Eric Cocker (Cocker Brothers Book 12) Read online

  “You think she meant them?”

  “I think she included everyone who acts like a Neanderthal,” I mutter, tapping one last Orpheus beer in before punching send. Pulling out the song I’d begun to write on a napkin, from my pocket, I read it and change one of the lines quickly while I wait for my drinks. Looking up I ask, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Mike opens beer bottles with flare, caps flying. “Stop writing music and focus.”

  “I’m focused!”

  “Then stop jeopardizing my bank roll by treating the Falcons like dumb jocks. And you’re not fooling anyone. You’re the only girl here pretending to be immune.”

  “You must be high. This is no act.”

  “Hey Wren, give me a fuckin’ break, would ya? I’m a dude and even I can see Eric is one handsome motherfucker.”

  “You forget I’m taken and don’t care.”

  “I’ve seen your boyfriend. He’s a dork.”

  Tossing a dirty towel at my co-worker, I laugh, “Don’t talk about Peter like that!”

  “He is!”

  “You see that string of drink tickets? Those mojitos won’t make themselves.”

  Chuckling, Mike rips the paper from the printer and gets to work, hands moving so fast it reminds me why I like him back there with me on Friday and Saturday nights.

  I took this cocktail-server shift from Eleanor because it was her weekend with her kids, and their dad took them to Six Flags last Sunday. She wouldn’t let the jerk show her up. She scraped the cash together and took them there again today. What kid doesn’t want to ride rollercoasters twice in a week? But Eleanor was sly, because this time Antoine and Tia were there when the park opened and will stay ‘til it closes. They don’t have a clue about her ulterior motivation of maintaining her status as Best Mom Ever. They just think she’s awesome. Neat trick.

  One of my customers shouts over a cloud of heads, “Hey, can we have our check?”

  I nod to her and print it, digging for the correlating credit card in my stack and notice Mike thumping down a series of shots I didn’t ask for.

  “What’re those?”

  “You’re bringing these to the Falcons.”

  My eyes go wide. “The fuck I am!”

  He lays his palms on the counter, glasses wobbling under his weight. “You are, and that’s final. I’ve got a mortgage. You’ve gotta buy whatever it is you buy. Go make ‘em happy!”

  Stacking my tray full I grumble, “Next you’ll be ordering me to blow ‘em.”

  “You think I want to wear those shots?”

  “Oh, that’s what’s stopping you? That I’d spill these on your precious tank top?”

  Without looking back he gives me a disinterested this conversation is over wave, and returns to his customers.

  Here I reluctantly go, balancing my tray high above drunk and sticky sardines. “Excuse me. To your left. Coming through. Right behind you. Whoa! It’s okay, I’ve got it. You’re good. Nope, didn’t spill. Thank you! Just let me pass.”

  Mike’s not wrong. The players could go anywhere. I suspect they’re repeat regulars to ensure that every girl in Atlanta knows where to find them, offering the team an eager selection of hopefuls.

  So gross.

  The horrible fact that I’m a fan of football makes this that much sadder. How they act off the field almost ruins it for me.

  Thank God I have someone like Peter now. He’s so thoughtful and humble, like a lot of drummers are. He doesn’t need to be in front of the stage but he’s got music in his veins, like I do. He’d never act like those guys even if he had the option to, say if his band exploded with huge success. He believes the objectification of women to be completely offensive.

  Speaking of offense, Mott LaRock, Offensive Center, jersey number 55, spots my approach and grins, “Sweet Tits! Those for us?”

  Forcing a smile through gritted teeth I answer, “Yep!”

  Quarterback Eric Cocker, jersey 3, glances around. “Who ordered these? You, Tony?”

  “Nope.” Running Back, Tony Sanchez, jersey number 72, shrugs a ripped shoulder that has dodged more tackles in one game than I have fingers and toes. “Not me.”

  Mott slaps Cocker’s back and announces his theory, “Aw, she came back to you, buddy, to make up and make out!”

  The sexy lopsided grin our quarterback is famous for lights up his face and makes those dreamy hazel eyes sparkle like a true-north star. “I doubt it, Mott. Much as I’d be open to it, our waitress looks too pissed to be offering up those kissable lips of hers. Wait, am I wrong? Want to climb up on me and lock tongues?”

  I struggle not to smile, because he is charming as hell. “Can’t wait not to do that.”

  His teammates laugh.

  But their girls are staring like I’m competition. God, I hate it that women treat each other like this. If we didn’t stab each other in the backs so often over a man, we wouldn’t be so damn afraid to relax, be friendly and have fun. Just because I’m not hideous and I like lipstick, too, doesn’t mean anything at all.

  I am not a threat.

  What’s ironic is we’re the ones complaining that men start wars, when we won’t end the one amongst ourselves. Makes me angry.

  I’m here trying to make it clear that I want to work, not flirt.

  The cocks they’ve claimed, are safe.

  I mean…jocks.

  Heheh.

  But Eric doesn’t have a girl hanging on his ripped shoulder. As the guys block tables so I can’t set these freebies down anywhere, he sidles up to me, eyeing the shots. “Want me to take these bad boys off your hands so you can do what you really want to do?”

  Holding his gaze, I tilt my head, “I can’t wait to hear what that might be.”

  He grins, but gets sober again to lower his voice and say in the sexiest way, “You want to tangle that tattooed hand in my hair and tuck my face between your thighs for a good, long and slow hour.”

  My jaw drops. I can’t speak. And all the guys lean forward, dying to hear my witty comeback.

  But I’m so stunned all I can muster is a stuttering, “Wow, you are such a jerk!”

  He winks at me. “Jerks are great in bed—you can leave them while they sleep and not feel the least bit guilty about it.”

  “I’ll remember that if I’m ever stupid enough to fuck one.”

  The Falcons go up in arms with laughter and cheering. Eric right along with them. His smile is so gorgeous it’s impossible not to feel warm under it.

  Clearing my throat I decide to hand-serve the team their shots. He goes to help me, which completely throws my balance off. “You can’t lift them for me when the tray is this full.”

  “Oh, sorry!” Holding up his hands we hold our breaths as the skinny glasses settle. The overflowing mugs were fine. Mojitos, solid. But those little shots aren’t made to hold liquid long-term.

  “That was close,” I gasp.

  Mott reaches out. In slow motion my eyebrows fly up, body tensing as his meaty hand hits the bottom and sends the drinks flying. Booze exploding everywhere. Eric gets soaked. I’m even wetter. The rest of the team saw it coming and backed out of range. Glass shatters around our dripping feet.

  Mott grins with pride, quips, “Cocker, I got her all wet for you!”

  I lunge for him.

  Eric hooks his arm around my waist like I’m a football, lifts me into the air while a slew of curse words pour from my mouth. “Okay now, whatever your name is, let’s get you out of here before you lose your job.”

  As he carries me to the bathrooms I am fighting him. Finally he sets me down as I pant, “Your friend has the brain of a turd!”

  Eric chuckles, hair dripping as much as mine is. He tells the curious line, “Ladies, she’s on the clock and needs to get cleaned up. Unisex stalls right?”

  Ready to give him anything he ever asked for, they wave us to the front. “Sure, Eric.” “Oh, gosh, you guys are all wet!” “I saw what Mott did…where are you guys going after?�
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  He ignores their questions and drags a hand through his soaked hair.

  Tapping my feet, sticky all over, I demand, “What are you doing here still?”

  He points at the white t-shirt plastered to his torso that is completely transparent now, nipples in tight, dark little points. “Does this look normal to you?”

  Blinking at it I mutter, “Nope.”

  I’m not referring to how drenched the man is.

  His body is what’s not normal.

  Mmm.

  Mmm.

  MMM.

  CHAPTER 5

  WREN

  T he door opens and its female occupant walks out and spots him, blue eyes flitting up and down with aroused interest. Then she sees me, just as wet as he is. She wants to know how this happened. And how she can take my place.

  But Eric doesn’t notice her, he’s too busy grabbing the door and holding it open for me. “Here ya go.”

  “Thank you.”

  I head inside and turn to close it, but have to step back as he walks in after me. “Okay if I clean up, too?”

  I stutter, “Sure, yeah, come on in,” before I have a chance to think. “Wait, no! You can’t be in here with me! They’re going to think we’re doing something that we aren’t!”

  His eyebrows fly up and he lands his palm on the wall, leaning on it, wet white cotton clenched against his disciplined muscles. “You think so?”

  “Of course!”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m very sure. Now get out of here.”

  Thoughtfully he nods, pushes off the wall and pokes his head outside. “We aren’t making out! Instead we are merely cleansing the stickiness off our hot, tortured bodies, okay?”

  The girls laugh and he shuts the door, locking the door and jerking his chin toward the waiting basin. “Sink’s right there, Sweets.”

  I grumble, “At least you dropped the…well, you know.”

  “The tits part? I wanted to keep it, because they deserve the title, but my sister would clock me if she ever found out I’d said something like that.”

  “But she wouldn’t mind you suggesting in front of an audience that I want to pull your head between my legs?”

  “I said yank, not pull.”

  “You said tuck.”

  “Did I?” he smiles, leaning against the wall by the sink while I splash my face a few times, then wring out my hair. “Emma would think that was pretty funny. You don’t wear much makeup, huh?”

  “Extremely self-conscious now, thank you. And I bit off my lipstick, which is usually all I wear. Not that it’s any of your business. Do you have to watch me do this?”

  “What’s your name?”

  Peeling my shirt away from my bra and stomach, I step around him to the intensely powerful Xcelerator hand-dryer, holding the fabric under its cacophonous blast. “In case you think you’re being sly, I know what you’re doing.”

  He pushes off the wall to rinse off his face next. “Oh yeah? Clue me in.”

  “You’re in here so that you can tell your teammates you and I had sex and I’ll never be able to deny it because nobody will believe me.”

  He laughs and dips down to rinse liquor from his hair. Flinging back his head he shakes the thick, chocolate locks out, looking absolutely breathtaking with water dripping off his long eyelashes as he grins at me.

  What’s crazy is he looks this good all the time. When the camera cuts to him after a bad play and he’s pissed…gorgeous. Coach talking strategy with him on the sidelines when Defense is on the field…stunning. Throwing a ball, flying in the air like his guardian angels are holding him up there…mind-boggling. Especially then. It’s always beautiful to watch someone do what they’re meant to.

  They did a study last season and found out that the number of females watching football since he went pro, doubled in Georgia. And I bet a bunch of those fans don’t know rule one about how the game is played. They’re just staring at him, bodies silently humming, I want him. Give me just one night. Then I’ll be happy.

  “You must think I’m a real dick, huh?”

  Trying to angle my head under the dryer, looking awkward as hell, I lock eyes with him to frankly admit, “Yep. I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you know why.”

  “My friends?”

  “Your reputation. Don’t play dumb.”

  “Don’t play dumb? So you think I’m smart.” And there’s that lopsided grin.

  Steeling myself against his charm, I state with a business-like tone, “Truth? I suspect that despite those muscles you are extremely intelligent.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, to have done what you have, raised our team from the gutter, that takes strategy and smarts. And while I respect Coach, he was there before you so…it must be you.”

  His eyebrows twitch, expression shifting as he rakes his hair back with both hands, biceps enormous. “You’re a fan.”

  “Of the team not of you. I have a boyfriend.”

  Oh God. The loud dryer went silent just as I made that lame announcement, and now it’s echoing off the walls, so unnecessary to have been said. So I hit the button again, blasting white-noise and hot air into the room, none of it coming from me this time.

  Eric reaches back and tugs his wet t-shirt off from his stunning torso, a sexy groan of relief rumbling from his chest. “Oh yeah, so much better,” he mumbles to himself, seemingly without ulterior motives.

  I blink away thinking, Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me. What am I doing here alone with this guy?

  Eric casually announces, “If you’re a fan of the team then you’re a fan of me. We are one atom, uncut. Inseparable.”

  He slams the faucet on as I bite my lip and try not to look at his nude back.

  This is where I fail.

  I mean, it’s okay to look, right?

  Droplets of water and liquor travel down the wide slope of his perfect shoulders into narrow hips, sculpted muscle framing his spine. If I didn’t look I would be a sociopath.

  My jaw drops as Eric scoops water into his meaty palms and runs them down his chest, beads splashing around him with every stroke. He pauses as he catches me staring in the mirror. A knowing smirk appears, making me whip to face front, lips going very thin as I see movement in my peripheral eye-line.

  “What are you doing? Are you writhing? You’re not going to make me look!”

  “Stop being such a girl.”

  Appalled I go to object, locking eyes with him in the reflection to discover he’s actively trying to crack me up, hamming an exaggerated performance of a male stripper for my benefit. With sulky lips his fingers twirl over his pecs. He pretends to lift and lick them like they’re breasts, his tongue craning to reach his erect nipples and missing entirely.

  “Fuck,” he mutters, “Can’t reach!”

  “Very funny,” I smile, because it is.

  Suddenly he winces and makes these guttural moans, quiet ones so only we can hear them. “Oh yeah. This water is so hot. So wet. Just like water is…because it’s made to be wet and slippery. So moist!”

  I burst out laughing, “Oh my God, stop it!”

  “Yeah…uh huh. Look how tight.”

  “Tight?” I gasp with laughter.

  “My muscles are tight! Not the water! Come on, what are you thinking? But look at these abs!” He turns around, no longer in the reflection.

  I step back.

  He walks closer and slams the dryer with his elbow, flexing that bicep, wagging his eyebrows. The air blasts out with gusto and Eric arches into it, thrusting his chest and running his hands down it, then dragging them through his hair, wet tufts of underarm fuzz glistening. He sways his hips, purposefully going for the laugh as he lifts a leg to a beat only he can hear.

  I’m practically crying from laughter.

  “This air is filled with…heat and it’s got me dancin’ so hard. Oh yeah, the air is hard! Rock hard air!”

  I slap the wall, doubled over.
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br />   He finally breaks, cracking up and reaching for his abandoned shirt. “Oh shit,” he mutters on a grin, shaking his head at himself. “Something is seriously wrong with me.”

  Unable to stop laughing I croak, “My stomach is cramping!”

  “Where’s my dollar? Don’t you want to stick a dollar right here?”

  “Screw that,” I gasp, grinning, “You’re supposed to tip me.”

  “Did you say tip? I’ve got a tip for you.”

  “We really need to use the bathroom!” a female voice calls through the wood.

  Wiping my eyes I call out, “Hang on! Almost done,” and hurry around him to gather myself. I pull my ponytail free and fix it as best I can. “Screw it, right? It’s not gonna get any better than this.”

  In the reflection I see him coming at me, so I spin around and back into the wall as his hazel eyes hold me prisoner. His smile is gone, voice deeper than before. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

  “Wren.”

  His gaze narrows like he’s memorizing it. Then his lashes drop to my lips and flick back up. “You look beautiful. Don’t get in your head. Own it and nobody will give a shit that your hair’s damp. And no, I’m not going to tell my team something happened in here when it didn’t. I might be a slut, but I’m no liar. And I’m certainly not a prick.”

  Suddenly I’m alone here, pressed to the wall as he strolls to unlock the door, waiting for me to walk out first.

  Confused I ask, “You’re not going to put on your shirt?”

  “We need to sell more tickets, don’t we? I’m gonna inspire the girls to open their wallets. Time to show ‘em what I’m workin’ with.” He makes his pecs dance, wiggling his eyebrows.

  “You’re going to drive them crazy.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.”

  “Tragic.”

  “If you say so.”

  We walk outside.

  Instantly every woman who sees him freezes to ogle our half-naked quarterback.

  It takes me two seconds to read their expressions as their mascara flicks my way.

  They think he’s naked because we fooled around. Everyone assumes the slut here isn’t him—it’s me.

  And on the clock no less.