Page 17 of Matched By My Rival
He was—oh fuck, is that a dead skunk?
I didn’t quite muffle a startled squeal, and Simon’s husky laugh drifted through the porch beams, raising goosebumps on my skin.
He was sadistic; that’s what he was. Simon Prentiss was playing with me, getting his jollies from making me swim through filth, and I was letting him. Because hell, hearing that laugh, it did something to me.
It made me want to wallow for him—if only he’d give me another chance.
* * *
SIMON
The mic squealed with feedback, jolting me where I stood zoned out behind the bar at Tracks.
“Fuck,” I muttered, taking in the line that had formed while I’d been lost in my head. Lost in remembering the sheer pleasure that had washed through me when a thoroughly filthy Parker Reed had crawled out from under that old, sagging porch. Mud had stained the knees of his jeans and the elbows of the hoodie he wore with the Hayworth mascot, a cartoon-style Haymaker with a disturbing grin, on it. Dust had fallen from his hair when he ran his hands through it, shuddering and cursing and dancing around like he had ants in his pants. Hell, maybe he did.
I’d laughed until he’d looked up, his baby blues burning bright in his dusty, sweat-streaked face.
“That’s your one free shot,” he’d said. “And it’s one more than you deserve, considering you’ve already bashed my face in.”
That was a bit of an exaggeration. I hadn’t hit him that hard. But I did regret it—and not only because it had cost me my scholarship and place on the team. I hated that I’d lost control like that. I didn’t want to be the sort of guy who let his temper rule him. The sort of guy to get violent.
And Iwasn’t—usually. I’d never been in a serious fight before that night. Something about Parker got under my skin. Maybe because he represented everything I wanted but had lost: the top wide receiver position on the field, a body that didn’t betray him with injuries, the confidence that things would go his way. And why wouldn’t they? He was the golden boy. That had never been me, no matter how hard I had worked for it.
“Simon! Where’s your head at, man?”
I glanced at Rhett, surprised by his impatient tone. We usually got along well, but he didn’t like slackers, and I wasn’t keeping up tonight.
“Sorry.” I forced my hands back into action, finishing the drink I’d started before I spaced out. “Just had a weird day.”
He made a noncommittal noise, most of his focus on the drink he was mixing, a margarita by the looks of it. They were a hit with a lot of the women, and Rhett had a pretty brunette leaning against the bar, smiling in his direction.
“Tip alert,” I mumbled as I slipped past him to grab the rum for my next order.
He snorted quietly, smirking, then smoothly transitioned to a flirty smile as he slid the margarita onto the bar before her. “Enjoy.”
“Oh, I will,” she said, pushing a napkin forward. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”
She melted back into the crowd to be replaced by another thirsty patron and another. I grabbed a bottle of Heineken and thanked all that was holy for beer drinkers. We’d never keep up if they all ordered mixed drinks.
“Damn,” Rhett said as he held up the napkin displaying a name and digits scribbled in blue ink. “I got a phone number, but no tip.”
I laughed. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
He shrugged. “I’ve got bills to pay.”
“Don’t we all.”
Tracks remained jammed till last call, and neither of us wasted words beyond the necessary shop talk to navigate around each other in a small space. When the last round of drinks finally went out, I sagged, dropping my head onto my crossed arms on the bar.
“Don’t crap out on me now,” Rhett said. “We still gotta close out.”
“I know.” I groaned, pushing myself up.
Rhett watched me speculatively. “Burning the candle at both ends?”
“Yeah,” I said tiredly. “I’ve got this volunteer work I do. It involves a lot of manual labor.”
He whistled low. “School, bartending,andvolunteering. What are you, some kind of superhero?”
