CHAPTER ELEVEN
CAYDEN
I manage to sneak Indy out just before Hunter and Colton return home, leaning on each other half-hammered.
I place two beers on the breakfast bar. “You guys are early.”
Hunter swipes his beer up. “And you look way too chuffed with yourself considering you didn’t join us at The Lab tonight. We were swimming in it, bro.”
I span my arms out, deflecting the question. “And yet, here you are.”
But they know me too well. We’re bound by the bond of brotherhood. Hunter could break his leg on the field tomorrow and I’d feel it.
Colton taps the side of the beer bottle on the bar. He sniffs the air. “I smell fucking.”
Hunter joins him, eyeballing me. “Oh, shit. You did it, didn’t you? You did her.”
Try as I might, I cannot wipe the smile from my face. “She wants to keep this thing on the down-low, completely secret, and you two cock jockeys are going to keep your pie holes shut. Am I clear?”
Hunter laughs. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Does she want to keep this a secret? Have you asked yourself that?”
I have, but it’s not important. I’d help her hide a body if it meant another night with her. “Come on, man. She’s not like the others. She doesn’t want the attention. It’s refreshing, actually.”
Colton narrows his gaze. “You sure that’s it, bro?”
“No,” I state, my defenses rising. “But she asked me and I’m respecting her wishes, as will you.”
Hunter almost falls off his stool, choking on his beer. “Cayden ‘Bone Them All’ Beckett is talking about respect? What next? An interview on Oprah? Tampon commercials?”
I lean forward and punch him in the shoulder. “You’re just jealous.”
He takes a swig, grimacing a little but covering it well. “You know me. I’m not short of a place to park my old man. Did you even get a shot of her, for your ‘records’?”
I shake my head. “She said no social media, no photos.”
Colton whistles. “Not even a quick shot for the hall of shame?”
“I deleted it.”
Hunter stands. “The entire gallery? Fuck me. You are serious about this one.”
I nod, leaning over the breakfast bar, my cock filling thinking about the way her lips pressed against mine, the intoxicating way she came. “She’s a game-changer, boys.”
The two stare at each other.
“So,” I continue, “what happened at the Lab?”
They exchange another look.
Hunter speaks first. “Dwayne.”
I pound my fist on the bench. “Fucking hell. What did he do this time?”
“The dipshit spilled his drink on Rickey,” adds Colton.
“Deliberately?” I question.
Hunter’s nod confirms it. “He was trying to get a rise out of us.”
Fucking Dwayne. The lack of field time he saw tonight probably didn’t help, but screw him. If he wants to get off the bench, he should up his game. “He knows we’re on thin ice with the Dean.”
Hunter raps his knuckles against the side of his head. “He’s not right up here, Cay. We have to watch out for him.”
Colton breathes out. “Almost turned into a full-on bar fight… until Lucy intervened, kicked us all out.”
“Probably for the best,” I add.
Colton tilts his beer at Hunter. “Now, that Lucy. There is a catch.”
Hunter laughs, bowing back on his stool. “I told you, I’m looking for a warm place to stick my dick, not something that’s going to bite it off.”
Colton looks between us. “Aren’t you all on the same fucking team anyway? It’s fucking ridiculous. You don’t get any of this macho, bum-fiddling bullshit in lacrosse.”
“Because you’re too busy blowing each other,” Hunter smiles.
Sometimes Colton makes it too easy.
The two of them go tumbling onto the floor. I watch them, half-amused and half-vexed, because Colton’s right. It is bullshit.
*
The humidity’s close to one-hundred-percent today. I’m breaking a sweat before I’m even out the front door, making my way across campus.
Indy steps out from under a tree to meet me. She’s wearing khaki shorts and a shirt that reads ‘Straight Outta Mordor’ just like the NWA album.
I almost reach forward to kiss her, take a handful of that perfect ass, but she pulls back holding her shirt. “Too nerdy?”
“Only if you start speaking Elvish.”
She steps forward and stands on her tippy-toes to whisper in my ear. She’s sweating, the natural musk her body is giving off bringing my cock to attention. “Ni mere, your hrondo” she slurs.
“What did you say?”
She draws back and winks.
I shake my head. “Who knew geek could sound so sexy?”
“Wait until I bring out my elf ears.”
“I want to touch you so badly right now,” I confess.
She nods, head downcast. “I know, but not here, not in public.”
I almost ask why, but reconsider. “You’re driving me crazy. Do you know how hard my cock is right now?”
She comes to my ear again. “Down, boy.”
She walks away.
“Fuck me,” I breathe out.
I catch up to her, a gaggle of Phi Gamma sisters blowing kisses as they pass by. One of them lifts her top.
Indy swings her arms as she walks. “I bet you’re used to that kind of attention.”
“I am, but honestly? It gets kind of old. You’re much more,” I search for the word, “stimulating.”
“Is that why you’re studying law? Because you need something stimulating to satiate that big ol’ brain of yours?”
I raise my eyebrow at her. “You know, for a Big Bang Theory casting call, you sure know how to roll out the sexual innuendo.”
She looks down at my crotch. “Maybe I’ve been inspired.”
“Maybe.”
“So,” she pushes, “why law? There are a lot of easier degrees, especially considering how much time you must have to commit to the Trojans. Your coach looked kind of scary.”
I scratch the fresh stubble on my chin. “Adolf Hitler was scary. Coach? He’s something else again, a robot sent back in time to deliver nothing but pain.”
“So a Terminator, only with a whistle and clipboard instead of a shotgun and great leather jacket?”
I snap my fingers. “Precisely, but to answer your question, I didn’t really have a choice. Three generations of Becketts have studied law at Abbotsleigh, played with the Trojans, though none have made it to the NFL. I’m going to put an end to that.”
“But your brothers don’t study law, do they?”
“Hunter’s doing business, which is close enough. Colton’s an arts major, which figures. He always was a pansy-ass.”
She pushes me, her hand a feather against my arm but her touch welcome. “Stop it. They’re your brothers.”
“I have another, Mason. He works with Dad as an associate in New York, got sucked right into it.”
“And you don’t want to?”
“Fuck no. I’m here for sport-study, not study-sport, if you follow me.”
“And Abbotsleigh doesn’t mind?”
“It’s a lucrative business, college football, especially with someone like me bringing in the big corporate sponsors. They need me as much as I need them.”
She looks confused. “So, why do it? Change your major. Study something you want to.”
I laugh. “The old man would never go for that. Two sons bucking the trend was almost cause enough for him to pull the plug on our funding here. A third? That money would dry up faster than a sponge in the Sahara. We’d be fucked, out of the house for a start.”
“It is a nice place.”
“It’s been in the Beckett family since slaving days, a street away from the official campus boundary, which is, as you would probably guess, quite fortuitous for us. And what about you? Why are you studying law?”
She shrugs. “Too many Boston Legal re-runs?”
I laugh at that, shoving my hands in my pockets to stop them reaching for her. “It was always Ally McBeal for me. That Calista Flockhart…”
“She’s fifty-two.”
“And foxy as ever.”
“You’re making me jealous.”
I stop, staring deep into her rocky eyes. I can’t believe the way her hair shimmers in the sun out here, unable to decide what color it wants to be. “You have nothing to worry about on that front. Trust me.”
“Trust Abbotsleigh’s biggest player?”
“That’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”
She smirks, winking again. “I don’t know,” she purrs, licking her lips. “I like a nice, big jock sometimes.”
She walks away again, leaving me shaking my head. “How am I supposed to walk into that lecture with a hard-on the size of the Statue Of Liberty?” I shout.
She spins around, laughing. “I’m sure you’ll find somewhere to put it.”
*
I’m not exactly studying law as much as I’m studying Indy’s legs as she sits beside me, the lecturer droning on and on, half the class asleep.
It’s torture.
I write on my notepad, ‘I wish I was inside you right now,’ sliding it to the edge of the desk and tapping my pen on it to get her attention.
She looks up at me with wide eyes, before relaxing and adding her own line below: ‘Are you hard?’
I nod slowly. ‘Are you wet?’ I write.
‘Always,’ she writes back.
I pick up the notebook and pretend to fan myself with it.
“Yes!” shouts the lecturer. “Up the back there. Mr. Beckett, is it?”
All eyes turn towards me.
I jump so hard I almost put a hole in the desk with my erection. “Sorry?”
“Did you have a question?” the lecturer calls.
The poor guy looks hopeful, that here, finally, is someone who is paying attention, eager to delve into the finer aspects of common law.
“No, sir. Just…” Indy’s about to lose it. “Getting some air.” I wave the notebook again in demonstration, much to the collected amusement of those in attendance.
The lecturer gives me a firm eye ‘tut tut’ and continues on.
Indy elbows me in my side. “Nice one, hot shot.”
We grab a quick bite at the co-op café downstairs, the kind of quirky campus establishment run by those who consider footwear and deodorant optional.
Our waitress, fresh from the pumpkin patch, places down two paninis and coffees. “Enjoy.”
“I’m starving,” says Indy, pulling her plate across. “All that physical activity…”
“There’s more where that came from.”
“There better be.”
She looks down at her plate. “Damn. They forgot to cut it.”
I pick up my knife and hand it towards her. “Here.”
She continues to sit there.
I shake the knife. “You going to take it or leave me hanging?”
“You’ll have to put it down on the table first.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
I place the knife down. “O-kay.”
She picks it up, smiling again. “Thank you.”
I lean back. “Is that another superstition thing?”
She cuts through the — organic, double toasted, wholegrain, almond-something super food — sandwich. “Something like that. It cuts the friendship.”
“I think we’re a little beyond simple friendship.”
“Maybe, but I’m not taking any chances.”
“You’re serious?”
She nods, taking a bite of her panini and wiping her mouth before speaking again. “I am. I know these things seem stupid, but I have to follow them, these rules…”
“Or?” I question.
“Chaos ensues.”
It’s weird, sure, but I can accept a bit of superstition if need be. I’d accept damn near anything to be with this angel, this shining beacon of hope for my otherwise damned soul.
You’re a Beckett. You were damned the moment you were born.
Having Satan for a father hasn’t helped. He’s gotten some of New York’s biggest scumbags off the hook. I’m talking true, bottom-feeding pricks, where even Hell itself wouldn’t be enough, and for what? So he can line his pockets, build up his empire.
You’re using his money, remember. It’s paying for the clothes on your back, the shoes on your feet…
Not for long. As soon as I hit the NFL, I’m out, on my own.
I look to Indy. Or maybe not.
I’ve never met a girl before that wanted to make me settle down, commit. I’m always so desperate to move on, to conquer, but Indy is the first to make those dormant instincts flicker to life. I’m seeing a fucking family with her, for crying out loud.
“What’s after this then?” she asks. “The, what is it you called it, the NTL?”
“I’m going to let that one slide, but yes, the NFL—the National Football League, the big time.”
“Any particular team?”
I pick up my sandwich. “I’ve always been a big fan of the Giants, but there’s no guarantee when it comes to the draft.”
“Where are the Giants from?”
And you’re thinking about spending your life with this girl? “New York.”
Her eyebrows knit together. She places her sandwich down. “Oh,” she says, trying to remain upbeat.
“Surely you know the Giants. Come on. When was the last time you went to an NFL game?”
She lifts her shoulders. “I’ve never been to one.”
I throw my sandwich down, almost spilling my coffee. “Are you fucking kidding me? Are you even American?”
She laughs. “I can’t say I’ve felt the need. I’m not big on—”
I stop her with my hand. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence. What are you doing later?”
“I don’t have any plans.”
I think it through. “I have to go to Troy this afternoon, run through some solo drills in prep for the big game with South Florida next week, but can you come around the house, say, six?”
“For…?”
“Two-and-half,” I calculate. “It should be enough.”
“Again, for what?” she queries, looking so unbelievably fucking adorable holding that panini, she’s lucky I don’t strip her down right here and fuck her on this hipster pallet-slash-table we’re seated at.
I smile back. “For your education.”