Puck Buddies (2 page)

He looks as
though he might answer but then he laughs. “I thought we weren’t getting to
know each other. Just a random passing.”

That makes me
grin back. “You’re right.”

“Can I at least
ask why you’re soaked in beer?” He raises one of his eyebrows.

“How do you know
it’s
beer?” His question makes me uneasy. He might
have been there and followed me.

“You reek of it.
I could smell it across the road when I crossed for the tube. I thought it was
either a homeless person or a brewery.”

“Oh.” I laugh.
“It was for five hundred dollars.” I press my lips together, totally ashamed.

“I have to hear
this story.”

“I was partying
and my boyfriend turned out to be a complete ass face so I left and ended up at
a pub, the Prince of Wales, over near Kensington Palace. Anyway, there was an
impromptu wet tee shirt contest.” I cut the story there. “I won.” I almost
smile but the memory of pulling down my strapless dress and pouring beer on my
bare boobs to win isn’t something I want to share. I still can’t believe I did
it. I don’t even know why I did.

No, that’s not
true.

I do know why
and the look on his face still makes it worthwhile.

“That’s
hilarious. Your handbag costs over five grand, but you soaked your boobs in
beer for five hundred bucks. Didn’t see that coming. Not in a blue dress
anyway. Shouldn’t it be white?”

“I guess.” I
laugh with him. “I didn’t see it happening either. It was a spur of the drunken
moment. It was a stupid end to a bullshit night at the end of a week of bullshit
nights, at the end of a bullshit year.”

“Well, I hope
this is part of the perfect start of a new year.” He says it in a way that
suggests he might be hitting on me.

“Do you know
where we are?” I don’t want him to hit on me. I mean I do, but not right this
moment. I am covered in beer and sweat and God knows what else.

He lifts his
gaze from me to the buildings around us. “No.”

“Great.” I
shiver as a black car comes around the corner.

“A black cab!”
he shouts like an excited little kid and rushes forward, lifting his hand and
whistling loud.

The cab stops in
the middle of the road as he hurries to it. He gets the door and grins at the
cabbie. “You need to tell her this is called a black cab and I’m not a racist.”

I climb in to
find a well-dressed English gentleman and a spacious backseat.

“I cannot say
whether you’re a racist, but you’re quite right about the name of the car, sir.
Black cab. Now where to?” The cabbie has a thick accent, the kind that Jon Snow
has in
Game of Thrones.

“One Hyde Park.”
I fight the urge to ask him to say, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

“I’m not going
to say I told you so. Because the man said it for me.”

“Whatever.” I
get comfortable in the chair, excited to be sitting in warmth.

We drive past
the Marble Arch and turn toward my apartment and I have the strangest
sensation. We’ve laughed and joked, and I told him something I’ve never said
aloud before. And I don’t even know who he is, but I swear we’ve met before.

I turn to
suggest we exchange names now that the night is over and we probably will never
see each other again, but by the look in his eyes, he’s beaten me to it.

“I have to, I’m
sorry,” he says as he frowns and raises his hands to my cheeks, lifting my face
gently with only his fingertips, but he doesn’t move in. He stays
here,
close in proximity but not enough. Our breath dances
in front of our faces for a heartbeat before he finally bends forward slightly,
brushing a trace of a kiss on me.

He parts my lips
with his, slipping his tongue against mine. His hands slide down my arms and
pull me into him, into the kiss and the passion that was slowly building and
has now burst.

My hands lift to
his hair, hauling him down to me, smothering me with him. He wraps around me as
his hands roam my back.

The cab stops,
jerking us both forward, and he pulls back, taking all the warmth and magic
with him.

It takes a
second for me to get my breath or open my eyes.

When I do he
grins and winks. “Nice not meeting you, Deb.” He gets out of the car and walks
down the road like none of this ever happened.

I lift my gaze
to the driver. “What do I owe you?”

“The gentleman
already paid.” He winks too. “That’s some kiss huh, miss?”

My cheeks flush
and I climb out of the car. “Some kiss.” I watch him walk down the road, hoping
he’ll look back. I still have his jacket. But he doesn’t hesitate. He rounds the
corner and he’s gone.

Deb?

Why did he think my name was Deb?

A strange
sadness aches inside me as I walk up to the apartment, but it’s replaced with
something else, delight.

I press the
elevator and nod at the steel doors. “Perfect start to a new year.”

The hint of his
kiss still on my mouth, mixed with the ache of knowing I won’t ever see him
again, is the perfect aftertaste for the theme of the entire trip.

Especially
as my phone goes nuts and the picture of me with the pitcher of beer pouring
over my boobs flashes in Messenger.

Chapter Two

Friends off

Sami

Manhattan

August,
2011

The hem of my shirt is caught on a
button, exposing my entire side but since we’re at the door to the club and
surrounded by paparazzi, I can’t fix it. I don’t like to fidget in public where
photos can be taken. If you’re doing anything but soft smiling, you are
depicted as if you’ve just had a seizure or injected a hit of heroin.

Not that it matters. I don’t need to fix
the shirt.

Wearing it this way will set a new trend.

In a week everyone who identifies
themselves as female from fourteen to forty will be wearing their shirt
slightly higher on one side, showing off a fake tattoo. Or God forbid, a real
tat they get because I have this one.

Mine’s a fake clover because I need a bit
of luck—fake luck—any luck.

The beefy bouncer leers and I almost grin
back, almost.

My mother’s reminder that resting bitch
face is important when this many people are taking photos flits about my head
every time I see cameras. One wrong smile and suddenly there’s a photo in the
papers of me crying or wasted. Being Sami Ford is a job—one I inherited,
not one I interviewed for.

And we all hate it when we see a picture
of my scrunched-up face with a headline announcing how hooked on drugs I am. If
I were a crackhead, fine, but I haven’t been high in years. I haven’t even been
drunk since the first of January. I was on house arrest, technically. Being in
Greenwich is almost a form of jail. At least I had Nat though.

But now my dad has decided it’s time for
me to be back in society.
Under the agreement that I’ll be
drinking exclusively in places where photos aren’t allowed.
It’s the
only way for me not to end up in trouble.

Mainly because, according to the trashy
rag papers, I’m a drunken slut. But the stories are lies. Mostly.

Not that anyone believes my side of it. I
was tried in the court of public opinion, the worst court ever.

The last time I ended up in the papers
was the worst, New Year’s Eve.

I made one reckless choice when I was
going through a hard time and they crucified me for it.

And the other two times I made the
mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wasn’t even drinking.
The first time, I just walked past a known rehab clinic, clinging to my stomach
as a bad burrito tried to assassinate me. And the second time, I was laughing
and staggering because Natalie, my best friend in the whole world, told me some
crazy joke when my heel hit a crack in the cement.

Everything I’ve ever done has been stuff
any normal girl might do at my age.

But I’m not normal.

And
I don’t have leeway
,
I have a trust fund
.

So my shirt stays halfway up my torso on
one side, revealing far more skin than I had anticipated and what appears to be
a new tattoo.

Nat gives me a sideways glance, clearly
annoyed from the stairs where she’s no doubt blinded from the flash. “Why can’t
you sneak in the back entrance like the regular celebs?”

“I’m only here to make an appearance for
my dad. I’m still sort of in trouble since the whole London thing. Dad wants
good publicity.”

“Well duh, you flashed your mommas in a
random pub when you were seventeen. You got that poor pub in shit. Underage
drinking and nudity aren’t cool, even in Britain.”

“Thanks, dick,” I snarl.

“Seriously though, if my parents see
these pictures, I’m dead.” She offers her version of resting bitch, but it’s
always with a nervous quality. On her perfect little face, unsettled nerves are
obvious. She has no poker façade at all.

“Your mom won't recognize you and she
never watches
TMZ.
You’re fine.” I
wink and drag her in. “My dad made me promise I would come down, but we don’t
have to stay. Maybe like an hour. Do a bit of dancing and leave.”

The club is bouncing, which means Nat
might want to stay. She loves dancing almost as much as she loves protesting.
But she has to get in the mood. Thinking about her mom is the opposite of
getting in the mood.

“What DJ is it?” Nat hurries behind our
escort to my new private table.

“I don't know. I think it’s one of the
European guys that dated Katy Perry or someone like that.” I slide into the
booth next to her, giving her the look.
“Let’s just have fun and when
we’re done, we’ll go home. Your parents won’t know we even came into the city.
I swear. Vincenzo will have us back to Greenwich before they even finish
lunch.”

“You can’t promise that. My mom lives by
the society pages. If she sees us here, I’m dead.”

“Oh my God. I have yet to see a nightclub
in the society pages. You need to calm down, for reals. Nadia did your makeup
super intense. I barely recognize you. You’re fine.” I can’t fight the eye
roll. “Try to remember you’re an adult now. You’re legal to vote for God’s
sake. Stop letting your mom treat you like a child. Besides, I need you to
focus on something way more important than your mom’s latest hissy fit.” I
smile wide, flashing my teeth at her.

“You’re fine,” she groans.

“I had spinach in my pasta. Look closer.
I can’t walk around here looking like I haven’t brushed in years.”

“This better not come back to bite me in
the ass.” Nat scans the room, still uneasy. She lives and dies by her mother’s
opinion, which in my opinion is crap. Her mom has some weird ideas about how to
belong to the upper crust of society. As a member of the upper crust,
I can tell you
,
her ideas are whack
.

“Seriously. Are my teeth cool or not?”

“You’re fine, just stop. It doesn’t
matter anyway. You could wear spinach in your teeth and spinach teeth would
become cool. Girls have been flashing their boobs and doing wet tee shirt contests
for months.”

“I know. That’s why I’m here. Making good
publicity for the family.”

“You’re still only eighteen and in a club
in New York. I don’t see how this is better PR for the family.” Nat nods at the
dance floor when she sees the look on my face. “A couple of dances and then we
go before I get caught for sneaking into the city?”

“Fine”—I lean forward, gripping her
hands—“but I still think you need to remember you’re in an exclusive club
where no one is taking pictures. You’re totally safe.” What I want to say is
woman up, but I can’t. Natalie Banks is my best, and maybe only, friend.

Which means I have to tolerate her
inability to tell her mom to suck it. Mrs. Banks was a mean bitch as a teacher,
and she’s even worse as a parent. She puts the mother in smother. And Mr. Banks
is the ultimate doormat. “Yes, dear” is a catchphrase at their house.

And because of it, Nat is the ultimate
goody-goody.

We’re polar opposites.

I smoke. She turns on a fan.

I drink. She gets the barf bag and holds
my hair.

I skip school. She takes notes.

She’s a huge dork.

I’ve spent the last couple of years
trying to undo everything her mom does so I can break her out of her shell.
She’s fun when she lets loose.

But most of the time she tries too hard
to be what her mom expects.

Normally, she wouldn't fit in with the
rest of us rich kids but she’s beautiful. And beauty forces the world to
forgive a variety of sins and flaws.

And she’s gorgeous. She looks like a
fairy or a tiny angel. Fragile is the word for her. But only in appearance
;
physically she’s a savage. You can’t fight with her, not
even playing around. She’s wiry and cheats. She bites and pulls hair. There’s
no actual winning with her. She’s scrappy and fast to my lazy and out of shape.

The only way to overpower her is to turn
on a video game. Then she goes into an ADHD coma and hyperfocuses on the game.

Needless to say, gaming with her isn't
fun.

With her, not much is fun in the
traditional sense of the word, but I still love it. It’s an escape from my
life, sort of how being with me is an escape for her.

She does the weirdest things for fun.

When we were little I rented a cruise
ship for a birthday party, whereas her birthdays were small and homemade.

I took us shopping around the world, and she
made us read Sweet Valley Highs together, some old books her mom had. Then we
had to play Sweet Valley High with our Barbies. She always got to be the nerdy
sister and I was the slutty one.

It mirrored our real lives.

Not that we could have ever passed for
twins.

I’m her opposite, with my tawny hair,
dark-green eyes, and tanned skin. Not to mention, I’m way taller than she is.

“So why are we at this club, like whose
is it?”

“My dad’s friend’s son just opened it not
too long ago. He asked if I would show up and be visible to entice others to
come.”

“I can’t believe the rest of the world
believes we’d just hang out here, clubbing. We just graduated high school for
God’s sake.” She laughs. “My mom would hate this place. Hate me being in this
place. Hate me.”

“She hates everything. Your mom is being
a dictator lately so who cares what she hates? Her cockblocking on us being at
college together is bullshit. She and I are friends off right now. I don't
understand why my dad can’t just pay for you to go to Columbia with me?”

“Trust me, you and my mother were never
friends on, and I never even applied to Columbia.” Her cheeks flush. “Don’t
even say it. You can’t buy my way in and pay my way in life. This isn't
Pretty Woman,
I’m not your hooker.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Whatever.” She laughs. “That's just not
how it’s done, not in the real world. Besides, I want to stay home for a few
more years. My dad needs me to run interference. Imagine him all alone with
her?”

She’s lying but this isn’t the moment to
fight about it, again. I’ve been hounding her all summer over her mother making
her stay home and go to community college for her graphic art degree. Her
entire future is currently at risk. But I refuse to allow this to be how it
plays out.

I have plans for her. Thinking about them
I almost do the villain finger pyramid and laugh maniacally. Almost.

“So what’s up with Colin?” Her eyes dart
to my phone.

“I sent the breakup text.”

“Classy. A text. I thought you’d call at
least, call him out on the Tinder thing.”

“He doesn’t answer his phone. The Tinder
thing is gross but the relationship never would have worked anyway. He’s a
pothead and boring as hell. We’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months
now, and the few times we hung out, he played
Halo
with you more than he spoke to me.”

“Don’t diss
Halo.”

“I just don’t understand recreational
drug use if it makes you more boring. He’s a slug. Good luck to the Tinder
girls. Maybe he’ll find a nice stoner to chill with.”

“Did you guys even have sex?”

“I had sex a couple of times while we
were dating but not with him. I think the weed has killed his sex drive. Waste
of talent and time. What nineteen-year-old boy doesn’t like sex?”

“Speaking of wasting time, we should just
go dance and pretend like we’re having fun. Your dad’s son’s dog’s boss would
want that. Plus, then we can leave sooner.” She glances at the dance floor with
a look of annoyance, but it only lasts a flash before her eyes perk up. “Oh my
God.”

I don't even have to turn my head or ask
who she sees.

And there’s only one guy who can evoke the
look on her face or the excitement in her voice.

William “Douche Nozzle”
Fairfield.

I almost sneer and tell her we can go
home like she wants, but when I glance in his direction he’s too close for us
to fight it. He’s already walking our way.

“Oh good,” I add, wishing there was a
drink in my hand I could spill on myself and force us out of here. Except
spilling drinks on myself has been officially boycotted since New Year’s. It’s
been added to the list, along with dating celebrities, forcing the staff to
play Cards Against Humanity with me, and wearing workout clothes in public.

A server comes by as if reading my mind
and offers me my drink, a gin and tonic with double limes. She hands Nat a
crisp green appletini and saunters off, without a single word.

“We’ve never been here before but she
knows our drinks?” Nat cocks an eyebrow.

“I guess someone here knows us.”

“Seriously though, what if William
ordered them?”

“He didn’t.” I want to say he’s not
gentlemanly enough but putting him down only hurts her feelings. It’s like
reverse, reverse psychology; I insult him and she likes him more.