The Jock (5 page)

Candy
grimaced. "It's the truth. I know it."

"Then
what the problem?"

She
considered that question as she blew another bubble. The echo of the popping
sound when it broke was scarcely heard over the plethora of conversations going
on around them. "I've written twenty books in the past eight years. In
those books I have come up with like, I don't know, maybe a hundred different
ways of screwing." She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her
chest. "Quite frankly, I'm running out of ideas."

Candy
uncrossed her arms and implored Gwenyth with her eyes. "I'm in the middle
of writing this totally hot script, okay. It's about a nun who falls in love
with an escaped convict."

Gwenyth's
eyebrows rose in amusement. It was a story line unlikely to be repeated in real
life, but

Candy
could make it work if any writer could. She was
that
good.

"So
I'm writing and writing and I'm really vibin' on what I've got, okay. And then
it happens." Candy shuttered. She rubbed her arms as if warding off a
chill. "I get to the scene, you know,
the
scene, and I draw a total
blank." She shook her head forlornly. "What am I going to do, Gwen?
I'm out of fucking material."

Gwenyth
bit her lip. She was certain Candy's last statement had been made in the
literal sense. If her best friend didn't look quite so dejected, she would have
laughed. Instead she nodded, then rolled her eyes slightly toward the back of
her head while she contemplated Candy's predicament. Gwenyth had read all of
her best friend's work, so she would know as well as anyone the kinds of sex
that had been penned in them.

A
moment later, it came to her. Gwenyth snapped her fingers and sat up straighter
in her chair as the answer struck her. "I've got it!"

Candy's
eyes widened. "You do?"

"Uh
huh."

When
it appeared as though she was going to have to drag the answer out of Gwenyth,
Candy waved her hand through the air in agitation. "Well. Spit it out
already."

Gwenyth
smiled, her dimples popping out. "Missionary!"

Candy
stared at her blankly. Her gum cracked as she continued to chew.
"Missionary?"

"Yes!"
Gwenyth's eyes sparkled a brilliant jade as she warmed to her topic. "The
nun and the ex-convict can do it in the missionary position." She
dismissed any arguments with a fluttering of her hand. "Just think about
it. Your heroes never bop their heroines for the first time in the missionary.
This will be totally fresh!"

Candy
blew out a bubble as she stared at Gwenyth unblinkingly. "You know,"
she said after a drawn out minute, "that's just crazy enough that it might
work."

Gwenyth
nodded smugly.

"God
Gwen, you are like, the best." Candy grinned sheepishly. "What would
I do without you?"

Their
burgers were placed in front of them, breaking the conversation's momentum
momentarily. After taking a huge bite of her mushroom and Swiss burger, Gwenyth
answered Candy's question as frankly as possible. "I'm not sure. But I
hope you give up this business of trying to find a new calling when the calling
you already have works really well for you." She eyed her knowingly.
"I'm afraid of what you'll try out next." Gwenyth frowned. "And
I have no intention of allowing you to join the circus."

Candy
giggled. "You never know. I might look cute in one of those skimpy trapeze
artist get-ups."

Gwenyth
narrowed her gaze at the familiar gleam in Candy's eyes. It was a gleam she
knew all too well. She shook her head slowly. Her smile was feral. "Forget
it, Can. I've got enough on my plate without having to worry about you getting
it on with Bozo."

* * * * *

A
week later, Gwenyth climbed out of bed, intending to throw on the first clean
thing she could find in her dresser drawers. She needed to get over to the
family house ASAP because she had tons of developing work to do. Her favorite
Jones
& Jones
darkroom was still the one at the big house. The studio's
developing room was bigger and more modern, but the one at Willy and Verlene's
was cozy and familiar. Besides, she didn't have any fancy work to do today.
Just ordinary developing.

Gwenyth
rifled through her empty dresser drawers with a grunt of disgust. Damn. She
really needed to do some laundry. The only clean thing she could find was Sam's
#33 jersey and a pair of ratty old blue jeans cutoffs. She didn't even have a
bra to wear. Oh well, at least she still had a recently washed pair of
"Kiss Me" underwear, uncomfortable and wedgie-prone though they might
be.

Gwenyth
climbed into the skintight cutoffs, then raised the jersey over her head to put
on. She bit her lip, briefly debating over whether or not she should show up at
Willy and Verlene's wearing Sam's old shirt.

Bah!
She
shook her head at her own ridiculousness. Sam's original plan to arrive in
Tampa a few days back had been altered by unforeseen problems with his contract
renewal. He had to stay in Boston to clear that up before hopping on a plane to
Florida. Harry had said he wouldn't be here for another few days. It was safe
to wear the shirt.

Decision
made, Gwenyth quickly donned the old jersey, threw her hair up into her usual
topknot, slipped into a pair of unlaced Keds, and made her way toward the door.
She stopped in her tracks as she thought about the mountain of laundry waiting
to be washed. Sighing, Gwenyth stomped into the bathroom and scooped up a huge
pile of clothes. Making her way over to the washing machine, she threw the
laundry in, added the necessary soap and ball of fabric softener, then slammed
the lid home.

There.

Gwenyth
picked up her keys and walked briskly to the front door of her apartment. She'd
dry the damn things when she came back.

Sam
was pissed.

The
flight to Tampa was god awful bumpy, the food was dry and about as tasty as he
imagined Purina Puppychow would be, and worst of all, he had some
"helpful" fan sitting next to him during the entire flight, pointing
out what had gone wrong with his game last season. Yeah right. Like that
five-foot-two, skinny-assed weasel had ever played ball. Like he had the first
clue what it was like out there on the field. Sam was damn sick of free advice.
Like Harry's granddad Willy used to say to his doctor if he'd get on to him
about watching his calorie intake, "when I want your advice, mister, I'll
beat it out of ya." Sam smiled. He sure enough missed that old man there.

Which
brought Sam to his next complaint. When he'd
finally
arrived in Tampa
after surviving dismal weather, air traffic delays, yucky food, damned annoying
conversations with a particular fan who shall remain unnamed, and a suicidal
cab driver who got him from the airport to the Jones family's estate in Hyde
Park faster than his namesake traveled in the old TV show
Quantum Leap
,
Sam at least thought he'd be greeted by smiling faces. Not so. Nobody was home.
Jesus H Christ! What a damned day!

Of
course, Sam reminded himself, nobody was expecting him to show up for another
three days. Lee had thought it would take that long to talk the Crusaders into
upping his salary by another three million. Goes to show how much his manager
knows. Sons of bitches caved in after forty-eight hours of negotiating.

Sam
threw his suitcases to the ground in order to pound louder on the front door.
Surely someone had to be around. There was usually at least a cleaning lady trailin'
about. Disgusted with himself for not calling Harry ahead of time, Sam raised
his fists to the front door and hit it repeatedly with everything he had in
him. Between weather, dumb fans, and insane taxi drivers, he was just pissed
off enough to all but put a hole in the door.

Just
when Sam was about to give up and take another anxiety producing cab ride to
the nearest hotel, the front door whirled open. Standing before him in all her
furious glory was a fuming, hot little firecracker. She narrowed her eyes as
she swung the front door wide. "What the hell do you..."

The
firecracker's eyes widened in surprise. Sam's widened in amazement. He gulped
at the sight that greeted him. His arousal was instantaneous and extremely
painful.

Lord
have mercy.

It
was Cupcake. A very sexy, all grown up Cupcake. She was molded into a pair of
Daisy Duke shorts that just begged a man's mind to wander to what was inside of
them. And the jersey she wore,
his
jersey
, he thought
possessively
—gawd damn!

Sam's
eyes trailed over the shirt, noticing with much delight how his boyhood jersey
fit Cupcake snugly across her bountiful breasts. He looked closer and realized—
oh
baby!
—she wasn't wearing a bra. Her large nipples were puckered into points
that reminded him of cherries on top of a sundae. He bet they tasted like them
too. He shifted uncomfortably when his erection grew larger, but couldn't seem
to break his gaze from that jersey.

Sam
sensed a little furious tension emanating from the object of his desire when
she cleared her throat, all but demanding he look her in the face. Reluctantly,
Sam tore his gaze from her chest to her eyes. And
oh baby
, she looked
just as good up there! Gwen's eyes were still as green as ever. Her hair was
still long, tawny, and sleek, and yes, it was pulled up into that cock teaser
of a topknot. And her lips—
sweet Jesus!
—he'd never noticed how full and
ripe they were before. Man oh man what lips like those could do to his.

Sam
cleared his throat, trying his damnedest to erase his brain of its wayward
thoughts. He supposed Gwen would take it badly if after ten years of absence,
he suddenly burst threw the door, threw her to the carpet, and buried himself
deep inside of her like a caveman who'd been gone too long from the cave. Ahh
well, that could happen later.

Sam
offered Gwen his most killer smile. The same one he reserved for a lady he was
wantin' to score big-time with. It was the grin that showed off his white teeth
and lifted one corner of his mouth in an ever so slightly rakish way. "Hi
there, Cupcake. Can I come in?"

Gwenyth
was briefly disconcerted by the fact that her first impulse upon opening the
door and realizing who was standing there, was to throw herself into Sam
Trevianni's arms and beg him to make love to her. She sighed dejectedly. He'd
never welcome that. He thought of her as a—
gee how sweet
—little sister.

Gwenyth's
face colored slightly when she realized that Sam was staring straight at her
chest. Great. Just great! He was obviously wondering why she had kept his #33
jersey after all these years. He probably thought she was still pining away for
him. Well, she'd show him. Gwenyth Jones pines over no man! She might still
fantasize about him, and her last serious relationship two years ago might have
broken up after she'd inadvertently screamed out Sam's name in a crucial sexual
moment, but she never, ever pined, damn it!

Clearing
her throat and quickly donning what she hoped was a nonchalant air about her,
Gwenyth waited for Sam to meet her gaze. And when he did, her knees all but
buckled. She knew his eyes were blue, but she hadn't remembered them being
that
blue. And when he smiled—good grief—she almost forgot that it wouldn't be at
all the thing to tear open his very fashionable blue jeans, jump into his
embrace, and impale herself on his flesh then and there. Lord knows she was wet
enough to make it an easy entry.

Sam's
voice broke through Gwenyth's daze, causing her to straighten up and take a
deep, steadying breath. "Hi there, Cupcake. Can I come in?"

Cupcake—he
still called her Cupcake. Annoyed by how much wetter her panties were growing
with each word he uttered, she ruthlessly squelched her attraction to Sam,
consigning it to the nether lands, and concentrated on answering his question.
Smiling like the gracious southern hostess Verlene had taught her to be, she
gracefully threw her hand toward the hall. "By all means, come on
in."

Sam
inclined his head, his eyes never leaving her. Was she going crazy, or was he
studying her dimples like a snake caught in a mesmerizer's hold? She shook her
head mentally, telling herself she was only imagining things. Thrusting her
hands into the back pockets of her cutoffs, she regarded Sam. "Would you
like me to show you to the bedroom?"

Sam
gulped. She watched in fascination as his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in
time with his swallow. Great. Just wonderful. He was looking at the jersey
again. "Sam?"

Sam
finally dragged his gaze back up to Gwenyth's face long enough to answer her.
"That would be nice, Gwen." He swallowed again, shaking off the weird
dazed look she'd seen in his eyes in the process. "I'm sorry,
Cupcake." He grinned. "I've had a hell of bad trip and I'm very
tired."

Gwenyth
felt immediately contrite. She reached out and rubbed Sam's arm up and down. If
she wasn't already positive that her imagination was running on overdrive
today, she would have swore she'd heard him suck in his breath. "I wasn't
thinking. Let me show you upstairs." She smiled up to him, her dimples
popping back out. "You look like you could use a rest."