Pucked (25 page)

No longer able to restrain myself, I perform an image search for Alex on my phone. A slew of new pictures appear. Often I send the photos to my email and save them in my Beaver Button folder. These aren’t those kind.

Alex looks gorgeous as usual except his arm is wrapped around the shoulder of a blonde. She’s kissing his cheek. He’s all smiles and dimples. It’s possible she’s just a fan. I scroll down to find more pictures of the two of them. She’s tucked into his side with his arm thrown protectively around her.

I want to knee him in the balls and smack his monster cock upside the head. The hockey hooker in me wants to kick her ass and knock out all her teeth for kissing him anywhere. Reality punches me in the boob—I’ve started to think of Alex as my boyfriend. We’ve only been on one real date. The flowers and the presents don’t mean we’re exclusive; he’s extravagant with gifts. I feel so dumb.

“
Violet? Why are you breathing like that?”

I slide my phone across the table. “She’s kissing him, and he’s touching her.” As if she can’t see what’s in front of her.

“
I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”

“
Sure there is. He’s a whore, and I’m stupid. I should know better.” I grab my phone and close the browser. I can’t look at him anymore. This situation is proving detrimental to my emotional wellbeing.

“
You should call him. There must be a good reason for this. If he’s not texting, emailing, or calling, he’s sending you gifts. It doesn’t make sense,” Charlene says in her most rational, gentle tone.

“
It does if he’s a player. I’m sure the whole I’m-not-a-whore line he gave me is the one he gives all his repeats
—
or whatever the hell I am. It’s probably some elaborate ruse. Look at Buck; he’s got all these girls wrapped around his giant yeti finger, pretending to be nice when he’s really a dog. Alex is probably the same, except smoother.”

I must sound like a lunatic. I’ve been paranoid all week, and now there’s justification.

“
Vi—”

“
I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I need to do something other than sit in a bar with hockey on in the background. I push away from the table, almost spilling my beer. Char doesn’t try to stop me from leaving. I’m too deep into one of my neurotic episodes to be rational.

I listen to angry gangster rap on the drive home. I’m too upset to sit around, so I decide to do something productive. A jog seems like a smart way to burn off some of this negative energy and get perspective. The first sign my idea is flawed occurs when it takes me forty-five minutes to find my damn running shoes. Armed with more angry beats, I adjust my earbuds, and hit the sidewalk.

It’s cold out, so I start with a light jog. Two minutes in, I’m already winded but also determined to make this work. I need to do something beyond crying or calling Alex. I push on, and by the time I’ve gone a block, I have a stitch in my side and I’m wheezing like an asthmatic. On the positive side, I can see the fast food sign glowing in the distance. I check all my pockets and find a magical ten dollar bill in the little one meant for a lip balm or keys. The Arches of Indigestion aren’t too far away. I can make it. More than this jog, I need a milkshake.

I’m panting and huffing by the time I reach the door. The familiar smell of fried food greets me as I step inside. It’s like coming home except I don’t have to cook anything for myself. I order fries and a milkshake and hole myself up in the corner. Prying off the lid, I carefully coat each fry in frozen vanilla-flavored mock-dairy product. Fucking Alex, literally, is the reason I’m stuffing my face with this crap. Tomorrow I’ll end up with the moops thanks to the fake dairy and grease.

The mild sugar and trans-fat high is destroyed by the cold walk home. I avoid checking my emails or phone messages. I don’t want to talk to Alex tonight. I don’t know him well enough to discern whether or not he’s hosing me. Talking to him may confirm his lying bastard status, and I’ll be crushed. It’s too much to manage. Nyquil is my sleep aid of choice otherwise I’ll never shut my mind off.

The Waters beaver stares at me from my pillow. I shove him off the bed and get under the covers. I must go in search of him in the middle of the night because I wake up clutching him.

Charlene is sitting on my desk when I arrive at work the next morning. She’s becoming a fixture there.

“
You haven’t called him yet, have you?”

“
Good morning to you, too.”

She passes me a folder. “You need to look at this.”

“
What is it?” I flip it open; there are endless pictures of Alex with the same blonde woman. The sheer volume of them is disturbing.

“
She’s his sister.”

“
Say what, now?” I have a vague recollection of Alex mentioning a younger sister while we were on our date.

“
Her name is Sunny. She’s twenty-one. According to this article”—she holds up a gossip rag—“he flew her out to a game in LA last week because it’s colder than a snowman’s balls up there in Canada.”

“
I had no idea.”

“
He called me to explain. Apparently they’re close.” She produces her phone and shows me Alex’s cell number.

“
How did he get your number?”

“
Good question. Maybe you should return one of his calls and find out.”

I ignore the jab. “What did he explain, exactly?”

“
About the photos. He was worried. He couldn’t get in touch with you and figured it might be the reason. You could have avoided all this if you’d called him or done some research.”

I’m too embarrassed to admit I’ve scoured images like a junkie looking for smack, but I didn’t perform a search for this vital information last night. I’ve made a horribly ignorant assumption based on personal expectations.

He really is a good guy. He took the time to seek out my best friend and relay a message through her, which tells me more about him than the flowers or the gifts.

I check my phone to find my voice mailbox full, and I have twenty texts. I fear their content. The first two voice mails from Alex simply ask me to return his call. The third one is several minutes long and the reason my voice mail is full. I feel awful. He’s tried so hard to explain the situation and I’ve ignored him.

I text him immediately. I don’t hear from him all day. He has a game tonight, so he’s likely at practice or he doesn’t have his phone with him.

Karma dictates I put myself in the same shoes he’s been wearing for the past twenty-four hours. After work, I change into comfy clothes, grab a bag of pretzels from the pantry and a couple of beers from the fridge, and make the trek across the driveway to my parents’ house. The massive television in the living room is the best place to catch the game.

The teams are evenly matched for skill. I watch with rapt attention as Alex scores a goal and manages two assists in the third period, leaving the other team unable to recover. Afterward, the sportscasters interview Alex. He’s riding the high of the win; I worry my late response is going to result in a self-fulfilling prophesy.

I’m buzzed by the time the highlight reel is finished. The game has been over for an hour, and still no message from Alex. I return to the pool house and get ready for bed. Clutching the Waters beaver to my chest, I drift into a fitful sleep.

I’m woken some time later by the sound of my phone ringing. I reach for it in frantic confusion, pressing wrong buttons until I finally answer the call.

“
Hi. Hello?” I’m so disoriented. I’ve been having Alex boob-fondling dreams.

“
Hey.” His voice is a fuzzy blanket of warmth.

“
Hi,” I breathe out, porn star style.

“
I’m sorry I woke you. I tried to call earlier but my phone died and I had to wait for it to charge. How are you?”

God, I love him. Wait, what? No, no, I don’t love him. I love his sweetness.

“
I’m okay. I’m sorry I didn’t call you until today . . .” I feel guilty for avoiding him, afraid he was all up in someone else’s beaver.

“
I should’ve warned you. I know how the pictures look. Flying Sunny out was unplanned.”

My remorse overrides my ability to censor my response. “I like you. I didn’t expect to see you with someone else. I thought maybe my brand of crazy was a bit too much to handle.” Goddammit, I was doing such a . . . mediocre job at being unaffected. Now I’ve shot the mediocrity all to shit.

“
You like me, eh?”

If I could melt into a puddle, I would. Those Canadianisms get me every time.

“
Mm-hmm.” It practically comes out a sigh.

“
I like you, too,” he says softly. “Can you take Friday off? I’d love to fly you out to Toronto. You can come to the game, and we can hang out for a few days. I’ll take you to Guelph.”

It’s hard not to get all swoony with Alex offering to fly me out to a foreign country. Okay, not foreign, but Canadians speak French and they have accents. I have vacation days. Time alone with Alex would be fantastic.

“
Violet?”

Shit. I’ve been silent again.

“
Please say yes, baby. I want you to come.” His voice is low, gritty.

He must know it drives me crazy in the best way when he calls me baby. “I want to.”

“
We can get a hotel room the first night, then stay at my condo in the city for the rest of the weekend. Just the two of us.”

“
You have a condo?”

“
I do. My parents stay there when I have Toronto games.”

“
Right. Of course.”

The idea of spending a weekend alone with Alex makes my thighs clench. It’s been days since I helped myself out, and now I’m warm and wet and wanting.

“
I’ll have to check with work to see if I can get the time off. Last minute tickets will be expensive.”

I slide my palm down my stomach to my parted thighs, stifling a moan. My breathing is already heavy, so I hold the phone away from my mouth.

“
Don’t worry ab—what are you doing?”

“
Uh, I—uh . . .” Should I
or shouldn’t I? Prior to my discovery of the picture of him and his sister, he’d been sending me dirty texts all week citing the things he couldn't wait to do to me when he got home. In one he mentioned spending an afternoon with his face between my thighs. Except he didn’t use that particular phrasing. I moan. Once the sound is out of my mouth, I can’t mulligan it back.

“
Are you touching yourself?”

“
Maybe.” I slip my fingers into the little pocket in the front. Boy’s underwear are so convenient.

“
Yes or no, Violet?”

“
Yes.”

“
Ah, fuck. Are you petting my pussy?”

Oh sweet baby Jesus, he called it
his
. “Uh-huh.”

I bite my lip to keep from moaning too loudly.

“
Don’t hold back. Tell me what you’re doing. God, I wish I could see you.”

“
I—I—”

“
You gonna get all shy with me now? It’s just you and me. There’s no one but us. Give me something to get through the next few days.” His voice is soft, encouraging.

“
Alex. I . . .” It’s barely a whisper.

“
Do you wish it was me? My fingers touching you?”

“
Oh, God.” I’ve never had phone sex. I’m not a conscious sex talker. The crap I spew is unintentional. “Yes, I wish it was you.”

“
Me, too, baby. Me, too. Where are your fingers?”

I hesitate for a fraction of a second. “My clit.”

“
Are you wet like you were for me?”

I debate the merits of telling the truth or embellishing for the sake of phone sex hotness. “Uh-uh.”

“
No?”

“
Not nearly as wet as I get for you.” I’m all breathy and moany.

This is total bullshit. I’m one of those naturally lubey people. It’s a goddamn blessing. However, I’m all for stroking Alex’s ego while we stroke ourselves.

“
I can’t wait to have my mouth on you again. I’m gonna eat you like I’m on death row
and you’re my last goddamned meal.”

I moan—because what other response does a declaration like that warrant? Alex is really good at the phone sexing.

I rub in earnest as Alex whispers dirty things in my ear about how he wishes it was his fingers and his mouth, how good it will be when he finally gets inside me again, and how much he wishes it was my hand on his cock right now.

“
I miss your cock,” I whisper.

“
You do, eh?” He follows that bit of Canadian cuteness with, “Tell me how you feel about my cock.”

Good lord, this man’s head is about to explode right along with his dick. “I love your cock, Alex.”