8. Chapter 8
Cody
The tires screech as I whip the Range Rover into the first open spot outside of Young Hall. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel my pulse in my throat, behind my eyes, in my goddamn teeth. I jam my finger into the button to turn off the engine.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
That was them.
I lean forward, rest my head on the steering wheel, and close my eyes. I need to calm down before I pass out. “Why the hell were they at the harbor? What do they want with me?”
The back of my neck prickles.
Just need to get inside, then this nightmare is over because there's no way those two psychos are following me onto a college campus.
Unless they go here.
Would explain why they were in town and how they found me.
Sitting up, I drag in a deep breath and wipe my sweaty palms on my chinos. Some of my teammates should be home. I’ll be fine.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I jerk my head to the passenger window and all the air rushes from my lungs. “ Son of a bitch .”
One of the motorcycle guys leans over the passenger side, his forearms braced along the top of the Range Rover. The other one stands behind him. He taps the window again and waves.
He fucking waves.
I shove the driver’s side door open to bolt, but the seatbelt cinches across my chest, stopping me. “Come on!”
I fumble for the buckle, miss it once, then jam my thumb down. The latch clicks, and I’m out and running.
Young Hall is right there. I can make it. These assholes are done. Knight and Novotny will help. They will beat the ever-loving shit out of them the same way they did to those lacrosse losers last year.
Doyle would have my back too. Except he’s still at Castaways.
“You are sooo predictable. Everyone runs for the dorms. Every time. I was really hoping you'd be more creative.”
“Like I give a shit what a psychopath thinks!” I pump my legs harder. The entrance is only twenty feet away.
“Don’t think so.” The bigger one cuts in from the side.
Shit.
I’m not going to make it. So, I dart left.
“Oh, hell yeah. Give us a tour of this richy-rich campus.”
That asshole needs to shut up.
I reach into my back pocket to grab my phone. Someone from my team’s got to be home. Or nearby.
But my pocket’s empty. I try the other. Nothing.
Fuck.
Left my phone in the goddamn cupholder because I was too busy having a heart attack to grab it when I got out.
“Why is this shit happening to me?” Like I don't have enough going on in my life. Even Connor Walsh keeps piling it on.
“Damn, dude. You’ve got some killer cardio. Too bad you’re slow.”
“Go to hell.” I run to the right, passing the Wexley Fine Arts Center, then make a right again, heading back toward Young Hall.
But the larger of the two comes up the side again, so I adjust. Except now I’m heading straight toward the tree line of thick oaks.
“Wow, you really learned nothing last weekend.”
Shit, shit, shit.
He’s too close.
I sprint into the trees, giving it everything I have. If I can just lose them—
“I gotta be honest with you, man. I had high hopes for tonight.
But you just keep running. You're kind of a letdown.
Like, at some point, you gotta ask yourself, are you always going to be the guy who runs?
Because that's getting boring real fast. And boring is . . . forgettable,” the loudmouth one says.
My jaw clenches, feet coming to a dead stop. I turn and swing at the annoying prick.
Ow, fuck.
“Damn, dude. Are you really that stupid that you punched me in the helmet?”
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up .”
I drop and shoot forward, wrapping both arms around his legs. He goes down hard. I'm on top of him before he hits the ground, and I swing again. And again. My fist connects with his visor. The side of his helmet. The chest plate of his vest.
He laughs, his whole chest shaking under me, and the sound crawls into my skull. “You're so mad right now.”
I grab the front of his vest with my left hand and hit him with my right. My knuckles are wet and throbbing, still, I keep going because the laughing won't stop.
“Enough,” a deep voice rumbles from behind.
I ignore it and swing again.
Pain explodes through my scalp, and a second later I’m dragged backward.
“I said enough.”
“Fuck you.” I claw at the hand in my hair, but it does nothing because the second asshole is wearing gloves.
His helmet presses up against my ear. “You’re fucking up your hand for no reason.”
I swing my head sideways to headbutt him. But his grip on my hair tightens, and he jerks me back. Something squeaks out of my throat and my spine curves and I can't—that wasn't—I didn't mean to do that.
“Oh.” The loudmouth one on the ground props himself up on his elbows. “He likes that.”
“Maybe.” The asshole grabbing my hair leans over my shoulder, then his helmet tilts down. “Not hard for us this time, eh.”
“Fuck you, you psycho piece of shit.”
He tightens his grip, and my breath stutters.
Hands wrap around my ankles, and my upper lip lifts into a snarl. “Let go.”
“Don’t think so.”
“I said, let go !” I try pulling my legs back, but the loudmouth is strong. I wiggle and lift, attempting to shift my weight. “Assholes!”
The loudmouth tightens his grip, head tilted. His chest is rising and falling fast. And the asshole behind me growls.
What the hell is wrong with them?
The hands on my ankles flex again.
I stop struggling for a second and follow his line of sight.
No.
That's not—I'm not—How the fuck am I hard right now?
But I am. There’s no missing the outline of my dick, not with my pants pulled that tight around it.
Fuck this shit.
I yank my legs hard and fast. One gets free, and I kick out, my foot connecting with the loudmouth’s shoulder.
The hand in my hair disappears, and a massive arm wraps around my chest, pinning my arms while pulling me into the equally large body it belongs to. “Hit him again, and I'll put you down.”
“Don’t care.” I kick out again, but the jerk in front ducks it.
The asshole behind me hooks his legs around mine, trapping them. I can't move. Can't kick. Can't twist.
“You trying to get me off with all that wiggling?”
And that’s when I feel his hard dick press against my ass through my chinos, which are apparently thin enough to feel everything because I can feel everything .
No one moves. No one says anything. There’s nothing but the sound of my breathing and a slight rustling of leaves.
The asshole under me shifts, slowly grinding himself against my ass, and the damn squeak comes out again. His arm loosens, lowering, and I suck in a breath, my hands grabbing his forearm.
He grinds again. Up. Then down.
My dick throbs, and every time the asshole moves, the seam of my chinos drags across it, lighting my whole body up. I gasp when he grinds again, my nails digging into the skin of his arm.
A grunt catches my attention, and I look up.
Loudmouth is palming himself, his hand drifting up, then down.
I blink, mouth hanging open. Heat spreads from my groin to my stomach to the base of my spine.
Fingers trace alongside my dick, like they did last weekend. But they never touch me. My eyes close as those fingers drag back up, my back arching.
I turn into his fingers, then his palm.
Oh, god. Oh, god.
I buck hard. Twice. Another squeak escapes as I fill my boxers.
My eyes shoot open, every muscle locking up. My breathing is so fast, so shallow that my vision darkens around the edges.
“Easy.”
“Let go.” My voice is raspy. And I can’t get air. But I don’t have to ask again because the asshole’s arm and legs come off me.
I scramble to my feet and run, not looking back.
Again. It happened again.
The second he touched me, I went off as if I had never been with anyone before.
My eyes burn, and my vision blurs. I swipe at my face with the back of my hand without slowing down. The cum in my boxers cools against my skin, every step reminding me it's there.
Reminding me that the one thing outside of hockey that I was supposed to be good at just failed me too.