Puck Me Baby

by Lili Valente

  And again.

  And again, until we both passed out from orgasm-induced exhaustion.

  Which is part of the reason I tiptoed away the next morning without leaving my number. I didn’t want to sober up and realize our magical night together was another lie. I wanted to keep the legend of the perfect one-night stand and the best sex of my life frozen in memory, without any harsh reality scratching up the lenses of my rose-colored glasses.

  And maybe I was a little scared of the opposite thing, too. Scared of learning that the sex with Alexi was always that hot, that intense, that addictive.

  My father is a compulsive gambler and alcoholic who wrecked his own life and did his best to take my mom and me down with him. I know how destructive and heartbreaking addiction can be. It’s not funny or sexy. It’s dark and sad, and I want no part of it, not even for orgasms so intense I’m pretty sure I saw God that night I spent with Alexi.

  But when I’m still awake thirty minutes later, tormented by memories of Alexi’s mouth and his hands and the husky note in his voice as he whispered how beautiful I was, how perfect it felt to be inside me, how much he loved feeling me come, I admit defeat.

  Cheeks hot, I slip my fingers down the front of my panties and take myself there, back to his room and his arms and the taste of his kiss, coming so hard and fast that by the time I drift back to earth, I’m gasping for breath.

  I know that fantasizing about a man I’m hoping to engage in a friendly, co-parenting relationship is the definition of a bad idea, but that doesn’t stop me from imagining Alexi wrapping me in his arms, making me feel safe despite the shouts from the courtyard and the wail of a police siren not far away.

  Pretend can be dangerous—for years I pretended to be in a functional relationship with a man who made it clear in a hundred unspoken ways that he was never going to settle down and love me the way I needed to be loved. But pretend can also mean the difference between crying yourself to sleep and drifting peacefully into sanity-restoring slumber.

  Tonight, I need the pretend.

  Tonight, I need my memories and the ghost of Alexi Petrov curled around me, making me believe everything is going to be all right.

  Chapter 4

  From the text messages of Alexi Petrov

  and Sofia “Baba” Petrov

  *

  Sofia: Are you awake, my sunshine?

  *

  Alexi: I am. Are you all right, Baba? Did you fall again?

  *

  Sofia: No, no, I’m fine. Just awake. I don’t need much sleep these days.

  But what about you? Why are you up so late?

  *

  Alexi: Only you would text me in the middle of the night and then complain about getting an answer.

  *

  Sofia: I’m not complaining.

  But I do worry about you all alone in that big house…

  *

  Alexi: I’m fine. And I’m not twelve years old anymore.

  *

  Sofia: I know. You were much less stubborn at twelve.

  And you trusted your Baba’s intuition…

  Just tell me what’s wrong, Alexi. You and I both know I’m not letting you sleep until you tell me why you’re answering texts at two in the morning. If you were doing any of the fun things that happen this time of night, you wouldn’t have responded until tomorrow.

  *

  Alexi: Stubborn runs in families, I hear…

  *

  Sofia: Indeed. And I can keep pestering you all night until you give me a straight answer. My stubbornness is matched only by my patience.

  *

  Alexi: Fine. You’re right.

  *

  Sofia: I’m sorry to hear that. What’s wrong, dear one? And how can I help?

  *

  Alexi: Something’s happened. An accident. I tried to make sure it didn’t happen, I took precautions, but it happened anyway. And now there are consequences.

  *

  Sofia: As there so often are.

  *

  Alexi: I know. And I’m not afraid to face them, but I am afraid to share them.

  There’s an innocent person involved, who doesn’t understand the risk. But even if she understood, there’s nothing either of us can do now but wait and hope for the best. It’s too late for the truth to make any difference.

  So now I have to decide—tell her about the danger and scare her, or keep my peace and deal with the worry alone.

  *

  Sofia: If the horses have been killed there’s no sense waking the master to let him know the stalls are empty.

  *

  Alexi: But that’s the thing. The horses might not be dead. They could be fine. There’s a chance that everything is going to be all right and there’s no need to worry. It’s just too soon to tell.

  *

  Sofia: Even more reason to hold your tongue.

  *

  Alexi: That’s what I thought.

  *

  Sofia: But you don’t have to carry the worry alone. I’ll carry it with you and light a candle for the baby every day.

  *

  Alexi: I’m that obvious?

  *

  Sofia: You are. But I like that you’re bad at keeping things from me.

  So who is this woman? Someone special?

  *

  Alexi: Yes. She’s special. And very nice. But we’re not together.

  *

  Sofia: Sounds like you were together to me. I may be old, but I remember how babies are made.

  *

  Alexi: I’m not having this conversation with you, Baba. It’s late, and you’re my grandmother.

  *

  Sofia: Fine. But I want to meet her.

  Make sure she’s not like the last one…

  *

  Alexi: She’s not. I told you, she’s nice.

  *

  Sofia: That’s what you said about the last one…

  *

  Alexi: I’m not going to talk about that, either.

  *

  Sofia: All right, all right… But I’m going to plan a visit as soon as the last of the sprouts are in. I need to see your pretty face.

  *

  Alexi: My face isn’t pretty, and I’m not introducing you to Amanda. But as long as you’re okay with that, my house is your house.

  *

  Sofia: Amanda! What a lovely name.

  *

  Alexi: Don’t start.

  *

  Sofia: What? I’m not starting anything. I’m making a simple observation.

  So, is she going to give the baby her last name or yours?

  *

  Alexi: We haven’t talked about that yet, and I’m not telling you her last name.

  *

  Sofia: Why not? I could look her up on the Internet for you. I’m not busy.

  *

  Alexi: Sofia…

  *

  Sofia: They have sites where you can get all sorts of information. Credit scores, job history, criminal records…

  *

  Alexi: Amanda doesn’t have a criminal record, and I’m not going to let you go poking around into her personal business behind her back. Are we clear?

  *

  Sofia: Fine, fine, whatever you think is best, sunshine. I’ll keep my nose out of your business, but do your baba one favor, all right? When you wake up tomorrow leave your worry under the bed where it belongs. Worry isn’t a tool: it’s a waste of time. No field was ever planted by fretting over when the mule will get too thin to pull the plow. Imagining the worst only brings unnecessary suffering.

  *

  Alexi: I’m not going to imagine the worst. Or the best. I’m going to take this one day at a time and survive as best I can.

  *

  Sofia: Life isn’t something simply to be survived, you know, Alexi.

  And there are more paths to happiness than I think you realize.

  *

  Alexi: I’m not worried about happiness right now. No offense, but I have b
igger things on my mind. Though I will try not to worry, okay? So don’t worry about me worrying. Everything will be okay. Or it won’t. Either way, I’ll be fine.

  *

  Sofia: Of course you will. You’re stronger than you realize, too.

  Good night, my love. Sleep well.

  *

  Alexi: Good night, Baba. You, too.

  Chapter 5

  Amanda

  *

  In my dream Alexi is naked in the moonlight, stalking me across a sandy beach, trying to convince me to go skinny-dipping for the first time.

  And it’s working, even though it’s dark and I know sharks hunt at night, and I’ve never found the thought of sex in the ocean enticing—wouldn’t the salt water get in places where you don’t want salt water? And what about all the fish poo? Surely that can’t be sanitary. But I’m about to toss my bikini top to the sand and let Alexi chase me into the waves, anyway, when my phone chirps a series of musical bleats from the bedside table.

  My eyes creak open, only to slit against the beam of sunlight cutting through the greasy windows in the main room of the apartment.

  Damn it, I forgot to shut my bedroom door again.

  Or maybe it creaked open in the night. Nothing in this apartment works the way it’s supposed to, from the stove that has two settings—lukewarm or scalding hot—to the shower that sprays a single, punishing stream of water capable of taking off several layers of skin if you don’t remain in constant motion while washing. It’s definitely not the lap of luxury here at the Portland Pines.

  Still sleep-fogged, I fumble for my phone, tapping in my access code wrong twice before I’m able to retrieve my voice message.

  When I do, hearing Alexi’s deep, lightly accented voice is enough to make my body start to hum.

  “Good morning. Hope you slept well and are feeling better. I’m finished at the gym and am going to grab a late breakfast in a few minutes. Give me a call if you’d like to join me, and I’ll swing by your place to pick you up. I’d love to treat you to eggs or pancakes or whatever you like…” There’s a pause, and then he adds in a softer voice, “I’m looking forward to learning what you like.”

  Oh my…

  Looking forward to learning what I like…

  “I would like you naked and in my bed, please, Mr. Petrov,” I say with a sigh, even as I swing up to sit on the edge of my bed and type out a purely friendly response. Slept well and feeling great. Breakfast sounds wonderful. Meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes? Oh, and I love eggs and pancakes, but French toast is my absolute favorite.

  After a moment, he texts back: Mine, too. I know a great place. See you in fifteen.

  It usually takes me longer than fifteen minutes to get prepared to face the outside world, but since I got knocked up, my stomach demands food within thirty minutes of waking. If I don’t deliver, it gets progressively rumbly and nauseous until I end up in the bathroom, bringing up whatever I had for dinner last night. Therefore, I’ve learned to take the world’s fastest showers and cut my makeup application time down to two and a half minutes flat.

  Thirteen minutes later, I’m clean, dressed in a cozy red sweater and one of my few pairs of jeans that aren’t tight across the tummy yet, and have pulled my damp hair into a messy bun. I sweep on mascara and a hint of blush but hesitate before reaching for my lipstick.

  Is it too early for red? And does red send a message I don’t want to send?

  I mean, sure, a part of me wants to send up a “come and get me” flare in Alexi’s direction, but that would be irresponsible, and dangerous to the safety and future happiness of my child. I need to concentrate on establishing a respectful, friendly partnership with the father of my baby. I can’t afford to alienate Alexi by letting him know that I still find him sexier than if Sean Connery and Dan Rather had a love child they had raised together in the Russian wilderness.

  Yes, I know that men old enough to be my grandfathers aren’t typical crush fodder for a woman in her late twenties, but I can’t help myself. I’ve always had a thing for classy, well-mannered, well-educated men.

  Men, not boys, which are harder to find these days than one would think. The majority of penis-having adults of my generation are trapped in prolonged adolescence, hanging on to their college-era lifestyle with a death grip matched only by their determination to sprout scraggly beards, play video games for hours every day, and make the man bun an acceptable hairstyle for the office.

  It’s hard to find a guy who’s making even a token effort to be a full-fledged grown up. Thus far, Alexi seems to do a good job with adulting, but it remains to be seen if he possesses the manners or conversational eloquence of Connery or Rather. Or even Arnold. My ex was a compulsive liar, but he was also God’s gift to the business suit and talked one hell of a good game.

  Or at least good enough to fool me.

  The reminder of my poor taste in men makes me toss the red lipstick back into my makeup bag and smooth on a coat of Chap Stick before grabbing my purse and heading to the elevator.

  Down in the lobby, the usual pizza-and-coupon-flier mess litters the floor by the mailboxes and there’s something brown smeared on the wall that I hope is chocolate.

  Or mud.

  Or anything other than what it smells like.

  “Oh God, so gross.” Pressing my hand to my nose, I hustle out into the crisp fall air, waiting until I’m twenty feet from the exit to suck in another breath. But the smell out here isn’t much better than the stink inside, and it isn’t long before I realize why.

  “Gonna take you by the eyes, send you to the skies, Amanda,” a tenor voice gargles, in a strained impression of an 80s power ballad.

  I turn, smiling as I discreetly begin to breathe through my mouth. “Good morning, Norquist.” As far as eccentric vagrants are concerned, Norquist is harmless and sweet, but I’m not sure the man has had a bath in months. Maybe years.

  “Gonna tell you in the play, all up in the day, Amanda.” Norquist finishes his serenade with a grin as he stands, bracing a bony hand on the handle of his shopping cart, which is filled with the usual assortment of empty cans, bottles, soggy-looking sweatshirts in various degrees of filthiness, and an array of aluminum hats of his own creation. “Finally got the words right!”

  I give him a thumbs-up, though his rendition of the pop-hit Amanda wasn’t even close to being on point. “You’ve got a set of pipes on you, Norquist. I’m impressed.”

  “All bow to Norquist,” he says, nodding seriously. “Most powerful man in Washington. Dangerous purity. Tapeworms in your tummy.”

  I ignore this ramble and continue to smile benignly. I haven’t known Norquist long, but I’ve learned to avoid discussing anything to do with Washington, taxes, the electoral college, bovine growth hormone, daylight savings time, sudden oak death, karaoke, alien invasions, or parasitic organisms. These are subjects that upset him, and I hate to see people upset. Especially sweet people who are getting by on a wing and a prayer and without the psychiatric attention they clearly need.

  “Have you had breakfast?” I flip open the leather flap on my purse and reach for my wallet. “You know it’s the most important meal of the day.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t do Sundays. Lines too long. And the nuns don’t let you wear hats inside the church.” He reaches up, adjusting the handcrafted aluminum foil bowler hat he wears to prevent the aliens observing earth from reading the secrets he’s got locked inside his brain.

  “I remember that you don’t like Sundays.” I slip a five-dollar bill from my wallet and hold it out to him. “Why don’t you hit the food trucks on Third Street. Get yourself some huevos rancheros with extra tortillas from Holy Guacamole. They have great salsa there, too.”

  Norquist takes the bill with a grin, launching into another song featuring my name, this time a country ballad claiming I should have been “a gentleman’s wife,” which makes me smile as he shuffles away, pushing his cart in front of him.

  My phone dings and
I look down, pulling it from my purse. But before I can check the message, a loud crash and a pained cry fill the morning air.

  My cell falls from my startled fingers as I glance over my shoulder to see Norquist on the ground beside his toppled grocery cart, and two street kids in threadbare coats and dirty orange sock caps crouching over his prone body. One reaches into the pocket of the older man’s jacket, pulling out the five dollars I gave him and a few other crumpled bills, while the other smashes Norquist’s aluminum hat down over his face, temporarily blinding him.

  Norquist begins to wail in distress, sounding more like a calf who lost its mother than a grown man, the poor thing, and the kids laugh, taking pleasure in torturing someone frail enough for them to kick around.

  “Hey, stop that!” I hurry toward the scuffle, waving my hands in a shooing motion. “Get out of here. Leave him alone!”

  “Fuck you, lady,” the shorter, thicker boy says, fists clenching at his sides as his pale blue eyes narrow in my direction.

  “Yeah, fuck you,” his friend echoes with a laugh as he kicks Norquist in the ribs, making the old man groan pitifully.

  “Beating up an old man doesn’t make you a badass. It makes you a sad, pathetic, loser person who loses. And is a jerk!” I shout ineloquently, because that’s what fear and adrenaline do to my communication skills.

  I reach into my purse, forgetting that I dropped my phone until I paw through several pockets and find no sign of the familiar rectangle. I hesitate, wavering between darting back to fetch my cell or running toward the boys and hoping they’ll scurry away like the rats they are.

  Unfortunately, it seems baby thugs think more quickly on their feet than I do.

  Before I can take a step in either direction, the skinny kid rushes me, jabbing both palms into my shoulders, shoving me hard. My tailbone connects with the concrete with a flash of pain before my momentum carries me backward, sending me flat onto my back on the pavement.

  On instinct, I roll to one side and curl into a ball to protect the baby while whipping my hands in front of my face to ward off a blow.

  But the punishing kick I’m expecting doesn’t come.

  Instead, the kid who pushed me lets out a terrified yelp, followed by a strangled grunt. My eyes fly open to see his battered sneakers hovering above the pavement like he’s being levitated by a seriously pissed-off Darth Vader. I look farther up to spy two big hands gripping the boy by the front of his coat.