"Turn around," he huffs like I've asked him to eat dog shit. I give him my back and feel him yank the zipper up.
"Thanks," I say when I turn to face him again.
He blinks dark eyes at me like I've grown another pair of breasts. "Don't be all nice and shit. It freaks me out because then I don't know when you're gonna be a hateful bitch and bite my head off again."
"I like to keep you on your toes," I tell him with a grin. When I walk past him on the way out the door I run my fingernail down the center of his chest, following the line of buttons. I'm pretty sure he groans but I just keep walking to the car.
Jake has Linkin Park blaring on the radio like he's trying to bother me. I don't mind the band, except when he plays them over the house speakers at two freaking a.m. At least we don't have far to go, because I'm starving. Without asking me what I want, Jake pulls up at Hawthorne's, a quaint little pizza place. I don't even bitch, even though I want to say that I'm overdressed. Here, unlike last night, are typical middle class patrons who recognize Jake and are definitely fans. He spends the first ten minutes we sit down at a table signing autographs.
Watching him with fans he's...different. Not rude or spewing profanity. He's actually really good with the kids, talking to them about their football teams at their schools and what positions they play. When a couple of them ask if I'm his girlfriend, he gives a short yes in response and changes the subject.
"What?" he asks me when we're no longer surrounded.
"Nothing."
"Why are you smiling? You're making me nervous. Are you plotting to kill me in my sleep or some shit?"
I roll my eyes in response and glance around the crowded dining room to make sure no one heard. When Jake suddenly grabs my hand and intertwines his fingers with mine on top of the table, I barely resist yanking it away.
"My girlfriend wouldn't flinch every time I touched her," he remarks quietly.
"Yes, well, since my boyfriend is psycho, I never know what he may do. It makes me jumpy," I reply, unable to meet his eyes. My face flushes in embarrassment. I'm not sure how to respond to him holding my hand so sweetly. It's just for PDA purposes, but the gentleness from a man usually calling me foul names is...strange.
"You think I might hurt you?" he asks softly, and my eyes flash up to meet his sincere ones.
"No," I respond honestly. Yes, he threw a frying pan across the room Sunday night, or early Monday morning, but not at me, and that was after I brought up his deceased parents. And yeah he spanked my ass, but only after I’d slapped his face. We are quite a lovely pair. "Although my right cheek might disagree," I tease to lighten the mood. I don't care for this serious, sensitive side. He's supposed to be a jackass!
"My own cheek commiserates," he jokes, and I can't help my smile. He strokes his thumb over my knuckles, causing a tingle to spread all the way up my arm. What was that for? No one can see our hands that closely. When he keeps it up I free my thumb and slap it over top of his to still it. Which of course commences a full out thumb war.
"Stop it," Jake whispers under his breath, pinning my thumb down again.
"You stop," I reply, trying my best to get the upper hand.
"You are the shittiest fake girlfriend ever," he says with a smile when he finally gives up and pulls his hand back across the table.
"So why exactly did you have to have one in the first place?" I ask.
"Blackmailing gold-digger," he mutters, throwing back his bottle of beer while we wait for our pizza. "How ironic is it that I have to pay a woman to solve a problem caused by a fucking gold-digger?"
"Maybe you should stay away from gold-diggers," I respond.
"Then I wouldn't ever get laid," he says.
"You mean you can't get women on your looks and charm alone?" I tease.
"Not when they know I play for the NFL."
"I'm sure there are plenty of men who’d gladly take your place."
"Hell I know that," he mutters with his eyes lowered, absently peeling away the label on his beer bottle. "But once in a while it'd be nice to have someone want to just fuck Jake Young instead of the Wildcat's starting wide receiver."
"Well...you are the third best wide receiver in the entire league," I brag on him.
"Only because Zack played like shit our first few games. Watch and see, sweet cheeks. I'll be first in the rankings before Thanksgiving," he replies with a smirk when he looks up and gives me a wink.
"After a woman gets past your stellar NFL record, devastating good looks, and incredible charm, I'm sure it's your modesty that seals the deal."
That makes him chuckle. "I was being modest. I didn't claim that I'd be named MVP of the Super Bowl."