Puck Buddies

Puck Buddies

A Novel by Tara Brown

Copyright 2016 Tara Brown

http://TaraBrown22.blogspot.com

Amazon Edition

This ebook is a work of fiction and is
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work of this author. No alteration or copying of content is permitted. This
book is a work of the author’s crazy mind—any similarities are
coincidental. Any similarities are by chance and not intentional.

Cover Art by Wicked Book Covers

Edited by Andrea Burns

Other Books by Tara Brown

The Devil’s Roses

Cursed

Bane

Hyde

Witch

Death

Blackwater

Midnight Coven

Redeemers

Betrayers

The Born Trilogy

Born

Born to Fight

Reborn

The Light Series

The Light of the
World

The Four Horsemen

The End of Days

Imaginations

Imaginations

Duplicities

Blood and Bone

Blood and Bone

Sin and Swoon

Soul and Blade

Crimson Cove
Mysteries

If At First

Second Nature

Third Time’s a Charm

The Blood Trail
Chronicles

Vengeance

Vanquished

The Single Lady Spy
Series

The End of Me

The End of Games

The End of Tomorrow

My Side

The Long Way Home

The Lonely

LOST BOY

First Kiss

Sunder

In The Fading Light

For Love or Money

White Girl Problems

Roommates

Note from the author:

This is the order of publishing, not the
reading order. Read them however you want. You decide.

Roommates

Puck Buddies

Bed Mates – coming soon

Prologue

Matt

February 28, 2015

I stumble down the stairs, leaning on my
friend Brady and laughing.

We stagger along the path from my
boathouse to the main house, both of us cooling off quickly in the frigid wind.

“Good game tonight, Brimstone.” Fairfield
nods at me as he passes us, leading some brunette back to the boathouse at the
bottom of the property. She giggles and trips but he catches her, lifting her
into the air and making noises like he’s a car. He’s such a douche.

I hate that Carson brought him to my
house. We both dislike the asshole. But it’s how society works. Had we slighted
him on the invite there would have been parental issues. As in mine would have had
a shit fit. It doesn’t matter how old I get or removed from it I become,
escaping this world is like getting out of Alcatraz.

But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“Did you see that dipshit?” I point
behind us when I know Fairfield can’t hear me.

“The brunette with the big boobs?” Brady
spins, confusedly.

“No, the dick with the brunette.” I
chuckle. “Of course you only saw the girl.”

“What?” Brady scowls. “What does that
mean?”

“Nothing.”

“What about the dick?”

“He’s dating this girl—not the
brunette—some other girl. Anyway, he breaks up with her randomly so he
can get with other girls. And then when he’s done with them, he gets back with
the girl afterward, so technically he didn’t cheat.”

“Bro.” Brady lifts a swaying finger.
“That’s a legit play, bro. Don’t
hate the player
,
hate the game
. That’s a real way to get off scot-free. No
drama.”

“You’re a moron.”

“Whatever.” He grabs his groin. “Men have
needs.” He laughs, leaving his hand there too long.

“You mean to tell me if you met the
one—the girl who just did it for you—you’d cheat on her if you
could get away with it?” He can’t understand the way I do. He’s never been in
love. Brady doesn’t believe in it.

“Naw, man. But that’s a unicorn you’re
talking about. That girl doesn’t exist. I’m never going to be dumb enough to
fall in love. It’s a pain in the ass. My brother used to be cool. Now he’s
whipped as hell.” He loses the cocky grin. “But for real, if I ever did fall in
love like how he is, and I didn’t kill myself, I wouldn’t cheat. Cheating is
something scum does.”

“Right. I enjoyed the kill
yourself
part though. You’re an idiot.” I steer us toward
the house, fighting the breeze the whole way.

“Girls aren’t part of the schedule.
Finish my degree and get to the pros, that’s it.”

“Good luck with that schedule.” I
chuckle, remembering how I’d had one too. I used to have all kinds of rules.

“My dad never cheated. He was married for
a pretty long time, and he never cheated before he died.” He nods his head at
the house casually, like he hasn’t just dropped the dead-dad bomb. “I think I
need to take a piss. This isn’t the kind of house where you piss on the grass,
is it?”

“No. My mom will kill you.” I point to
the large door at the far side of the courtyard. “Go through there and go to
the first door on the right. I’ll meet you upstairs.”

“Roger that.” He lifts a thumb in the air
and staggers for the wrong door. We’ve been friends for years but he rarely
comes here. There’s a good chance of my mom hitting on him here.

“He’s going to piss in your mom’s
planters.”

Spinning around I come face to face with
the girl I was just talking about. “He probably is.” I don’t even turn back to
check on him. I don’t care and I can’t look away from her. I have a terrible suspicion
she won’t be here if I do and this will be a drunk-induced hallucination.

Only she doesn’t appear the way I would
imagine her in this moment. She’s different from everyone else at the party.
She’s in jeans, a parka, and a wooly hat—something the Canadians would
call a toque. “It’s a cabin fever party.” I point at her jeans. “Bathing suits
and flowery shirts.” I glance down at my own bare legs and flip-flops.

“Yeah, I gathered.”

“How are you?” I ask too quickly,
desperate for her. It’s the weirdest feeling, but I don't bother fighting it. I
gave up on that the moment I lost her.

“Good. I just came to bring a bunch of
stuff you gave me when we were in Kentucky. I didn't think you were here. I
just assumed your gran would want her cookbook back.” She doesn't sound like
she wants to hurt me, but her words and coldness toward me do. “I wouldn’t have
stopped in if I’d known there was a party.”

“It’s in the boathouse. Everyone’s down
there.” I shiver slightly from the cold air on my bare arms and legs but fight
looking cold. “Wanna come in?” She came to this house to be rid of
me and my things,
knowing I never come here. She wanted to
avoid me.

“No.” She says it breathy, in almost a
whisper. Her face is filled with regret, but I don’t know which part she’s
thinking about. Which acts she regrets. I suspect it’s all the moments I
wouldn’t change, even if my life depended on it. They flash in the back of my
mind, each one slicing me.

She bites her lip, maybe fighting saying
something she’ll also regret, maybe just to avoid talking until she mutters,
“It was a good game tonight.”

“I miss you.” I ignore her small talk and
lay my heart out there for her to reject. I’m already exposed to the elements;
I might as well be naked in every way. She’s the only person who has ever seen
me vulnerable. Well, along with Charles and Benson, but they’re like parents so
they don’t count. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“I know.” Her expression changes for a
second, possibly a twitch, but she doesn’t say anything. She waves and turns.
“I have to go.”

“Wait.” I jog over and spin her around.
“Wait.” I say it softer the second time. “Don’t go.” I step in closer, brushing
her hair away from her face. “Stay with me.”

She lifts her gaze that hardens when her
eyes meet mine. “Why?”

“Because I need you.” I drop to my knees,
in the snow. “Forgive me. I’m crazy about you and I fucked up.”

Her lips toy with a smile but her eyes
are flooded with emotions. She blinks, losing some of them down her cheeks.
“Try not to get too drunk, Beast. You have a game in two days.” She pulls out
of my hands and turns away, leaving me there to freeze to death.

It’s not the snow and the cold that will
be the death of me.

It’s my own stupidity.

Chapter One

Beer-soaked boobies

Sami

Oxford Circus,
London

January 1, 2011

5:03 am

Walking past
Banana Republic, I look at the blouse on the mannequin and then down at the
beer-soaked dress I’m wearing, wishing I could say someone else dumped the
pitcher on my chest.

I also wish I
had the balls to just smash the window, take her clothes, and leave mine on
her. A new outfit might offer a new perspective or even a new opportunity for
an otherwise wasted night—wasted life.

Even with the
night long gone and the morning here, cold and damp as usual, I don’t feel any
newness in the New Year.

I suspect it’ll
be the same crap year I just had, only this one I’m graduating. That is one
bonus, a little more freedom from my parents.

I shiver as I
stroll, hating that London and New York share the same wintery weather, and I
can’t say I like either version. Wrapping my arms around myself to stay warm, I
want to regret staying in London the extra week but I can’t. The South of
France might have been a better spot to party with far better weather, but
London taught me something I didn’t know. An important life lesson: boyfriends
are bullshit. Love is bullshit.
People pretending to be in
love is
the biggest bullshit.

I’m glad I’m
free of Drew, that moron. I can’t believe I dated him for three months. It’s my
new record. Actually, the part I can’t believe is that I made it past the first
week. His being a Londoner likely helped. We didn’t see much of each other.

My feet are
killing me, so I pull off my Louboutin boots and slip on the Tieks I have in my
purse. Luckily, I brought my hobo bag instead of a traditional New Year’s
clutch. I stuff the boots into the bag and sigh as the teal ballet flats bring
me back to life. Pins and needles join the sensation of blood rushing back into
my feet.

I look
ridiculous in flats with my short midnight-colored cocktail dress, but the
boots had run out of blocks left in them four streets back. The ballet flats
can go all night, or all day rather.

As I continue
down the dark street I glimpse my haggard reflection in a shadowy window and
jump. I stop to stare at the mess I am and contemplate calling a car. But by
the time the driver gets out of bed, into the car, and here, I could be home in
bed.

I drum my nails
against my lip, staring at my absurd ensemble in the glass, trying to recall
when I saw a cab last.

Normally, Oxford
Circus is flooded with them, but in the wee hours of the morning there’s no one
here.

The street gets
chillier—no, creepier—as I do a full circle and see nothing and no
one around me.

I’m alone, in
London, in the dark. Like in one of those stupid movies Nat made me watch where
the world ends and God forgot to tell the star of the show. She’s alone in the
city with her dog and zombies.

Being alone
creeps me out more than anything, stuck with only the sound of my own voice and
the empty echo of the wind.

I turn and rush
past the shops, searching for the tube station. There’s one around here
somewhere. I map it on my phone, walking faster as I turn the corners, past the
rounded edges of the old gray buildings.

While I’ve been
to London more times than I can count, I’ve only ridden the tube a handful of
times. But it’s five in the morning, I’m still a bit drunk, and not in the mood
to wait, and it’s doubtful I will happen upon a cab.

I hurry to the
entrance to the underground, slightly smiling at the red circle with the blue
stripe but losing the happy expression when I see it’s not open. My shoulders
slump as my plan crashes. It’s exactly the end of the miserable night I should
have seen coming.

I want to lift
my head to the night sky and ask exactly what I did to deserve this, but I
think I know the answer so I just stare at the closed doors.

“Shit. Is it
closed?”

I jump, turning
to find a guy close to my age with an American accent. “Yes,” I say, trying to
slow my breaths from the shock of meeting a stranger in the dark.

“Well, that
sucks.” He looks partied out, wearing a rumpled midnight-blue suit that almost
matches my dress. His silvery white dress shirt is loose around his neck and
the tie is gone, ripped off no doubt, evident in the way his stiff collar is
sitting to one side. The lipstick on his cheek, noticeable in the faint glow of
the streetlights, is smeared and too pink for his tanned skin tone, so I have
to assume a lady friend tore off his tie and wrinkled his suit.

Dry humping will
do that every time.

His eyes trail
my dress and then his suit. “We look like we planned our outfits.”

“Yeah.” I bite
my lip, recognizing him from somewhere and hoping it isn’t some nasty one-night
stand. I hate the awkwardness of “I’ve seen you naked and not at
your
finest, but now we’re at a café with other people so
let’s pretend we’ve never met.”

“Well, this is
bullshit,” he mutters but I’m stuck staring at his clothes. His calfskin
wingtip dress shoes with their burnt reddish hue are exactly the shoes I would
have picked for that suit. But he doesn’t seem like the metro type who would
know haute couture from a sale at Bloomingdale’s.

Did the lipstick
dress him? Did she force the suit and tie?

“Well, shit. For
a city known for its cabs, I haven’t seen a black cab in an hour.”

“Are you for
real?” I tilt my head.

“What?” He gives
me a lazy grin, the kind that normally ends with my skirt up around my waist.

“You can’t say
black cab. That’s racist.” I scoff at him. “And most of the cabbies here are
white.”

“Seriously?” He
laughs. “This your first time here?”

“No.”

“Whatever.” He
jerks his head to the right. “I’m headed this way. You
wanna
walk and see if we can’t find a cab? It might not be safe for you to walk
alone.”

“No. I’ll call a
car.” I lift my phone and groan, “Never mind. My phone’s dying at this very
moment, because why not?” The swirling image hits the screen just before it
goes dark. “Shit.”

“Mine died hours
ago. Not that I would recall the number to my car. I don’t even know my own
phone number.” He yawns. “Look, it’s like fifty degrees out. I’m freezing.
Let’s just walk. You shouldn’t be out at this time of night anyway. Where are
you going?”

“Hyde Park.”

“Me too.” He
sounds tired. “Come on.” He takes his jacket off and puts it around my
shoulders, offering me his arm.

“Thanks.” He’s a
gentleman. I should be leery of the stranger-danger thing, but he’s American,
and I can’t help but trust one polite American over the possibility of meeting
a group of random guys in an alley while I have no cell phone.

“No prob.” He
takes in a deep inhale and smiles. “I love London at night. There’s no traffic.”

“I’ve never seen
London this early.”

“Or late.” He’s
chipper for the hour.

“No.”

We walk past the
old buildings while he natters on about random things, and I focus on not
noticing how sexy he is. The lipstick is like garlic to a vampire for me so
it’s easy to avoid flirting, although I can’t help but appreciate the work of
art he is.

The dim streetlights
are just bright enough to note his perfect suit body. Not only is he big and
tall,
but
the pants are clearly tailored to show it
off. The way his ass sort of lifts the pants draws my gaze. He doesn’t have a
big ass but he’s got a fit one—perky maybe.

In the dress
shirt, his shoulders and arms are massive, stretching the material just
slightly. It’s a good look, apart from the lipstick on his cheek and shirt
showing he’s already had a ride tonight. He’s actually got other girl on him,
at this moment, which for me is up there with cologne I don’t like.

But who am I to
criticize?

At least he
hasn’t got half a brewery on him.

“So where are
you from?” He lifts a hand, halting me. “Wait—let me guess—I think
I’m good at this. I noticed a bit of a New York accent there, only the refined
side of the city. You’re an Upper East Side,
Hamptons
brat, aren’t you? A debutante or something like that.” His eyes dazzle and I
love the fact he has no idea who I am.

“Something
like
that.”

“I’m kind of
from Kentucky, but I’ve been living in the North longer than I ever lived in
the South.”

“Cool.”

He’s stupid hot.
How is it when I’ve had the worst night ever, the beer-soaked clothes prove it,
I run into the hottest guy in London?

God hates me,
that’s
why.

The way this guy
talks and walks reeks of polite confidence, my kryptonite. Not just cute boys
though. I like cute boys who know they’re cute, and despite being covered in
kiss marks, they have enough manners and poise to say and do whatever they want
while not being a dick. Not because they can’t be a dick but because they
choose not to be.
Like a billionaire who chooses to fight
crime at night.
It’s a fine line to be cool, confident, and forward
without being a bossy jerk.

“I’m—” He
offers a hand.

“Let’s not,” I
cut him off, not wanting him to know my name. All this relaxed walking and me
staring will end. He’ll know me straightaway. And then it’ll be him staring and
me feeling awkward. Not to mention, he’ll see the outfit and sell the story,
and I’ll be in for another stint of rag magazine rehab, the only kind that
counts in my world. No one cares that I’ve never set foot in a rehab clinic.
They care that the magazines and gossip say I have.

“Not what?”

“Not introduce.
Let’s just let this
be
a random London meet up. Two
lost Americans needing someone to walk with while they wait for a damned cab.”
I roll my eyes. “Black cab, no less.”

“It’s a thing.”
He chuckles. “The black cabs are a traditional British cab called a hackney
carriage. They’re custom-made even, just for the cab companies. I got the spiel
from my driver. I swear
,
it’s a thing.”

“If you say so.”
I lift my deadened phone into the air. “I’m googling it when I get home.”

“Do it.” He
gives me that cheeky grin again. “So what brings you to London on New Year’s?”

“My dad insisted
we spend Christmas as a family, and he had to be in London so we all came here.
Of course.
And then I met up with an old friend and my
boyfriend and we ended up going to a party.”

“You don’t sound
happy about it.”

“I’m not.”

“Is that why you
looked lost?”

“What?” I give
him a sideways glance.

“When I saw you
back there, at the tube station, you looked lost but maybe more than that.”
Something about the way he says it makes the moment real, not small and
friendly, so I am real back.

“Yeah. I just
don't understand how I fall for the stupid stuff guys do every time. They do
little things in the beginning that make me think they’re something they’re not
and they trick me, but I fall for it every time.”

“Like what?”

“Like guys who
kiss the top of girls’ heads, hovering there for a moment like they’re
breathing us in. We’re suckers for that shit. And the worst part is, I see them
for who they are when they date my friends. But I end up with blinders on when
it comes to me. Like I forget the guys who say the right things at the right
moments are the ones who have practiced it a lot. The Mr. Collinses of the
world. I need to date a guy who says all the wrong things because he’s clearly
never tricked a girl into being in love with him.”

His confused
face tells me he doesn't get my Jane Austen reference, but he stays with the
general topic of conversation. “Is that how
your
New
Year’s fell apart? A guy who says all the right things?”

“Yeah. It’s like
a magic trick and I fell for it again. Anyway, what brought you here?” I don’t
want to talk about my New Year’s Eve, at all.

“Hockey.”

“Weird. Is
hockey a big thing in England? Do they even have ice here? I thought it was all
soccer and rugby.”

“Hockey’s bigger
than you think.” He grins. “I mean, it’s not huge–it’s not like it is in
Canada or something, but they have a couple of teams that are all right.”

“And you play?”
The question is laden with disbelief. He said driver a minute ago and now he
plays hockey? The driver, the beautiful suit, and the shoe ensemble would all
suggest otherwise. But his body does scream athlete, especially the way his
arms stretch his sleeves even when he’s relaxed.

“Yeah.” I like
the way he smiles when he says it.

“Are you any
good?”