Puck Buddies (18 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Whores you can’t borrow

Sami

 
“No, we didn’t do anything, I swear. It
was nice. We honestly hung out. It was weird to just sit around with a guy and
talk like friends.” I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling as I chat with
Nat for the third time today. “I mean, I wanted to do things, but his face”—I
wrinkle my nose—“it was a mess. We tried kissing and he cried it hurt so
much.”

“Jesus, like what level of mess?”

“Broken bones and cuts and scabs. Like
the kind of mess I didn’t really want near me. When we woke up this morning he
was less puffy, a lot less. But it was still a bit nasty. Yesterday though,
when he showed up and his eyes were slits, I hardly recognized him.”

“God just did you a solid. You hung out
with a guy and didn’t molest him and then send him away, used and abused.”

“Right. We joked about that actually,
that maybe it was just a good way to see if we even like each other before it
became a one-night stand.” I say this because Nat doesn’t need to know the
backstory.

“And do we?”

“We do.” My cheeks heat up. “He’s not
what I thought at all. He’s kind of like a poor person but not.”

“Oh my God.” Nat laughs. “You are such
a snob.
A poor person?
Seriously? His family is one of
the richest. His mom is related to the Rothschilds or something.”

“No, but his dad is nouveau riche. I’m
not even joking. And his mom’s
family are
like the
Vanderbilts, land rich and cash poor. So of course his dad being an
independently wealthy billionaire was a perfect choice for her. He brought the
money and she brought the name. It’s the only way these old money families are
surviving. My dad is a billionaire so he’ll be looking to fit me with someone
from a good family.”

“Your world is disturbing.”

“It will be your world one day too.”

“Speaking of that, William just called
before you. We talked. He’s going to try to be more flexible. I told him that
the time constraints we both have
can’t
get in the way
of seeing each other.” She doesn’t sound excited the way she normally does. She
sounds beaten down, like her mother’s will is finally too much.

My stomach sinks. “No way.” I don’t
have the energy to pretend I believe him.

“Yeah. I told him to pick me up and we
could go for a walk in the cold and try to get to a happy place with our insane
timetables.”

As if that is the only problem in their
relationship . . .

“Sometimes I think it’s sucky that
we’re so far away from each other. It would be easier if we were closer.”

I almost throw up but manage to keep my
level of disgust to myself, which means I’m silent.

“I should go anyway, he’s going to be
here soon. Maybe we could all double
date
sometime. He
and William know each other.”

“Oh, we’re not dating. It’s a thing.
It’s nothing serious,” I lie.

“You spent Christmas together.”

“Christmas isn’t real for people like
us. It’s just another day. Every day is Christmas when you’re rich.” I feel
like the biggest knob in the world saying it, but I can’t bear the thought of
double dating with William-shit for brains-Fairfield.

“You’re such a snob.”

“I know. Love you.”

“Love you too.” She ends the call.

I shudder and roll over, switching out
the light so I can get some shut-eye before we go out.

When I wake up Nadia is nudging me.

“Why are you nudging me?” I swat at
her. “Stop!”

“You have fifteen minutes before he
gets here.
I texted you half an hour ago.
You texted
back some nonsense. I assumed you were awake.”

“What?” I don’t understand what she’s
saying.

“He’ll be here in fifteen minutes!” She
pulls back the covers and switches on the light.

“Who? OH MY GOD! PICK OUT CLOTHES!” I scream
as I hop up, swaying slightly as a dizzy spell hits. But I don’t let it stop
me. I rush to the bathroom and leap into the shower. It’s the fastest cleaning
I’ve ever had.

I jump out and throw on my robe,
blow-drying my hair as Nadia does my makeup. When she gets a natural look
slathered on, she spritzes my face with makeup sealer and moves onto the hair.
She does a twist so she can hide the fact the thick mess is still damp.

I look hot, as in
kinda
sweaty and red-faced, but it’s better than groggy and half asleep.

She helps me drag on my clothes,
careful of my makeup and hair. The outfit is perfect: a short black tutu-style
skirt matched with thigh-high lace socks and ankle boots with buckles and a
flashy steel toe. On top we have a push-up bra and a thin cable-knit cropped
sweater with long sleeves. She loops on a red scarf and hands me a thick wool
jacket.

I finish with the last touches as she
hurries downstairs to make sure he hasn’t fallen asleep waiting. We’re closer
to twenty-five minutes than fifteen, but it’s still the fastest I’ve ever
gotten dressed.

I spritz with my subtlest perfume and
leave the room, phone in pocket next to a credit card. I’m going purse-less. I
don’t want to have too much shit in my hands in case he tries to hold them.

When I get downstairs he looks
much—MUCH—better. His swelling has come down remarkably and his
green eyes are taking on a normal shape again. When he smiles he doesn’t look
like a hit man. He just looks like Matt and I’m glad I chose the outfit I did.
I want him to touch me.

“Hey!” He gives me that sly grin.
“Ready?”

“Just barely. I fell asleep and didn’t
wake up until half an hour ago.”

“Me too. But getting ready is only a
few seconds for me.” He turns and looks at the door. “I think there’s some
paparazzi out front. I passed a couple guys I think I remember.”

“Back door it is. I prefer it anyway.”
I say it without thinking until his eyebrows lift as a comical look lands on
his face.

“If you insist.”

“Shut it.” I turn and head for the
other side of the house.

We sneak
out,
hurrying to the car he has waiting. His driver gets the door, but I pause and
give Matt a look. “Really?”

“What?” he asks but the driver appears
as though he might know what’s up. His weathered cheeks flush as his eyes
lower.

“Nothing.” I cringe as I climb in.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again as he
gets in and the door closes behind him. His eyes meet mine and then widen. “Oh
shit.” He glances around the limo. “Oh shit!”

I cross my arms and stare out the
window.

“What are you thinking?”

I contemplate lying when our eyes meet
but the truth slips out, “How disgusting the backseat of this limo must be and
that I was one of a hundred chicks and nothing more.” I know it’s something
we’ve already worked out, but I can’t get over the fact he brought this fucking
limo.

“I never thought of you as that. You
were different—you are.”

“Whatever.” The horrid taste in my
mouth won’t go away so we sit in awkward silence as the driver takes us through
Manhattan and across the Brooklyn Bridge.

Sitting in silence and feeling
disgusting doesn’t sit well with me. I’m not a silent struggler. I’m a runner
or a person who puts on a loud show so the other person knows I won’t be forced
into submission.

In my struggle to stay quiet about just
how fucked up what he did was, I start to sweat. Maybe it’s
me,
maybe it’s the warmth in the car. Whatever it is, I pull my scarf off and lay
it on the seat next to me, fidgeting with my fingernails to the point that I
might rip my gel polish off.

His eyes dart from my hands to my face,
nervously. “It was the wrong choice. I should have brought the Bentley,” he
mutters.

I glare, about to say the car isn’t the
problem.

“Okay, you’re right. It’s not just the
car. It’s me. I made the wrong choice.” He reads my mind or my death stare
perfectly. “I just wanted you so bad for so long and when I finally got you in
my arms and you were single and I was single, I went for it. I needed you right
then and there. The car coming was the only thing that saved you from getting
fucked in that dirty alley.”

My nose wrinkles.

“I don’t know how else to explain
this.” He jumps up and leans over me, lowering the partition between
us and the driver
. “Charles, who have I talked about nonstop
since forever?”

“Please, keep me out of this.” Charles
shakes his head.

“No, just tell her. She’s been
everything for too long. Embarrassingly long.”

“This entire experience is
embarrassing, sir.” He scoffs and closes the partition.

Matt sighs and sits back. “You’re the
first girl I’ve ever brought into this car that I imagined having sex with
anywhere else but the car.”

I don’t say anything. Mostly because
Linda told me it drives guys nuts when you don’t talk, but also because I don’t
know what to say.

“I kissed you so romantically in that
black cab and then I ruined it in this car. But it isn’t about the
car—it’s just about you. I want you. Even right now, I want to do it in
the car again, mostly because I just want to have sex again, but only with you.”
He pauses, out of breath and looking a little crazy. “Say something.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He gasps.

“Okay.”

“You wanna fuck too or okay that story
makes a little bit of sense?”

Mulling over everything I want to say,
I pause and take a deep breath. I need to breathe out my emotion first. Another
Linda gem. “I don’t want to fuck. Not in this car.
Ever again.
I don’t even want to ride in this car again. I want you to sell or demolish
this particular car.” I take another breath because I’m getting feisty. “Your
story doesn’t make sense. It’s gross. The fact you had your poor driver take
you on more than one trip so you could bang chicks in the back with him in the
car is nasty. And I don’t want to hear anything about being young—I
poured ale on my boobs—I get young mistakes. Car sex is disgusting when
you drive somewhere to do it alone, adding the driver is nasty. It’s something
you do with a hooker. It implies you don’t have to take a girl on a date,
respect them, take them home to your house and hang with them, suffer through
going to their house, eat a meal with them, or even let them clean up. You can
actually drop them off, like a whore, and go on your merry way. If that’s how
you like to have sex, you have a ballpark worth of issues you need to address.
And I’m not slut shaming you; I agree with one-night stands, but there’s a
classy way to do it and then there’s this way.”

He cringes. “It sounds bad when you say
it like that.”

“It is bad. It’s a mean thing to do and
makes me think you have no respect for women. Which is known in hockey. What
are they called, those girls?
The player girls?
It’s a
thing. What is it?”

“Puck bunnies.”

“No, that’s the tame version. Carson
called them something meaner.” I lift my finger when it hits me. “Puck fucks.”

“PFs. Please just say PFs.”

“That right there is the exact opposite
of women’s rights.
Like different teams completely.
The women who let themselves be puck fucked might as well stop voting.” I
glance around. “Especially in the car. Do you drop them off on corners so they
can continue working for the night?”

His eyes narrow.
“I get it. Your okay was
the nice way of saying I didn’t actually want you to answer.”

“You wanted to see behind the curtain.
You wanted to get to know me and see what kind of person I am, like you’re so
much better than me? As if you’re some fucking high standard of human that I
have to prove myself to because I’m a dumb, rich, blonde ditz.” I lean into
him, seething anger. “Well, let me tell you something, I am ten times the
person you are. I wouldn’t do something like this.” I lower the partition and
look at Charles. “Am I right or am I right?”

“For the love of all things holy, leave
me out of it.”

“Translation, I’m right.” I pat Charles
on the shoulder. “Just swing back to my place, I sort of lost my appetite.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He closes the partition
and I go back to staring out the window.

“I’m an idiot. I literally don’t think.
Ever. Will an ‘I’m sorry’ even come close to covering this?” He sits back,
looking a little defeated. It disappoints me to see him give up so easily. I
liked it better when we were screaming at each other, but I’m guessing he truly
has no defense for this.

“I don’t want an apology. I want you to
see that you’re not so fucking perfect. You’re just as high and mighty as I am.
You treat girls like garbage and refuse to date. Oh, like dating you
is
so special. There’s nothing special about you, you’re
just as rich and snobby as I am. You spend all your time looking down your nose
at me, like I suck for being my father’s daughter, but
you’re
still judging me. You think I missed it all these years? I know
the look on your face every time you see me out and about.”