Bent Over the Bar (Straight College Jocks #12)

Chapter 1

“Three weeks,” Roxy says, polishing a pint glass. “You look stressed.”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You’re definitely stressed.” She holds the glass up to the light, checking for spots. “It’s okay to admit defeat, Calvin. I won’t judge you.”

“You’ll absolutely judge me.”

“True.” She grins. “But I’ll try not to gloat too much when you finally cave.”

I stack clean glasses on the rack behind the bar, still warm from the dishwasher. Neon beer signs glow against the fading light outside. In a couple of hours, this place will be packed, but right now it’s just me and Roxy restocking liquor before the rush.

We’ve been doing this stupid bet for three weeks, seeing who can go the longest without hooking up. It started after Roxy gave me shit for going home with two different girls in the same weekend. She said I had no self-control. I said she was one to talk. Now we’re trying to outlast each other.

“I’m not caving,” I say. “You’re gonna cave first.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” She sets down the glass. “Before this bet, you couldn’t go a shift without getting your dick wet.”

“So?” I crouch to load the beer fridge, sliding bottles into place. “I wasn’t motivated.”

“Right. So you’re only keeping it in your pants because you don’t wanna lose?”

“Obviously. Why else would I torture myself?”

“You’re such a slut.” She laughs and swats at me with her bar towel.

“Like you’re any better.” I stand and lean against the bar. “If it weren’t for this bet, you’d already be on your knees for that basketball player from last week. The one with the neck tattoo. I saw you checking out his ass every time he walked past.”

“I have a healthy sex drive. Yours is a problem.” She grabs a cutting board and starts slicing limes. “And I can’t help that I have a thing for athletes.”

“Well, you’re in for a rough night then,” I say. “The football team’s coming in after their game. One of the guys posted it on his story.”

Her knife pauses mid-slice. “What?”

“Yep. And they’re gonna be all sweaty and testosterone-fueled when they win.” I grin. “Good luck keeping your legs closed tonight.”

“You’re the worst.” She goes back to cutting, but I catch the way her green eyes narrow, a strand of red hair falling into her face as she focuses a little too hard on the limes.

I refill the ice bins behind the bar, letting her stew.

Roxy and I have been working together for two years.

We both started here sophomore year, both needing the money, both juggling shifts around classes and deadlines.

We didn’t even like each other at first. She thought I was a cocky asshole.

I thought she was a pain in the ass. But somewhere between bitching about our manager and covering each other’s shifts, we became best friends.

Not that it stops us from giving each other constant shit.

Roxy looks up from her cutting board and smiles sweetly. “You know what comes with the football team?”

“What?”

“Cheerleaders. Sorority girls. All the hot chicks who follow them around.” She smirks. “So good luck to you too.”

“I can handle it.”

“Can you, though?” She tosses the lime wedges into a container. “Remember that brunette last Saturday? Pink dress? You were ready to dick her down in the bathroom before I reminded you about our bet.”

“I wasn’t gonna do anything.”

“Liar.”

“Fine. But I didn’t do it, did I? I’ve got three weeks in. No way I’m losing to you tonight.”

“Says the guy vibrating with sexual frustration.”

“We’ll see who cracks first.” I check my phone. “Doors open in twenty. When those jocks walk in, I’ll be watching you, Rox. I know how much you love a big, muscular athlete who needs his ego stroked. Or his balls emptied. Whichever you prefer.”

“Same goes for you, Calvin. The minute some pretty girl bats her eyelashes, you’ll be chasing her around like a lost puppy. We both know you can’t say no to a pair of nice tits.”

“Watch me.”

“You’re gonna break.”

“Won’t.”

“Will.”

Roxy grabs the Fireball from the speed rail and pours two shots, handing me one. “To restraint,” she says as we clink our glasses.

“To your imminent failure.”

We knock them back. The cinnamon burns all the way down.

The door swings open, and a group of girls walks in, giggling and dressed for a night out. Short skirts. Heels. Tight tops pushing their tits together. Way too dressed up for a dive bar like this, which means they’re probably pregaming before heading somewhere else.

They grab a high-top in the corner, voices loud even over the music blasting through the speakers. One of them, a petite blonde, glances over and catches me looking. She smiles, runs a hand through her hair, then turns back to her friends.

I grab a rag and wipe down the bar, trying not to stare.

“She’s checking you out,” Roxy says, sliding past me with a tray of empties.

“Just go take their order, Rox.”

“Tempted already?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Right.” She grabs her notepad, grinning. “I’ll be sure to get blondie’s number for you.”

I watch her walk away, the sway of her hips in those tight black jeans she always wears. Her red hair’s pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands loose around her neck. She’s got a great ass, and I know it. Not that I’d ever tell her. That’s a line we don’t cross.

The thing is, Roxy’s right.

I have zero self-control when it comes to hooking up.

Never have. It started freshman year when I realized how easy it was to bring girls back to my dorm, and it’s been a blur ever since.

One-night stands, quickies in bathroom stalls, back-alley blowjobs, you name it.

If she’s hot and willing, I’m in. Life’s short. Might as well have fun.

But it’s gotten worse over time. A lot of mornings, I wake up next to a girl whose name I either don’t remember or never bothered to ask.

At that point, I’m already figuring out how fast I can get her out the door.

When they want more than a quick fuck and start texting, I ghost them.

I’m not proud of it. I feel like shit for a few hours, then end up doing it all over again the next weekend.

As a bartender, it’s almost too easy. Girls notice the tattoos, the way I make them laugh while pouring their drinks, and suddenly they’re leaning over the bar, showing cleavage, brushing my arm when they order. Most nights, I don’t even have to try.

Doesn’t hurt that I keep in good shape—gym three times a week, running on Sundays—and have the blue-eyed, blond thing going. I’m basically catnip for college girls looking for a no-strings-attached good time.

This bet with Roxy is the longest I’ve gone without sex in years. My balls ache. My dick gets hard at the slightest provocation. I’m jerking off twice a day just to stay sane.

But I’m not gonna lose.

No fucking way.

I turn back to the bar and grab bottles to restock the fridge.

More people file in. The noise climbs. Soon it’s crowded, people lined up two-deep at the bar, shouting to be heard.

I start pouring drinks, moving on autopilot as the muscle memory of mixing, shaking, and opening bottles takes over.

A gin and tonic here, a vodka cranberry there.

The register dings. The ice rattles. Glasses clink.

That’s when the door flies open, and the football team pours in all at once. A wave of tall, muscular guys in team jackets, yelling and laughing, patting each other on the back. The bar erupts in cheers and whistles as they pile in. I guess they won.

This is it. My chance to watch Roxy squirm. These big, cocky jocks are exactly her type, and now she’s surrounded by them.

I lock eyes with her across the bar and give her a small wink. She shakes her head, mouthing “fuck you” before turning to serve a customer. Acting all cool and collected, but I know her pussy’s tingling at the sight of all that testosterone.

That’s what you get, Rox, for teasing me with those girls. Let’s see how you handle this.

Game on.