by Clara Stone
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by JS Publications, LLC. All rights reserved including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Jaguar, Twister, Kleenex, Twix, Reese’s, Butterfinger, Ziploc, Armani, Skechers, Porsche,
Edited by Kisa Whipkey
Cover Design by Lindee Robinson Photography
Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition March 2015
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
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Special Note from Clara
About Clara
Preview of PUCKED
“HUD-SOOONNNN . . .” BLAKE cries, her grip tightening around my hand. I try not to flinch.
“Just ten more minutes . . .” I throw a concerned glance at Blake. Her face is scrunched tight in pain, and she breathes through gritted teeth. “Just ten more minutes, and we’ll be at the hospital, firecracker. Hang on.” I push Jags XF to go faster, feeling the engine growl as the speedometer ratchets higher. The divider line blurs in the headlights, the trees on either side whipping past in a shadowy blob, and for once, I don’t feel guilty about pushing her to her limits. I love my Jaguar, but right now, Blake and baby Sparkler are more important.
“Blake? Baby . . .” I say when she doesn’t respond, taking my eyes off the road for a brief second. It’s three a.m., with barely a soul in sight. I can spare a couple glances, even at this speed.
“They’re . . . getting . . . stronger,” she says between heavy breaths, squeezing my hand again. “God, why did I let you do this to me—aaahhhh!” She doubles over, curling around herself as she crushes my hand. I try hard to hold back my own cry of pain, pulling in a sharp hiss as I wait for the contraction to pass, keeping my focus on the road.
When she straightens, sinking back against the seat, I grin. “Why, Mrs. Lovelly—”
“Don’t fuck with me right now, Son.” Her grip loosens, and she lets out a long breath. “So help me, God, I’m—ohhhh,” she yells, hunching forward again, her eyes squeezed shut. Her free hand clutches her swollen belly as another wave of contractions hits.
Contractions this close to one another—but less than four in an hour—are not a bad sign. If they were five minutes apart, however . . .
God help me if Sparkler decides to make their debut before we make it to the hospital.
I look to Blake again, carefully keeping any worry from my face. I need to be strong for her, because that’s all I can do. These past forty-one weeks, I’ve watched from the sidelines. Sure, I supplied her with crackers and ginger ale, and held her hair back whenever I was home during that brutal first trimester. There were also massages and non-stop sex—which, can I just say, is one hell of a perk I’ll miss—but really, as a man, there wasn’t much else I could do. I couldn’t help her when her blood sugar dropped faster than you can say “avalanche,” and she developed gestational diabetes. Nor could I help ease the pain when Sparkler started to kick the living hell out of the love of my life.
But now, here we are, on our way to the hospital because Blake woke up thirty minutes ago to broken water and killer pain. This, I can handle. Mostly.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, bringing her white knuckles to my lips.
“No.” She lets out a deep breath. “Just . . .” Another heavy breath. “Just this . . .” she says, sighing as her hold on my hand loosens again.
I look to her briefly. She’s lying back against the headrest with her eyes closed. I turn my attention back to the road and give her hand another quick kiss. Everything inside me is screaming to help her, to do something, anything.
But what the hell can I do? Wish to automagically grow a vagina? I’m kind of attached to my testosterone, thank you very much.
“I called Lorelai,” I say, running my thumb over her knuckles. “She’s on her way back from Warm Springs Lake. She asked me to tell you how sorry she is for not being here.”
Blake laughs. “She needed time for herself. I’m glad she went away with the girls. We didn’t know when Sparkler was going to make an appearance, and Mom had this trip planned before she knew we were pregnant. She has nothing to be sorry for.”
“That’s what I told her.” I smile at Blake as I check my blind spot, turning on the blinker and taking the exit ramp toward the hospital. “Besides, I’m sure I can handle anything Sparkler throws my way. Right?” I wink at her.
“I’m sorry, golden boy.” Blake’s voice quivers.
“Don’t—”
“I didn’t mean to call you all those names before we left. I panicked—”
Her voice cuts off on a sharp intake of air, and I glance over. She’s gritting her teeth, obviously trying not to cry out as another contraction strikes.
“Seriously?” I ask, placing another kiss on the inside of her wrist. “You do what you have to. If calling me douche-nut or ass-taint gets you through this, then I’ll be your douche-nut ass-taint until the day I lose my hearing.” I smirk, and she gives me a weak smile in return. “Call me your worst, firecracker. That sailor’s mouth of yours is an unbelievable turn-on.” I grin widely, hoping to bring some light to the moment.
“That’s what you say now—”
I shake my head. “Trust me on this. You, Blake, you come first.”
She chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, throwing a quick glance at her. Her smile is soft, her face relaxed in the glow from the streetlights. If making fun of me will help her smile, then I’ll gladly sign up to be the ringleader of a clown act.
“You, Mr. Lovelly.”
“You bet your sexy ass I am.” I wink, turning Jags XF into the hospital parking garage and heading for my designated spot.
She rolls her eyes, laughing outright. The artificial glow of the garage lights makes her skin look wan. Fear spikes inside my stomach.
“That’s my second favorite sound in the entire world, you know,” I say, trying to distract both her and myself.
“Oh? What’s your first?” she asks, raising her eyebrow.
“Hmm.” I run my tongue over my teeth, wondering if this is a conversation appropriate for our current situati
on. I pull the car into my spot, put it in park, and turn to face her with a cocky grin. “I probably shouldn’t say it, seeing how you’re about to have a baby, but I’ll be more than happy to make you sound it out in, oh . . . about seven weeks.”
She blushes, her cheeks turning pink. “You’re bad, Mr. Lovelly.”
I growl in agreement, my hand on the door handle behind me. “My best asset, wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Lovelly?” I push the car door open without looking.
She bites the inside of her cheek, like she’s hiding her smile. “Is that what you think?”
“Oh, I know. Remember that first day you met me?”
She throws her head back and laughs, her hand running circles over her swollen belly. I get out, closing my door quickly and rushing to open hers. I offer her my hand and help her out, placing my other one under her elbow for extra support as she struggles to her feet.
“How could I forget the shock on your face when I walked away from you?” she finally replies, looking up and smiling.
“WHO WROTE THIS, Sara?” I demand, anger burning inside me.
We’re standing in the middle of a courtyard, surrounded by rich, vibrant shrubs, flowers, and trees. The spring breeze is cool against my skin, contradicting the warmth from the sun. I ignore the chatter of the other students around us and focus on the note I’m trying not to crumple in my hand.
My teammates gather around as the letter is transferred from hand to hand—their heads shaking amid a chorus of angry, disapproving murmurs.
Get out while you still can, junkies.
“Junkies?” I grunt. “How dare those . . . those smart-as-bait, rich snobs! Just because we don’t have trust funds, and our moms don’t invite the entire town to tea parties to talk about how big their bank accounts are, doesn’t make us junkies.”
“Assholes,” Wesley sneers.
Wesley is the captain of our debate team. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that loves debate as much as he does. He loves it so much, even his own teammates want to punch him in the face at times. Regardless, he’s a good captain. Without his persistence, his leadership, Sunset High wouldn’t have made it as far as we have this year.
The note makes a full circle back to me, and I flick my gaze over it one last time, re-reading. I then look up and raise an eyebrow at Sara. “Well, did you see who wrote this or not?” I wave the paper in the air.
“The cutie in the middle, with the pen in his hand.” Sara points. I turn around, following her finger, and see a group of guys sitting around a water fountain. The “cutie” she’s pointing at is blocked from view by the lone girl in the group. They’re all dressed in blue and white uniforms, CPH stitched onto the top, left-hand side of their chests. Cranbrook Preparatory High.
Rich turds.
I take a threatening step toward them, but Wesley wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls me back. “Don’t, Blake.”
I wrench away from his grip. “I’m not afraid of them.”
“This is their school. Their territory. Home turf,” he says, giving me a pointed look. “And they aren’t worth getting kicked out of the competition for.”
I let out a heavy sigh. He’s right. For the first time in the history of our school, we’d been invited to something prestigious, with a chance to win a ten thousand dollar check and bragging rights to being the smartest of the smart in our division. If I screwed this up, I wouldn’t hear the end of it.
“I won’t do anything stupid. Okay?” I mutter, a new kind of plan forming in my head.
He gives me a thought-filled look, like he’s assessing my weight in gold. “Fine,” he finally says. “But—”
“I said I won’t do anything stupid,” I cut him off. With a nod, I turn on my heels and head toward the group of loitering rich kids.
I’m not a model student by any stretch. I’ve had my share of pink slips and suspensions. But I’d never do anything to jeopardize the reputation of our debate club—it’s the one thing that helped me turn my life for the better. Because of them, I realized I could stand on my own two feet, that I could win with just my own merits. I didn’t need anyone one else looking out for me. I was—am—enough.
Coming to a stop before the judgmental group of asshats, I cross my arms and wait for them to notice me, finally clearing my throat loudly to gain their attention.
“What can I do you for?” a boy with shaggy red hair asks, stepping forward.
I raise an eyebrow. “Well, for starters, I think a haircut at least once a year would do you wonders. Seriously, you look like a mophead.”
Laughter breaks out behind him. His eyes widen, and his skin flames red with anger. I’m sure he can’t believe I’d have the audacity to say something like that to him. He throws a glance over his shoulder, and I follow his gaze. The girl in the group, a brunette—like me—scowls in disapproval. The “cutie” Sara pointed out is partially hidden behind her. All I get is a glimpse of his golden hair and hazel eyes, but I can tell he’s smiling.
“Don’t look so surprised, sunshine,” I continue, bringing my attention back to Carrot Top. “Compared to Golden Boy over there,” I point to the mysterious cutie, who’s now twirling the pen, “You’re part of the ‘junkies.’ ”
Somebody hollers in the back, and others say different variations of “Oooh . . . diss.”
“Listen, you—” Carrot Top starts, but gets cut off when the brunette steps forward, shushing him with a dismissive wave.
“I’m sure he deserved that,” she says, throwing a withering look over her shoulder at the spluttering redhead. “Tony has a way with girls,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Hope.”
Baffled by her introduction, I take her hand. “Blake.”
“Nice to meet you, Blake,” Hope says, turning away from me and facing the group of shocked men behind her. “Blake, boys. Boys, Blake.”
I eye them as each recites back, “Blake,” or “‘Sup,” or various other greetings. I nod and study each of them until my glance lands on Golden Boy. I narrow my eyes, glaring at him in the scariest way I can muster. At least, I hope so anyway.
He stares back, the earlier smile completely vanished. He jumps to his feet and saunters forward. I gulp, feeling uncertainty stir in the pit of my stomach. My palms sweat from nerves. I don’t know if it’s because of his godly good looks, the fact he’s towering well over six feet—compared to my five foot seven—or because I can’t read his all-too-calm features, but suddenly, I feel like coming over here wasn’t my best idea.
I watch him as he approaches, slow and confident, like a lion unconcerned by the presence of a cheetah. His pressed, white dress shirt stretches across his chest, and the loose tie around his neck hangs over his unbuttoned collar. His expression is stoic, but there’s something in his hazel eyes that makes me feel awkward and on display. He doesn’t exactly scream “bad boy,” but I know there’s something in him that sizzles just under the surface, a wildness.
He runs his fingers through his perfectly-combed golden locks and extends his hand for a handshake, the tendons on his forearm popping below his rolled-up sleeve. I stare at his arm and blink.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says. His voice is incredibly warm, amused.
When I look up at him, his lips stretch wide in a wicked grin that shines right to his eyes. I feel light on my feet, like I’m on cloud nine or something.
“Hudson, Blake. Blake, Hudson,” Hope introduces us, reminding me that we aren’t alone.
“Blake,” Hudson says, like he’s tasting my name on his tongue. “That’s an odd name for a girl. Don’t you think, Hope?”
That brings me back to earth and lands me on my butt—figuratively speaking, of course.
“Hudson!” Hope squeals, backhanding him across the chest.
I glare sharply at him, thinning my lips. “Remember this moment, golden boy. Because Karma is mighty pissed, and she pays back with interest.”
I don’t give either of them a chance to respond before I pivot an
d head back toward my teammates.
Wesley meets me halfway and leans down, asking, “What did you say to them? He looks like he got hit by lightning.”
I throw a glance over my shoulder and smile at the stunned expression on Hudson’s face. Good. When I turn back to Wesley, the rest of the team has caught up to us. “It’s time to bring out the big guns. You guys up for it?”
Murmurs fill the air, almost all in agreement, until Wesley speaks.
“We can’t risk getting caught, Blake.”
I grin. “Oh, trust me, there’s no way we’re getting caught.”
Excitement fizzles around us as the team starts to throw out ideas. Golden Boy and the other stuck-up douche-nuts won’t know what hit them.
ONE THING CAN be said about Cranbrook and the luxuries that come with it—meals here are like dining in a four-star restaurant. For the past three days, we’ve been excused from afternoon classes at Sunset and sent over here to prepare for the competition. The hosting school allows all visiting teams access to their cafeteria in the name of hospitality, and I’m not about to decline. The food is phenomenal, but so is the view—a sweeping expanse of gorgeous sky, sunlight seeping through the glass enclosure surrounding the lush garden courtyard.
I look up and over the book I’m pretending to read, eyeing Hudson and trying to look as uninterested as I can. All around me, students go about their lives, gossiping during this prime hour of freedom—lunchtime.
“Ohmigosh, Kari, did you hear about Steve and Jen?” some girl gushes as she walks past my table.
“I know, right?” someone else responds. “Do you think he really changed?”
“That asshole?” the first girl scoffs. “Not in a million years. And Jen is dumb if she thinks she’s changed him by giving up her virginity.”
“Totally,” the second girl scoffs, but there’s some sort of scorn highlighting her voice.
After that, they move out of eavesdropping range, and I try hard to ignore the conversations bubbling from all sides. I’m running high on mixed emotions, feeling nervous about being caught and anxious to see the looks on our competitors’ faces.