He grins. “I never doubted it.” He’s back to the paperwork “Okay, we can do ten that weekend, but we’ll have to charge for two day rental if you’re going to have them longer than twenty-four hours.”
“That’s fine.” I’m grateful when Brit gets pulled away to help another customer.
“I’ll need an ID and form of payment to hold them.”
I pull out my driver’s license and credit card, handing them to him. He stares down at them, blinks a few times, then snaps them flat and bends forward to record whatever information he needs.
“How long have you worked here?”
“Three years.” He continues to write. “Off and on.”
“When you’re not playing football?”
“Yeah. Summers and pre-game.” He hands me back my ID. “Bexley Rebecca Anastasia Thunderbird is quite a name.”
“Tell me about it. My parents guaranteed I’d never have anything monogrammed with my initials.”
He tilts his head while he thinks that over and then smiles so big I can see all his pearly white teeth. Face like that, he should really consider acting. “BRAT.”
I sigh. “See what I mean.”
He hands me back my credit card. “Plastic like that you could buy yourself a new name.”
“What?” I look at the all black card in my hand. Oh. Right. My whole body blushes. “It’s not mine, I mean, it is, but my dad pays it,” I mumble and cringe at how awful that sounds.
“You’re all set.” He rips off a carbon copy of the rental agreement. “Pick them up anytime after nine am on the fourteenth and return them before closing the following day.”
I fold up the agreement, still willing my skin to cool. “Great, thanks. Oh! Riley wants me to request the cute ones?”
“Cute ones.”
And I’m sweating again. I can’t stand it and pull my thick hair high securing it with the elastic I always have on my wrist. I subconsciously push my glasses up my nose only to remember I took them off in the car. “Sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” he snaps. He’s not smiling and his jaw ticks.
“I don’t know,” my voice is almost a whisper. What did I say to make him mad?
His expression relaxes a little. “I’ll make sure ten of our cutest boards are ready on the fourteenth.”
I’m relieved to see he’s no longer mad. “Cool.”
“Later, Brat.”
I laugh, grateful the tension is gone. “Later, dude,” I say in my most obnoxious surfer voice.
Then I speed walk back to my car grinning the whole way.
Loren
I’m on a study break. What are you up to?
I send the text then check the time. Nine o’clock on Thursday. I haven’t seen Riley much at all this week except for a couple times on campus. We met at the café for a coffee but it was short between classes. I figure with the weekend coming up I should probably make some plans with her. After I screwed up last weekend’s plans to take our casual kissing to the next level, it would only make sense that this weekend would be my chance to make it up to her.
My phone pings with an incoming text and an image. I tap the screen and am met with an image of Riley’s long, toned legs wet with bathwater in candlelight and bubbles barely covering the place where her thighs meet. I zoom in on the image, are those rose petals floating on the water?
Having a self-care night.
I type back. What’s Bex up to? Then delete it. Here I have this beautiful woman sending me sexy photos and I’m going to ask her about her cousin? Dick move. I mull over how to respond and then make a quick decision and hit send.
Want to hang out this weekend?
Hang out? Ball up and ask her on a date, asshole! She’s expecting sex this weekend and you haven’t even taken her out.
Do I want to have sex with her? Am I serious enough about my feelings for Riley that I’d want to take that next step? Last weekend I would’ve said absolutely yes. Now, I’m not so sure. But why?
What did you have in mind?
I type out my response and hit send.
We could watch a movie at your place?
I’m sick of the house, I need a break. How about your place?
My shoulders deflate a little, but it’s the smarter move. If I’m in her room I’ll be wondering what Bex is doing, wondering what she thinks I’m doing, wishing I could watch her wrestle with all that sexy fucking hair while getting ten kinds of hot and bothered simply because I’m watching her. I groan and grip my junk to make my quickly tightening jeans more comfortable.
“You’re fucking, crazy,” I mumble to myself in the privacy of my room while a fantasy of Bex at the surf shop unravels behind my eyes. Her leaning across the glass display, full lips parted and those pale brown eyes begging me to touch her. I’d sit her on the counter, stand between her legs and kiss her. My palms tingle as I imagine the weight of her breasts in my hands. A shiver races through me as I fantasize about feeling her soft nipples turning hard under my touch. I’d beg her to touch me too. Her hands would shake as she slipped them up my shirt—no, I’d take my shirt off. I’d need to feel the heat of her soft, warm body pressed against me. Our kiss would become frenzied, wet, and I’d lick down her throat to her—my phone pings.
“Shit.” My heart is racing and what do you know, my hand is still between my legs, but this time behind my open zipper. “What am I doing?” I snag my phone and read Riley’s reply.
I could spend the night. Wink
Sex with Riley. I run the scenario through my mind, frustrated that it lacks the vivid imagery and responding arousal. The best thing I can do is forget about Bex. My life was just fine before I accidently wound up in her bed. And she tried to have me attacked by a snake! Have I so easily forgotten the hell she put me through that night?
I know what I need to do. I text my response and hit send before I can change my mind.
Saturday night. I’ll pick you up at six.
I release a shaky breath, fasten my jeans, and open my econ book, all while telling myself that sleeping with Riley is the right thing to do to silence my gut that tells me it’s not.
Chapter Five
Loren
Friday night and Kaipo and I called an impromptu guys night out. Spider and Carey are surgically attached to their women’s hip and since football season ended we’ve seen very little of them. Not that I blame them; if I had an all I could eat buffet in my bed, I’d never leave either.
Still, to maintain proper levels of testosterone, we insisted on dragging them out for a night of sports and scantily clad waitresses. The campus sports bar is packed and all sixty big screen TVs are playing everything from boxing to bowling. We just annihilated every deep fried appetizer on the menu as well as five pitchers of IPA.
Carey leans back from the table, lifts his arms above his head for the halftime stretch. “Didn’t we order potato skins?”