Page 31 of The C*ck Down the Block

“Lulu dragged me onto the committee and now they’re counting on me. I’m in charge of the fundraiser.” What I didn’t say was the part where I worried that this really was still just faking it, practice, whatever, and that the kiss wasn’t real.

Wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to me.

But no. No, no, and no. I didn’t want it to be real. I wanted it to be fake. Needed it to be.

“You need to ask yourself what you really want, sweetheart. Only when I got a bit selfish and started taking care of my own wants and needs did I start to embrace the true authentic life I was meant to have. And the greatest sex too.”

This was not the first time I’d heard this story or this advice from my mother.

“Yeah,” I sighed. “I need to figure that out.”

“And until then, maybe have some alone with yourself to explore your feelings about Chris.”

I laughed because she did not mean time alone with my thoughts. She meant masturbating. An orgasm a day keeps the blues away. “Noted, Mom.”

Oh no. Oh. Now I was imagining doing all the fun and pleasurable things I normally did to myself in my bedroom alone, with a partner. A certain very muscled, charming, neighbor who had just kissed me and made my insides turn to jelly.

Crap.

“Okay, darling. Let me know how it goes, with Chris, not the reunion. Those Queen Bees can suck it as far as I’m concerned, and I’d be happy to know you told them so.”

“I know you would.” But I wasn’t going to say anything to them about my mother. I’d never blame her, but her former profession had caused me plenty of problems in high school and beyond. I’d found it best not to mention her until someone was in my inner circle.

Although somehow so many guys I’d dated, or rather tried dating, over the years always seemed to know.

“We’re off to the first session of the retreat. I’ll post all about it on Insta later. Wish us luck.”

“I don’t think you and Dad need luck, Mom.” Not in either the love or the great sex department. I could use a little of that kind of luck right now though.

“Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

Just as I was about to corral the chickens back into the coop and maybe go inside and find one of those toys from around the world my mother had sent me, my text notifications went crazy. Like bananas bonkers. At this rate, I could use my phone as a vibrator.

Glancing at the screen, my stomach plummeted. Notifications from social media were rolling in like a tide. I didn’t even want to look, because I knew it had to be pics from the game today. Chris had warned me on the way home that there would likely be a few and not to let them bother me.

They bothered me.

I clicked. I shouldn’t have, but I clicked. Someone... ugh, several someones, including Rachel, had tagged me in the comments of a snapshot of our appearance on the kiss cam at the ballgame.

The caption read “Mustangs hottie QB Chris Kingman looks like he’s off the market, ladies!” followed by a whole row of crying face emojis. I also had about a gazillion more followers too. I doubted a whole bunch of people suddenly were interested in my YA book recommendations.

My stomach switched places with my heart. That moment was supposed to be private, a break in the armor I so carefully maintained. And here it was, shared with the world, open for interpretation, and worse, for judgment.

But Chris had said this was the best way to establish our relationship, very publicly. No one was going to question whether he was with me after seeing this. Including Rachel, Amanda, and Lacey. He was using his fame to help me, and I couldn’t be mad about that.

Just then, an email notification popped up, cutting through my spiraling thoughts. From Rachel, the head of the reunion committee and a master at thinly veiled insults.

“Urgent: Auction Complications.”

My eyes narrowed as I read the email. According to Rachel, several auction items had “mysteriously disappeared” from the inventory at the school’s gymnasium, including the signed jerseys Chris and his brothers had donated. “I don’t know how this happened under your watch,” her message read, “but you need to find a solution ASAP. This fundraiser better be the best St. Ambrose has ever seen, Bee. If you can’t make it happen, I will.”

Yeah, she’d spelled my name wrong on purpose. I eyerolled that so hard, I about gave myself an aneurysm.

It was sabotage, plain and simple. But as much as I wanted to call her out, I knew it wouldn’t solve the immediate problem. And there was no way I was letting Rachel ruin this.

My phone buzzed again—this time, it was a text from Chris.

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