Deuces Wild Page 2

  “You can’t be a restaurant.” I tear open the bag and dump the shredded lettuce into a bowl. Out of my produce bowl, I grab two tomatoes and start chopping.

  “It looks like a restaurant here.” She hops off the bar stool and wanders over to the window that overlooks the car park. “You have a whole parking lot out there. There are one, two, six garage doors. How many people live in that thing you call a house?” She points to the main building—a fifteen thousand foot brick Tudor that my dad had built for my mom after their second remarriage. To this day I’m not certain whether he gifted it as a way to apologize or drive her away because she only spent a few nights there before flying off to Paris. She’s currently in Greece, I think, with her latest lover—some duke or prince or something. He’s about two years older than me. Family get-togethers are awesome. I smash my knife against the tomatoes too hard and have to grab a fresh one. I’m making tacos, not salsa.

  “There are four people in the house.”

  “Four.” She’s dumbfounded. “In a house that big? Why do you live in this place then?” She waves a hand toward the interior of my loft that stretches across one of two garages.

  “Because I’m an adult.”

  “You’re a high school student.”

  “I’m nineteen, which is an adult.” Age doesn’t matter in determining adulthood. There are people in their forties, like my mother, who are not adults. And then there’s me, who has been taking care of myself since I could tie my own shoes. I toss the chopped tomatoes into another bowl and turn back to the meat. It’s almost done. “Do you know how to run a microwave?”

  “I’m not five,” she grouses, pulling herself away from the window and coming back to the kitchen.

  “You look like it,” I retort. It’s a good thing that I’m standing in front of the stove so she can’t see how my body is responding to her in my jersey because otherwise she’d know I’m lying. If my hard-on doesn’t deflate, I’ll have to intentionally burn myself on the pan or some shit like that. I’m not used to this. My dick doesn’t react unless I want it to react. Unlike other guys, I don’t let my pecker make decisions for me. I’m in charge. I glare down at the bulge in my sweatpants. Get it together, Carter. It’s a girl. You’ve seen girls before. You’ve seen girls in bikinis and short skirts and no clothes on. One jersey-wearing girl should not get your blood pressure up.

  “I said how long do you want me to nuke these for?” An irritated voice breaks through my internal pep talk.

  “And I thought you said you weren’t five and knew how to use one,” I snap.

  “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t care if the shells are burnt to a crisp but I thought you might. Excuse me for trying to be thoughtful.” She slams the microwave door shut and jabs the touchscreen as if it’s my eyes she’s poking out. My dick hardens even more.

  I turn off the burner. “I’ll be back,” I grind out between clenched teeth before walking down the hall and into the first bathroom that I come across. I slam the door shut, shove my sweatpants down and grab my dick.

  “It’s the post-game adrenaline,” I repeat to myself. The image in the mirror mocks me. Post-game adrenaline my ass. I’ve never, in all my games, ever had a hard-on due to some stupid fucking win and I’ve been a champion ever since I strapped on the pads during pee-wee football. Winning is second nature to me. There’s a room in the monstrosity across the walkway that is full of my trophies and awards.

  My dick throbs angrily in my hand. Whatever it is, I just need to get rid of it. I’ll jack off and once I’ve climaxed, my body will be back to normal. I use the precum on my head and spread it down the shaft and get to work. My eyes drift shut and a girl appears in front of me. A girl with tangled brown hair, hazel eyes, a fat lower lip, and a set of tits that make my balls tighten up. Fuck. I snap my eyes open and try to get rid of the image. I don’t need to tie my orgasms to that girl out there. I try to bring up another image—any image—but my mind drifts back to her and the way she bites on her upper lip when she’s nervous and the way she straightens her shoulders when she decides to be brave and the smart-ass way she keeps talking back to me as if she’s the one who lives in this carriage house and drives the Maserati. Fuck me.

  My hand works harder, jerks faster. I give in. She’s a hot piece of ass. Why not use her in my head? Why not let my fantasies run wild? I’m not going to act on them. I’m not going to touch her. Women have no place in my life. I’ve dreams I’ve got to accomplish and a woman would stand in my way. I may want her, but I don’t need her I tell myself, but the statement feels hollow when I come all over my hand with the image of her standing at my window, wearing my jersey fixed in my head.

  Chapter 4

  Mallory

  “What were you doing?” I ask, leaning up against the far wall as Deuce goes back to making tacos when he returns a few minutes later. I know exactly what he’s been doing but I want to give him a hard time about it. He left the kitchen and went into the bathroom in a hurry. I don’t know why but I made a snap decision to follow him. I kept my footsteps light until I reached the door that he’d shut in a hurry. I put my ear up to the door to see if I could hear what was happening on the other side. I stood listening to his breathing pick up and the low groans that were coming out of him. I’m pretty sure he was masturbating behind that door. He let out one final groan and that was my cue to high-tail in back to the kitchen before I got caught.

  My heart races, wondering if it was me that had him so worked up that he had to practically run from the kitchen to get himself off. Or he could be a sex addict. My mother once dated one of those. Well, she told me he was but sometimes I wonder if she is the real addict. His cheeks are still a little rose colored when he returns, which I’m guessing is from the orgasm he just gave himself. The thought of him jerking himself in the bathroom shouldn’t have me turned on but it does.

  “Can you get the shells out of the microwave?”

  I don’t think he’s asking. I’m not sure the man asks anyone to do anything. He snaps at people and expects them to jump. It’s pretty clear that his antics usually work. I can see by the way he reacts to me when I refuse to do something he told me to do. He definitely isn’t used to it. He also isn't answering my question. He’s avoiding it by being his usual charming self.

  “You doing drugs or something?” I toss out there. His arm that is reaching up to grab a plate from the cabinet pauses as he turns to look my way.

  “Do I look like I do fucking drugs?” No, he doesn't look strung out. He’s more of a type A personality and I don’t mean that because he’s an Asshole. An asshole who happens to be making me tacos. I can’t get a good read on him and it is messing with my head. So I am choosing to mess with his.

  “Steroids?” I suggest. “You are rather angry.”

  He pulls the plate down, placing it on the counter. He isn’t only angry but also freaking big. Not too thick, but tall and lean. I’m not shocked that he plays football. If I had to guess he’s either a quarterback or receiver. I’m going with quarterback because Deuce has serious control issues. I imagine he needs to be in the driver’s seat during a game.

  If looks could kill I’d fall over dead. Too bad my body doesn’t react to his nasty looks the way I'm guessing others do. He doesn’t intimidate me. He’s not the first jerk to throw a dirty look my way. I turn around, ignoring him. That’s another thing I bet he’s not used to having someone do. Oh, I think he wants them to ignore him but they don’t. Well, he’s met his match because I’ll ignore him because I know it’s going to bug him. I really should stop being a jerk but he started it with his rude behavior. So what I was taking a little snooze in his fancy car? He needs to get over it. Plus no one told him to take me to his house. That was his decision. I hear a pan bang on the stove in the background, causing me to turn my head. I have to take into consideration that he is making me food but right now my attitude is the only defense I have. Believe me, I need all the attitude in the world to protect me from Deuce. His
actions are confusing to me. He says one thing and does another. The harsh responses he throws at me make me want to leave but his actions say something different. We all know which speaks louder. The only thing that I can’t figure out is why he would want me to stay.

  “Eat.” My eyes flick up to his. I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts. I should be more on edge. I don’t know why I’m not. Let’s face it, I’m in a place alone with a man I don’t know, but for the first time in a few days I feel like I can relax. I don’t know what is more tempting right now, the tacos or the sofa. I know if I sit on it I’ll be out like a light. Instead this one time I let Deuce boss me around as I come back to the counter to see he’s already made my tacos for me. I lick my lips as my stomach growls. Deuce’s eyes go to my mouth and the way he’s looking at me makes me think that he’s hungry for more than tacos.

  I sit in the high top chair that he’s put my plate in front of. He doesn't have to tell me twice as I dig into the food. I moan at the wonderful taste that fills my mouth.

  “Fucking hell.”

  I look up at Deuce, who is watching me eat. I’m sure my face is a mess with taco remnants all over the place, but I don’t care. His jaw is tight and he looks as pissed as ever as he watches me eat. “What?” I ask. It’s tacos. You can’t make eating them look nice.

  He shakes his head, going to make his own plate. At least that’s what I think he’s going to do. I’m finishing off the tacos he made me and the next thing I know he slides another plate of them in front of me. I guess he’s not hungry because it seems he’s given me his plate as well. His hand reaches out toward my mouth and I immediately pull away. His face drops for a second before he reaches over and hands me a napkin. I wipe my face, feeling bad for jerking away from him.

  “Thanks.” I swallow a small lump that tries to form at his act of kindness. Okay, maybe he is a sweet asshole or one that has their moments. I pick up another taco and shove it in my mouth. Or he wants something from you, my mind whispers. My stomach drops. I try and push the thought away. No, he’s been a jerk but he hasn't made me feel uncomfortable. I’m the one that listened to him rub one out in his bathroom. Maybe he should be the one to worry.

  Chapter 5

  Carter

  Feeling awkward for one of the first times in my life, I rub my hand against my pants. The sight of her jerking away from me fills me with unease. Did she think I was going to force myself on her? I don’t need to do that. I’m not into those power games. Sure, I like to be in control but the only people I’m exerting my will over are those who have agreed to it beforehand. When you step onto the field wearing helmets and pads, you’ve consented to my domination. My teammates know this and so do my opponents.

  A casual? Never.

  My stomach churns thinking about anyone hurting her like this. Appetite gone, I toss my taco onto the plate.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks. “Did I burn the taco shell?” There’s a piece of lettuce sticking out of the corner of her mouth. By all rights I should think this is gross but it only looks cute. Clearly, I’m losing my mind.

  “Not hungry,” I growl.

  I turn away and start to clean up but there isn’t much of a mess to keep me occupied. After wiping down the counters and washing the pan, all I can do is wait for her to finish eating so I can clean the bowls. I fold my arms across my chest and watch her gobble down her fourth taco like she hasn’t eaten in three weeks.

  “How old are you?”

  She pauses mid-bite. “Old?” she asks like that’s a foreign word.

  “You graduate from high school?”

  Her mouth moves but no sound comes out. That’s a no then and it looks like she doesn’t lie readily. I give her a quick once-over. She’s not wearing any makeup and I know that the girls at school can look older if they have it on but she doesn’t have the look of a nervous freshman so I’m guessing she’s a senior like me, which means she dropped out just a few months before her graduation. What was so bad about her circumstances that she decided leaving school at this point was a better option than sticking it out for her diploma?

  “You’re in your last semester and you drop out. Why? How’re you gonna get a job?” I ask bluntly, wondering how well she thought this plan out.

  “I’m working out those details,” she replies with her chin out.

  “What are you running from?” Or maybe it’s who?

  “I’m exploring the world.”

  “Okay. Where did you come from?”

  Her mouth slams shut.

  “I didn’t realize your past itinerary was a secret.”

  “Well, it is.”

  Resisting the urge to pinch her chin, I curl my fingers into a fist at my side. Direct questioning is getting me nowhere. I’m going to have to think of a new plan.

  I toss the sponge onto the counter in front of her. “Clean up when you’re done. Plates and cups are all dishwasher safe. You can sleep on the sofa. I’ll get you some sheets.”

  I start down the hall when her smart ass quips, “What, you’re not going to offer me your bed?”

  “No, because you’d say you don’t want to use it and I’m not interested in arguing. Besides, my bed is comfortable and I like sleeping there.” Another time, I would’ve invited her to sleep in it with me, but I know from her earlier reaction that she expects that kind of abuse.

  “So are you like the hired help here? And if so can I have a job?”

  “No and no.” I pull some sheets down out of the closet, grab a blanket and a pillow, and return to the main living area. Besides the high-end kitchen my mom installed, there’s also a giant sectional big enough to sleep three grown men and two large overstuffed chairs facing a woodburning fireplace and an eighty-inch television. I throw the bedding down onto the sofa. “What do you do then? Just go to class?”

  “Yup.”

  “What a straight arrow.” The words are mocking but the tone sounds envious.

  “I know what I want.”

  “And that is?” She’s off the stool now, cleaning up.

  “Football.”

  “You sound confident.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be? What’s the point of doing anything if I’m not good at it?”

  She finishes stuffing all the dirty dishes into the dishwasher before coming over to stand near the sectional—out of arm’s length from me. She’s wary, making sure there’s always an obstacle between her and me.

  Unwillingly, an ache develops in my chest over what must’ve happened to make her the way she is. I clear my throat and try to swallow down that sympathy. My life doesn’t have room for the waif. I can feed her tonight and give her some money in the morning, but then she needs to be gone. I shove aside the way that thought makes me feel empty and snap out a few directions. “The bathroom’s down the hall. Use what you want. The doors and windows have alarms on them so if you try to leave, sirens will go off and if the sirens go off, the police will be here within five minutes. Whatever you do, if you decide to escape tonight, make sure you can get away from here in five minutes.”

  “It takes five minutes to get down your driveway!”

  I shrug. “Not my problem you’re slow.”

  “I—Fine. Maybe I’ll just stay here forever then.” She throws herself down on one of the cushions and looks at me with belligerence. I cover my mouth with the back of my hand so she can’t see my smile.

  “Better start earning some money then. I charge rent.”

  “Oh, and I bet you’ll want me to pay for it with my body, right?” she says bitterly.

  Yeah, someone mistreated her bad, and soon I’m gonna find who that asshole is and I’m going to reach down his throat and rip his dick out backwards. Until then, though, the goal here is to make her as comfortable with me as possible. I don’t know why. I’m not into helping people. I’m a dick. Anyone who knows me would tell you that. Yet the need to protect her is overwhelming me. I summon a little self-control and a little sarcasm, enough to make her mad, which is wh
en she’s not fearful.

  “What makes you think I’m attracted to you enough to pay for sex? Do I look like someone who needs to buy my partners?”

  “It’s not about looks.”

  I give her a scathing once-over. “It is for me.”

  With that, I go to bed.

  Chapter 6

  Mallory

  Deuce’s last words resonate with me long after he leaves the room to go to sleep. For a minute I felt self-conscious, but then I remembered that only a few hours ago he was in his bathroom jerking off to what I’m guessing were mental images of me. At least that’s what my mind had secretly wanted him to be thinking about while he touched himself.

  His words should have settled me instead of almost bringing tears to my eyes. I should be happy that he doesn’t want me in that way but what he said and the way he looked at me still isn’t sitting right with me. It made me feel as though I was less than. Everything about this place does. The only time I feel at ease is in the rare moments when Carter flashes his kindness. I think he’s more taking pity on me. I don’t want his pity. I have enough of my own.

  I should have said something sarcastic back to him but he shocked me. I hate when I think of a good retort after the person leaves. I wish I would have said something along the lines of you didn’t mind my looks when you were getting off in the bathroom. I would have loved to see the look on his face if I could have gotten myself to call him out on it. I might talk a big game but I’m not sure I would have said it without turning five shades of red. He would have seen right through my tough exterior and been clued in to how shy I can be about some things.

  I lie on the sofa that is more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever slept in and continue to stare up at the ceiling. His warning about the security system is another thing I’m not sure how to handle. It sort of makes me feel safe knowing that all I would have to do if I needed help is open a window and the cops would come immediately. The only downside would be that they might actually be looking for me, so that may not work out in my favor. If my mom’s boyfriend followed through with his threats then they definitely are. I can’t imagine Ricky walking into a police station and trying to press charges against me for stealing his wallet. I bet he wouldn’t go near that station because I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a record or a warrant. My mom’s love interests aren’t exactly stand-up guys.