Page 8 of The C*ck Down the Block

It was better to be a monk who enjoyed little more than the company of my own spit and hand than lose her friendship for a roll in the hay. Except it wouldn’t be just sex for me.

Trixie gave me the side eye and a weird frown. She didn’t care about my money. Even if I was one of the highest paid players in league history.

She strolled over to me and reached up to adjust my tie. This was the part where I should kiss her. Instead, I stood there like a mascot getting beaned with jeers from the visiting team. “I suppose a famous guy like you should wear an expensive suit to a shindig like this.”

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to. We could watch reruns of Bake Off and throw popcorn at Luke.” Once again my mouth was doing things my brain had not authorized. I had to go to the restaurant opening. No way I’d let a friend and mentor down by ditching his grand opening. Not even for a girl.

Well, maybe for Trixie.

“Oh no. You’re not getting out of this now. I got dressed up and I want that hot goss on all your celebrity friends.”

She really didn’t have a clue. I was over here fighting for my life not to bend her over the picnic table, and she was being the good girl. “They aren’t my friends, Trix. You are.”

What I got for my sincerity was a smack on the chest. “Quit being so adorable and sweet. Now feed me and tell me I’m pretty.”

She turned and walked toward the gate leading out to the front of the house. I let my head fall back and stared up at the sky with a sigh. She wanted to be friends, so we were friends. I put on a voice like her request was the hardest request on the face of the earth, just to give her a tiny tease. “Fine. If I have to.”

I didn’t follow her right away, because once again, I was taking the time to watch her hips and her round ass sway as she walked away. I would have enjoyed that sight a whole lot longer too, if I hadn’t caught Jules, arms folded and an evil grin on her face, watching me through the back door.

FRIES BEFORE GUYS

TRIXIE

The Uber pulled up to the grand opening of Manniway’s and the front entrance was a freaking war zone of paparazzi. This looked more like we’d accidentally stumbled onto the set of a Hollywood blockbuster premier, one with a budget that made small countries weep. Flashes popped like rabid fireflies and the red carpet stretched out longer than the road to Mordor.

One look out the window, and my insides were doing stomach flips like that time Kylo Hen got into the coffee grounds and had a caffeine buzz for three hours. But Chris, ever the pro, just flashed his signature grin. It wasn’t that I minded getting my picture taken. But this wasn’t a few pictures. This was an attack on the senses.

What my mouth did in reply was not even close to a smile. More like the face one might make when you bite into a moldy lemon. “You did not say we were going to be walking a red carpet.”

He shrugged and gave me that look. The one he’d been giving me whenever he knew he screwed up and was sorry-not-sorry that he’d gotten me into this mess and couldn’t I just forgive him this one time. The puppy-eyed look that worked on me every single time. “I honestly didn’t know it was this big of a deal. We’ll be inside in no time, and I promise lots of hot gossip for you. Just stay close to me. It’ll be fine.”

I snorted. My heart rate was already nearing game day levels. “Easy for you to say, Kingman. You probably use media scrums as morning calisthenics.”

His laughter was a welcome distraction as he led me onto the red carpet. I’d been expecting chaos, but this was like being thrown into a whirlwind of sharks who had all majored in journalism and minored in shouting.

We navigated the kaleidoscopic carpet much slower than promised. A photographer stepped into our path and shouted something about ‘who’s your new girlfriend?’ I nearly choked on my own spit. Us? A couple? Of course they would think that. No one here knew our history.

I tried to say something about being just friends, but Chris murmured in my ear to smile and slid his arm around my waist in a move so smooth I suspected he’d used it as often as he threw a football. With a swift pivot that would’ve made his coach proud, he maneuvered us toward the next set of photographers and ten feet closer to the restaurant entrance.

We paused again, I pasted on a smile so I didn’t look like a deer in the headlights in every single photo, and pinched Chris on the leg so he was inflicted with similar torture to me.

He chuckled and leaned down to press his lips to my ear again, which was the only way to hear over everyone shouting. His breath ruffled my hair and gave me goosebumps. Because of all the excitement. That’s why I had goosebumps on a sweltering summer night. “Remember, Trix, they’re not after you. They’re here for the spectacle. Think of them like seagulls. Loud, annoying, but mostly harmless, unless you’ve got french fries.”

Seagulls, yeah. That’s exactly what they were like. Squawking seagulls I could handle. But Chris was definitely their fried food of choice. It took us ten more minutes to move another ten feet.

The energy of the crowd, which I finally realized was also good old Mustang football fans too, rolled over me, intoxicating, disorienting, and made me yearn for a quiet evening at home with a good book and my chickens. Chris may have been comfortable in this world of glitz and glamour, but me? I was a chubby bunny that had accidentally stumbled onto a fashion runway full of foxes.

Apparently the runway liked bunnies. The cameras could not get enough of us. Clutching his arm was my only lifeline, and I continued to fake smile and followed him through the swirling chaos, hoping to survive the rest of the red carpet without accidentally stumbling over nothing and becoming a meme.

A thousand and eleventy-hundred pictures later, and we finally made it within a yard of the restaurant. I looked at Chris and shouted, “Fries before guys,” and bolted inside the restaurant.

He was by my side with the door shut behind him in less time than it took me to blow out a long, pent-up breath. “Fries before guys?”

“I don’t know. I panicked.”I was frazzled and he was fine. “If you don’t either ply me with sugar or alcohol or both, I’m going to die in the next twelve seconds.”

And by die I meant burst into tears or throw up. Either seemed equally likely at this point. It wasn’t that I was upset, but the pure adrenaline of that gauntlet of eyes and attention was more than had ever hit my bloodstream in my entire life combined.

This was why I was a librarian. The most public-facing excitement I could handle was being in charge of the seniors’ book club when the ladies chose a very spicy romance novel for their summer reading and the gents wanted action adventure. I’d given them werewolf smut, and that satisfied both camps.

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