Page 7 of The C*ck Down the Block

Check with who?

“Jules? Do I fit the patriarchal male gaze look we were going for yet? Do I need more mascara?”

Trixie was doing her makeup with my sister? And why the fuck did the seventeen-year-old baby girl of the family know what the male gaze was? She’d been training to take down the patriarchy since she was two, but the male gaze? Nope. No. I did not like that.

“Let me just add this highlighter... and yes. You’re officially man-killer ready.” My little sister’s voice went up a couple decibels. “You better keep your arm around her all night, big brother, or some manwhore will steal Trixie away from you.”

Who talks like that?

Jules Kingman, youngest of eight, only girl, and the apple of all our eyes, of course. Later tonight, I was telling dad to ground her until she was thirty.

“Whore is a social construct, Jules.” Trixie was missing the point all together.

“I’ll come over there to pick you up. Don’t let Jules talk you into—”

“Bye, big brother.”

The phone went dead. Jules fucking hung up on me. My grounding recommendation just went up to age forty-two. And a half.

I went out the back door, slipped through the gate on the side into Trixie’s yard to avoid my brothers, which didn’t help my cause because Luke Skycocker came at me like a rooster-bat out of hell. If I didn’t have finely honed quarterback skills, my outfit would be toast.

I sprinted across the yard. “Luke, I swear to god, you’re going to be Sunday dinner if you peck a hole in my pants or shit on my shoes.”

Wouldn’t be the first time he’d done either.

I rushed the fence, used the coop as a launch pad, and leapt into the backyard of my childhood home unscathed. A pecking sound came from the other side of the fence, and a disgruntled squawking. “You underestimate the power of the dark side, Luke.”

Through the French doors that opened out to the backyard, I could see Jules and my dad in the kitchen. But when Trixie walked by, my heart skipped a beat and then pounded against my chest. I raised my hand up to make sure it wasn’t popping out the front of my shirt.

My career was over. It would be irresponsible of me to play a professional sport with a heart that didn’t work right. Game over.

Trixie was fucking gorgeous. A dark blue dress that showed off every god-damned curve, a pretty blush to her cheeks, and shiny heels with red soles that I caught a glimpse of when she walked.

I was dead. Dead meat.

Or I thought I was until she turned and caught me standing in the backyard like a dumb, slobbering zombie. Because she smiled, and holy fuck. The curve of her lips... that was my favorite curve of all.

I forgot how to speak, how to move, how to think.

She waved and opened the door, and I woke the fuck up and stepped behind the lawn furniture so she didn’t see the tent in the front of my pants.

“Hey,” she said as if we’d just bumped into each other while grabbing the mail.

“Hey.” Sweet baby Jesus, I was so screwed.

“Ready?” She tipped her head and looked at me with slightly narrowed eyes.

Was I ever. “Uh, lemme just order the car.”

I turned my back on her and gave my cock a good stern talking to, thought of baseball, the King of England, and losing the Super Bowl, not that I ever had. A few deep breaths later and our car was on the way, and my dick was only at half-mast instead of a heat seeking missile with Trixie as the target.

“You look great.” I sounded like a dumbass.

She did a little flounce and twirl. “Thanks, Jules helped me put the look together. You look nice too. I always did like you in a suit.”

This was it. If ever I was going to legitimately flirt with Trix, now was my chance. I could say something about how she liked looking at my butt in a uniform even more. “Yeah, this suit is... expensive.”

Yes, I did just fumble the fuck out of that ball. I choked. Because Trixie didn’t want me to flirt with her, and as much as I wanted to show her we could be so damn good together, I couldn’t cross that line in the sand she’d drawn so long ago.

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