Geek Lust: Erotic Stories about Hot Nerds (6 page)

by Jeanine McAdam

“Ohhh, my,” Tiffany cried, rounding the Dumpster behind the bar and dropping a bag of trash on her feet. She most definitely wasn’t in the Emerald City anymore, otherwise known as Yellow Brick Bar & Grill. She had no idea why Al, her boss, had a fetish for all things
Wizard of Oz
, especially during tornado season.

A man, as naked as the day he was born, stood before her. The little peek she’d taken between her fingers told her he was built like that chiseled vampire in
Twilight
with the skin tones of the brooding werewolf—when he was in human form. Yes, she was twenty-seven years old and still liked
Twilight
.

“You can’t use that water,” she said.

“Why not?”

“It’s not yours,” she told him. She was pretty sure he was dismissing her because she wore braids with red ribbons and a checkered dress.

“I need to shower,” the man said with a lopsided grin.

“You can’t do that here.” Tiffany moaned, sneaking a look between her fingers as she danced around on her Mary Janes. Yes, she was pathetic, but it’d been a long time since she’d seen something so nicely endowed hanging between a man’s legs. Except those few times she’d mistakenly browsed over to a porn site from the Weather Channel. Well, maybe not so much by mistake, but her excuse—

“Tiffany Sutton, is that you?” the naked guy croaked.

“Cyrus Way?” She pulled her hands from her face because he sounded like the fifteen-year-old she used to know. Except she was having a hard time reconciling the nerd of the Class of 2001 with this Zach Efron lookalike standing before her. “It’s good to see you,” Tiffany said, heavy on the drawl. She’d always liked Cyrus and his awkward ways, and now she liked him even more.

He smiled a big goofy grin and put out his hand.

“Cyrus,” Tiffany scolded, wiping her fingers on her ruffled apron. “You’d better put something on because I could be reaching for the wrong body part.”

As she chuckled in a tawdry way, Tiffany took another look at Cyrus’s many assets. Back in high school she hadn’t realized there were other things big on the nerd’s body besides his brain.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize—” he started while throwing a towel around his waist.

“What are you doing in town?” she interrupted, trying to make her voice sound normal. She had no idea where that sleazy comment had come from. Most of the time she wasn’t so idiotically obvious.

“What are you doing dressed like Dorothy’s slutty sister?”

“I thought you were getting a Ph.D. in some brainiac study like nuclear science,” she shot back. God, she hated this stupid costume. And didn’t she cut an article out of the local paper about Cyrus’s academic achievements? Not that she kept up with his life. In high school, he’d always had a crush on her. Junior year, it didn’t mean much.

Now it did.

He shifted on his heels for a second.

“I, ahem… switched to meteorology.”

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say. His mother hadn’t mentioned that the last time Tiffany ran into her at the bank. Anyway, the study of weather was also super brainy and she couldn’t understand why he looked so uncomfortable. But then again, Cyrus Way always looked like getting through the day was a problem, except when he was talking about some geeky science thing. Now that she had an eleven-year-old Einstein of her own, also known as her son Bryant, she felt a kinship towards Cyrus, so much so that she friended him on Facebook last year. Not that he confirmed her.

“I’m studying tornadoes this summer,” he told her with a half smile. His eyes shifted around the parking lot and out over the flat horizon. “I can’t ignore the fact I grew up in Tornado Alley and need to help those back home,” he added as his eyes returned to her breasts. “What’s the get-up about?” he persisted.

“Al decided to turn his obsession with tornadoes and old movies into big business.” She licked her lips and pulled on the edges of her skirt. “We sell the Super Cell Bacon Burger, along with Red Shoe Scramble.” She curtsied. “I’m Dorothy from
The Wizard of Oz
.”

“That’s definitely a Dorothy for the new millennium,” he commented dryly.

The towel was slipping and Tiffany tried her damnedest to keep her eyes on his face. Ten years ago she never looked twice at Cyrus Way. It was all about Brandon Barker, all-star quarterback, class president, blah, blah, blah.

“You’d better get dressed,” she told him. Not that she wasn’t enjoying the view, but for God’s sake, she was getting hot and bothered. She turned around. “If my boss finds you out here taking his water, he’s not going to be happy. And with that storm-chaser truck parked over there, he’ll think you’re bringing a twister to our front door.”

“What are the sprinklers about?” Cyrus asked, tipping his head towards the spigots surrounding the restaurant. Then he answered his own question with a snort. “Is Al trying to push water into the atmosphere to stop the beast from coming down on him?”

“It’s a popular theory—”

“It’ll never work,” Cyrus remarked in that smarty-pants way of his. In high school it sounded pretentious, even annoying. But now, if she had a F5 spinning towards her house, she’d want Cyrus at her side. Preferably shirtless.

“He’s never been hit,” she commented for the sake of argument.

“Like most people. If you’re careful, the statistics are on your side.”

Not that Tiffany bought that argument. Cyrus hadn’t seen a chicken coop fly by his window with the chicken still clucking inside. “Why aren’t you showering at your parents’ house?” she asked

“They’re mad I gave up nuclear science.” He cleared his throat. “My father feels meteorology is fluff—you can turn around now. It’s not like I’m going to appear on the six o’clock news waving my eyebrows at the camera.”

Tiffany considered his words for a moment. If he cut that mop of brown hair, he’d look pretty good on the six o’clock news with those icy blue eyes. It’d be fun to be married to a weather man, wouldn’t it? “Maybe you should zip up your fly,” she suggested, amazed that the sight of his unbuttoned Levi’s was making her think about big, passionate, sloppy love.

He coughed.

“Right,” he said.

“What does fluff have to do with showering behind a Dumpster?” she asked, proud she could string a few words together.

“Ahh,” he replied. “I’m living in that thing and unfortunately it doesn’t have indoor plumbing.” His head gestured to an armored-up SUV, with a wielded steel plate body and turret on top. Most folks in the area felt the storm chasers were a bunch of publicity-crazed, man-child geeks, but Tiffany was still on the fence. After she’d seen a documentary with Bryant, it appeared they got a lot of useful data from inside a tornado.

Speaking of inside.

“I’ve got to go back to the restaurant.” Tiffany remembered she had an order of chili up and Bud Rodgers wouldn’t be happy if she delivered it cold to his table. Since she was pathetic today she glanced at Cyrus’s chest one last time before he pulled on a snug T-shirt that said, ”No, I won’t Fix Your Computer.” Forgetting about the chili she whispered,

“You’re handsome.”

He smiled.

“You’ve gotten prettier.”

Good God, he was smooth. So much so her first response was to argue with him, comment on that extra twenty pounds stuck stubbornly to her hips. “You don’t have pimples,” she told him as she turned to the restaurant. Somebody had to put a stop to this.

“You’re not stuck up,” he countered.

After she got Bud his order and refills for the booth in the corner, Tiffany found Cyrus at the bar, curly hair dripping on the menu. She eyed him for a moment as he pushed his glasses up his nose.

“You missed.” She pointed towards the dirt on his forearm while something slow and warm pumped through her veins.

Cyrus met her seriousness with a wink. “I tell everyone I know, if you’re going to take a shower under a hose, bring soap.”

She smiled. “No creature comforts in that monstrosity of yours?”

“It’s all about the science, baby.” He leaned back on his stool and stuck a toothpick in his mouth.

“Since you’re saving mere mortals like me,” she said, twirling her braid around her finger, “maybe I could help you out by offering a real shower with hot water and that wonderful luxury called soap.”

“Soap.” His blue eyes grew wide. “I’ve been searching the universe for something called soap.”

Tiffany blinked a few times.

“Captain Kirk,” he explained, face getting red. “Episode four, season two. I inserted the word soap for—”

“I know,” she interrupted, wishing she’d picked up on the reference sooner. She’d seen the show at least three times. “My son.” She held her fingers up in the universal
Star Trek
sign. “He’s a fan.”

Cyrus’s jaw dropped. “Tiffany Sutton, cheerleader, prom queen, and all-around most beautiful blonde at school, spawned a nerd.” He pounded his hand on the bar. “The planets must be out of line or something. Then again, maybe Mercury’s in retrograde.”

She laughed. “I know,” she said, pointing at herself. “Me.”

“Tiffany, get your fanny over to table four and take their order,” Al yelled as he came around a keg of beer. “This is a bar, not Match.com.”

* * * *

Bryant was playing
Halo
. Again.

“Don’t tell me you’re trying the sprinkler thingie too,” Cyrus said as he stood on her front porch, looking up at the cloudy sky.

“You have homework, young man,” Tiffany scolded her offspring as she pushed the front door open with her foot. Cyrus followed, giving up on waiting for an answer. She wasn’t in the mood to explain she didn’t have a storm shelter and her cottage was held together by glue and masking tape. Consequently she was willing to try any harebrained scheme to keep the twisters away, even going to a prayer service with her mother and reciting a litany of weather-related blessings.

“You know, it’s not enough water—” Cyrus started again.

“I don’t know how to subtract fractions,” Bryant whined, still looking at the game while pushing his glasses up.

Tiffany’s home was small. As she marched across the stained shag carpet and turned the TV off, she also realized it was shabby and not in a chic way. The couch was ripped, the slip cover she threw over the recliner barely fit, plus Bryant had spilled orange Fresca on the coffee table last week and the stain was still there.

“Fractions.” Cyrus’s face lit up as he dropped his duffel bag, along with his concerns about her sprinkler. “I know fractions.” He threw his shoulders back. “I was a mathlete in high school.”

Tiffany wasn’t sure if she should laugh.

“I’m a mathlete too,” Bryant said, throwing the controller down. “Junior mathlete,” he amended.

Since Bryant was with the program, she didn’t so much as crack a smile.

“Nothing’s wrong with that,” Cyrus said as the guys high-fived. “You’re still young. Eleven, right?”

He glanced at Tiffany. Yeah, nerd boy knew the year he was in the spotlight receiving scholarships and academic awards while she wore her father’s baggy T-shirts trying to hide the blessing tucked in her tummy. Not that she was bitter.

“You’ve got lots of time to go varsity,” Cyrus continued as he patted Bryant on the back, “So where are those fractions?”

“Don’t you want to take a shower first?” Tiffany asked.

“I’m good for now,” Cyrus pronounced after a quick pit sniff. Bryant giggled.

“Well, then.” Tiffany smiled as she shook her head at him. “I’m going to take a shower because I smell like beer.” She gave her son a tickle between the ribs before heading down the hall. As she shut the door she could hear Bryant moaning, “She can be so uncool and that Dorothy costume is lame.”

“Not sure I agree with you, buddy. She’s—” Cyrus started to say as Tiffany turned on the water.

“Genetics can be a crap shoot,” Cyrus pronounced a few hours later after the fractions were solved and Bryant had gone to bed. Nine o’clock was early on a Friday, but he’d be at his father’s tomorrow night and only God knew what time he’d get to bed.

Tiffany sat on one side of the couch while Cyrus twiddled his thumbs on the other. Her couch was saggy in the middle, and their knees touched. As she listened to the wind howl outside, she waited for him to explain. By the way, he’d cleaned up nicely. His hair was combed and glasses gone, she figured replaced by contact lenses.

Cyrus pulled a pad and pencil out of his pocket. He drew x’s and o’s. “You’re a cheerleader and prom queen.”

“Former,” she reminded him as she took a sip of her chamomile tea. The rain was pounding on the air conditioner.

“Brandon’s a quarterback and—”

“
Former
,” she said again. “Plus he’s a deadbeat dad and a supposedly recovering al—” She stopped. She made a promise to herself that if she ever had a date with a decent guy before Bryant turned eighteen, she wouldn’t complain about Brandon. Not that this was a date.

Cyrus drew a line connecting them. “You have Bryant and by the way”—he pointed the pencil at her—“you gave him a very nerdy name.”

“Bryant is not nerdy,” Tiffany protested. “Not like Cyrus.”

“Point for the prom queen.”

“That’s right.” She playfully punched him on the arm. “Don’t mess with the woman who wears the crown.”

“Back to my chart.” He drew lines above Tiffany’s and Brandon’s heads. “Your parents aren’t geeks—”

“That church going thing can get a little freaky but not geeky,” she told him with a smile. Her mother was probably on her knees as they spoke, due to the weather outside.

“They’re still thumping the Bible?”

“Worse since I had Bryant,” she said, enjoying the fact that he knew her entire history but was totally nonjudgmental, could even laugh with her. “Every time Bryant tries to talk to them about evolution, my mother mixes another drink and my father gets Reverend Wallis on the line.”

“The little man is fighting the good fight.”

She smiled. If only Brandon would appreciate their son the way Cyrus understood him. Brandon needed to accept that footballs would continuously bounce off Bryant’s head, no matter how loud he yelled at him.