Blaze, page 22
“Are you sure? Because I don’t want you to mistake me for an old ex and go stabbing me in my sleep or something.”
“Don’t worry,” I smile. “I only murder roommates I don’t like.”
She gives a nervous laugh.
“Too dark?”
She nods. “Yeah, I prefer my humor a little more Supernatural than Dexter, if you know what I’m saying.”
I smile into the mug. “I do.”
“How was date night, by the way? Did your jock make a fool of himself as hoped?
I smile again at the thought of Cayden at the Swing Dance Society. Not that I was going to let on, but he was actually getting pretty competent at the end there, a regular Fred Astaire—with guns, like, eight abs, and tattoos. All the tattoos. Poor Aunty Val, rest her soul, would be reaching for her panic button if I brought a guy like that home. He looks like he belongs in a state penitentiary, not swanning around as a law student-cum-football hero.
I promised myself I would start fresh here, try and leave New York behind, but jumping into a relationship with someone like Cayden has ‘bad move’ written all over it. The guy is clearly a womanizer. I shouldn’t fall for his cheap tricks. I’m smarter than that.
But were they cheap? He could have left, but he tried… for you.
And when that jersey came off… Dayum. I’m betting there wasn’t a dry set of panties in the house, myself included.
And he could be yours.
But for how long? How long would it take before I’m cast aside, nothing more than another ‘score,’ another touchdown?
Screw that.
“It was… interesting,” I finish.
Naomi seems curious. “He wasn’t what you expected?”
“No, not really.”
“One-liners?”
“Not this time.”
“No ‘Your bone structure is giving my bone structure,’ or ‘I’m all out of raisins, how about a date?’”
“I met a guy who could lick his eyebrows once,” I add.
“Wow.”
“Not as sexy as it sounds.”
“So, are you going to go out with Sir Jock-A-Lot again?”
“His name’s Cayden.”
Naomi reels back. “He has a name. This is serious.”
“I did promise him another date, on his terms this time.”
“Sounds dangerous. He’s probably going to take you sky-diving or something.”
“Naked.” I smile.
“Just make sure you don’t get knocked out by his wind sock.”
We both laugh at that.
Naomi places her hand on my shoulder. “Be careful, okay. I know you’re acting like a badass, but I bet there’s a gooey, delicate center in there somewhere.”
“I’m not a Milky Way.”
She glances down. “Come on. You’re wearing My Little Pony PJs.”
I glance down at myself. “I thought they were cute.”
Naomi shifts to her side of the room. “And I rest my case. Goodnight, Pinkie Pie.”
I slip under the covers. “Goodnight, Twilight Sparkle.”
“No more nightmares, okay?”
“I promise,” I say, falling asleep to an entirely different kind of dream.
*
My head is bursting with commercial law overload. It’s far from titillating, but I remind myself I’m here to become a lawyer, not be entertained.
That said, I was hoping to see Cayden, strange as that sounds, but he wasn’t in the lecture. I text him to ask if we’re still on for tonight, hoping I’m not coming across too eager.
Like it matters. Nothing serious, remember?
He texts back AT TRAINING with an enthusiastic emoji and a time. I’m just thankful it isn’t a dick pic.
Are you, though?
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a tiny bit intrigued. I’ve only been privy to two penises in my entire life, and neither was exactly ‘fulfilling.’ In fact, my first time was entirely unsexy, complete with the smell of McDonalds in the back seat of a Chevy Nova and way too many ‘I can’t find it’s for my liking. I mean, seriously, what do you want me to do? Draw you a map? It’s not my butthole and I’m certainly not turned on when you start fucking my bellybutton.
Something makes me think Cayden Beckett wouldn’t require a map.
He probably wrote the book on female anatomy.
I squeeze my thighs together a touch harder, sort of smirking to myself at these taboo thoughts. I would love to get off. Question is, is the fallout worth it? The scarlet letter on my forehead?
Quite unknowingly, I find myself drifting towards Troy after my lecture, what I’ve learned is the unofficial title of the college stadium, the home of the mighty Trojans.
There’s no security at the gate. I simply walk right on in, reaching the end of the tunnel and pulling back into the shade, my eyes watching the players on the field.
At first all I see is a bunch of padded-up guys, but I soon pick up on Number One—Cayden.
The ball goes long and he jets backwards. I’m talking the Caucasian Usain Bolt, running with so much speed I’m sure the grass is going to catch fire.
He turns and catapults into the air, catching the ball against his chest and cradling it back to the ground, already poised to take off again.
Okay. So you’re kind of impressive in your natural element.
The Coach, a balding man in a fire-engine red jacket, yells on from the sidelines, shaking his clipboard at the players.
They take off their helmets, many falling to the grass in exhaustion.
It’s hot out, and humid—real southern weather. The name ‘Troy’ seems entirely fitting for this kind of weather.
Wait ’til you see Cayden’s Trojan horse…
While I’m busy chastising my inner dirty man, I see another player bump into Cayden from the side, Number Two. I note the hair, the build. It’s Hunter, the second brother.
I did a little research after Naomi left this morning. There are four Beckett brothers in total, but only three are here at Abbotsleigh, the same university their father attended. I have to assume their good genes come from their mother’s side, because their father isn’t the prettiest tool in the shed. He might be a partner of one of the country’s biggest law firms, a regular of the New York social pages, but a handsome man he is not.
I watch Cayden and Hunter making their way to the sidelines laughing and joking.
I wonder if they’re talking about me, if Cayden’s already laying out the next stage of Operation Assault Her Pants.
You’re going to need more than a Trojan horse for that, my friend, no matter how big it is.
“Nice.”
I almost jump clear out of my skin.
Naomi rests her chin on my shoulder, watching the field. “Number One. That’s him, right?”
“Yes,” I reply, short.
“He’s cute… in a Tom Hardy-Jamie Dornan kind of way.”
“He is,” I remark, too busy ogling him from our hiding place here.
“Cayden!” shouts Naomi.
He looks in our direction.
I pull back into the tunnel, mortified, push Naomi away. “You did not just do that.”
She starts to walk off back to campus. “Be careful. That’s all I’m saying.”
*
When I asked Cayden what I should wear tonight, he simply replied CASUAL.
That doesn’t rule out sky-diving, you know.
So, jeans and a plain tee it is, though I might have selected the smallest T-shirt I own to accentuate certain features… of course feeling like a complete idiot all the while sinking to that woeful, superficial level, but so be it.
I knock on the door and Cayden answers wearing jeans and a straight black shirt that’s struggling to contain all that strongman arm action. He smiles down at me with that cut jaw, cobalt eyes popping. “I never knew jeans could look so good,” he says.
I squeeze past him, notice he’s also wearing some kind of scent—maybe Armani, something dark and sophisticated and about a million miles away from the jock the world knows. “You look… alright.”
He’s still smiling as I walk in. Colton, the youngest brother, places down his lacrosse stick. He’s not quite as built as his brothers, his hair cropped shorter, but the Beckett smile is there. “Welcome.”
“Hi,” I say, feeling self-conscious in front of the brothers.
I see Hunter emerge from the adjoining room. He stops by the breakfast bar, bent over, hand on his stomach.
A look of concern flashes across Cayden’s face. “You alright, Hunter?”
Hunter grimaces for a moment before he straightens and puts on a smile. “Never been better. Probably just pushing too hard at training. You know how it is.”
Cayden nods, but I sense he’s not convinced.
Hunter jabs his thumb at the hall. “I’m going to head up, get some rest, okay?”
“Sure,” says Cayden.
Hunter turns as he walks. “Good to see you again, Indy. Watch out for The Damage.” He winks at Cayden before disappearing into the hall.
“Will do,” I reply.
Once Hunter is gone, Colton comes over, voice low. “What the fuck was that about? Hunter, resting? What next? Nuclear war?”
Cayden doesn’t say anything. He continues to stand there watching the hallway.
I walk around as he broods, checking out the kitchen, which is, funnily enough, the size of my entire apartment back in New York. I look through the back window. There’s a shed out the back, a light on.
I tap the window. “So that’s where you’re hiding your red room.”
Cayden comes behind me, close enough for me to feel the heat of his body, the way it compresses against my back. “Man business.”
“Well.” I smile, turning around to face him. “You better give me the grand tour.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
CAYDEN
Colton has a point. What is up with Hunter? He never gets tired, never feels off. It simply doesn’t happen.
I’m running through it as I lead Indy to the garage down back. I pull up the roller door and switch on the light. “See?”
She walks in, pacing around our project. “Mustang. Fastback. Say, ’66 given the front end?”
I’m so shocked I don’t even have time to get hard. “You know your cars.”
She runs a hand down the fender. I’m close to creaming my pants.
“My aunty lived next to a garage. I had a crush on one of the mechanics when I was around twelve or so, and given I wasn’t a big fan of Judge Judy re-runs, I’d be over there day and night helping him out, wishing he’d dump his girlfriend for me.”
“And did he?” I question.
Her fingers dance on the fender. “He married her, though I hear she cheated on him, took his ‘70 ’Cuda. Crate motor. House of Kolor Kandy Green. It was a beautiful car.”
I lean against the wall, nodding my head at the Mustang. “This will be too if we can ever get the damn thing started.”
Indy pushes off the fender. “What’s the problem?”
I wave it off. “Engine stuff. It’s complicated.”
“Tell me.”
I shrug, walking forward to pop the hood. “Alright. I’ll play.”
She looks into the engine bay inquisitively, runs her hand down around the rocker covers. “Start her up.”
I shake my head, moving around to the driver’s door. “I’m telling you. We’ve tried everything.”
I get in and punch the key into the ignition, turning and adding gas at the same time. There’s a splutter, as always, the hint of an idle, but it dies as soon as it begins. Even Hunter, master of machines, hasn’t been able to figure it out.
“See?” I shout from the interior. “No good.”
“Again,” she shouts back.
Shaking my head, I turn the key once more—the same splutter, and then…
What the fuck?
The engine turns over, roaring into life. I feather the throttle, listen to it revving out. “Holy shit,” I whisper to myself.
I sit there and let it run. The idle’s a little lumpy, but this is a 50-year-old car. It’s not going to run like a Corolla.
“Cut it,” she calls. I switch the engine off and come out of the car, moving around to the front to find Indy gloriously bent over the grille, head deep in the engine bay and her perfect, peachy ass poking up into the air.
She gives a little grunt and rocks back onto her feet, standing with greasy hands.
I stand there fighting a hard-on. “That,” I tell her, “is the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen”.
I bring my cell out, line her up in the screen.
She cowers behind her hands, suddenly serious. “No, Cayden, please. I don’t like photos.”
“Come on. A memento of this momentous occasion.”
“Please,” she says again. “No photos, no social media, no nothing.”
Alright. I slip the cell back into my pocket. “Suit yourself.”
I toss her a rag from the bench. She catches it in one hand and begins to clean her hands.
I come forward. “What? You’re not going to tell me what you did? We’ve been trying to get this started for almost a year and you just waltz in and Dom Toretto it?”
She shrugs, looking impossibly cute. “It was a simple fix, really. I’m surprised you boys couldn’t work it out.”
I come another step closer. I can smell the grease now, the way it mixes with her natural, vanilla scent—the one that’s turning my dick to rock. “It was the distributor, wasn’t it?”
“Nope.”
“Plugs?”
She folds her arms. “Seriously?”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
She taps her nose. “My little secret.”
I’m close enough to reach out for her now, to bridge the gap between us and place my lips on hers, press my tongue between them and explore her sweet mouth.
But she pulls away, walking down the side of the car. “Why do you guys even have this thing? I saw the New Camaro and Harley out front. You guys are rich. Everyone knows that, and I just got here. You could pay the best auto shop in the state to work on this thing.”
“And what would be the fun in that?” I reply. “Sure, my brothers and I are well funded here thanks to our father. Hell, we’ve never wanted for a thing in our lives, but you know the problem with a silver spoon?”
“Can’t say I do.”
I lean against the A-frame of the Mustang. “It starts to taint the taste of your food. You start yearning for simpler things, organic pleasures.”
“Like sleeping around?”
I scoff, shaking my head at the ceiling. “You think I’m two-dimensional, don’t you? All about the fucking and football and nothing else?”
“Yeah, I kind of do.”
“You’re wrong. I’m going to prove it to you.”
A wry smile. “Is that a fact?”
“No, it’s a promise.”
She knocks the passenger door. “And the Mustang?”
“I think she likes you.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “It’s a ‘she’?”
“All quality automobiles are females…. Except Priuses. I think they’re asexual.”
She laughs at that, a bubbly, addictive giggle that’s making my cock concrete hard.
I extend my hand. “Should we go then?”
She smiles and takes it. Her fingers are warm, sweaty.
They’re going to be a fuck-load warmer later.
She jerks her head to the front of the house. “Only if we’re taking the Harley.”
*
Indy steps off the back of the Harley still vibrating. She pulls her helmet free, shaking her hair out—much to my pleasure.
I shake my own slowly.
“What?” she smiles.
“You can’t tell me that’s your natural color.”
She runs a hand through her pearly hair, pulls it over her shoulder. “There’s nothing fake about me, I assure you.”
My eyes drop to her chest.
“Definitely not those, mister.” She looks around. “Where are we?”
I can see the concern. I’ve dragged us halfway out into the sticks here, the kind of backwater dive that would have most folks running for the hills, but I’ve done my research. This is ground zero for the best underground punk in a hundred miles. “They call it the Molly.”
She cups her ear, listening. “It’s a music venue?”
I place my helmet down, proud. “The finest punk you’ll find anywhere.”
“Punk?” she laughs. “What makes you think I like punk?”
Fuck.
I point down. “The Cons, the Ramones sticker on your folder…”
She tilts her head back, laughing to the sliver of moon above. “Oh, man.”
“You don’t like punk?”
From the expression on her face I know I’ve fucked this up royally.
“Half the world owns a pair of Converse,” she says. “And the Ramones sticker? That’s my aunty’s old folder.”
“So what do you like?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Pop and dance, chart stuff.”
Shitty McShitface.
“But,” she continues, “I appreciate the effort, which is why we’re going to go inside this…” She looks to the venue. “Possible murder factory and have a good time.”
“Alright,” I agree, extending my hand again.
She takes it, smiling and I know I’m one step closer.
I notice a black sedan parked down back as we’re walking. I’m sure it was following us here, but that doesn’t mean squat given this place is the only sign of life down this road. Still, there’s something unsettling about it, a certain déjà vu-ish pull I can’t let go.
Indy suddenly tugs me hard into her side, a pole passing down my right.
I was going to let go of her hand momentarily, let the pole pass between us. “What the hell was that?”
“You can’t split when walking around a pole,” she says, dog-dirt serious.
“Why not?” I laugh.
“Bad luck. Everyone knows that.”
This is new. “You’re superstitious?”
Her slate eyes turn electric blue as we stand under the neon sign above. “Is that going to be a problem?”
