Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

Tash rolls her eyes. “You’re such a dick, Romero.”

“You seemed to like it enough earlier,” he fires back.

Tash’s mouth drops open.

Lily holds up a hand and snaps, “Enough, you two.” She turns to Alex. “Why don’t you go down and do the thank you? Unless you’d like me to do that on your behalf. Then we can start wrapping things up and get people out of here. That might help Violet be less stressed.”

He taps on the door, regarding Lily for a long while. “I wanted this to be fun for her.”

She rubs his shoulder. “You can’t make everyone happy, Alex. I love your mom, but you gotta rein her in if you don’t want Violet to fall apart between now and this wedding.”

His head drops and he sighs. “Fuck, I’m a pussy.”

Lily laughs. “No, you’re not. You’re trying to make too many people happy at the same time. Violet has to be priority number one all the time now. Above everything else.”

Eventually they manage to get Violet to come out of the bedroom, but she’s covered in hives. Alex goes downstairs to deal with the guests, and the girls all huddle in the bedroom to provide moral support or whatever it is girls do when one of them has an emotional breakdown and winds up with hives.

No one seems to question Violet’s absence at the party.

Lily messages me a while later to let me know she’s staying with Violet. I’m not surprised considering how tight she is with the Waters family. I end up getting a ride home with Lance and Tash. It’s awkward; no one really talks. Tash seems pissed, all quiet and brooding in the front seat. Lance drops me off first, which I expect.

I walk up my drive and palm my phone, keying in the code for my door so it’s unlocked by the time I reach it. This definitely wasn’t how I thought tonight was going to end. I’m glad I managed a little alone time with Lily. And at least I have tomorrow.

I’m on high alert the second I walk into the house. The TV’s on in the living room, and there’s a body on my couch, shoes hanging off the end. Beer bottles and a half liter of vodka litter my coffee table. One of the bottles has tipped over, and beer drips onto the floor. I’m definitely not in the mood for this. The body on my couch groans and pushes to a sitting position.

It’s like I’ve stepped into a time machine and I’m looking at a much less fit, older version of myself. Without tattoos. Randall Ballistic Senior is crashed out on my couch.

“How’d you get in here?” It’s not a friendly greeting, but I don’t like my dad much.

“I tried the code from your New York place. Nice pad, kiddo. They’re paying you better than they did me.” He’s slurry drunk.

I don’t mention that I’m a better player than he was. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

He ignores the indirect question. “You’re comin’ home late.” He pushes up and tries to stand, but ends up falling back down on his ass.

I stuff my hands in my pockets. Now I wish I’d gotten an invite to stay at Waters’. “I was at a party.”

“And no bunny? You losing your touch?”

“It wasn’t that kind of party.”

“It’s always that kind of party.” He picks up a bottle from the table and checks to see if there’s anything left.

I go to the kitchen to get him a glass of water and a rag to clean up the mess he’s made. It’s the story of my dad’s life. He’s a loser in every sense of the word. Returning to the living room, I mop up the spilled beer and set the water on the table.

He picks up the glass and frowns. “Where’s the booze?”

“I don’t think you need it.” I collect the empty bottles. “Look, you’re welcome to stay the night and sleep it off, but I’ve got plans tomorrow night, so you gotta be gone in the morning.”

“I haven’t seen you in six months, and that’s how you treat your dad? Don’t be so damn disrespectful.”

“It’s one in the morning, and I find you lying on my couch, messing up my house, and you’re talking at me about disrespect?”

“I need a place to crash for a couple days. I gotta lay low. Got some business I need to take care of before I head home.”

“You’re still in Boston?”

“I’m between places right now.”

I run a hand through my hair. “So by a couple of days you mean what exactly?”

“A week, maybe two, tops.”

I definitely don’t want my dad here for the next week, let alone two, but he’s hammered, so discussing it now is pointless. I’d set him up in a hotel, but the last time I did that he racked up a two-thousand-dollar room service bill. Half of it was porn. It’s not that I don’t have the money to pay for it, it’s the goddamn principle. And he’s generally a dick.