PUCKED

by Helena Hunting

  Those vibrant eyes move to mine. God, he’s awfully pretty. And close. He’s really close. Likes inches away, rock arm brushing mine close. I can even smell his cologne or deodorant—whatever it is, he smells yummy.

  He’s silent for what seems like a long time. Or maybe it’s because I’m staring. Or the question may have stumped him.

  My experiences with Buck—and the one hockey player I dated previously—have led me to the assertion that hockey players aren’t notoriously intelligent. I’m aware this isn’t a universal truth. But Buck certainly reinforces my perceived stereotype: he’s definitely not a rocket scientist. He’s not even a rocket scientist’s assistant. However, I’m almost positive Alex made a literary pun a moment ago. Waters could very well be an unexpected anomaly. I’m intrigued.

  “Yeah, I’m Canadian.”

  “Does everyone in Canada call pussies beavers? Like the Brits call them fannies?” I can’t believe I ask him this. I’m barely buzzed; otherwise, I’d blame it on drunkenness.

  He blinks a few times. “Did you say ‘pussy’?”

  It’s possible his helmet wasn’t up to code and he sustained a head injury during the fight. There’s a sweet bruise on the side of his chiseled jaw. His nose is crooked with a decent bump from what I imagine could be multiple breaks. It’s not ugly, though. It’s sexy, in an I-fuck-people-up way.

  “No, I said ‘pussies,’ plural, as in more than one.” I’m making a complete ass out of myself.

  To avoid saying something worse, I excuse myself so I can pretend to smoke. I grab my bag and sweater and leave the beer. Based on the crap coming out of my mouth, I don’t need to add any fuel to that fire.

  Buck grabs my arm as I pass him. “Hey, what’s with you and Waters?”

  Alex is shrugging into his jacket. Maybe he’s leaving. Too bad; he was fun to talk to and nice to look at.

  I sigh with irritation. “It's common courtesy to strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to you, or did you miss the rules of social etiquette in kindergarten?”

  “Rules of what?”

  “Never mind. What else am I supposed to do? Ignore him? I was being polite.” And Alex is entertaining.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know these guys that well yet and he’s got a rep. Be careful who you get friendly with.”

  “I wasn’t giving him a handy under the table. We were talking. I’m going for a smoke.”

  Leaving him with the Beave, I head for the door. The temperature has dropped in the past half hour, so I pull on my sweater. Finding my smokes, I pop one between my lips and search for my lighter. I can’t find it anywhere.

  “Need a light?” I pull my head out of my purse to find Waters holding a pack of matches.

  “Are you following me?”

  He shrugs and gives me a grin that could obliterate my panties. If I were dumb enough to allow myself to be affected in such a way. I’m not. Mostly.

  “I thought you might like some company.” He flips open the matchbook and tears one free.

  I purse the cigarette between my lips. Alex strikes the match and curves his palm to protect the flame. He watches while I inhale, the embers burning orange as I take a shallow drag and cough.

  “Shit!” Tears spring to my eye as I eye toke the smoke. Swearing like a sailor, I cover my eye with my palm.

  “You’ve got a dirty mouth, eh?”

  “Only when I try and smoke with my eyeball,” I say between coughs.

  Alex tosses the matches on a table and pats my back until I stop hacking up a lung. “Butterson doesn’t seem too happy.”

  Through the window I spot Buck and the Beave. She’s not pulling the selfie business, so he doesn’t seem to mind her hanging off his arm while he glares in our direction. He’s being a colossal douche tonight.

  “Screw Buck.” I take a fake drag of my cigarette.

  Dimples appear in Alex’s cheeks as I exhale a cloud of smoke and choke back another cough.

  “Do you even smoke?”

  I debate lying and decide against it. “Not really. I do it as a way to escape awkward social situations.”

  “So you came out here to get away from me?”

  “Not you in particular.”

  His tongue peeks out to sweep across his bottom lip. He’s got a nice mouth, even with the split in the corner. Remembering the way he took out the Atlanta guy makes me warm all over. Thoughts such as these are bound to get me into trouble. Hockey players are bad news. Especially ones as hot as he is.

  He’s looking at me expectantly. Dammit. He must have asked a question. My mind is wandering like a squirrel on Red Bull.

  “Sorry, what?” I flick the ash on my cigarette.

  “You were reading during the game—what book?” He sounds genuinely curious and a little offended.

  “Tom Jones. I have to finish it for my book club on Tuesday.”

  Wow. Do I ever sound like a winner. He must have been watching me while he was in the time-out box.

  “Fielding at a hockey game? Kind of cerebral with beer and violence, isn’t it?”

  I blink as if I’ve been high beamed with a flashlight. Alex knows who wrote Tom Jones, and he’s used the word cerebral in the appropriate context. I was right; he did get my Shakespeare reference. Alex Waters has singlehandedly obliterated my misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey players—with one sentence. In doing so, he’s become infinitely hotter than he was five seconds ago.

  “You’ve read Fielding?” I take a step closer. My voice is low, as if I’ve switched into phone-sex operator mode.

  “I-I-I—”

  It’s adorable. He’s wearing an expression I’m familiar with: panic merged with fear. I sport the same one when I inadvertently revealed my extreme nerdiness. Most nights I would much rather be at home curled up with a book or playing solitaire than out at a bar. Hence the excessive beer consumption and the fake smoking crutch.

  “I think literacy is sexy,” I whisper.

  “Me, too.” His dimples make an appearance.

  I have one of those rare moments where my brain fritzes and I do something completely out of character. It’s so outside of my personal code of conduct that I’ll probably relive the incident over and over trying to figure out what flipped the switch. For the time being, I’m blaming the beers, jetlag, and his accurate literary references.

  I grab Waters by the shirt and pull his face to mine.

  His mouth is soft and warm. The stubble on his chin scratches my skin, and I like it. I shove my tongue into his mouth. Well, that’s not true. I slide it across his bottom lip, touching the barely healed split, and he parts for me. Soft, warm, and wet meet more soft, warm, and wet. He tastes like chocolate and, more faintly, coffee liqueur.

  His hand runs a hot trail along my side, and he pulls me tight against him. He’s all hard edges and heat, and I can feel . . . holy . . . there’s a massive bulge pressed against my stomach.

  After far too short a time, he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips across my cheek to my ear. “Do you want to get out of here?”

  “Buck will kill you.”

  “I can take him.”

  VIOLET

  I hear my name in the distance and choose to ignore it.

  Instead, I nibble on Alex’s lip, more turned on than I should be regarding his willingness to take on Buck. Alex takes the hint, kissing me again. I expect him to be all aggressive and hard, considering his performance on the ice, but the way his tongue moves with mine can only be described as sensual. This is by far the best kiss ever, which is unfortunate since he’s likely a hockey whore—albeit a well-read one.

  I really shouldn’t entertain leaving with him. My past experience with hockey players tells me this unequivocally. The difference is, this is a fling. He’s not asking me on a date, and I’m not expecting one. The song “Let’s Make Out” is playing through my head. I want it to be my anthem.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Buck yells in my ear.

&n
bsp; I cringe away from the noise, separating my lips from Alex’s. Buck’s a cockblocking asshole. The few people on the patio have stopped talking on account of his unnecessary loudness. I’d forgotten we’re in a public place. I’ll attribute it to the beers I had earlier and my lack of clarity thanks to Alex’s tongue in my mouth.

  “What’s going on here?” Buck asks just as loudly, gesturing wildly with his giant, hairy knuckled hands.

  “I’m sucking his dick,” I say sarcastically. Sometimes I wish my mouth didn’t have a faulty connection to my brain allowing everything to come out unfiltered.

  Alex coughs, his fingers twitching on my hip, and Buck’s face turns an unnatural shade of red. This is such an odd situation; the awkwardness causes me to continue to spew idiocy.

  “Fine, you got me. I wasn’t sucking his dick. We were fucking each other’s mouths with our tongues. This is otherwise referred to as kissing, but mouth fucking sounds way dirtier, so I’m gonna go with that.”

  Buck’s nostrils flare. I’m such a jerk. He’s probably going to lay Alex out for this.

  Buck gives up rationalizing with me and turns to Alex. “Get your goddamned hands off my sister.”

  “Stepsister.” I can’t help poking the yeti.

  “It’s the same damn thing!”

  “Don’t even!” I shake a finger in his face and throw in a head wobble. “You don’t have a say in what I do or where Alex puts his hands.”

  “I’ll tell Skye.” Buck threatens, as if we’re four and I stole his favorite toy.

  “Like she’ll care.”

  Buck raises a brow. “Are you kidding? She’ll tell all her friends.”

  Shit. He’s right. My mom won’t be able to keep her yap shut. She’ll ask me inappropriate questions. I won’t stand for it.

  I grab onto the lapels of Buck’s jacket and try to haul myself up so we’re face-to-face. It’s like climbing one of those rock walls—a big, hairy rock wall—so I give up and yank on his shirt until he bends to meet me.

  “You listen to me, asshole. If you breathe one word of this to my mother, I will openly talk about the time we got drunk and you tried to feel me up, you got me? I’m not shitting you. I’ll do it.” Buck has never tried to feel me up—not on purpose, anyway.

  “You wouldn’t,” Buck whisper-hisses.

  I’ve got him by the short hairs—figuratively speaking, of course. I would never actually touch those. “You wanna try me? Go for it, I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Okay, okay. I won’t say a word . . . just . . . can we talk in private? Please?” With his hands raised he glances between Alex and me, his panic evident.

  Only the two of us have knowledge of this incident. In fact, if I was honest with him, he wouldn’t be worried at all. He was drunk out of his gourd at the time. Allowing him to believe he did grope me, even if by accident, gives me leverage in situations such as these.

  I let go of his lapels. “You’ve managed to suck all the fun right out of this evening. I’m taking off.”

  I’d invite Alex to come with me to piss Buck off even more, and maybe to continue making out, but I’m sharing a room with my parents. Cockblockers are everywhere tonight, thwarting my attempts at poor decision making.

  Alex whispers something in my ear; it sounds like stay. Granted, he may be breathing out of his nose and making a whistling noise that resembles a word.

  “If you want to,” Buck says amicably.

  Annoyed and unable to backpedal, I turn to Alex. “Do you want my number?”

  “Sure.” He digs his phone out of his back pocket, pulls up his contact list, and hands me the device.

  “Don’t give him your number!” Buck’s aggravation hardly improves my mood.

  I ignore him and type my number into Waters’ little black book, more than happy to irritate Buck in whatever way I can. As fun as making out with Alex has been, it’s unlikely he’ll actually call.

  “Thanks for the mouth fuck,” I whisper as I pass his phone back.

  He winks. “Anytime.”

  I shove Buck’s shoulder as I pass—he doesn’t even have the decency to move an inch—and make my way through the bar to the elevator bank. As disappointed as I am that Buck interrupted my fun, it’s better this way. Alex is way too hot and far too good a mouth fucker to be safe.

  My parents are locked in their room, so I don’t have to engage in mindless chitchat. Sometimes Sidney walks around in his underwear. I’m used to dealing with his abundance of chest hair, but the white briefs are too much. I have a solid understanding—pun completely intended—why my mom married him, beyond his stellar personality.

  I tiptoe through the suite and lock myself in my room. My first stop is my suitcase. It’s beaver time. I giggle, finding the term in reference to lady parts comical.

  After dumping out the contents of my bag onto the floor, it becomes evident I’ve forgotten my travel dildo, along with every other important item. I did bring plenty of extra socks and my one, awesome bra.

  The make out session with Alex has left me all horned up, so I’m forced to use my own damn fingers to jill off. I don’t even have the magazine with the milk advertisement in it—which I now know is Alex—to help with a visual.

  Paranoid I’ll be overheard, I take care of business in the bathroom with the fan on. It takes me fifteen minutes to come. The sore wrist and finger cramps eliminates the relaxing element of the whole process. Finished riding the masturbation express, I search the pile on the floor for my pajamas, laughing upon their discovery. I haven’t seen this particular pair since high school. I didn’t even realize I still had them.

  They don’t fit well, but they’ll have to do. The top is stretched tight across my chest, like an Ace bandage. The pants, complete with fly flap, are now capris. The waist sits so low, it barely covers my ass. Whatever. It’s not like anyone’s going to see me in them.

  The usual nighttime routine goes as follows: wash face, brush teeth, take out contact lenses, and search for glasses since I’m not smart enough to make sure I have them with me in the first place. I find them on the floor between pairs of clean socks and my lone pair of clean underwear, which I need to save for tomorrow. The muffled sound of my phone ringing comes from under the pile of discarded clothes. It’s probably Buck, making sure I didn’t get kidnapped on the way back to my room.

  “What do you want, douche-whore? Haven’t you ruined my night enough by interrupting my mouth fucking session with your fuckhot teammate? Now you have to disturb my masturbation session, too?”

  I cover the receiver to stifle my laugh. Masturbation discussions make Buck uncomfortable. Probably because he believes he once asked if watching me jill off would constitute incest. It’s the same incident in which he believes he groped me. I may have twisted his words in my recount of the events.

  There’s a whooshing air sound reminiscent of Darth Vader followed by “Holy hell.”

  This is not Buck.

  “Hello?”

  “Violet?”

  “Who’s this?”

  “It’s Alex, the fuckhot teammate.” I can imagine his cocky smile.

  “Oh. Hi.” Well, this is unexpected and rather humiliating. Although I suppose he’s aware of his hotness, so it shouldn’t be new information for him. Also, the mouth fucking earlier is a clear sign I like the way he looks.

  Silence follows. Three seconds too late, I have six witty retorts. Sadly, the moment for cleverness has passed.

  “Are you really masturbating?” There’s the whooshing sound again.

  “No, I’ve already . . . stroked my beaver.” I giggle. I’m so immature. “Are you masturbating?” The way he’s breathing into the phone makes it sound possible. I enjoy the visual this incites; I bet he gets really into it.

  “What? No,” he says quickly. Almost too quickly.

  “Are you sure? I mean, you didn’t even hesitate at all. In fact, you didn’t even wait until I was done asking the question.” This is totally untrue. “Maybe you’
re lying and you have your hand down your pants.”

  “What? No. I’m not, I swear. Wait a minute—did you do that?” His voice drops a couple of octaves. He sounds intense. I try to picture the matching facial expression.

  “Do what?”

  “What you said about your beaver, is it true?”

  It sounds so ridiculous; I laugh uncontrollably.

  “Fuck me,” Alex mutters.

  I stop laughing. First off because I think it’s an actual request. Secondly, I have this fantastic image of me underneath him.

  “It’s true.” My voice is all breathy and soft, courtesy of the porno running through my head.

  “Seriously?” He sounds excited. Like really, really excited.

  “About stroking my beaver? No. Beavers are dangerous. They shouldn’t be stroked.”

  “Can you stop saying 'beaver'? Look, what are you doing right now?”

  “Drinking beer and watching porn, why?” Tomorrow I’m sure I’ll be appropriately ashamed of the content of this conversation. For now, I’m thoroughly entertained.

  “Because I’m standing outside your suite. Do you want company?”

  I sit up so fast, the room spins. “You are not.”

  “I am. Suite six-oh-nine. Want me to knock?”

  “No! Don’t! Hold on.”

  I sprint across the room and yank the bedroom door open. The common living room is empty. I consider a tuck and roll across the floor for fun, but I’m uncoordinated, so I settle for running. Throwing open the door, I find Alex with his jacket slung over one arm and his phone to his ear.

  I step out into the hall. “You weren’t kidding.”

  “Nice.”

  I follow his gaze. Oh yes, now I remember. I’m wearing Spiderman jammies designed to fit pre-pubescent boys. It’s cold in the hallway and I’m braless, which draws attention to my chest. My nipples are clearly saluting him through the threadbare fabric.

  “I forgot my lace teddies at home.” I almost wish I owned one, except lace is uncomfortable and impractical. “What are you doing here?” I cup my boobs to protect my nipples from further visual molestation.

  His eyes drop for a split second, as if my nipples have their own force field, and then return to my face. “I, uh . . . do you want to hang out?”