Girl Next Door: Puck Buddies Series

by Brown, Tara

  Girl Next Door

  Puck Buddies Series

  Tara Brown

  Girl Next Door

  Book Four in the Puck Buddies Series

  Part One of the final books in the series!

  As the cast and crew of the Puck Buddies series is so extensive, I’ve had to cut the final story for these guys into two parts to ensure all the happy endings.

  Copyright 2020 Tara Brown

  This is a work of fiction.

  All names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text Copyright © 2020 Tara Brown

  This work is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This work may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written consent of the publisher.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. No alteration of content is permitted.

  Published by Tara Brown.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Art by Dark Tree Designs

  Edited by Andrea Burns

  All rights reserved.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  The End

  ALSO BY

  About the Author

  1

  Ghosted

  Tuesday, June 13, 2017

  Jenny

  The key ring jingles as I reach over the top of the fence with one hand and struggle with the gate latch while balancing two to-go cups of steaming coffee in the other. My boyfriend’s extra hot latte burns my wet fingers through the damp sleeve over the paper cup. But the smell of java mixing with the early summer rain hints the miserable experience will be worth it as soon as I’m inside and out of this sudden downpour.

  “Oh come on,” I grumble at the bolt when my wet fingers slip trying to grab hold. I just get it, balancing and lifting the old gate with my boot to level the weight, but the leather slips on the drenched wood. The gate drops back down, pinching my finger in the rusty bolt.

  “Ow!” I shout and pull my hand away, sending the key ring tumbling to the ground where it lands in the huge puddle on the other side of the fence.

  Taking deep breaths, I whisper, “Shit,” staring up at the cloudy sky and fighting my temper. I close my eyes as the rain tickles my face, certain this moment can’t get worse.

  Giving up on being careful, I spring into action. “You son of a—” I adjust the weekend bag on my shoulder and reach over again, roughly jerking back the latch, swinging the gate open wide, and hitting it on the fence, hard.

  When I step over the deep puddle containing my key, I kick the stupid gate closed. It slams, vibrating from the impact.

  With a slight sense of vindication, I blow some of the running rainwater off my face and squat with the coffees sloshing on my soaking wet clothes. It’s a dark moment spent balancing and promising myself a quick shower and change before leaving for work after this. At least I’ve left enough of my work clothes at Ben’s house that finding a suitable outfit won’t be difficult.

  His showerhead is better than mine; the water pressure is amazing. I’m daydreaming about it with my fingers deep in the dirty puddle, my manicure scraping along the cold mud, when I hear it.

  A door and then a voice. A woman’s voice.

  “I swear I heard something, Ben, but I don’t see anything,” the woman speaks from the back door of Ben’s house.

  My blood runs as cold as the puddle I’m fishing in. I turn, certain I’m hearing things, but the barbecue and stairwell I’m crouched behind block my view of the back door.

  The sky responds violently and the rain comes down harder.

  “You sure?” Ben calls out over the pounding drops.

  “It was a loud bang. I heard it, twice!” The voice is familiar.

  “As, it was probably a car hitting a pothole.” His voice is closer.

  As? He said, “As” like it was a name. The voice—oh my God.

  It’s Aslin, his coworker. Why would she be at his house at eleven in the morning on his day off?

  “The roads here are brutal in the spring. Come back to bed, babe.” Ben chuckles that sexy, throaty laugh.

  Bed?

  Babe?

  “Okay.” She giggles and I lose my grip on the coffees, spilling and sending them toppling into the puddle. They burst, adding brown liquid and an unsettling warmth to the water.

  My whole body shivers with pins and needles.

  Aslin is at Ben’s.

  He told her to come back to bed.

  He called her babe—he calls me that.

  Stupid Jenny.

  He probably calls everyone babe.

  Actual comprehension of the situation hits but it isn’t gentle. It smacks me so hard I fall back, landing on my butt in the wet mud of his side yard.

  Ben calls us all the same nickname like that fucking Reese Witherspoon movie so he doesn’t mix us up.

  Shit!

  Shit!

  My stomach drops and my heart breaks. Tears stream my face, joining the rain but my tears are warmer.

  As it always does, my traitorous mind tries to rationalize this. Somehow, I end up adding justifications like my surprise visit to his house was stupid when I should still be in Halifax. I’m stupid. This is somehow my fault. Were we officially exclusive? Did we decide that? I mean, it was implied but was it ever said aloud? Were my expectations grander than reality?

  My relationship is a lie. A joke. I’m a joke.

  Pathetically, I sit in misery for a whole minute, rain and tears pouring down my face. I’m drenched and smelling of dirt, coffee, and heartbreak. Does heartbreak have a smell?

  Of course, this is the moment I recall the looks between him and Aslin at his Christmas party.

  Clearly, those hadn’t been my imagination. Nor did our fight a week later, when I saw Aslin call his cell phone at ten at night, mean I was crazy. I wasn’t irrational. Or jealous. Or imagining things. My accusations that he was trying to come up with reasons not to move in together, although my lease was up, were solid.

  Rage tiptoes through me.

  Oh, and when he convinced me we should wait a little longer to introduce our families to each other in person? That was a con I fell for because I’m not close with my dad or stepmom. Something I bet he’s used to his advantage.

  There are so many red flags, I stop feeling sorry fo
r myself and realize I am an idiot. An angry idiot.

  “Get up,” I whisper to myself, fighting the urge to find the key, storm inside, catch them in bed, all in a hope of reclaiming some of my pride. And while vindication would be fabulous, I’m not certain I’d accomplish anything beyond appearing insane, considering my fingers are covered with sand and dirt. My boots are drenched in coffee and mud. My pants can’t get wetter. My hair is flat and sticking to my head. My makeup’s no doubt to my chin. And I’m fresh off a morning flight.

  I look like hell. This is not how I want to be when I catch them in bed, validating his behavior in their shallow minds.

  I force myself up. My heart is heavy, akin to a fat lifeless slug. I swear it falls inertly down my body, dropping out the bottom of my pants into the puddle where I leave the key to his house. I shoulder my weekender bag once more, leaving the gate open but taking the coffee cups with my name on them, and say goodbye to every single thing I’ve left at his house.

  I don’t know what to do. How to deal with this.

  Using my filthy hand, I wipe my face, feeling the grit of sand and dirt against my cheek.

  An idea creeps into my mind but it’s insane. Complete madness.

  Words I once read in a story flit about with the idea, radical sabbatical.

  With heavy doubt and grimy trembling fingers, I call my cell phone company, angrily typing in my PIN and snarling, “Customer service,” at the poor robotic voice as I stomp toward home.

  There’s no turning back.

  I need a radical sabbatical.

  And this is a one-way street.

  “Hi there,” the customer service rep says. “My name is Randall. I’ll be assisting you today. Thank you for entering your PIN. Can I verify your name?” He sounds pleasant, but I can’t mimic it. My whole world, mind, body is hanging on by a thread.

  “Jenny Snowdon, and I need my number changed, immediately,” my voice cracks but I refuse to cry.

  “Okay, and for our records can I ask—?”

  “Look, Randall”—I take a shuddering breath—“I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve just caught my boyfriend of three years”—angry hate tears burst through the dam, making me a seething and sniveling mess as I trudge through the puddles—“with another woman. A woman he specifically told me he didn’t have a thing with.” And I am now squealing, “And I need to change the number so he can’t reach me. He’s probably one of those gaslighting sons of bitches they do 60 Minutes specials on.”

  “Oh—uhm—of course. Do-do you have a preference for your new number?”

  “No, thank you. I—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I am losing my mind. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. It’s just that I saw this story once about this man who needed to lose weight so he went on a radical sabbatical, and he changed his life by leaving it. He simply walked away from it all. And I might need to do that.” I wipe my face again with my wet and dirty hand, hating the six blocks back to my apartment.

  “Okay. Of course. It’s no problem. I’ll be one moment and we will change that for you. And—I’m very sorry this is happening to you.” He disappears into the weird void all call center people go when they put you on hold.

  The racking sobs slip from me, assuming the silence is a safe place as the vile fury turns into foolishness and self-loathing.

  Eventually, he comes back, speaking softly and sounding unsure, “Ms. Snowdon?”

  I hold back my weeping and squeak, “I’m here.”

  “I have your new number. Would you like to reset your PIN on the account as well?”

  “No, he doesn’t know it.”

  “All right. Well, I’ve sent you an email with your new number and instructions to ensure you activate it properly. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, thanks. You’ve been excellent,” I cry pathetically and hang up. Then I log into my Netflix and change the password. By the time I’m back home, I’ve also changed my Apple password on the account so the Apple TV I bought him won’t work.

  The moment I’m inside, staring at my apartment, memories of us here hit hard and fast. The rage and realization of the betrayal overwhelms me and I start to clean.

  It’s a second blast of furious energy made up of a need to cleanse him from my life.

  Flinging open drawers in the bathroom, I shout at myself and him and everyone as I move with speed and viciousness to ensure anything he touched is gone.

  I storm to the bedroom, ripping his clothes from my closet and drawers and tossing them into the garbage bags where I put his toiletries. I’m blind with fury as every piece of him is purged and dumped into a bag which I place in the hallway of my building.

  I can’t imagine how the scene looks: a filthy, crazed, desperate, broken, madwoman rage-stomping around her apartment, ransacking it. And when I’ve put the last bag in the hall and it’s over, I’m grateful no one witnessed this.

  Closing the door, I lean against it and cry loudly, giving myself the necessary moment before I go to my laptop and begin the online purge. It’s after one and I should be at work already, but I need him gone. Erased.

  Tears choke me up as I change my name on Facebook and Instagram and block him on all social media. Having set up my dad’s joint Facebook for him and my stepmother, I log in and block Ben from them as well, not that they were friends.

  It takes less time than it should to delete him from my life as I remove every photo, every memory. Instagram is filled with us so I delete the account and app completely. The tears have stopped but they’re close by, ready to pounce.

  Once I’m finished, I hope he can’t get in contact with me.

  Maybe it’s evil.

  Maybe it’s cruel.

  It’s totally immature.

  But there are only two outcomes of this story.

  One, I end it by ensuring he’s gone forever from my life. Or two, I go to jail charged with assault for beating his ass with one of my shoes.

  While the latter is more appealing, I’ve worked too hard on my career to sacrifice it for maiming him, and I like my shoes.

  Sniffling, I pick up my phone and begin a mass text message to my contacts, close friends, and family: Good morning, this is Jenny. Sorry about the mass text. This is my new number. Please don’t give it to anyone. Just changing some things in my life. My Facebook status says it all. I don’t want to discuss it, to be honest I shouldn’t have to. But I expect you to unfriend him. Thanks.

  I stare at the message for a minute, certain it’s a mistake. It will lead to questions. And the last shred of self-respect I have can’t handle those right now.

  Sighing, I attempt to talk myself out of it, but I press “send.”

  It’s done.

  Instead of wallowing, I shower and dress to start my day over.

  A new day.

  A new life.

  As if none of this has happened.

  The last three years haven’t happened.

  Not with him at least.

  Him who?

  2

  Abducted

  Lori

  The end of the downpour makes me miss home, the way the air there clears after a storm. Here in New York it gets heavier. As much as I wouldn’t want to live on the West Coast again, I wish I could bring the cold feel of the ocean breeze with me.

  As I climb out of the car, I notice my right thigh is still a bit sore from the charley horse I got in the last game. Our last game of the season. I make a mental note to roll my leg out before I go to bed. Maybe adding a bunch of beers to the rolling will help eliminate any tension and assist in my wallowing as I study the gameplay videos.

  Getting knocked out of the playoffs by the Senators is going to sting for a while, but at least it means I can go home for a couple of weeks and get the stink of the city off me.

  The door to the pet store rings with a bell as I open it, alerting the clerks that someone has entered. The neighborhood is rough enough that the windows are barred. Something my usual pet
store doesn’t have but this stop was on the way home, and if I show up empty-handed, Millie, my housekeeper, will make him a fillet again. The damned cat will end up with heart disease. He’s too old for fillet, but Millie’s too old to try to change her mind on how pets should eat. She’s raised ten cats and four kids in her lifetime and quite comfortable reminding me of it.

  “Can I help you?” casually asks a girl with blue hair and piercings in enough places on her face that I can’t help but imagine where more are. She doesn’t lift her gaze to mine.

  “Yeah, Purr Bistro for my cat. He’s a senior.” I even emphasize the stupid purrr. The things I do for Simon.

  “By Merrick? Yup.” She walks away, leaving me at the till. She comes back almost instantly with the medium-sized bag in her hands, flumping it onto the counter with as little effort as possible. She rings it in, her eyes never meeting mine. “Twenty-five seventy-nine.”

  I hold up my card. “Charge.”

  She taps the machine and glances at the door. “Did it freshen up with the rain?”

  “Nope.” I finish the purchase and lift the bag of food. “Just more humidity.”

  “Shit,” she laments and hands me my receipt.

  “Thanks,” I say and walk out. The indifference should be refreshing coming from a girl her age, but I like eye contact in customer service at least. Another thing I miss about home.

  “Some change for food?” a small voice asks from somewhere nearby. I stop and spin, scanning for who asked. There’s always a tiny whisper of hope that I’ll recognize the face, except I never do.