Dirty Curve by Meagan Brandy

CHAPTER 8

Tobias

I was right. I knew I would be.

The season is moving along, we’re killing it and breaking school records.

It’s intense, fucking awesome, but we’re deep into the semester and shit’s hard.

History isn’t kicking my ass by much, but anatomy is tanking my GPA.

Anatomy!

Fucking ridiculous.

We won’t talk about English.

I fold my palms around the back of my neck, leaning forward with a heavy groan. “This makes no fucking sense.”

“You’ll get it, it just takes time.”

“I don’t have time, Tutor Girl. The test is in two days. My grade is a sixty-seven percent right now. If I fail this, shit, if I get less than a fucking B, I’ll be in hot water. My coach will have my ass.”

“You’re putting too much pressure on yourself.” She scrunches up her little nose, judgment bleeding from her next words. “Stop thinking about baseball and what someone else wants of you and think about what you need to do.”

“I need to play in that damn game,” I tell her with a scowl.

“No. You need to pass this test.”

“Fine. I need to pass this test” —my brows lift as my eyes widen— “so I can play in the game.”

With a sigh, Meyer drops back against her chair.

We’ve been studying for this anatomy test for three sessions now and still, I can’t fucking grasp ‘the anatomy of the heart.’

Her focus falls to the tabletop and she chews on that bottom lip of hers. She does that when she’s thinking real hard.

It’s distracting as fuck.

“Spill it.”

Her eyes jolt to mine and she stares at me for a moment before slowly standing from her chair.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I jump from my seat, irritated. “We’re not done. In fact, we just started. I—”

“Relax.” I’m pretty sure I hear a smile in her tone, but she never lets it touch her lips. “I have an idea. Let’s go.”

“Go?” I gauge her.

“Yeah.” Her dark brows lift slightly, almost persuading me she’s capable of humor. “Go. Grab your stuff, this will take the rest of our time.”

I’m not convinced, but I have shit else for choices, so I do as the girl says and pack up.

This week, her location of choice is the garden picnic tables behind the science hall. She’s silent the entire time, leading me along the fencing, around the math building, and only then do I realize exactly where it is she’s headed.

“The field?” I complain, dropping my head back to look at the sky. “Seriously?”

She, for real, doesn’t understand the way an athlete’s mind works.

Meyer approaches the gate, so I reach over her and push it open for her to walk through.

“Look, I know you want to help, but now I really won’t be able to focus.”

“You don’t even know why we’re here.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I look around, Tuesday’s game already playing out in my vision.

Meyer drops her bag and heads to the mound, my mound.

“Careful, Tutor Girl. That’s a precious piece of dirt you’re standin’ on.”

I start toward her.

Her hand shoots up, and she points. “Go to home plate.”

I frown. “But that mound you’re standing on is my spot.”

“Come on.” She rolls her eyes. “Just go with it.”

Waste of fucking time.

But I do as she says.

“All right,” she calls out. “We’re going to call home plate a base.”

“That’s like calling cupcakes, cake, sounds right but technically it ain’t.”

She crosses her arms, her little hip cocking to the side.

Okay, little mama means business ... and has a personality.

Who knew?

Widening my feet, I tip my chin. “Okay, Tutor Girl, I’ll humor you. We’ve got four bases.”

Her muddy eyes meet mine and she nods. “Four bases.”

“That’s what I said.”

Aaand that hip pops out a bit more.

Wonder if she’s double jointed?

“The heart has how many chambers?”

“No fucking idea, why you think I said this was a waste—” I cut myself short.

Well, holy shit.

A slow grin spreads across my face and she can’t hold hers in this time. I watch as those thick lips of hers pull to one side.

“Four. The heart has four chambers.”

She nods. “Four bases, four chambers. Good.” She steps off my mound and motions for me to take her place.

Smirk in full effect, I make my way to her, slipping past and onto the dirt-caked clay. I lift my arms out wide, and she shakes her head, quickly giving me her back.

I think she does it to hide a smile.

I feel like she’s smiling right now.

“Okay.” She spins, walking backward now. “Who, loosely speaking, has control of the game?”

“Me.”

“Who.”

“Pitcher.”

“Right, the pitcher has control of the game. So, if we think of your position as the core, as what keeps the game alive, we can take the others and their jobs, and connect—”

“The four chambers of the heart and the roles they play.” I scan the field, running through the setup she’s just given me.

“Good, so say the pitch is thrown and the ball is hit—”

“If. If the ball is hit.”

She sighs, but it’s a different kind, a playful kind. She’s softening. “Work with me here, Mr. Perfect.”

I grin. “Ok, fine. Pitch is thrown, ball is hit.”

“So, the batter runs to first base ...” She nods encouragingly.

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, squinting at the first baseline. “To the right, so ... the pulmonary valve sends blood to the right ventricle?”

“Yes!” Meyer’s mouth curves, a wide, proud smile forming and fuck me ...

I kinda want to be right again.

We work through the next few steps, each answer coming easier than the last and then we’re at the final step. “To your lungs.”

“Yes.” She stomps her foot, excited. “Exactly. Great job!”

In my head, I repeat the steps again, glancing from one position to the next, without having to pause and think. She just taught me this in a matter of minutes, brought me here and worked her little ass off to speak my language, on my level.

I turn to her with a smile and she stares back a moment, but a look I can’t explain slowly sweeps over her.

She spins away from me. “Okay, time’s up today. I think you’ll do great.”

“Not so fast.” I jog past her and pull out my keys, mitt, and ball from my backpack—always keep one on me.

Curious, she tracks my every move, but I wink, hustling to unlock and step into the dugout. Pulling open the orange bin, I grab a bat and run back, shoving it into her hand without giving her a chance to say no.

“You taught me something, let me teach you something.”

She holds my gaze a moment and then drops hers to the hardwood in her hand. “Tobias…”

“Come on, try. I’ll go easy on you.”

She scoffs, making me grin, and when she hesitates, I add, “Don’t be afraid to get schooled, Tutor Girl.”

Meyer licks her lips, glances over her shoulder, and back at me before taking position at home plate.

I’m about to instruct her on how to stand when she does it on her own, lining her feet up with the plate, her stance even with the width of her shoulders, bat raised high in the air.

Okay, so she’s shown no interest in what I do, but has good form?

Hmm ...

I cock my head, but the girl simply stares me down, clearly aware I’ve got questions, but not wanting to divulge, so I show her the ball, letting her know it’s coming and lightly toss it to her.

Meyer stands to her full height—all five foot something of it—and again, cocks that hip out.

“What?” My shoulders rise innocently.

“You have me standing here with a bat, the least you could do is give me something to hit.”

“Okay, hotshot,” I tease. “You want some heat?”

Her face flushes slightly, but she doesn’t back down and readies herself once more.

I throw the ball with a bit more power.

She swings and misses, a small grunt escaping her, but I don’t say a word, and she picks up the ball, throwing it back to me.

The next pitch she nails, sending it sailing past short and into midfield. I watch it go, then turn back to her with my brow raised expectantly, but the girl just shrugs, rests the bat on her shoulder, and waits.

A low chuckle leaves me, and I hustle for the ball and back.

“Again.”

We continue for a good ten minutes, both of us working up a sweat despite the chilled March evening.

When Meyer tosses the bat, my shoulders drop.

I’ll admit I was having fun. Then again, I always do when a baseball’s in my hands.

I guess the fun’s over.

Or maybe not ...

My eyes hold on Meyer as she walks over to the short gate in front of the dugout, opposite of where she set her backpack. She begins to lift that hideous sweater, revealing her figure for the very first time and goddamn. It’s like opening up my gramp’s old Cracker Jack box and finding a Mickey Mantle rookie card.

Girl’s been hiding some treasures.

Far from skin and bones, as her slender face leads you to believe.

Lucky for me, she’s looking the other way, her round, perky, and completely unexpected, ass taunting me without her knowledge. Torturing me might be a better way to put it.

My fingers instantly twitch, begging to squeeze and smack it, to hold it in my palms and watch the way it moves when touched and teased, but I don’t get to envision it for long, ‘cause the girl shifts the slightest bit, sharing even more.

Hips, wide and thick, made for holding on to.

The thick, cheap cotton finally reaches her chest, and I run my tongue along the backs of my teeth in sudden anticipation.

She tugs the thing over her head and fuck me ...

So plump, so … full. They’re ready to spill, not far from toppling out of the tank she’s wearing, but as I could have guessed, that’s not her style. She pulls the top up as much as the material allows.

I’d pout if I was a lesser man.

I do try and get a good look, though, but she’s only half facing me, and then she tries to kill me.

Meyer tugs her hair tie from her head, and lets it fall from its usual mess.

Ass for days and long, tuggable hair is my sweet spot, and hers reaches her midback.

It’s mostly brown, but there’s a hint of copper catching the sun, kind of like the golden hint of her eyes.

She runs her fingers through it before her little hands wrap around the length, twisting and twirling it up again, and my eyes follow the windup, zeroing in on her chest as it rises with my own inhale.

To see if I’m caught, I look up quickly, but she’s not paying me any mind, just staring off, lost in her own thoughts, so I sneak another peek.

Still can’t tell if they’re fake or not, not that it matters. I love them all.

Big ones, small ones, real ones, fake ones, call me Dr. Fuckin’ Suess, and right now, the doctor wants to play, are they or aren’t they?

I want to touch ‘em, lick ‘em, suck ‘em, fuck ‘em, and then do it all over again.

The second I force my eyes up, Meyer’s jump to meet mine, and I don’t look away. Can’t.

Don’t want to.

She does, though, and I know. Meyer’s suddenly unsure of what she’s doing and why she’s here. It’s all right there, written along her brow.

It’s weird and I don’t get it, but she’s weird and I don’t really get her, so fuck it.

I get ready to throw.

Meyer grabs the bat and we go at it a few more times. One comes flying right back at me, and I snag it with a grin, tossing it up and catching it in my palm.

“You must be a frequent flyer at the batting cages, and you don’t want to tell me.” I spin the ball in my palm, lining my middle finger up with the right seam to serve her a slow curve as she gets ready for it. “We should go.”

I wind up, but before I can let it go, her face falls, and the bat follows.

She rushes to her bag, tearing her phone from the front pocket.

This time, I know we’re done for real, so I move to put everything back in the container, lock it up, and make my way to where she’s standing. “You know, you did pretty damn—”

“I have to go,” she cuts me off, runs to grab her sweater from the fence, and tugs it over her head before lifting her bag off the ground.

Trips me out how she dropped it right there without a care. I’ve never known a girl who didn’t mind the dirt like that.

Backpack on one shoulder, she shoves her phone in the pocket of her hoodie and begins to walk away. “I think you’ve got it, just remember the positions and plug in the correct terms.”

Oh, I’mbeing dismissed, brushed off and forgotten until next time, like we weren’t having fun five seconds ago?

Was this not chill and relaxing for her?

Did this not get her out of that dark box of depression, also known as the library, and out for some vitamin D, something she’s in desperate need of?

Why do I care?

“Man, Tutor Girl, you’re a whole other girl outside the library,” I pop off, falling back to the guy she looks at me and sees because why not? She’s done with me anyway, the time slot she penciled me into exceeded, and reinstating my need to get under her skin extreme, if only to remind her I didn’t want to be here anyway. That it’s whatever. That I’m forced to be around her just as much as she’s forced to be around me. “First strippin’ for me, then talking plugging and positions? What would Coach Reid have to say about such behavior?”

Her face smooths out completely, her true thoughts hidden, and she gives me that robotic tone of hers I hate. “Go over your study guide one more time tonight, but don’t look at it again after that. Not even right before the test. I’ll email you the breakdown of today’s session later tonight.”

She turns and walks away, straight out of the gate.

And like the merry-go-round we seem stuck on, I’m the dick that follows her when I should just let the girl go.

But what the fuck’s her problem?

“So, this is where slightly cool and less uptight Tutor Girl turns back into the killjoy, noted.”

She gives no reaction and I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m after. It must be because I keep going.

“To think, you almost seemed normal there for a second.”

Her pace quickens.

“So, what is it, huh? Can’t handle being around me this long, gets the juices flowin’?”

She doesn’t slow or look back at me, but there’s a small frown now marring her face.

Good, almost there.

I want her to snap, to yell or scream. To give me something.

She gives me nothing.

“Yeah, I noticed. You know, you really should take some of the money you’re makin’ off me and invest in a thicker pair of them tights you wear like pants, some that will hide the wet spots better.”

She gasps, her head jerking in my direction, a broken glare blanketing her features.

I smirk, cock my head and stare right into those brown eyes of hers.

Yeah, I know, it’s sweat coating the inside of her thighs—she’s thick in the best fucking places and the sun makes you pay for nature’s kindness in providing perfect curves.

Was I a dick to call her out on her worn-out leggings and unavoidable perspiration? Of course, I was, and later tonight, I’ll feel like a dick for embarrassing her, but I don’t yet.

I don’t because she’s stopped in her tracks and her eyes are on mine. Staring, searching, contemplating ...

Her eyes are on mine.

Why do I want to keep them there?

She swallows, whispering, “I need to go.”

“Need to or want to?”

Her lips press together, and her head begins to turn away, but my hand decides to fly up and hold it right where it is, facing me.

My gaze falls to where my skin touches hers and heat builds in my groin. “Why don’t you try to get in my bed?”

She nearly chokes, tries to escape, but I block her, and her brows cave. “I’m your tutor.”

“That’s not an answer.” I lick my lips. “I can give you whatever it is you want, do whatever you like. I’m a generous man. I’d be good to you, I promise.” I don’t realize I’m slipping closer until she’s pulling back, a tangled thought flashing in her eyes.

“See you Friday, Tobias.” Quicker than I’d have thought her capable, she’s gone.

And I’m hard as a fucking rock.

For my messy, prudey, annoyingly pretty eyed, goddess-shaped tutor.

The one girl seemingly immune to my charm.

I don’t get it, but I want to.

I want to know her. Understand her.

I kind of just want to talk to her for a while.

What kind of warped world is this?