Page 1 of The C*ck Down the Block

CRASH INTO ME

CHRIS

I have never been a morning person. The butt crack of dawn can suck it as far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t even be awake at this ungodly hour, getting in some cardio, if it wasn’t for Luke Skycocker, the god-damned noisiest rooster, who lives next door.

I’d have already thrown him into my morning protein smoothie, feathers and all, if it wasn’t for Red Pooper One’s owner. Trixie would murder me with a jar of pickled eggs if I strangled her favorite chicken. Dumb fucking rooster.

I may want her to squeeze some parts of my anatomy, but not my throat. Well... maybe. No. We didn’t have that kind of relationship. What we did have was a long-standing friend zone situation that meant I got to stare at her plump ass as long as I didn’t say how good it looked.

Like right now, when she’s bent over in the middle of the damn street to pick up Luke Skycocker, who is doing his best to terrorize all of our neighbors into waking up. Every time she got close, he trotted away, flapping his wings and sounding his annoying alarm clock crow to the rising sun.

“Luke, if you weren’t so adorable, I’d cook you for dinner. Come here you little rat.” Trixie crept up on him again, arms outstretched, ready to snag him, and my heart beat harder than my morning run dictated.

Probably because she was wearing one of those floofy fifties-style dresses she liked, and every time she bent over, I got a glimpse of the back of her thick thighs and her sexy as fuck polka dot panties she kept flashing me. At this point, I was rooting for Luke just so I could stare my fill of... something I’d never have. Fuck.

Time to quit being a dick being controlled by my actual dick and help.

We’re just pals and have been since high school when she friend zoned me so hard, I still haven’t recovered. Doesn’t mean I don’t still jerk off in the shower thinking about her. But my mamma didn’t raise no jackasses, and my father ground into all seven of us boys to be gentlemen.

She said no, and I would never push that boundary. She wanted to be friends, so we’re friends. Doesn’t mean I don’t look. Every chance I get.

If I wasn’t lost in a very dirty fantasy of having her bent over my couch, I might have seen old Mrs. Bohacek barreling down the road at eleven miles an hour. She wasn’t tall enough to see over the steering wheel of her pristine, vintage, one-owner only1974 Oldsmobile Toronado which normally wouldn’t matter, but Luke Skycocker was headed straight toward the front grill, with Trixie trailing behind.

“Trixie, look out for Mrs. Bo in her boat.” I jogged toward her but picked up speed when Luke took flight. He was headed straight for the windshield.

“Luke,” Trixie shouted, “use the force you dumb rooster, use the force.”

The stupid chicken was going to smash into the car, probably splat all over the window, and scare the shit out of Mrs. B in the process. No way I was letting Luke kamikaze the Olds. Trixie would be devastated if her rooster went to the big chicken coop in the sky.

I hated when she cried. My agent, coach, and offensive line would kill me if they knew I was about to dash into oncoming traffic.Yet off I went to jeopardize my career by jumping in front of a car to save a stupid rooster.

Should be easy peasy.

Except seeing a giant rainbow-colored rooster flying straight at you would scare even the coolest and most calm drivers. That was not Mrs. Bo on a good day. She swerved one way, then the other, like she was three sheets to the wind. I still could have darted into the street and back to get her and the bird, if Mrs. Bo hadn’t freaked out and stepped on the gas. She was up to at least fourteen miles an hour and climbing.

“Fast feet, Beatrix, hustle, hustle.” She was already trying to anticipate Mrs. Bo’s swerving, but nobody here had a good escape route.

The familiar adrenaline of being on the field coursed through me. My vision went crystal clear and I lasered in on the car, the rooster, and my girl, quickly calculating the route I could take to make this play and avoid being sacked by the Olds.

I bounced on my feet and took off at a dead run. In a Super Bowl worthy move, I jumped onto the hood of the car, extending my reach out as far as I could, and grabbed Luke Skycocker by the long and danglies of his tail, pulling him down and tucking him under my arm like a football.

Then I pushed off the hood, snagged Trixie around the waist, and tucked and rolled off the side of the car, my hip jarring against the polished metal as Mrs. Bo swerved again. I took the brunt of the fall, protecting the rooster and Trix from the hard ground.

We skidded across the grassy curb between the street and the sidewalk in front of my house. Mrs. Bo skidded to a halt. The three of us laid there for a minute, my chest heaving, sucking in deep breaths, pushing the air and adrenaline back out of my system.

Trixie’s breath was rapid and ragged too. She lifted her head from my chest where she’d landed and pushed her glasses back up her face. “Why, Mr. Kingman. Is that a rooster in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

Even if I hadn’t already been half-hard fantasizing about Trixie’s ass, adrenaline does things to the anatomy. I’d had plenty of stiffies during intense football games. But combine the two, and this hard-on wasn’t going anywhere without some help.

Which I wasn’t getting from the woman sprawled across my body at the moment. Luckily, Luke Skycocker chose that moment to stick his head up between the two of us and peck me on the arm, twice.

He jumped out of my hold and sauntered across the yard and up onto Trixie’s front porch as if nothing in the world bothered him.The little shit.

Trixie shook her head and gave a little snort. “I think that’s his way of saying thanks for saving us.”

No it wasn’t. That rooster pecked anyone who wasn’t Trixie, especially guys. He loved her, and I’m pretty damn sure he thought she was his true love and fated mate.

“Yeah, what’s your way?” Son of a bitch. That just slipped out, all flirty and filled with innuendo. I knew better than to say shit like that out loud.

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