Pucked (Pucked 1)

Sometime around midnight, my phone rings. Charlene grabs it and checks the number. “It says unknown. Is it him? I bet it’s him!”

Before I can tell her not to, she answers the call. Char’s eyes go wide, and she covers the receiver with her hand, mouthing talk to him with an excitement I’m not sure I share.

I hold out my hand, take a deep breath, and put the phone to my ear. “Hi?”

“Violet?”

His voice is its own orgasm. “That’s me.”

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

There’s a long pause in which neither of us speak, and Charlene makes flailing hand gestures while mouthing things I can’t understand.

Alex breaks the awkward silence. “How are you?”

“Uh, pretty good. How about you?”

“Better now. Sorry I’m calling so late. I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Nope. Just hanging out.”

Charlene points to her crotch and makes jerking motions. I turn away so I don’t start laughing.

“Are you in your jammies?” His voice is so low it’s almost a rumble.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, nothing. I didn’t mean to ask that. It just came out. I’m sorry.”

And here I thought I was the awkward one. Maybe Alex is drunk dialing me. I go with it, lowering my voice to what I hope is a sultry whisper. “Do you want to know what I’m wearing?”

“Yes. No. Is this a trick question? Only if you won’t hang up on me for saying yes, otherwise no.” He’s cute, even for a manwhore.

“I’m wearing a black lace thong and a matching lace bra.”

He sighs into the phone. “Really? I didn’t take you for a black lace kind of girl.”

“No. Not even close. It’s fun to pretend, isn’t it?” I’m thankful he can’t see my face right now. It’s hot, so it’s probably blotchy. “I’m in jeans and a T-shirt. I was thinking I’d lose the bra soon.” I shouldn’t be entertaining him after what I’ve seen on the Internet and that magazine spread.

Charlene smacks me with a pillow. I fight her off while trying to keep the phone to my ear.

“Is the shirt tight?”

I check out my rack. “Um, I guess. It’s a small. If I wasn’t wearing a bra I could probably see my nipples through it.”

There’s more heavy breathing on the other end of the line. I roll off the couch, run to my bedroom, and lock the door so Charlene can’t get in. “Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you whacking off?”

“God, no.”

“Okay, that’s good. I think.” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. As soon as I hang up, Charlene is going to lose it on me for being such an idiot. “Did you call to find out what I was wearing?”

“No. I called to apologize.”

What a kick in the nonexistent nuts. Apologies after sex are never good.

He clears his throat. “I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures by now . . .”

“Oh, yeah, those.”

“I hope Butterson doesn’t give you a hard time. There’s always someone at the bar snapping photos.”

“No worries. There are way worse pictures of Buck. Besides, there are plenty of other pictures of you out there, so I’m sure these ones will be buried soon enough.” I cringe at the way it sounds, and because it’s most likely true.

“I wanted to explain—”

“Anyway, I got your message and the text. My beaver’s fine, by the way, nothing a long bath won’t fix, and don’t worry, I have another pair of glasses, and contact lenses, so lots of backup.”

“I’d still like to drop them off when I’m in Chicago.”

“You really don’t need to go out of your way. You can mail them if you want. I can give you the address.”

He repeats it back to me. “I’d still prefer to bring them by, if it’s okay with you.”

The prospect of seeing Alex again makes my beaver all drooly. “Um, sure.”

“Great. Awesome. I’ll see you when I get back.” He sounds almost giddy.

“Okay. Well . . . talk to you later, then.”

“I sure hope so. Night, Violet.”

Charlene is waiting on the other side of the door. “So? What did he say?”

“He wants to drop my glasses off.” While part of me is excited, the other part is wary. According to media reports, Alex Waters is a player, and I don’t want to get played.Despite the low alcohol content of Sour Puss, I’m mildly hungover the next morning. Char and I consume copious quantities of water as a means to flush the sugar out of our systems and follow it with a pot of coffee.

Too lazy to deal with my hair, I pull it up into a high ponytail, exposing marks on my neck. I have a hickey. No, wait. I have—let me count them—four hickeys. How I haven’t noticed them until now is beyond me, but there they are: faint, pinkish-purple reminders of my failure of a one-night stand.

I find an infinity scarf, which Charlene arranges artfully around my neck—i.e. she loops it twice—and covers up my misdemeanors.