Quarterback Bait (2 page)

Chapter Two

Landon

Denny's got the kind of voice you can hear from across busy
intersections—like, he'll say hello like he's yelling at you over tarmac. So
when I heard my name in that thundering call, I grabbed her hand and pulled her
towards the ladder. Her hand felt crazy tiny in mine. I'd already done a weird
thing and named her in my head:
Doll.
Not because she looked especially
like one or because she was stiff and creepy, but because there was something
almost untouchably beautiful about her face, and also something that reminded
me of being young. But for the smoking and the effect and those massive,
perfect tits, you could have pinned her at twenty—but I'd never minded a
younger girl. Which was probably some seedy shit I'd inherited from the old
man.

As we lurched down the corridor, giggling like drunks—even
though I'd abstained all night, since Coach was really starting to come down on
us about the partying—I heard other familiar voices start to call,
Landon!
Landon!
But there was suddenly nothing I wanted to do less than go play
Flip Cup with a paper crown on my head, or stand inside a shoulder-to-shoulder
circle of fawning, sophomore Alpha Gammas—end-of-junior-year-blow-out be
damned. The thing about all those girls who had it bad for the football team
was that they had a way of making you feel replaceable. Even when, say, Tracy
Johns was foisting a blow job on me during Monday's half-time, there was this
crazy look in her eyes, like she couldn't even see me. People, I've found, tend
to see the capital letters: Landon Sterling, Quarterback. Landon Sterling,
Favorite for the Broncos. Landon Sterling, Draft Pick, Homecoming King,
Preacher's Son, Landon Sterling...
Great On Paper.

Which is why I was so drawn to this little creep. I watched
her walk into the party from across the room, with that punk freshman Melanie
Something who's somehow in with all the frats. Doll clearly didn't know a soul
in the room, but she held her chin level to the ground, and walked with her
chest out in a way that didn't seem designed to draw male attention. (Though it
hella did.) I watched her laugh like a hyena at something her friend said, and
then I watched her slap at a mosquito bite on her otherwise spotless,
soft-looking arm, and then I watched her peel the label off her Mike's Hard
while apparently so bored by something Joey Fontenot was saying that she
couldn't even fake a smile. I liked the way she carried herself, so I zeroed
in. And then suddenly, somehow, we were talking, and she was saying yes to all
these things I expected her to say no to—but not like Tracy Johns. She was
looking into my eyes, she was trying to figure me out, she was thinking about
it. And I was trying to figure her out. And then, so soon after, she was
touching me.

The way this girl kissed was like nothing I'd ever felt
before—she was urgent, but also curious. She'd let me hold her silky arms,
she'd let me grope her ass...but I still never got the feeling that I'd sealed
the deal, or anything. My Dad has a geeky religious word for it—
presence.
She was very present under my thumb, she was
present
on that roof with
me. Her mouth tasted so sweet. And then we were running like clowns, and her
laugh was like some bird call, and she was tripping into my Saab, slamming the
passenger door tight. We looked at each other. I put my fingers on her
freckles, and thought:
fuck, do I want this girl.

She leaned in and kissed me, harder this time. I tucked her
dark hair behind her ears, cupped her chin with both my hands, and reveled in
her smallness. When she opened her soft mouth to mine, I let my tongue press
inside. I wanted to feel every piece of Doll. My cock had been hard through the
whole awkward run down the hall, and at that moment it seemed like it could
burst from wanting. I took her dainty hand and put it on my manhood. She was
tentative at first, but then she started to rub me like a pro.

I worked my way down her pale, perfect neck, thinking that
she was the exact color of the moonlight pearling my car seats. I sucked on her
neck—slow at first, then hard. She made little sounds at the back of her
throat, and let her head collapse against my hand. With a draining thrill, I
worked my other hand down to her swollen tit, where I could feel a nipple
grasping through the fabric for my touch. I wanted to tear the shirt clean off.
It's not like I'm some big one-night stander, but for whatever reason I literally
couldn't get this girl naked fast enough.

“Wait,” she breathed, her voice like a bell in my ear.
“Should we...go somewhere?” As soon as she said this, she hoisted herself up over
the gearshift and draped herself over me. She weighed next to nothing, but the
pressure on my cock was too great. I worried for one impossible second that I
would come, right there in my pants, just from holding her. I tried to send my
mind away from the precarious situation—
Naked old people naked old people
puppies crying, parkas...

“Do you want to go somewhere?” I asked, heart beating hard
in my chest. I sat up against her, hoping she'd feel the rock wall of my
muscles. She kissed me lightly on the mouth, smiled, and seemed to consider
something.

“Beer,” she said finally, as I worked my way around to
nibble on her ear. “We need beer. I know this place on Kerbey Lane.”

“If you want beer, there's a closer spot.” If this was to be
the obstacle to our fucking, I was prepared to shoulder the burden. I patted
the seat beside me and fumbled for my keys. As she climbed off me, smiling, I
got a whiff of her fruity shampoo and an echo of Virginia Slim. The combo made
me achy. Ever since I quit smoking, even the hint of tobacco sends me spinning,
just like the smell of sex.

I could hardly focus on the road as we ventured out into the
city proper. She started up giggling again, huddled her tiny legs up against
her chest. I was trying to think of some well-lit place where we could go, some
room where I could see her whole body splayed out in light. The apartment was
out of the question—Kyle had “booked” it hours in advance. And even though we'd
broken up a full two weeks before, my bros were so used to me shacking up at
Zora's place that they tended to invite friends over to use my bed. But
something about Doll made me think I needed to take her somewhere special.
Like, she maybe didn't have another place to go.

“So where are you from?” I asked, more to kill the charged
silence than anything.

“Uh-uh. No personal details, remember? Like
You've Got
Mail.
”

“Is that what we agreed to?” I kept my follow-up question to
myself:
what the fuck is
You've Got Mail?

She reached across the seat and put a cool palm to my
forehead. She leaned over and took my earlobe lightly between her teeth. “At
the end of the night. Remember?”

Fuckkkkkkk.

The car practically skidded into the gas station lot, and I
had my seatbelt undone before I'd put us in park. Doll stayed still, her brow
furrowed in the direction of the neon sign.

“This isn't the place I said,” she murmured.

“No, it's better. It's closer to where we're headed.”
Thinking quickly, I'd decided on the player's locker room—no one would be there
at this hour, and with my key I could get easy access to the comfy couch in the
PT Gym. We could turn on all the lights. I could drag her wet clothes off with
my teeth. I could take her soaked panties in my mouth. I could...

“Come on!” I said, shaking off the impure thoughts. If the
old man could have seen me then—oh, he'd probably have keeled over and died.
Pastor Sterling's progeny, following his dick to certain doom. The thought of
his face all angry with talk of hellfire made me laugh to myself.

“I have to come with you?” Something in her tone then made
me suspicious—it was something I shoulda caught, in hindsight. But instead of
thinking with my brain, I shut my door, walked around the car, and opened her
passenger side door like a Prince's henchmen or some shit. She looked at me
with her brow all scrunched up. It was super adorable. After a final prod, she
took my hand and followed me into the store.

We drifted around the aisles, forestalling our foreplay. She
pretended to hide behind the rack of softcore porn mags, and I pretended to
look for her. When I had her cornered, I grasped her middle and picked her up.
She giggled like a schoolgirl. It felt so natural and good, like we were high
school sweethearts.

“You kids watch what you're knocking over,” yelled the harpy
at the register—this older woman in a tent-like zebra print muu-muu and cat-eye
glasses. She sneered at us over a copy of
UsWeekly
and a slushy the
color of eggplant. Doll rolled her eyes at the intrusion, and pinched me on the
ass.

“
Oh, you little...
” I chased her, fingers reaching
for the soft, exposed piece of her back that her tank top had ridden up around.
I sank my fingers into her flesh and she squealed again. The cashier flung her
magazine down on the counter, and it made a wet flop of a sound.

“Y'all are gonna have to piss or get off the pot,” Old
Ironsides hollered. I swallowed, and mustered the wherewithal to select a six
pack of Modelo from the sweaty case at the back of the store. Doll clung to my
heels like a puppy as we approached the register. (Another thing that might
have been a clue.)

The lady peered at us as she rang up the drinks, and finally
hovered for a second before opening the cash register. “Okay, kiddies,” she
said, sighing. “Let me see some ID.”

I rolled my eyes, but was secretly pleased—it was happening
less and less these days, my getting carded. It was the kind of thing that
reminded me of how college was going to end soon. As of today, I had a mere two
semesters left at UT, and to my shock and slight horror, everything everybody'd
told me about college had proven mostly true. I was worried that I
would
be
leaving the best years of my life behind on graduation day, the very best of me
to wither in the dust. And if I didn't get drafted, there was no way my
half-assed Earth Sciences degree would amount to a hill of beans. It was good
to be young, so if I had my druthers? Young I would stay.

I slapped my ID down on the counter, coyly shielding its
contents from Doll so she couldn't catch my name. Our game was so hot. I
couldn't wait to—

“You too, missy.”
“What? What's that about? I'm the one paying.”
Crusty leaned over her counter. “And I'm the merchant, son. I've got a theory
that you two are about to engage in dangerous behavior, and I've got a theory
that missy here is jailbait.”

“Oh for fuck's sake!”

“I can refuse service to anyone I want to, y'hear? No skin
off my nose,
even if you are a living legend
.” She gestured
sarcastically at the rack of local papers by the door, each surely proclaiming
my skill with the pigskin. I looked at Doll, and rolled my eyes in a
give-the-old-bag-what-she-wants-so-we-can-get-outta-here kinda way. Then I let
my eyes drift down to her perky nipples, which had come out to play in the air
conditioning.

Doll approached the counter all slow, then pulled her wallet
from the back pocket of her jeans. She could have just said 'no.' She could
have pretended to be from Mexico, or something—though that might have been a
harder con to pull, considering that pale skin. But it's a credit to her
composure that she just slapped her ID down on the counter and looked Crusty in
the eye. I'd already reached up to grab the Modelos when the lady shook her
head slowly, her lips pursing.
“Not. Gonna. Cut. It,” she breathed, yanking the beers back. “And Mr. Jock Boy?
You need to take little bit here straight home, before I call the police.”

When I turned to look at her—proud, angry, her chin a pillar
of defiance—I still couldn't see it. I mean officer, I swear, she looked
twenty-four. But I felt my hard-on wither all the same.

“How old
are
you?” I asked, willing her to look at
me. Willing it to be some kind of joke. 'Cuz of all the girls I'd ever met, did
it have to be this one, universe? This one, with her beautiful body, her
perfect lips, that Mona Lisa smile?

“I'm seventeen,” she said, smiling sadly. And I swear, my
heart stopped.

Not. Gonna. Cut. It.

Chapter Three

Landon

I woke up to lips mashed against my neck—pillowy, plump lips
the texture of a deflated balloon. Zora had been injecting some chemical shit
into her mouth for the past year and a half, promising after each treatment
that “it was just a temporary thing.” But I'd never been a big fan of plastic
surgery of any kind to begin with (sue me, I like a lady natural) and her long
con was starting to get under my skin. Well the con, among other things.

I inched my neck away from her cloying touch and Z rolled
over beside me, like a sleepy cat. Her eyes stayed closed. She was drifting in
that fine space between sleeping and waking, which if truth be told was when I
liked her best. Zora's got this long, fine, glossy, light brown hair, and her
skin is this lush, tan color that's actually one of the few natural things
about her. And when she sleeps, she's not self-conscious. There's no preening
and pouting, there's no scanning the room for the available mirrors. It was the
innocent span of her sleeping face that had done me in the first time, and it
was this I still attempted to cling to—despite the fighting, and the boring
conversations, and the
Thing We're Not Supposed To Talk About Anymore, Cuz
it's In The Past
. For merely eight days before, my then
ex-
girlfriend
had come to me Tracy Johns style, begging for another chance. And it was
summer, and I was restless, and I was
spineless
, so I said yes.

“Stop looking at me, Landon,” she murmured, as her eyelids
began to flicker. “I don't like how you watch me when I sleep.”

“I've always watched you when you sleep. You're beautiful.”
She brought her perfectly manicured hands up to cover her face, emitting a
groan. In response, I lifted the thin quilt above us, so I could get an eyeful
of her naked body. Not that I'm shallow to excess or anything, but Zora's body
is the other big one for her “PRO” column. I put an experimental hand on her
taut, muscular stomach. I let my fingers graze the neat, clipped section of her
pussy, where her landing strip began. It was a little intimidating to be with a
woman who cared so much about her physical appearance. Sometimes it seemed like
she was a mannequin. But as half of me mused this, my fingers drifted further
down, to the velvety space between her legs.

“I haven't showered, you sicko!” Zora screeched, before
sitting up in a way that kept the quilt clamped tight around her waist. “And
don't you need to be getting ready for camp, or something?”

I kissed her sternum, hard enough so she could feel my
stubble clash with her smoothness. I pressed my cheeks against the apple-sized
mounds of her modest rack. Zora placed her palm on my forehead and pushed me
backward, like I was a dog that needed to be muzzled.

“We have time, baby!”

“I don't, Landon.
I
don't have time. There's the
pledge material to photocopy, and someone needs to eat shit about the
dry-cleaning incident...plus, Betsy doesn't even have a deb dress yet, which we
needed to take care of like
three months ago
.” Z climbed out of bed,
smoothing her hair flat down her back in one fluid gesture. Still groggy, I
swung my arms above my head and reached for the sky. A more petulant part of me
had already decided this day was a scratch. What was it about these hot chicks
and their hatred of morning sex?

“Do you have any idea what it's like to organize a deb ball
for a completely ungrateful little shit?” Z cried, bending to crawl along the
floor in a futile search for her panties. I covered a smile, before finding her
lacy thong in the mess of my bedsheets, with the loop of my big toe. I pinched
the garment between my feet.
Hike!

“I mean, Betsy has no idea what an important Texas tradition
it is she's—shirking. When I was her age, all I wanted to do was wear a long
white ball gown and dance a waltz with my father.”

“She could wait till she gets married for most of that,” I
said, before leaning back and assuming the diligent face stance of the
boyfriend-who-cares. Meanwhile, I was really thinking,
here we fucking go
again.

Z whirled on me, her face endearingly red with effort and
strain. She'd never liked looking for things. When we used to sleep at her
house or dorm, everything was always in its exact perfect place—to the point
where if I moved a toothbrush in the bathroom, I could well be flirting with a
freak-out.

“I can't handle your hippie shit, Landon. Not today.”

“Who said anything about hippie shit?”

“I know you don't believe in the deb ball! You've made your
thoughts on the matter perfectly clear!”

“
No
, I just think it's kind of a lame tradition, and
if your sister doesn't want to have one then I don't get why you and your
parents should spend all that money and time.” I bit my lip, but a moment too
late. The shitstorm was nigh. I almost flinched in the following silence, so
sure was I that she was gonna pound me. She even started slow, like a tornado.

“Umm, I didn't actually ask for your opinion. So.”

“Come on, Z. I was just talking. Just words. Come back to
bed.”

“But for the fucking record, it's maybe not the best idea to
go off on your girlfriend of FIVE YEARS –”

“Oh, is it five years? Are you counting the nine months
where you cheated on me with that shitstain Larry Durgess?”

“Don't even
go
there, Landon. I thought we were past
that.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Anyways, yes, no, you don't tell your girlfriend—GIRLFRIEND
OF FIVE YEARS!—That you don't care about traditions where women wear white ball
gowns and dance with their fathers.” By that point, Z was clutching the quilt
between two opposing fists, like she could rip it in two. You could practically
see the steam blowing out of her slightly pointed ears. I ducked my head below
the sheets, inhaled the sweet smell of what had passed for love-making the
previous night, and returned, reluctantly, with her thong in my hand—an olive
branch.

“Have fun at training camp,” she said, plucking her panties
from my palm. “Be good.” Then her face transformed into that of a brave
politician's wife, preparing to face the nation after tragedy. She kissed me
chastely on the cheek before turning toward the bathroom. A second later, I heard
the shower stutter on.

I leaned back against the pillows, suddenly exhausted
despite the more or less full night's sleep. I let my eyes flutter open and
closed, surveying the walls of my childhood bedroom. It felt strange to be home
for the summer, even if it was going to be my last rodeo. Pop had kept the
place fully intact after I went off to college, like some kind of altar to the
kid I used to be. The Peyton and Eli posters held the places of honor, flanking
the door. And above my ancient Apple E-Mac, covered by a fine layer of dust,
was my main guiding light: John Elway.

At UT, I tried to keep my hero affiliations something of a
secret. Coach tended to “make an example” of any Longhorn who couldn't recite
on cue various factoids about the Cowboys, let alone indicate any competing
allegiance. And it's not like I could explain it—I'd never lived in Colorado.
We'd once gone on a family trip to Denver when my Mom was still alive, and it
had been a perfectly fine hang—but I didn't want to ascribe my enduring love of
the Broncos to something sentimental like that. Lately, I'd been thinking it
just had to do with my need to get out of Texas. Away from the deb balls, and
the crazy patriotism, and even the allegedly “funky” Austin. If I had to be a
football player, I wanted to see the whole damned country.

Or something.

“Whatchoo doin, boy? Praying?” I jumped at the sound—and
then the face—of my father appearing in my bedroom doorway. Cantankerous old
Pastor Sterling, in all his Saturday morning glory—frayed blue robe, flannel
pants, rigid Astros cap. Pop held a pristine white mug in one hand, and the
stub of a cigarillo in another. I was surprised. If memory served, he needed to
be at his storefront congregation in time for a two p.m. service.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Daydreaming?”

“No, sir.”

“Good, good. You should be up and at 'em, boy. Get you a
good breakfast before the bus to Galveston ships out.”
In the shower, Zora began to hum something high and sweet and loud. It sounded
like a hymn.
Boy, was she a shapeshifter.
My father smiled lecherously
in the direction of the closed door, before turning to wiggle his eyebrows at
me.

“Now that's what I like to see, son. That little lady is a
fine specimen. Nice birthing hips. And a man of God takes what's
his
.”

“Jesus, Dad...”

“What'd I tell you about that?” His eyes grew black, in that
sudden, shark-y way I'd come to despise throughout my childhood. You could just
never tell if Pop was in the mood to “teach a lesson.” I swallowed some air,
and tried to hold myself perfectly still.

Pop seemed to consider a violent course for a moment, but
then he turned to take in the whole of my bedroom. I watched him find Zora's
stiletto heels, positioned neatly under the desk. Then he looked at all my old
jerseys pinned to the walls. The shelf of flaking trophies, with their fake-ass
gold-leaf. He seemed to find peace somewhere among the junk, so when his eyes
at last returned to mine it appeared his anger had flown the coop. He took a
creaky step forward and put a palm on my clammy forehead. The cigarillo end,
pinched between his crusty thumb and pointer finger, danced dangerously close
to my ear.

“God bless you, my son,” he murmured, then repeated Zora's
little proclamation in an improbably sing-song voice. “And you have fun at
training camp. Give 'em hell.”

I listened to the water trickling to an end in Z's shower,
the abrupt halt of her hymn. My father's heavy boots echoed down the hall. I
figured this left me eight to ten blissful minutes of alone time, during which
Zora would begin her elaborate daily ritual of prodding and plucking and
primping the skin of her face. Staring up at the ceiling, which was still awash
with glow in the dark stars from my nine year old decorator, I narrowed my eyes
and thought of Doll. How the lights of Austin had swallowed her face, yet not
managed to quench the strange inner light that seemed to peel off her pale skin
in strips. She was like the moon. With a pang I remembered what I'd said to her
on the roof, and it struck me as the speech of some other person entirely.
Something Denny might say to a study-abroad from Copenhagen: “I will make you
liquid with wanting me. I will suck you dry and fuck you
senseless.
” Had
I really said that? What had she done to me, that little troublemaker?

Seemingly of its own accord, my hand had wandered to the
blossoming erection in my boxers. I encircled myself slow, but started to
stroke out a fast, desperate rhythm. I couldn't wait. It was like it had been
in bed the night before, when I'd fucked Zora with all the lights off. In my
secret, shameful mind's eye, it had been Doll's juice on my fingers. Her tongue
on my shaft. Her nipples, grazing mine. I'd come harder last night than I had
in any recent memory, and all the while I'd been dreaming of forbidden fruit.