CHAPTER TWO
PAYTON
Day one at the academy and my dick’s not the only thing that’s looking up.
I scan the cafeteria, finally spotting her sitting by the window. I make my way over and slide my tray up next to hers.
One of the other guys in our class, I can’t recall his name, slaps me on the shoulder as he passes. “Fucking epic performance in there, man.”
“You too,” I grin back, but given your performance you’ll be gone in a week.
He’s referring to our first physical class, which I fucking aced, but it was easy to spot the chaff. As for our sole female and my esteemed partner, it was a different story. She was really sticking those cocksuckers, showing them up in everything from sprints to crunches. And the way she moved up that ladder, her perfect, peachy ass shifting from side to side… Every eye was on her, but I’m the only one who’s going to claim that prize. She can play the studious routine all she wants. They all succumb to my ten inches of charm in the end.
She snaps her head to look at me, her honeypot ponytail swishing behind her back.
“Oh,” I say, pointing to the table, “were you expecting company?”
“Yeah,” she replies, “anyone but you.”
I halve a meatball with my fork. “Come on now. We’re partners.”
She stabs a meatball of her own, the end of the fork grinding against the plate. “It’s not by choice, believe me.”
God, she smells amazing. I’m betting her pussy’s going to smell even better with my nose nuzzling up against it, my tongue driving deep inside her.
Whoa. Time to wind it back, superstar.
I extend my hand. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m Payton.”
I note the slight break in composure. She wasn’t expecting capitulation. She cautiously takes my hand and gives it a single shake. “Lacey,” she states.
“Well, Lacey, what brings you to the Hot House?”
She stares down at her food. “You know, naked guys running around with their pathetic little penises out thinking they’re in a Porkies reboot. And you? Why do you want to be a firefighter?”
I’m smiling real good now. I love a challenge. “Girls love a guy in uniform, especially a firefighter. A cop? No one’s happy to see a cop, but show up wearing the black and gold, and it’s a sure thing.”
She rolls her eyes. “Saving lives, helping your community—none of that factored into your decision?”
I lean closer. “You’re short, you know.”
Now she looks at me. Her eyes are bottle green, alive. They’re telling me she’s just as competitive as I am. “Neg all you want, but what’s your point?”
I shovel in half a meatball. “I see a lot of confined spaces in your future, that’s all.”
She shrugs. “Fine by me.”
“And if you break a nail?”
She smiles, and already I’m dreaming about those plump lips suffocating my cock. “You mean while I’m clawing your eyes out?”
I shrug back, lifting an eyebrow. “Hey, I like it rough. All you’re doing is turning me on.”
She stands and takes up her tray. “Funny. All you’re doing is turning me off.”
I watch her walk away, that same egg-cracker of an ass begging for my hands, maybe a good spanking to show her who’s boss.
But it appears I’m not the only one looking to score.
Struggle was the name of the game in PE earlier, but apart from Lacey, there was one other source of potential competition—Ryan Fielding. He sits with a group of others, but his eyes are following Lacey, and I sure as fuck don’t like the vibe they’re giving off. I recognize a fellow alpha when I see one, but there’s only room for one top dog here.
He sees me watching him and nods.
I nod back.
Fucker.
Someone fills Lacey’s seat beside me. I swivel to find the captain-appointed class clown, Jackson King, sitting beside me. There’s nothing on his tray but jell-o.
“Payton Cox, right?” he says, and holy shit is his hair red in this light.
“That’s my name,” I reply.
“You’re from upstate, Brown?”
I scan the room, make sure no one’s eavesdropping. “Perhaps.”
Jackson starts to spoon in jell-o. “I thought so. I saw you play the Bulldogs last season. You’ve got a killer fucking arm, bro. What was it? Three, four touchdowns that night?”
My teeth grind together. I was hoping to keep this quiet. “That was then. This is now. I’ve moved on.”
“What happened?” he continues. He waves his spoon around. “I mean, this is hardly Ivy League, is it?”
I place my hand on his shoulder and squeeze lightly. “Why don’t we just keep this between you and me, huh?”
He nods, swallowing. “Whatever you say.”
I let go. “Good.”
I turn around and notice Fielding’s still watching me. There’s a look on his face I recognize from the field, a call to arms of sorts.
I return to my food while Jackson continues to blubber away about fire this and fire that. The kid’s fucking obsessed.
But my mind’s elsewhere. It’s on Lacey and delicate features, on her tight body and no doubt tighter pussy.
Day one and I’m only warming up.
Game on.
*
The small bar across the road looks busy for a Monday night. ‘Dante’s’ the neon sign reads, a flashing arrow pointing downwards to the door.
I pass the sole security guard and walk inside to country music, wooden floors, and the overpowering stench of stale beer. I breathe it in. Hello, friend.
Campus curfew’s at ten—plenty of time to play.
Others from the class spot me and call me to the corner. I’m handed a beer, chug it down, and head to the bar for another round. Forget the fucking academy, this is where the real legends will be made.
The bartender’s sort of cute in an early Britney way, but my focus is on Lacey. Nothing else is going to satisfy. I order another round of beers and a whiskey for myself.
I spot Jackson over near a table of middle-aged local women. A puff of flame rises from his outstretched hand, the women looking suitably shocked.
Fucking magic tricks—a sure-fire way to keep panties in place.
Good luck, buddy.
“Funny, I didn’t take you for a whiskey sort of guy.”
I look down the bar to where Lacey Nelson is sitting by herself, a glass of what could either be a club soda or straight vodka in front of her. I take my whiskey, slapping down cash for the round, and walk down to her. She’s wearing a white tank and jeans so tight they’re basically a second skin. I don’t think she deliberately tried to dress sexy, but given the twitching in my pants, it’s working like a fucking charm.
I perch myself on the stool beside her. “I have to say, you’re the last person I expected to see here tonight.”
“It is the unofficial class mixer,” she replies.
“You want to hang with the cool kids, don’t you? You have ever since high school.”
“I was Homecoming Queen, actually.”
“And yet here you are.”
She plays with the rim of her glass, nodding over to Jackson. “Poor guy. I don’t think he’s getting the hint.”
True to that, Jackson’s trying to follow the women out of the bar, lurching to show them another trick. “Yeah,” I say, “he’s kind of creepy, isn’t he?”.
“Says the guy running around with his,” she takes a sip before continuing, “organ out.”
“Organ?” I laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
“You’ve got your own pet name for it? Let me guess. ‘The Dominator,’ right?”
“No, but that’s a good one. What do you call your dick?” I tease.
She goes to get up. I place my hand lightly against her side. “I’m joking. Come on. Why so serious?”
“Because some people aren’t here to fuck around.”
I reel back. “Behold, the Homecoming Queen with a chip on her shoulder.”
“No,” she states firmly, “the former Homecoming Queen who’s come to realize there’s more to life than getting laid and getting wasted.”
“Not necessarily in that order.”
She’s shaking her head. I’m losing her. “Come on,” I start, “I’m a good partner. You should be thankful to have me.”
She’s halfway through drinking, almost loses it across the bar in laughter. “You?” she exclaims. “I should be lucky to have you? Who do you think you are?”
The fucking Allies didn’t encounter this much resistance. “I’m Payton Cox, only child of William and Brenda Cox, former college football star, and discerning lover of the finer things in life. I’ve got a trust fund, a ten-inch cock, and more drive to succeed than anyone in here, present company included. I’m the best of the fucking best and, like I said, you’re lucky to have me, so I ask, who the fuck are you?”
It’s full-on, I know, could go either way, but her response comes unexpected.
She slides her glass away and leans close, a shadow shifting over her cleavage, her jade eyes iridescent. “I’m the girl who’s finally going to put you in your place.”
“Is that so?”
Her eyes don’t shift. “It’s a promise, as ironclad as can be.”
If I was hard before, I’m fucking concrete now.
If it’s competition she wants, it’s competition she’ll get.
It arrives sooner than expected when Ryan takes a seat on the other side of her. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I put my hand up. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Funny,” he replies, his hand falling onto Lacey’s thigh. “Well?” he says. “You want a drink or you want to skip straight to orgasm I’m going to give you in the bathroom back there?”
The. Fucking. Balls.
I stand. “I don’t think she’s buying, bud, so why don’t you beat it back to your ass-bandit friends over at the Pink Flamingo, huh?”
Lacey goes to peel his hand away, but he simply slides it higher.
“Get your god damn ha—” she starts.
But I’ve already sprung into action. I get a solid right in, Ryan’s head snapping sideways, the blow sending him spindling off onto the floor.
He stands up holding his jaw. “You’re going to regret that.”
He rushes forward and tackles me around the torso, driving me hard up against the bar, Lacey’s glass falls to shatter on the floorboards.
Someone shouts, another glass dropping.
The fucker’s strong, I’ll give him that. We spin. I pull him into a headlock, but he manages to break free and jab me in the ribs.
I’m about to bring my elbow down on his neck when something pushes us apart.
The security guard holds me back by the chest, shoving Ryan away, a cut on his cheek opening up. I go to rush forward again, but the security guy, a three-hundred-pound immovable object, holds me away.
“Go!” he shouts at Ryan, thumbing to the door.
Ryan points back to me. “You just fucked up.”
He leaves, the security guard turning to me and nodding to my whiskey. “You too. Finish your drink and get the fuck out.”
I take my seat, lifting the tumbler to my lips.
Lacey’s looking at me with her face scrunched up.
“What?” I exclaim. “A ‘thank you’ would be nice.”
She stands, hands on her hips. “I can fight my own battles.”
She walks off.
“Wait!” I call, but it’s too late.
The bartender laughs. “Way to go, Sugar Ray.” She places her hands on the bar. “Now, shall we say a hundred even for damages?”