Quarterback Bait (16 page)

Without quite intending to, I let my hand wander farther up
his thigh. I squeezed him, and the muscles flexed back with twice the force. I
let out an involuntary coo, and then I made an executive decision.

“I'm going to the bathroom,” I murmured, tilting my face so
I spoke directly into his ear. “There's a single stall at the end of the
hallway. Join me in two.” Landon raised his eyebrows, and then his face cracked
open. He started laughing softly. At first, I figured I'd read the situation
entirely wrong—but it was then that I felt his grip on my face tighten,
ever-so-slightly.

“I don't know if I can wait that long,” he grunted, before
tilting back in his chair. He raised his glass of Coors and took a hearty swig.
I rose slowly and turned toward the bathroom, half-hoping no one would notice
me, half-hoping everyone would.

The stall at the far end of the hall was cramped and
poorly-lit, but I didn't care. I peeled off my shirt first, then draped the
horrible floral over the doorknob. My bare skin tingled in the grimy air. I
waited, heart in my throat. I waited some more.

Landon took his sweet time in the corridor—I could tell by
the weight of the footsteps that it was him marching towards me. Suddenly it
was like the whole bar went quiet. I watched the door knob, breath coming out
in raspy bursts. It creaked slowly.

The bathroom was lit by a single bare bulb in a cage,
swinging from a frayed extension cord—this cast a blue, eerie light over the
proceedings. He smiled at me, drank in my bare torso with his eyes. I leaned
myself against the sink, an invitation.

Then he was on me. Hungry. His firm, probing fingers found
my ribcage, and hoisted me onto the lip of the sink in one swift move. His
mouth attached itself to my neck, clasping and sucking on my throat for dear
life. “Sweet...fuck,” I murmured, into the thatch of his already-sweaty hair.
Then I remembered. We should probably be quiet.

But if Landon cared at all about any Derby patrons
overhearing us, he didn't indicate this to me. Instead, his movements became
more rapid. He peeled one hand off my waist and reached up to squeeze my tit,
so hard I was sure he'd leave marks. I arched my back against his chest, and he
swept his hand across me like a towel, landing his fingers in the crest of my
jeans. He pushed up sharply against my mound, sending a spasm of premature
pleasure through my lower back. Once again, joy arrived in my throat. “Yes,” I
gasped, digging my fingers into the back of his head, where his hair joined the
nape of his neck. “Oh, fuck yes. Touch me. Please, baby.”

Landon didn't waste any time. His fingers were shaking as
they struggled against the buttons of my jeans, but once he'd eased the zipper
down, his confidence multiplied. He shimmied a hand down past the elastic line
of my panties, pausing to rummage around in the thatch of my pubis for a second
before sliding a finger across my wetness. His fingers shook again. He groaned.
“You're
so
fucking wet,” he cried, voice almost angry. I felt my pussy
clench at his words. Then, Landon looked up, with a new glimmer in his eye. “I
have to taste you.”

I barely nodded assent before he was dragging my pants off
from the ankles, falling to kneel on the bathroom floor. I no longer thought
about where we were, or the world outside (with its commands, its many
nuisances...) there was only the perfect now. My ass was cold against the sink,
but Landon's paws scooted me forward again so I kept one foot on the ground.
Ever the gentleman, he'd managed to take my pants off while I kept my wedges
on.

He shot me a look of pure marvel from the ground as his big,
strong hands began to rove around my naked lower half. He drew back and gazed
at me. I felt like a statue. He smiled, then arched a mischievous eyebrow. I
leaned my head back with anticipation. Sweat was pooling in my collarbone
already.

Landon's lips were soft and sweet on my thigh, yet even the
slightest contact sent a jolt of electricity across the map of my body. He made
a path of kisses, moving from the inside of my knee up across the milky white
expanse of my leg. When he reached the crevice where my folds began, he kissed
deeper. I might have exploded from sensation—I'd lost track of what was holding
me together. He worked his open mouth across my pelvis and then lightly flicked
his tongue across my damp clit.

“Godddddd,” I moaned. I no longer cared who heard us.

His tongue began to move in rapid swirls, pressing up
against my spongey surface like I was the ocean floor. I began to rock my hips
in rhythm against his face. He drew me closer, burying his palms in my ass. He
opened his mouth wider, the better to drink me—then, as I hovered on the edge
of ecstasy, he jerked one hand away from my back side and slid three fingers
into my tight, soaking-wet pussy.

“Fuck me,” I groaned again, driving my hand further into his
hair, drawing him forward. “Oh, baby, you're so good. Fuck me.” Landon's
fingers moved in and out of me, tilting expertly against my G-spot. I exhaled,
and found myself in a locked state—he was working faster and faster, sucking
and pressing, pulling and driving—I no longer knew where I was. I just knew
that I was going to come. And harder than I ever had.

“You taste so fucking good,” Landon gasped, drawing his
mouth away from me for one torturous second. He returned with one long,
exquisite lap of my pussy, dexterous tongue pausing on my clit. He pressed his
fingers in and up to the hilt. I widened my stance on the bathroom floor,
pushed my palm against the back of his head, and felt myself release. My whole
body spasmed. For a second, I saw only color and light—no shapes. And just when
I thought it had passed, Landon nudged against my insides again, stuffing me
full. I came again, almost on top of the previous orgasm. I clutched at my
swinging breasts for something to hold on to. I felt my thighs run slick with
expelled juice. I suddenly longed for pillows, for collapse.

I was still panting and weak when Landon began to rotate my
hips, so I was facing the mirror. I tried not to look at my face, which was red
and runny with make-up—so I fixed my gaze on him. In the mirror, I watched him
yank down his pants, producing that beautiful, thick cock. Yet again, he was
rock hard. I tilted my head, so I could watch him slide inside of me. I was
still throbbing with the aftershock of my orgasm, and tingled on contact—but he
placed a soothing palm on my back, guiding my hips. I was so soaking wet he
slipped inside easily, groaning. A peaceful smile settled across his face.

“Jesus, Ashleigh,” he said to the ceiling. “You have the
most beautiful pussy. Oh, fuck me.” To egg him on, I leaned forward and rammed back
against him, dragging my body along his shaft. He bared his teeth with
pleasure.

“Oh, yeah? You want some of this hard cock?”

I smiled, and decided to play along. What was a little dirty
talk, if two people felt it in the moment?

“Oh, yes, baby. Give me that big hard cock. Give it to me
like I've been bad.” Landon's eyes took on that mischievous glow again, and he
leaned forward so as to grab one of my tits. His back arched, he began to rock
against me, filling me up with each elegant thrust. We found a gentle rhythm
off the bat, but I knew it wouldn't last. I was filling up with want all over
again. Every time he left me, I felt hungrier for his member.

I rammed harder against him. Landon arched an eyebrow,
caught my eye in the mirror, then reached back and slapped my ass. The shock of
fresh pain coincided with a perfect thrust.

“Yeah? You like that? Bad girl?” Without thinking about it,
I found myself nodding. I did like it. I wanted to be spanked and fucked.
Steeling myself against the lip of the sink, I met his eyes in the mirror and
nodded.

He rammed me harder. He pushed in and out, in and out,
beginning to fuck me senseless. My head bobbed forward like a rag doll, my tits
swung back and forth in the low light. Landon slapped my ass with each hard thrust,
humping me like there was no tomorrow. I watched his face become a rictus, an
almost frightening mask of unmitigated desire. I knew he was about to explode
when he dragged his hand back across my body and began to nuzzle this thumb
against the exposed bean of my ass.

“Oh, Ashleigh,” he cried, bending over my damp body. I felt
like a plucked string—I was vibrating with joy, all over my body. “I love you.
I love you so much.”

With a final, perfect, whimper, I felt Landon clench and
tighten inside me—then release. The steam of our love had fogged up the space.
It was humid. Sounds of the bar began to trickle back in, as if they'd been
paused during our fucking.

His words hung in the air, too.
Ashleigh, I love you.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Landon

September 27
^th

It was the day of the big Baylor game.

Clay and I were the first in the locker room, goodie goodies
that we were. Or more like, goodie goodie that
he
was– I was simply
making a pathetic, final attempt to convince my teammates that I was reliable.
Even though I'd missed a voluntary drill the night before, because I'd been
spending the night in with Ashleigh. Even though I'd had my head up my ass for
a full two weeks, because I was so high on the girl who was technically my
step-sister.

“I get it man,” Clay muttered, as he toweled off in his own
corner. “I've been where you've been, you know. Sometimes the right woman can
get you out of your head. When I first met Victoria—well, hell. You remember
when we went up in flames against Rice last year?”

“Sure do. Didn't you fumble? How did that even happen?”

Clay winced at the memory as he struggled to wrangle his
dreads into a rubber band. “I'm just saying, I've been there. You're thinking
with your main vein, and not your brain.” I snickered at this, then swallowed.
I wanted to confide in Clay. Of all people, he did seem the most likely to
understand. But then, Denny's shitty rant kept bouncing around in my head,
filling me with the weirdest sense of guilt:
why do you make it so goddamned
hard on yourself?

Secret's out: I'd gone to Derby's the night before, fully
intending to at least pump the brakes with Doll—but instead, we'd done just
about the opposite. As soon as I'd told her I loved her (at that most crucial
of moments), I'd realized it was true. I'd realized that I loved her more than
football, more than my friends, more, possibly, than the rickety Pastor. It had
been scary to admit—and ridiculous, and satisfying. But it had felt right.

“Landon, lemme ask you something,” Clay was saying now. “And
please don't take this the wrong way. But, man—do you really want to get
scouted? Are you actually trying for the draft in April?”

“I've been playing that shitty, Hoskins? You gotta dog me
like that?” I thought my bud would smile, but he didn't. Instead, he rounded a
bank of lockers to face me, in the ridiculous orange leggings we all had to
wear. I sure hated those things.

“Tell me straight, man,” he said. His eyes were kind, but I
wasn't really in the room just then, having this conversation—my heart was out
in the stands with Doll, who was supposedly keeping field-side vigil with her
friends Lotte and Melanie. I think even Carson had been convinced to come to
this game, even though she was pretty blatantly anti-football. And for all I
knew, Anya and the Pastor were watching on ESPN.

“Landon,” Clay repeated, gently.

“No.”

“Whoa!”

“What, man? Are you that surprised?” This word vomit had
been just like the evening prior's—I'd spoken the words, and they had become
true as soon as they were out of my mouth.

“It's not that I don't love the team,” I continued. “Or even
the game, you know? I mean, football's basically all I've ever known. And it's
something people have always told me I'm so good at. And it's come easy to me…”

“Now you're just bragging.”

“...but the thing is, I don't know if I want to go pro. It's
more like, I'd do it because I couldn't think of anything else to do.” It
sounded so lame. I was afraid to look at Clay—thinking he might slap me for a
second there. But surprisingly, my friend did not seem judgmental.

“As your linebacker, I'm sorry to hear that,” he continued.
Beyond our conversation, I could hear the swinging hinge of the locker room
door and some hushed voices. We had to wrap up our little Oprah moment right
quick, before the team walked in. “As your friend, I say—Godspeed. Find what makes
you happy. Just maybe don't go
out of your
way to fuck up the rest of
this season, think of your teammates bro.”

I leaned in for a dap, and felt for the first time a surge
of adrenaline. The hunger for the game I'd been missing. Sometimes at the Super
Bowl, you'd see players talk about how they dedicated their performance to God,
or their parents—but I'd dedicate this game to my friends. Clay and the
Longhorn hooligans. Ashleigh.

As I returned to my suiting up, I felt a harsh tap on my
shoulder—and there they were, like some kind of fucked-up jury. Coach Wells,
Coach Yeardley, Denny, some man I didn't recognize, and...improbably...Zora.
What
the fuck were they doing here?

“Son, could we talk to you for a second?” asked the man I
didn't recognize. I looked to Yeardley and Wells for approval, and they nodded.
I barely had time to pull a t-shirt over my head before I was being corralled
into Wells' office—not unlike a prisoner, I thought.

The door slid shut behind us all and I was aware of how
stuffy the office was, how rarely I had cause to come in here. Wells gestured
that I take a seat, but everyone else remained standing.

“Am I in some kind of trouble, Coach?” I asked, swiveling my
head around, unsure who to address. The new dude smiled—or, more like he leered.
His teeth were spread far apart and he had a tight little buzz-cut. I thought I
recognized him from somewhere, but figured it was also possible he just had one
of those faces.

“Son, my name is Timbers. Alex Timbers,” the mystery man
began. “I represent the San Francisco 49ers. We've been keeping a close watch
on your football career, Mr. Sterling.” I felt a thrill of pride zip down my
spine, then thought of Clay out in the locker room. I'd literally just told him
I didn't care about being scouted. Why couldn't Mr. 49er be looking for a
linebacker today, instead?

“I'm so flattered,” I said, hating how mealy I sounded. I
stole a confused look at Zora, who made no facial concession to the fact that
it was weird she was in here. Though I had no clue just how these meetings were
supposed to go, I would've bet any bonus that ex-girlfriends and ex-friends
usually weren't invited to contract signings.

“Thrilling. That's just thrilling. Because we've got an eye
on you for the draft come April,” Shiver-me-Timbers continued. “The only thing
that's really giving us pause is a little disciplinary matter, which has been
brought to our attention by the coaches and your two good friends here.”

Fuck me.

I would never in a million years have figured that Denny
would be right about the NFL's alleged “image overhaul.” Everything I'd ever
learned about football supported the unpleasant fact that all sorts of creeps
and criminals were above the law, if only they won Super Bowls. I fought the
urge to grimace at Denny, all conspiratorial-like. Then I remembered the word
Timbers had just used:
friends.

Oh, no, no. These people were not my friends.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I continued,
angling to save face. Alas, I'd never been much of an actor.

“Is it not true that you were at Derby's Bar and Grill last
night with a minor? By the name of Ashleigh Bennett?”

It had to be a dream. This was a
pre-game nightmare. Any second, I would wake up in bed with a jolt and Ashleigh
would soothe me back to sleep with sweet words and little kisses. Denny and
Zora were refusing to make eye contact, and through the paneled glass in
Coach's office, I could see most of the team was pretending to go about their
business while they coyly watched my tribunal.

“Landon, we didn't want to ambush you like this. But we're
all well aware of your potential in the NFL, and your largely spotless record
with this team,” Coach Wells was saying. “Now, these fine young people have
come forward with a pretty hefty accusation, that you've supplied liquor to a
minor. This is bad business. The police could be involved. But in the interest
of putting everything above board for Mr. Timbers here, we're all prepared to
sign a statement and move forward with your career provided you stop seeing
little miss jailbait.”

“First of all, she’s not a minor, let’s get that straight.”
I tried.

“It's true, Landon,” Zora said, making her voice sound
especially mousy and weak. “I was at Derby's last night with a girlfriend, and
I saw you two. You guys know he's her step-sister, too, right? It's all pretty
sick, in my opinion.”

I closed my eyes for a second, as if to tamp down the fury.
Behind my lids, I saw my man Clay. Being a badass on the field, then going home
to Victoria. I saw Anya, weeping beside my shithead father on their wedding
day, pledging before God that she would trust him forever. I saw my mother, in
one singular, strange flash—in a dress she'd been wearing on our Denver trip.
In my memory, she was laughing with her full body, apparently at something the Pastor
had said. They'd actually been happy, once. It was hard to believe. They'd been
happy before everything had been ruined, and what good had that brief happiness
done them?

Before I even opened my eyes, I'd made my choice.