Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Friday nights at age twenty-four sure look a lot differently than I’d imagined.
I always saw myself falling in love with my high school sweetheart, getting married young, becoming a mama young, and spending my nights and weekends snuggled up in a puddle with my man and my babies on the couch—watching old TV shows and eating too much sugar.
I was on the road to that happily ever after, until life slapped me across the face.
Quite literally.
And now? I am driving to the drug store to get AA batteries for my vibrator, because I literally have nothing left to do except masturbate. I may grab some ice cream, too.
In a hoodie, with my greasy hair up in a wad of uncombed hell, no makeup on, wearing my rattiest, most disgusting sweatpants ever—pants so old they have holes around the elastic and have to be rolled several times just to keep them up, I slip my feet back into my boots and step out. The DRUG STORE sign—yeah, that’s literally the name—flickers, and a breeze moves through the parking lot, sending an old, empty bag of Hot Cheetos past my feet. Reaching down, I snatch the old bag which is apparently coated in something gross, right as my phone rings. With my free hand, I dig it out, focused on the trash can ahead instead of the caller ID.
“Hello?” I only hope it’s not my parents. This week has sucked a big dick, and quite frankly, it started with them. The clerk inside the store smiles at me as I approach and I smile too.
“Hello?” I ask again, then take a moment to glance at the phone screen. It’s not programmed into my phone, so it’s not Leah, Michael, or my parents. That article really pissed people off–is this my first angry anonymous phone call? “Hey asshole, I’m hanging up if you don’t?—”
“Miss Riley?” a tiny whisper sniffs my name on the other line.
I toss the Hot Cheetos bag in the trash and swipe my hand down my pants, wiping away the gross mystery wetness from the bag. I turn, facing away from the store for a sliver of privacy. “... Jo Jo? ”
“Miss Riley,” she whispers, her voice broken, thin, stressed. She’s in some sort of distress.
“Jo Jo, what’s wrong? Where are you? Are you okay?” I swipe my hand down my leg again nervously, pacing in front of the store.
“I’m,” she sniffles. “I’m at Alexa’s for a sl-sl-sleepover,” she quietly cries, her hand clearly cupping her phone, her words clashing against my ear.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, feeling like it’s a pretty stupid question to ask because obviously everything isn’t okay. The last few times I saw Jo Jo at practice and in class, she was so angry with me. For her to call me now, something must really be wrong. My insides twist, the knot of unease climbing until it’s firmly lodged in my throat.
“Can you c-come p-pick me up?” she asks.
I spin, looking up at the DRUG STORE sign, then peering inside at the clerk. She’s reading a magazine, one leg stacked over the other. No one is in there. I could still grab my batteries, go pee really quickly then go get Jo Jo, but when she sniffles into the receiver again, urgency overtakes me.
My boots hit the pavement hard as I jog to my car, yanking open the door to quickly take a seat behind the wheel. “Where does she live?”
This time, Jo Jo flat out cries, no longer trying to hold back. “I wa-walked down the street. I’m at the stop s-sign at Blue and Bell.”
“Seriously?” I ask, tossing the phone onto the dashboard as I back up, speaker phone engaged. “There are two streets in Bluebell called Blue and Bell, and they cross each other?”
“I’ll text you a pin to my location,” she says, the sound of a car rushing by in the background making me impatient. I don’t like her being out on the street with her bag at nine at night. It’s not safe. No matter how small Bluebell is, that’s how every 60 Minutes starts, I swear.
My phone dings, and I lean over the steering wheel to check the location, and turn my car around immediately. “What happened, Jo Jo?”
Her nickname slips off my lips, despite the fact I did notice the other girls calling her Lene the last few days.
“The frosh squad invited me to a sleepover. They said next year we’ll all be on the same squad together, so we sh-should bond now. That the JV girls wouldn’t invite me to hang out, so I should hang with the freshman.” I stay on the line and listen. “We were talking about boys. I don’t know,” she says, her voice growing a little frantic, like just rehashing what happened stresses her out.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry right now. Just hang tight and I’ll be right there. We can talk in the car, okay?” I assure her, flicking my blinker on as I take the turn that brings me near Jo Jo.
Turning the corner, I spot Jo Jo down the road, her cheer bag at her feet, knees pulled to her chest, dark hair spilling down her back. She looks so young and so small, and as my headlights paint her in color, her eyes are so red and swollen that my chest aches for her. I pull up and pop the passenger door open, then jump out and help her up, taking her bag. I toss it over my seat into the back and idle at the curb while she buckles up.
“First, just tell me if you’re okay,” I say slowly, maintaining calm in my tone.
She sets her eyes on me, red rimmed and raw, then bursts into another round of tears. “I’m so sorry I was mean to you all week. You didn’t deserve it.”
I rest my hand on her shoulder after pushing her hair back. “It’s okay. I was your age, too. I understand. ”
She nods her head, using the sleeve of her sweatshirt to wipe beneath her nose. Reaching over her lap, I pop open the glovebox, pulling out a wad of fast food napkins. “Here,” I shove them into her hand. “Don’t use your sleeve, use these.”
She lifts an old Taco Bell napkin to her nose, and blows. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “Can you like, drive away from her street in case they come outside for some reason? If they see me sitting in the car with you, I’m sure that’ll just give them more ammo.”
My chest hollows. “Sure.” I realize all she means is that hanging out with your coach—not to mention, one that everyone believes has shown favoritism—will paint her as a total ass kisser, and that it has nothing to do with rejecting me as a person.
But my inner trauma tries to rear her head, whispering, see . I knock her down and shift the car into drive, pulling away from Blue and Bell.
“So what happened tonight? Also, where am I going? I don’t know where you live.” I make a turn into the center of town, because from there, I can go anywhere.
She tugs her phone from her pocket, and a moment later, an Australian man directs me to turn left at the next intersection.
With the phone serving as GPS from her lap, Jo Jo pulls her hands over her head, down her hair, sighing. “Okay, so we were talking about boys, which lead to… you know, talking about what everyone’s done. Have you ever dirty skied, stuff like that.”
At the stop sign, I flick on my blinker, listening as the Australian guy tells me to keep going straight for one mile. “Dirty skied?" I question, feeling like ten trillion years old for not knowing what that means. I’m only twenty-four. Shouldn’t I be the one with the laundry list of sex moves ?
“Miss Riley, please do not make me explain it. I will literally die,” she moans, cradling her forehead in her hands.
“Okay,” I sigh, making a mental note to Google that later because now I’m really curious. “What happened next?”
“I just told them that I’d never been with a guy in any way. Never even been kissed. And somehow, the talk turned to being lucky because I can’t get pregnant and then—and I still have no idea why I decided to tell them this but—I told them I don’t have to worry anyway because… I still haven’t gotten my period.”
I shrug, not even glancing at her across the cab as I reach the last leg of the drive back to her place. I’m waiting for the big thing, the terrible big thing that happened, waiting for her to tell me that she got her period right that moment and bled everywhere and she was humiliated or—I don’t know, something. But she stays quiet for a full minute, and worries eat up my mind.
“What happened, Jo Jo?”
“That’s it. That’s what happened. They all laughed at me until they cried, about how I was a baby.” She shakes her head as a beautiful little country home comes into view, with stained and painted timber beams, wooden shutters the color of brick that match the front door, meticulously landscaped grass along with beautiful flowers and shrubs. A truck sits next to the garage, and behind it, a beautiful long paved drive, lined in solar lights and flowers. Beneath the windows rest boxes full of florals, stained to match the shutters, giving the home a romantic, high-end glow.
“Shit, Jolene, your house is beautiful.” I peer at the home through the windshield as I shift the car into park. Jo Jo doesn’t respond, only digs through her bag, telling me she’s looking for her house key.
“Is your dad home?” I ask, doing my best to not let Leah’s words echo through my mind as I stare at this gorgeous custom home next to the hottest cowboy in Bluebell’s daughter. I draw my legs together beneath the wheel, guilt overwhelming me at an excited tingle that moves through me.
She nods. “He’s always home. Literally always.”
“Why didn’t you call him?” I ask, eyeing the truck and cataloguing it as his. “I mean, I’m happy you called me Jo Jo, I’m just curious as to why you didn’t call him.”
She pops open her car door. “Do you think I want to tell my dad that I got teased for not having my period?”
I shake my head. “Sorry, yeah, that makes sense.” The seat belt presses on my bladder as I lean toward the passenger door, checking to see if the porch lights are on. “Hey, I have to use the bathroom. Do you think I could run in with you before I drive home?”
She nods, tugging her hair over one shoulder. “Of course. Don’t worry, my dad lives in the garage. And when he’s not out there, he’s asleep. He’s seriously like a ninety-year old man.”
I choose to not focus on Jo Jo’s dad and instead, try to find the right words for her as we trek up the walkway to her house. “I didn’t get my period until I was a sophomore in high school,” I tell her quietly. “The longer you can go without getting it, the better.” I stop in my tracks, paranoid about how that came out. “That doesn’t mean go have sex, I just?—”
“I know Miss Riley,” Jo Jo says, a small smile lifting the edge of her pout.
“I just mean, you’re gonna have it until you’re like fifty. And it sucks. It sucks so much, so if anything, they should be jealous of you, not teasing you,” I tell her, feeling proud about that advice.
We make it to the front door and as soon as Jo Jo slips the key into the lock, my bladder is put to the test. I'm hopping on my feet as she opens the door with a laugh, pointing down the hall. “There, down the hall. Don’t pee yourself, Miss Riley,” she giggles.
I don’t get a chance to really take in the house, but if the rest is like the hall, holy shit. This man has taste. The craftsman style home is just as beautiful on the inside as out, with wide plank hardwood floors, thick crown molding, eight foot doors and gorgeous square light fixtures, traced out in bronze. I come to the end of the hall, and push the door open, nearly dancing at this point. Damn that last chai tea.
I close the door behind me, really wishing that I wasn’t dressed like a hobo hitchhiker, despite the fact that I know I’m not going to meet the hottest cowboy in Bluebell. I’m here to pee, and to make sure that Jo Jo is okay before I go. This isn’t about you, Riley , I tell myself as I run my hand up and down the wall, searching for a switch plate.
When I finally find it, I swear I’m moments away from peeing my frickin’ pants. “Oh thank God, the hunt is over,” I murmur, shielding my eyes from the sudden brightness as they try to adjust. A moment later I look around, nearly choking on my damn tongue when I realize I am not in a hallway bathroom meant for guests. I am in the hottest cowboy in Bluebell ’s bedroom.
Fuck.
I took a wrong turn somewhere, clearly but you know what? Every master suite has a bathroom attached. There is no Fabio looking hunk sleeping in that monstrous sized bed centering the room so fuck it. I’m using Jo Jo’s dad’s bathroom. It’s just a toilet, it’s fine.
Two doors stare back at me from the adjacent wall, and I try the first one, opening it to a walk-in closet full of men's clothes. Plaid shirts, pressed and hung on black velvet hangers, wooden dividers separating rows and rows of leather belts, each one different. Above those are belt buckles, rows of those too, ranging from bronze to gold, various sizes from absurdly large to reasonably sized. And at the top of the closet are hats. So many cowboy hats. Stetsons, Cattlemans, Bricks and Montanas, varying in degrees of wear, ranging from disgusting why is that even indoors to holy fuck I bet he looks like a million bucks in that thing . On the opposite wall, also on velvet hangers, are rows and rows of jeans. Pressed to perfection, the jeans give way to a row of boots beneath them. Big boots.
Okay. Cowboy daddy has big feet.
I shrug. No big deal. Not hot at all. And does not at all add to the mystery of the hottest cowboy daddy in Bluebell.
I shake my head, realizing I’ve been standing in a stranger’s closet for like, thirty seconds too long. As it is, I’m already in his bedroom. Too much Riley. Get the hell out of here immediately.
Spinning, my face crashes into a wall of… “Oh my God!” I scream, my voice echoing as a deep, masculine voice echoes my sentiment, groaning, “Oh God!”
I step back, my purse hitting the floor as I wipe my forehead… because it’s wet from colliding with Jo Jo’s dad’s wet bare chest.
As much as I want to stare at his chest–and places further south–I lift my eyes from his nipples–which are, for what it’s worth, extremely hot nipples, and meet his gaze.
“Oh my god,” I repeat, this time less scratchy and way less panicked. “It’s you.”
The man from behind the barn at the farmers market, the hunky mystery cowboy who sucked a splinter from my palm. Jo Jo’s dad is the hot as shit cowboy from a few months back? Oh my god .
Oh my god.
I pace back a few steps, and I’m pretty sure those oh my god s are not just in my head. I’ve been masturbating to the memory of this mystery man sucking that stupid splinter from my palm for months.
Seriously. I’m not proud. But it’s been the only contact I’ve had with a hot man in eternity.
Now I’m standing in his closet, inside of his bedroom, in his house, wearing quite literally the clothing equivalent of a trash bag, my hair looking like it was in the fryer at McDonald’s and I am beyond bloated from the three chais I shotgunned two hours back.
Please let this be a dream. Please let this be a dream, I whisper internally, snapping my eyes shut for a brief moment before opening them again. My eyes come front and center to his well-crafted, barrel chest, and my nerves take over. As much as I want to look, my brain has been in control for the last thirty seconds, not allowing me to be a totally horrible person and take an eyeful.
Seriously.
“I was dropping off Jo Jo and, um, I needed to use the restroom,” I say, rambling because he still hasn’t said anything but “oh God” and the longer we stand in his closet like this without him speaking, the more freaked I get.
“I didn’t, I didn’t know this was–I was looking for the bathroom,” I say, and just as I’m about to bolt past him like a deer escaping a speeding vehicle, my eyes betray me.
My brain must’ve been put in a temporary headlock, because my eyes, I swear, have a mind of their own when they slide down his muscled bare chest and lock onto that beast between his solid thighs. And lord are they solid thighs.
But that thing .
Swinging like a pendulum side to side, thick and ruddy, hypnotizing me. Arousing me. Making me his.
“I–” Why did I just start a sentence? Why am I looking at his massive cock? I slap my hand to my forehead, my pinky and ring finger sliding down over my eyes, but my eyes will not close.
They will not close.
So with my hand over my eyes, I continue to stare at that heavy, meaty, dick that gives a tall can a run for its money.
“Bathroom is the next door down from this one,” he says, finally breaking the incredibly awkward spell that I placed on us by barging into his home and essentially sexually assaulting him with my eyeballs.
“Th-thank you, sir. I’m so, so sorry for…” I wave my hand around the closet space, my cheeks likely the color of cherries based on how sweaty my back and underarms are. “I’m sorry,” I say, and then my stupid fucking eyes DO IT AGAIN.
I LOOK AT HIS DICK AGAIN.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” I sigh, pushing past him, moving through his room and stumbling out into the hall, taking two steps into the actual hallway bathroom. I close the door behind me, locking it, and promptly use the bathroom while holding my head in my hands, realizing that yep. This is it. Without a shadow of a doubt, this is it.
The most mortifying moment of my twenty-four years.
I once went three hours with a booger in my nose in 8th grade, and I accidentally microwaved a metal to-go mug at my friend’s dorm in college.
But this? This takes the humiliating cake for sure. Washing my hands at the sink, I swallow hard and find the courage to lift my eyes to the mirror, seeing exactly what Jake Turner saw.
Oh Jesus .
Oh lord.
Oh no.
Why did I seriously think that wearing these sweats out in public was okay? Even for a drug store run, Agnes on the night shift with Parade Magazine deserves better than this. I pull my hood over my head, feeling a moment of relief at the way it hides my day-before-wash hair but then decide I look too much like the unabomber, and tug it down.
He already saw you Riley. Just go say goodbye to Jo Jo and get the fuck outta here.
I follow the hall back to the foyer, this time noticing right away the large, open floorplan that leads to a huge kitchen, family room attached. Jo Jo stands in the kitchen, already in her pajamas, a mug between her hands, her long hair now twisted up in a knot that looks much nicer than mine.
“Thanks,” I tell her, hooking my thumb over my shoulder toward the hall bathroom. I think I’ll omit the part where I essentially baby-stalked her dad and peeked at his massive dick. Multiple times.
The floorboards creak behind me and awareness tingles up my spine, making my face hot. I’ve never wished to be abducted by an alien or to have an encounter with a ghost, but right now, I’m really hoping that’s a ghost. Or an alien. Hell, at this point, I’d take a home intruder.
“Oh.” Jo Jo says, her eyes moving behind me to Jake, standing at the end of the hall, his dark hair wet. He’s swearing a pair of jeans sans one of his gorgeous, ornate leather belts, his feet bare, nothing but a thin white t-shirt stretched over his muscled chest. “I didn’t know you were in the house.” She motions to me. “This is my new coach, Miss Riley Rivers.”
“Nice to meet you Miss Rivers. I am Jolene’s dad, Jake Turner. ”
The back of my neck drips sweat and my clit pulses, blooming at the way his words are rough and deep. “Nice to meet you, sir.”
Sir?
I don’t even know. But when I look at him one last time before facing Jo Jo, I realize that when I look at Jake Turner, my strongest urge is to literally liquify at his feet and call him sir and be his plaything.
Facing Jo Jo, I put on my biggest I didn’t just stock up my spank bank material for the next year smile. “Well I’m gonna get going. I was just about to…” buy batteries for my vibrator so I can masturbate . “Watch a movie.”
Jo Jo smiles. “Thanks. For tonight.”
I return her smile. “Anytime, you know that.”
I’ll ask her how she got my phone number later. After class. Right now, I need out of this moment. Leah is going to lose her damn mind when I tell her about tonight. Humiliation aside, Leah was not lying. Not in the slightest. He is the most gorgeous, sexy man on this planet and potentially, with science’s help, the entire universe. The crow's feet near his eyes add character, and the thick, dark mustache curving around his top lip makes my thighs actually quiver a little.
“Would you like this back?” Jake asks, his deep timbre rattles through me, centering on my clit. Oh yeah , my original plan for this night still stands.
“Huh?” I ask before I realize he’s holding up my purse by one finger, the worn bag gently swaying underneath his arm.
“Would you like this back?” he repeats himself, and this time, I swear to God I think his lips twitch a little. I turn back to Jo Jo and smile, then forge the five steps ahead to get to Jake Turner, my personal God.
Okay, Riley, stop .
“Please, sir,” I say, reaching out, tugging the strap from his palm.
I sling my purse over my shoulder, drop my eyes to my feet, and turn, beelining for the front door. Jo Jo follows after me, giggling. “You don’t have to call him sir.”
On the front porch, I turn, smiling at her as if I don’t have a care in the world. “Alright Jo Jo, if you wanna talk, I’ll see you at school in two days.” I smile again, this time genuine, for her. “Don’t let those girls get to you. I know you’re gonna think I’m just saying this but… they’re just insecure and jealous of you. Keep being you.”
Feeling great about my advice, I choose to ignore everything that happened in Jake’s closet until I am naked in bed with my eyes squeezed shut.
Jake Turner is absolutely the hottest bachelor in Bluebell.
And he makes absolutely wonderful fantasies. Even without batteries.