by Joanna Wylde
Even now, despite the weirdness with Puck, my life was good. Almost normal. I had a job, I had school, and I was still in control.
Funny how one phone call can completely fuck up everything.
—
My cell phone started blowing up around two that afternoon, but I was just starting an evaluation, so I ignored it after a quick check to see who was calling. Mom. Shit. I’d have to call her back after school . . . Then she called me four more times in ten minutes and I started to freak out. Another hour passed before I could get away and check my messages. The first was calm enough, at least on the Mom Scale.
“Baby, you need to call me right now. It’s important.”
By the second message she sounded upset. Not that my mother getting upset was anything new—she was always either in a great mood or ten seconds from losing it, not much left in between.
“Becca, I just tried calling your apartment. I don’t know why you can’t live somewhere that has better service. You really need to call me. Now.”
It was the third message that really worried me, though. This time she sounded scared. Like, scared for real. Combine that with the repeated calls and warning sirens started going off in my head.
“It’s important, Becca. Please call me. I need to get away from Teeny—it’s not safe here anymore. I know we’ve had our differences, but I really need your help now.”
My breath caught, then I forced myself to calm down. She’d said she was ready to leave him half a dozen times. Then she’d change her mind . . . Would she really go through with it? When I was younger, I’d always wondered if Teeny was a wizard, because he seemed to have a near-magical hold over my mother.
I called her back, fingers trembling. She didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message. For all I knew Teeny would steal her phone and listen to it, so I sent her a vague text instead.
ME: Mom—ill be at school until five and then home for the evening. Call me.
I was useless after that. All I could think about was Mom and Teeny and whether she was serious this time. Well, that’s all I could think about until four thirty.
That’s when distraction arrived in hot-guy form.
News spread through the school in a flash, of course, and all the girls were whispering and giggling about him. Nothing unusual there. Stressed out or not, I was still a functioning human woman so I decided to do a discreet walk-by to the bathroom to check him out. My breath caught.
Tall. Built, with strong arms and spiky blond hair.
Fuckballs.
That was Painter, Puck’s friend. I’d recognize him anywhere, even if he wasn’t wearing his Reaper colors. Not that I knew him—not really. But he’d been in jail with Puck. The welcome-home party that changed my whole life had been half for Painter, half for Puck. We’d all ridden back to Idaho together and I’d caught Painter’s eyes following me a time or two. Speculative and assessing, like I was some kind of strange creature he couldn’t quite identify.
Now he was chatting up Anna, who was working reception, so I ducked back down the hallway and into the bathroom. Why? I have no idea. Painter’s arrival had nothing to do with me. Probably. Didn’t mean I wanted to talk to him.
But seeing him reminded me of Puck and things went downhill from there. Specifically, I pondered all the reasons I absolutely shouldn’t ever talk to or even look at him again. Biker? Check. Dangerous? Check. Scary sexy? Check.
Scary, period.
I amended my mental “fuckballs” to “flying fuckballs with caramel sauce on top.”
He’s not Teeny, but he’s still part of Teeny’s world, I lectured myself, trying to focus on the combs I was sanitizing. And in his world, sometimes they give teenage girls to men as “welcome home from prison” presents, dumbass. Did you forget that part of the story? Puck Redhouse saved you to cover his own ass. This is not a romance and it won’t end happily ever after.
No. That wasn’t fair. Puck had been doing more than covering his ass when he dragged me out of California. He’d never been in real danger—wasn’t like the SWAT team had been poised and ready to bust him for screwing a minor. Nobody at that party had cared what happened to me at all. Not until him. He’d saved me because somewhere deep inside he was a decent human being.
The romance bit, though . . . That was dead-on. If I wanted happily ever after, Joe Collins was my guy.
I didn’t share any of this with Blake, who gave me a ride home after school. He had classes down at North Idaho College on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, so when our schedules aligned, he drove. The system worked, although I wished he’d let me give him gas money. Fortunately, Earl had left a message earlier in the day saying that my car was ready and he’d left it parked in the alley behind my apartment. Over the weekend I’d have to go and pick some huckleberries to make him a pie, I decided. Earl loved his huckleberry pie, and we were at the tail end of the season so it was now or never.
“You got time to give me a haircut tonight?” Blake asked about a mile outside Callup.
“Sure,” I told him. I’d been cutting his hair for a while now. I might not have a license yet, but a simple trim like his was easy enough to do.
“That’d be great. I’m on at seven at the Moose, but I’m hoping to pick up Danielle in time for us to grab some dinner before our shifts start.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“You got plans for tonight?”
“Nope, just going to relax at home. Maybe drink some wine and sit out on the roof with a book or something.”
“What about Joe? You could give him a call.”
“It’s been a busy week,” I said, dodging the question. “Lots of things happening. I’m ready for some time alone.”
Usually I spent my Friday nights hanging out with friends. Tonight I was really looking forward to doing nothing. I knew that eventually I’d be working most weekends, but until Danielle and I were up to speed Teresa didn’t want us both on shift during the busiest nights.
Maybe I’d use the time to count and roll all my coins. I threw all my change from tips into a big glass jug that I broke into whenever I truly hit bottom. If Mom finally left Teeny, I’d need it. Not that it would be enough . . . money was going to be a big problem.
Don’t get too excited, I warned myself firmly. She never leaves him. Maybe she never will.
Thankfully, Blake dropped the conversation about Joe, parking behind my place in comfortable silence. We went upstairs and I pulled one of my mismatched wooden chairs into the center of the living room. The floor was faded, scuffed hardwood and I loved every inch of it—the easy sweep-up after haircuts was just one of many advantages.
“Okay,” I told him. “Get your ass over to the sink and let’s get you washed up.”
“I’m going to grab a beer, that okay?”
“Sure, get one for me,” I told him as I ducked into the bathroom to grab some shampoo.
“Just one,” he warned. “Don’t want you cutting off my ear.”
I heard the pop of a beer cap coming off. Then he handed me a brown bottle. Taking a deep swig, I flipped on the hot water, which always took forever.
Blake pulled off his shirt and leaned over the basin, pretending to flinch when I started rinsing his hair.
“You’re such a baby,” I told him. “Stop whining, or I really will snip your ears.”
“Were you always a bitch like this? I remember you being nicer.”
“I’m taking lessons from Danielle.”
Blake laughed, and minutes later I had him washed and ready to go, wrapping a towel around his head to sop up the water. He flipped it expertly into a girl-style wrap around his head, then struck a “sexy” pose for me.
“How do I look?” he asked. “Fabulous?”
I shook my head and took another drink of beer.
“Sit your fabulous ass down in the chair. Otherwise you won’t have enough time for dinner.”
While he made himself comfortable, I turned on my little stereo. I’d bought
it the day after Thanksgiving last year in Coeur d’Alene with Regina, when it was marked down to forty bucks. It had pretty good sound, though. Way better than you’d expect for the price.
“Okay, we doing the usual?” I asked, coming over to stand behind him, draping a second towel around his shoulders. It didn’t cover as much as a cape would, but I didn’t charge like a salon, either. Outside I heard the roar of bike pipes. Puck. Great. Why did he have to move in next to me?
“Yeah,” Blake said. “You know me—keep it simple.”
Simple it was. He liked his hair short, so short that he didn’t have to worry about it at all, which made my life easy. A few snips to shape the top, then the trimmer did most of the work for me. Ten minutes later we’d finished our beers and the cut, and Blake was back on his feet, brushing the loose hairs off his chest.
He stretched and looked at me, smiling.
“You know, if I wasn’t batshit crazy over Danielle I’d be all over you, Becca,” he said. I blinked, startled.
“What?”
“I think sometimes you don’t realize how special you are,” he said, casually grabbing his shirt and pulling it over his head. “Joe’s a decent guy, and he’d take good care of you. Maybe he’s not your one and only, but don’t ever settle, okay? You’re better than that.”
I gaped at him as he gave me a quick hug, opening his wallet to pull out a ten-dollar bill. It wasn’t much, but he always liked to leave me something. It’d be a big help, too. My power bill was due soon and I was still short.
“You don’t need to pay me,” I reminded him. “You always drive. I should be paying you for the gas.”
Blake rolled his eyes.
“I can’t let you drive,” he said, his voice soft with a hint of humor. “You know how I feel about women drivers. Not only that, you’re cheap. Costs me twice that much in town.”
“Wow, you almost got out the door without fucking up,” I said, flipping him off. He laughed and threw me a little salute as the door closed behind him.
Huh.
I’d been friends with Blake for close to a year now, but he still managed to surprise me.
—
I drank another beer as I swept up hair trimmings, then took a shower to wash off the day’s grime. I followed the shower with a pair of loose cotton pants and a tank top. I hadn’t been kidding about wanting to relax. Not even my Singer tempted me at this point . . .
Hungry, I opened my fridge to figure out food and had to laugh because it was full of beer. It always was, despite my poverty—another sign that I had good friends. My place was the most convenient for all of us to get together and I’d learned long ago that a few seed beers tended to replicate themselves as time went on. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had to actually buy alcohol, which was a damned good thing because I also couldn’t remember the last time I could afford it.
Twenty minutes later, I finished off my dinner of generic macaroni and cheese (nothing but the best in my house!) feeling pleasantly relaxed. It was nearly eight thirty and the sun had faded behind the hills. There would still be light for a long time but when you lived in the bottom of a valley, direct sun exposure is sadly limited . . .
Like most nights, I decided to climb out on the roof next door. I grabbed a blanket and threw it down, lying back and closing my eyes to ponder the situation with my mom.
Would she really leave him?
The thought excited and terrified me. For years I’d been furious over all she’d done to ruin my life. I couldn’t count how many times I’d cried, Regina’s strong, work-hardened arms wrapped tight around me. Slowly that had changed . . . I wouldn’t say I’d forgiven Mom, but holding on to anger gets old. Last year I’d made a conscious decision to start letting it go. Sometimes I managed to pull that off, sometimes I didn’t.
But maybe this time things might really be different. Could I let myself hope? Just a little?
“So which one is it?”
I jerked upright with a squawk. Puck Redhouse was sitting on the false front of the building directly in front of me, arms crossed and eyes hard.
“Excuse me?”
“Which guy are you fucking?” he asked, the words clipped. “First I see you playing grabass with Blake Carver. Then you’re with Collins. Now Blake’s back at your place half naked. Your girl Danielle know what kind of ‘friend’ you are?”
My eyes narrowed as his meaning sank in. I opened my mouth to insist that there was nothing between me and Blake, then snapped it shut because why the hell should I have to defend myself to Puck Redhouse?
“What, can’t think of an excuse?” he asked, voice tight.
“Exactly what should I say? That I’m a slut who’ll sleep with anything that moves? Hypocrite much?”
That startled him. Fair enough—I’d startled myself. This is the problem with alcohol, my sense of self-preservation pointed out. Don’t piss off the scary guy, you fuckwit!
“Guess I had that coming,” he acknowledged reluctantly after a long pause. “It’s none of my business who you sleep with.”
One word from me and he’d make it his business, though. He’d made that clear last night, and now it hung between us so thick I could hardly breathe. Awkward silence fell. I shot a glance at my open window, wondering if I could make a run for it. That’s when I realized Puck must’ve seen me with Blake—all of my curtains were wide open.
I’d gotten too used to his place being empty.
“Feel free to go hide if you’re scared of me,” Puck commented.
“Very mature,” I pointed out, narrowing my eyes. “Daring me not to leave? What is this, kindergarten?”
Puck gave a laugh and pushed off the facade, lowering himself to my side on the blanket.
“Seems to be working,” he answered, his words light but his voice still strained. “Maybe I should dare you again.”
I stared out across the roof, refusing to meet his eyes. Then something cold touched my hand. I accepted the bottle of beer Puck offered, taking a deep drink.
“Thanks,” I told him, ignoring the internal voice telling me very firmly to shut the fuck up. “What did you have in mind?”
“I dare you to stay out here with me for a while,” he said slowly. “I dare you to tell me the truth.”
“Why should I do that?”
“You probably shouldn’t,” he said. “In fact, you definitely shouldn’t. I can’t be trusted and I don’t have good intentions. You should go inside right now, little girl. Go sew yourself a doll or something.”
“That is truly shitty,” I said, lying back down on the blanket. “How the hell am I supposed to go back inside now?”
“All part of my evil plan,” he acknowledged, propping up his head with one arm.
“I’m not a little girl,” I pointed out. “I’m an adult.”
“Yeah, there’s nothing like pointing out that you’re all grown up to prove you really are.”
“Why do you always have to be a total asshat?”
“It’s my way.”
I closed my eyes, wondering if I’d lost my mind. Almost certainly. I should go back inside right now—but I could feel him next to me. Smell him. It all came flooding back to me, the way he’d taken my hand and led me back behind the house that night. When he’d pulled me down between his legs, leaning me into his strength . . . When his hands ran across my body, touching me and learning me in the firelight . . .
I’d loved it.
And last night? Best not to think about that.
So incredibly fucked up. Everything. I hadn’t chosen him and I felt guilty sometimes for how good it’d been before it went bad. I shouldn’t have enjoyed Puck’s touch, because it wasn’t right and only a slut gets off on some guy who’s abusing her.
I wasn’t a slut. I was normal.
But that didn’t change the reality that I’d most definitely gotten off with Puck. He was nothing like the others. Not even close. When I dreamed about him and woke up screaming, those weren’t sc
reams of fear. Even now I felt my breasts tightening and I knew if he looked at me, he’d see my nipples under my tank top.
Shit, I wasn’t even wearing a bra.
“So tell me,” he said, his voice soft and compelling.
“Tell you what?”
“Who are you fucking?”
“That’s none of your business,” I said, digging in my heels. “I don’t owe you any answers.”
“You cut hair for anyone?” he asked. The change of subject took me off guard and I didn’t consider my answer before speaking.
“That’s sort of the goal,” I replied. “But I’m not licensed yet, so I only do it for friends. I’m not allowed to take money for it, either.”
“But you do. I saw him pay you. Or was that for other services?”
Douche.
“You tell me,” I snapped. “You were spying on us, right? Do you get off on watching, Puck?”
“No. I hate it when other men touch you. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
The admission stunned me into silence. Around us the crickets had come out in force, singing their soft music through the cooling air. I loved summer nights like this, all mild and warm and still . . . Minutes passed without any more snide comments and I felt myself slowly relax. It shouldn’t always have to be a fight.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” Puck replied, his voice a low, sexy rumble that sent chills through me. I took a deep breath, wondering if I was making a huge mistake. I’d always wanted to know, though—to understand what’d really happened that morning in California.
“Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Why did you tell Teeny I was shitty in the sack, then rescue me? I mean, if you didn’t like sex with me, why did you even care? Nobody ever helped me before then . . . You weren’t the first one he gave me to, you know. None of them gave a damn. What made you do it?”