Pucked (Pucked 1)

“I’ll tell Skye.” Buck threatens, as if we’re four and I stole his favorite toy.

“Like she’ll care.”

Buck raises a brow. “Are you kidding? She’ll tell all her friends.”

Shit. He’s right. My mom won’t be able to keep her yap shut. She’ll ask me inappropriate questions. I won’t stand for it.

I grab onto the lapels of Buck’s jacket and try to haul myself up so we’re face-to-face. It’s like climbing one of those rock walls—a big, hairy rock wall—so I give up and yank on his shirt until he bends to meet me.

“You listen to me, asshole. If you breathe one word of this to my mother, I will openly talk about the time we got drunk and you tried to feel me up, you got me? I’m not shitting you. I’ll do it.” Buck has never tried to feel me up—not on purpose, anyway.

“You wouldn’t,” Buck whisper-hisses.

I’ve got him by the short hairs—figuratively speaking, of course. I would never actually touch those. “You wanna try me? Go for it, I’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Okay, okay. I won’t say a word . . . just . . . can we talk in private? Please?” With his hands raised he glances between Alex and me, his panic evident.

Only the two of us have knowledge of this incident. In fact, if I was honest with him, he wouldn’t be worried at all. He was drunk out of his gourd at the time. Allowing him to believe he did grope me, even if by accident, gives me leverage in situations such as these.

I let go of his lapels. “You’ve managed to suck all the fun right out of this evening. I’m taking off.”

I’d invite Alex to come with me to piss Buck off even more, and maybe to continue making out, but I’m sharing a room with my parents. Cockblockers are everywhere tonight, thwarting my attempts at poor decision making.

Alex whispers something in my ear; it sounds like stay. Granted, he may be breathing out of his nose and making a whistling noise that resembles a word.

“If you want to,” Buck says amicably.

Annoyed and unable to backpedal, I turn to Alex. “Do you want my number?”

“Sure.” He digs his phone out of his back pocket, pulls up his contact list, and hands me the device.

“Don’t give him your number!” Buck’s aggravation hardly improves my mood.

I ignore him and type my number into Waters’ little black book, more than happy to irritate Buck in whatever way I can. As fun as making out with Alex has been, it’s unlikely he’ll actually call.

“Thanks for the mouth fuck,” I whisper as I pass his phone back.

He winks. “Anytime.”

I shove Buck’s shoulder as I pass—he doesn’t even have the decency to move an inch—and make my way through the bar to the elevator bank. As disappointed as I am that Buck interrupted my fun, it’s better this way. Alex is way too hot and far too good a mouth fucker to be safe.

My parents are locked in their room, so I don’t have to engage in mindless chitchat. Sometimes Sidney walks around in his underwear. I’m used to dealing with his abundance of chest hair, but the white briefs are too much. I have a solid understanding—pun completely intended—why my mom married him, beyond his stellar personality.

I tiptoe through the suite and lock myself in my room. My first stop is my suitcase. It’s beaver time. I giggle, finding the term in reference to lady parts comical.

After dumping out the contents of my bag onto the floor, it becomes evident I’ve forgotten my travel dildo, along with every other important item. I did bring plenty of extra socks and my one, awesome bra.

The make out session with Alex has left me all horned up, so I’m forced to use my own damn fingers to jill off. I don’t even have the magazine with the milk advertisement in it—which I now know is Alex—to help with a visual.

Paranoid I’ll be overheard, I take care of business in the bathroom with the fan on. It takes me fifteen minutes to come. The sore wrist and finger cramps eliminates the relaxing element of the whole process. Finished riding the masturbation express, I search the pile on the floor for my pajamas, laughing upon their discovery. I haven’t seen this particular pair since high school. I didn’t even realize I still had them.

They don’t fit well, but they’ll have to do. The top is stretched tight across my chest, like an Ace bandage. The pants, complete with fly flap, are now capris. The waist sits so low, it barely covers my ass. Whatever. It’s not like anyone’s going to see me in them.

The usual nighttime routine goes as follows: wash face, brush teeth, take out contact lenses, and search for glasses since I’m not smart enough to make sure I have them with me in the first place. I find them on the floor between pairs of clean socks and my lone pair of clean underwear, which I need to save for tomorrow. The muffled sound of my phone ringing comes from under the pile of discarded clothes. It’s probably Buck, making sure I didn’t get kidnapped on the way back to my room.