After wrapping my toe in a waterproof Hello Kitty Band-Aid, I put my long hair in a bath cap and hopped in the tub, which had been modernized with a shower head on the wall above it and a shower curtain on an oval rod hanging from the ceiling. I turned the water temp to hot and just stood there, gut churning. Today I was facing Bart for the first time since we’d broken up.
Later while I was brushing my teeth, I glanced out the window next to the tub and saw a disheveled brunette bounce out of Mr. Quarterback’s door, stumble off the porch, and fall in the azalea bushes. I snickered. She crawled up, brushed herself off, and weaved along the sidewalk, obviously still trashed as she dug in her purse for what I assumed were her keys. She was the second girl this week who’d done the walk of shame from his house. The brunette finally made it to her BMW, got in, and cranked it up. Gunning the engine, she lost control and sideswiped my poor Camry parked on the street.
My mouth plopped open, and my forgotten toothbrush fell to the floor. I’d just paid the clunker off this summer!
She threw her car in reverse and backed up, scraping along the side of my car, making me cringe at the sound of grinding metal. Then she sped off.
Fuck! I stared up at the dingy popcorn ceiling and blinked my tears away.
And so it begins. The football player and I were finally going to meet.
I was going to murder him.
Max
THE GIRL ON MY PORCH was livid.
I studied her, taking in the wild white-blond hair that draped over a wrinkled shirt with Pizza is my Soulmate printed across the front. A pair of black yoga pants clung to her lean thighs. They’d seen better days according to the hole at the knee. I quirked an eyebrow, my gaze leisurely as it roved across her nice tits, all the way to her pink toenails and then back to her flushed face. Simple, no makeup, and barely together. Not the usual kind of girl who knocked on my door.
Yet . . .
My heart jumped.
I knew her.
I shifted through memories of countless girls I’d met—and screwed—at Leland.
Had she been in one of my classes? Had I met her at a party?
Nope. I got nothing, but I couldn’t erase that feeling of goosebumps, like a ghost was blowing on the back of my neck.
Her eyes flared as she took in every inch of me. Heart-shaped lips parted in surprise. Guess she hadn’t expected a six foot six badass.
“Who are you?” I said curtly. Direct. I had shit to do.
Smoky gray eyes blinked, looking uncertain. A range of emotion skittered across her face, from anger to amazement to complete and utter confusion. “I—I’m your new neighbor. I moved in last week.” Her voice was thin and reedy as if she couldn’t breathe.
Great. Another psycho.
I vaguely recalled a truck backed up to the porch of the sagging house across the street. “Yeah? What’s your problem?” I said, popping a smirk and slipping into my I’m cool mask. I wore it a lot in public. When you’d gotten to the level of success I had, everything you did was open for scrutiny. I played everything as if someone was watching—or I tried to. “Mad because you weren’t invited to our party last night?” I asked, leaning against the doorjamb.
She rubbed her forehead and continued that dazed stare.
Those fucking goosebumps came back.
“Uh, hello?”
She blinked rapidly. Clearing her throat, she shook herself, swallowed, and smiled tightly, seeming to gain her equilibrium. “I don’t really party. It’s the skank I’m here about.”
“Skank?” I asked, rearing back with a frown.
From the doorway, she swept intelligent eyes over me and Tate on the couch. “That’s right. Which one of you has a girlfriend that left here a few minutes ago—who was obviously intoxicated, by the way. She slammed into my car. And if you don’t give me her details, I’m going to notify the police.” A look of urgency came to her face. “But for right now, I’m hoping for a ride to class. It’s really important that I not be late.”
Girlfriend? Neither of us—oh shit . . .
“Didn’t I see Sierra leaving your room?” Tate asked me, scratching his bare chest. “Have to admit, she seemed a wee trashed.”
I cursed, blew out a breath, and slumped against the doorjamb. Tate was the one who encouraged the groupies. He liked them to do his homework, make his bed, wash his car; they were his personal maid service.
Neighbor Girl looked suitably disgusted, a smidge of I should have known it was you on her face. “Nice girlfriend. What are you going to do about her ruining my car, Mr. Quarterback?”
The spitfire knew who I was—which wasn’t surprising.
“She’s not my girlfriend. No doubt, she’d love for me to be her baby-daddy—”
She held a hand up. “It’s a bit early to get squeamish.”
Tate snorted in the background.
“She broke into my room,” I huffed. “I woke up and there she was all bare-assed and ready, but nothing happened.”
“I bet,” she muttered.
Why was I explaining this to her?