Rebel Heart

by LK Farlow

  “The all-out dream? The PGA Pro Tour. The sensible dream? I’d teach and run a golf camp for kids that can’t afford a pro mentor. There’s just something about giving back that feels good—about making a difference.”

  Abby Jane lets out this soft little sigh and steps closer to me, running her palm reverently over my jaw. “There’s so much good in you, and my God, it’s a turn on.”

  I’m tempted to lay my lips on hers and show her just how much she turns me on, but we’re in public, in the middle of the clubhouse parking lot, so I rein it in. Down boy. “What about you, firecracker? You majoring in ass-kicking or what?”

  “Actually, I have a double major: business and education with a concentration in literacy.” She blushes when she says it, as if she’s embarrassed by how fucking smart and dedicated she is.

  “Really? That’s cool as shit, Abby Jane. Do you know what you want to do with it?”

  “You remember that recommendation letter I mentioned?”

  “The one I used to blackmail you into not quitting as my tutor?” She smirks and narrows her eyes at me. “Yeah, I remember it.”

  “Well, Professor Doss helped kickstart Booking Out. It’s a non-profit childhood literacy program. My goal is to get an internship and eventually transition to a full-time role.”

  “That’s amazing.” I press a chaste kiss to her lips. “You’re amazing.”

  “Shut up,” she says through a laugh. “What are you doing for the rest of the day?”

  I heft my golf bag higher up onto my shoulder, causing the clubs to clank together. “Well…I was hopin’ you.”

  Abby Jane flashes me a saucy grin. “That’s an idea I can get behind.”

  “Wanna head to my place this time?” I ask, quickly adding that West isn’t home.

  “Yeah. I’ve never seen your space. I’ll follow you there.”

  We each walk to our respective vehicles, and when she starts up her Chevelle, I have to smile. While my truck rumbles, her car roars—it’s a freaking beast that could easily give my diesel a run for its money.

  I check my rearview mirror every so often to make sure Abby Jane’s still behind me. Sure, Cottonwood is small, and she would be able to find my place easily on her own, but I don’t want to have to wait to get her under me. That short fucking skirt with those tall socks has been driving me insane all day.

  Unfortunately, when I turn onto our street, I notice West’s Mercedes in the driveway. Dammit, he isn’t supposed to be here.

  I throw my truck into park and kill the engine; Abby Jane meets me in the driveway. “I thought it was just gonna be us?”

  “It will be,” I reassure her. “C’mon.”

  Together, we set off for the side door, where I let us in. We kick off our shoes in the mudroom and set out to find West. The search is over quick, as he’s in the kitchen at the island, hunched over his laptop. He startles when he hears us walk in. “Jesus—oh! Hey.”

  I raise a brow at him. “Didn’t you have work today?”

  “Ah. Decided to work from home.” He sends my girl a wink and instinctively I pull her closer. He notices and laughs. Fucker.

  “Well, maybe you should head to the office instead,” Abby Jane tells him with a sweet smile.

  “I’m being kicked out of my own house?” he asks, but his tone is joking.

  Abby Jane walks over and pats his shoulder, like she’s soothing a small child. “It’s for your own good. Trust me.”

  West shakes his head with a small laugh. “Got it. Well, y’all have fun. Remember my motto, pleasure is momentary, babies are forever, so use protection.”

  He turns to walk out of the room, leaving his laptop behind. “Hey!” I holler after him. “Don’t you need your computer?”

  “Nah. Gonna call it quits. See if I can find me some afternoon delight. Think I’m in the mood for a redhead.”

  “You’re such a fucking pig.”

  West winks. “Oink.”

  “So, you want a tour?” I ask once West is gone.

  Abby Jane shrugs. “Sure. As long as it ends in your bedroom.”

  As promised, the tour ends in my bedroom. She pauses in the doorway, taking in the space. Her eyes dart from the pale gray walls and thick crown molding to the wide-plank Brazilian hardwood floors. Aside from a few trophies, the room is undecorated. Hell, even my bedding is white. All in all, it’s a boring room, but it gets the job done.

  “What are you waiting for?” Abby Jane asks with a wicked gleam in her eyes as she steps fully into the room, pulling her white polo over her head as she moves.

  I just about come in my pants when I catch a glimpse of her full tits encased in lavender lace. “Are you trying to kill me?” I croak out the words, blatantly ogling her chest.

  “Noooo.” She draws out the word. “I’m trying to fuck you.”

  Before I can recover to reply, she’s unfastening her skirt and sliding it down her legs, leaving her in nothing but her matching lingerie set and tall, black socks. Her attire, much like her, is the perfect contradiction. Sugar and spice, and oh my goddamn, everything nice.

  She’s tough as nails but still soft and vulnerable. She’s an open book and an enigma. She’s rough edges and a soft center. And she’s all fucking mine.

  And right now, she’s sinking to her knees, looking up at me like she wants to swallow me whole. Who the hell am I to deny her? I move to undo my belt, but she knocks my hands out of the way. “Let me.” She expertly unbuckles it before sliding the leather through the loops, pulling it off entirely. She fumbles a bit with the double closure of my khakis, but still gets them undone and pushed down in what has to be record time.

  The minute her warm, wet mouth envelops me, I start reciting golf stats in my head to keep this ecstasy from ending too soon. But it’s no use. My girl works me like a pro, and all too soon, I’m tapping her cheek to let her know I’m about to blow so she can pull away. But true to her nature, Abby Jane keeps going, sucking me down until I have nothing left to give.

  She licks her lips and hums as she pulls away, and I swear, my knees go a little weak. “You are so fucking perfect.” I offer her my hand and help pull her to standing before mashing my lips to hers, loving the way I taste on her tongue.

  I walk us back toward my bed until her thighs hit my mattress. Knowing exactly what I want, Abby Jane crawls up onto my bed, situating herself in the center. I kiss my way up her body, starting at the top of her tall socks, pausing in all the right places until she’s worked up to panting, and I’m ready to go again.

  We spend what feels like hours lost in each other’s bodies, and while it’s certainly not anywhere near our first time, something’s different. We’re less fevered. We both take our time, exploring and touching. I learn that if I tug the metal in her nipples while I’m inside her, it’s a hot-button guaranteed to set her off like a bomb. And she learns that raking her teeth over my hipbone is a surefire way to get me hard enough to split wood.

  We’re insatiable, and I fucking love it…I love her.

  Oh fuck.

  I totally fucking love Abby Jane Adams. Like, take my balls and nail them to the wall because I’m so lost over this girl love her. The question is, does she feel the same?

  AJ

  It’s been a few weeks since our golf date—slash—mind-bending, life-changing, record-setting sex-a-thon. Though, if I’m being honest, it was so much more than sex…for me, at least. That afternoon, Brock Larson moved mountains and broke down every wall that surrounded my heart.

  It was also the day I realized I was head over fucking heels in love with him.

  Only, since then he’s been sketch-city—acting cagey as hell. He says it’s because his coach has upped their practices from fifteen to twenty hours a week. And that’s on top of his volunteer hours, classes, and private sessions.

  So, I get that he’s crazy busy, but none of that explains why he’s on his phone more than usual or why he’s been so tense and stressed. For once my heart and my brain ar
en’t at war; my emotional side says he’s hiding something from me, and my logical side fucking agrees.

  He’s blown off our last two study sessions, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he canceled our plans for tonight either. I keep trying to reassure myself that we’re fine, but with us hardly talking, the nagging feeling in my gut won't shut up. It screams that I’m losing him. That shit got too serious, and he’s distancing himself from me—from us—and dammit, it hurts.

  In need of a second opinion, I text Stacia.

  Me: Come over. Please.

  Me: 911.

  Stacia: Give me fifteen. Love you. Will bring coffee.

  I’m wearing a trail through the living room rug when Stacia lets herself in, just a short knock announcing her arrival. “What’s wrong, AJ?”

  “Nothing.” I pace back and forth. “Everything. I don’t know.”

  Stacia moves farther into the room and sets the two beverages she’s holding onto the coffee table before plopping down onto my couch. She pats the seat beside her. “Come. Let’s talk. I don’t like seeing this stressy-messy side of you.”

  I let out a deep sigh and take a seat next to her. She promptly hands me an extra-large iced coffee, which I greedily suck down, hoping an extra dose of caffeine will soothe all that ails me.

  “Brock’s being weird, and it has me crazy.”

  “Weird how?” she asks, assessing me over the lid of her cup.

  “Weird like…like he’s about to ghost me.”

  “Girl. Please. I’m pretty sure that man loves you.”

  I snort, but it’s sad sounding. “Doubtful. You haven’t been around us lately. He’s distant, and I hardly see him, which I get—I do. He’s busy with golf, but he’s even skipped our last two study sessions. When we are together, he’s glued to his phone. I’m talking full-on extension of his arm. The only time he’s his normal self is when we’re fucking.” I run my hands through my unruly hair. “I’ve been waiting all day for him to cancel our plans tonight.”

  “I can see how that would be problematic. Now, don’t slap me for asking, but have you talked to him?”

  I deflate at her question, because to an extent, she’s right. I haven’t outright asked him anything. Maybe tonight I will. You know, if he doesn’t bail.

  “Tell ya what…you go take a bubble bath, and I’ll pick you out a killer outfit, and then I’ll do your hair and makeup, okay?”

  “Okay. Love you, bitch.”

  “Love you right back. Now, go!”

  BROCK

  I know Abby Jane can tell something’s off with me. At first, it was me processing the realization that I love her. Then it morphed into my wanting to make sure the first time I told her was nothing less than perfect. But now…now it’s more complicated.

  “Brock!” my dad barks out my name like he’s a drill sergeant.

  “Yes, sir?” I’ve been at the house for hours, going round and round in circles with him over my post-grad plans. Trying to get him to see my perspective is like talking to a rock.

  He stalks over to where I’m seated in his office and thrusts a stack of papers in my face. “You’re going to apply to Emory! You’re going to follow in my goddamn footsteps! And you’re going to do it with a smile on your face. You should be grateful for the path I’ve paved for you. Here’s your future on a silver platter, and you’re dumb and naïve enough to pass it up.”

  His face is beet red and sweat beads his hairline. If he were animated, smoke would be billowing out of his ears. “I’m not naïve, Dad.”

  “And for what?” he bellows, steamrolling right over me like I hadn’t even opened my mouth. “To teach? To play golf? To give back? Get real, son! If you want to give back so badly, do as I say and make charitable contributions. I will tell you right now, though, no son of mine is going to waste his potential on my dime.”

  He huffs out a breath as if trying to regain his composure. I’m about to take him down a peg when he starts back up, effectively cutting me off. “Not to mention, I’ve heard you’re gallivanting all around with Abby Jane.” He spits her name like a curse and I see red. “I’d say dating her is charity enough.”

  My fury propels me forward from the couch, causing him to take a step back. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that. Don’t you even fucking say her name. She’s the best damn thing to ever—”

  But Dad’s not having it, and he roars over me. “She is a disgrace. A bad apple. And I forbade you from seeing her!”

  “You forbade me? Get real, old man. I’m a grown-ass man, and I’m capable of making my own decisions—your input’s not wanted or—”

  My words are cut off when his fist crashes into my jaw. The force of the blow causes me to lose my footing, and I crash back into the couch.

  “She’s not meant for you. She’s not good enough for the Larson name and I won’t have you disgrace our family any more than you have.” He moves in closer to where I’m slumped against the sofa, hand gripping my throbbing face. “You will fall in line Brock, or there’ll be consequences.”

  I scramble up from my prone position and charge toward the door. “That’s right, Brock. Run.” I’m almost to the door when he calls out to me again. His words—full of menace and dark intent—send dread snaking through my veins. “And be sure to have a good time tonight.”

  He’s lost his goddamn mind if he thinks he has a say in who I date. And tonight, I plan to show my girl just how much I love her—his threats be dammed.

  AJ

  Stacia left twenty minutes ago, after she finished dolling me up, in order to give me some time to get my head on right, so to speak. I’m seated at the foot of my bed, decked out in a form-fitting little black sheath dress with a floral lace overlay and a halter neckline. It’s demure and sexy all at once. Stacia suggested pairing the dress with black stilettoes, but I opted for nude pumps instead.

  I gave her free rein on my hair and makeup. She styled my faded, barely-there pink locks in voluminous, beachy waves and complimented them with a fresh-faced look—subtly winged liner to make my brown eyes pop, rosy cheeks, and nude lips. All in all, I look pretty…tame. But pretty, nonetheless.

  Maybe a glass of wine will help scatter this stupid melancholy mood that’s been hovering over me like a dark cloud. Maybe it’ll take the edge off.

  I trudge from my bedroom to the kitchen and fling my fridge open, reaching for the blue bottle of Riesling. It’s already uncorked, so I don’t bother with a bottle opener, instead pulling the stopper out with my teeth before guzzling two gulps straight from the bottle.

  I’m moving in for my third swig when there’s a knock at my door. I check the time—seven on the dot. Guess Brock’s here. I recork the bottle and shove it back into the fridge. On the way to the door, I take one last fortifying breath before opening it and coming face-to-face with the man I love—who may not love me.

  Momentarily, I’m struck speechless. I’ve seen Brock dressed up a thousand times growing up—from cotillion to school dances, but none of those moments hold a candle to now. I start at the bottom, taking in his shiny black dress shoes and tailored charcoal pants. His black button down is stretched snugly across his muscled chest, and his hair’s gelled back and away from his face. I gasp when I see his left eye—all swollen and black and blue, the only thing marring his otherwise perfect appearance.

  “Oh, my God! Brock, are you okay?” I lift my hand to touch it but think better of it and let it fall back down to my side. “What happened?”

  Brock shrugs off my concern. “No big deal, firecracker. I wasn’t paying attention and walked into someone’s backswing.”

  I’m not sure if I believe him, but I decide to let it go. He moves closer to me and wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my neck. “I’ve missed you so much, Abby Jane. So fucking much.”

  His warm breath tickles my neck, and I lean into him a little more. “I’ve missed you too.” He steps back from me and reaches out and fingers one of my curls. “I’m sorry I’ve been
so distant. Shit’s gonna get better, I swear it.”

  I smile widely at his proclamation. Maybe tonight will be exactly what we need to get back on track. “So, what’s for dinner?” I ask, giving him an out.

  Brock links his arm with mine and guides me toward the elevator. “I made us reservations at The Colony Grill.”

  My mouth waters. “Oh, I haven’t eaten there in forever!” We spend the drive there in a companionable silence, simply taking comfort in one another’s presence. Brock pulls into the valet line and shifts his truck into park before exiting the vehicle. The attendant opens my door for me, but Brock waves him out of the way and helps me down himself.

  We step into the restaurant, and I’m instantly hit with waves of nostalgia. Memories of Mother’s Day brunches and family dinners flit through my mind. I waste no time shutting that vault—now’s neither the time nor the place for an impromptu trip down memory lane.

  “Good evening and welcome to The Colony Grill,” the hostess greets us. “Do y’all have reservations with us tonight?”

  “We do,” Brock tells her. “Two under Larson.”

  She frowns and taps around on her touchscreen for a few seconds. “Oh! Yes. There you are. Sorry, we have another—never mind. Not important. Your table is ready. If you’ll follow me?” She grabs two menus and fans her free hand out Vanna White style.

  We trail behind her, weaving our way through the dimly lit space, passing patrons enjoying their romantic, candlelit dinners. She leads us back to a small, round table located in the middle of the dining room.

  Ever the gentleman, Brock pulls out my chair for me before seating himself. “Harrison will be y’all’s server this evening, and he’ll be with y’all shortly. Thank you so much and have a great meal.” She places our menus on the table before turning and walking back the way she came.

  Inexplicably, the fine hairs all over my body stand on end and the back of my neck and ears feel hot—you know, that feeling you get when you’re being watched. I quickly scan the room, but I don’t see any familiar faces. How odd.