying.” I’d roll my eyes at her if she wasn’t so utterly naïve.

  “You said he’s an earl?”

  “No, I said he’s a baron, and the title passes along to my brother, Ashley.”

  Kaylee halts in the center of the sidewalk and faces me, literally doing a timeout signal with her hands. “Pause. You have a brother named Ashley?”

  What has gotten into her tonight? She’s being rather crass, questioning everything I say and blurting out offensive questions as if it were her due.

  “My brother’s name is Ashley.”

  She turns back toward the street to continue walking. “That’s so weird.”

  “How is that?”

  Kaylee shrugs. “It’s a girl’s name.”

  “Is it?” I’m quiet as I mentally compose a list of gentlemen’s names that are traditionally feminine, but only in America. “Lauren. Stacy. Shannon. All the names of great men in Britain.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Ashley.”

  “You’re cute.” Her tone is dismissive, and I want to continue beleaguering the point but let the subject drop. There is no sense in arguing with someone who is uninformed and does not seem to want information, who only wants to flirt.