Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

“We had a good time. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Oh, shit. You didn’t bang her? How fucking blue are your balls right now?” He pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?” The traffic here is nuts. People cut across lanes without even looking. There are signs everywhere and assholes going ninety in the slow lane, then cutting in, forcing everyone behind them to slam on their brakes.

He’s thumb typing, and he hasn’t shut the sound off, so I hear every annoying click. “Texting Lance.”

“What the hell for?”

He stops typing to talk. “Because I owe him a case of beer.”

“For what?”

“I lost the bet.” He’s got that cocky grin going again.

“Bet?”

“Yeah. I bet him a case of beer you’d be able to get Sunny to ride your dick, and he bet me you’d pussy out.”

I slap his phone out of his hand, knocking it to the floor. In the process I swerve and cut into the lane next to me. A chick in a sporty BMW honks and flails her hands.

“Dude! What’s your damage?” He goes to pick up his phone, but I crossbar him with a forearm to the neck.

“Text Lance and I’ll leave you on the side of the highway.”

“I won’t. Jesus, man, what’s going on with you? What happened? Did you and Sunny get into a fight? I figured you’d smooth things over like you usually do with the bunnies.”

“Sunny’s not a bunny.” The rhyme irritates me.

“I know that.”

I run a hand through my hair and give him the side eye. “You wanna make bets on the bunnies, you go right ahead. But don’t bring Sunny into your bullshit. She’s not some slutbag I’m trying to pull a fuck-and-chuck on.”

Randy settles back in his seat when I withdraw my arm. “I know that, man, but you know how Lance is; everything’s a game for him.”

“You’d think it was obvious at this point that I’m serious about Sunny.”

“Right? Who keeps seeing the same chick for three months if it isn’t about more than fucking.” Randy looks out the window and rubs at his beard. “I know I sure as hell wouldn’t.”

I don’t say anything while Randy fiddles around with the radio and finds a station he likes. He’s big into country music.

Here’s the thing: I know I shouldn’t say anything, but like Randy said, I’ve been waiting for months to get to this point. I can’t give details to Violet, because that shit’s awkward and weird. I mean, mostly she’s like a girl version of Randy, minus all the whoring and the equipment below the belt, but stepsister or not, we’re quasi-related, and we’re close. I can’t go there. However, Randy’s one of my closest buddies, and old habits die hard. I should be able to trust him not to run his mouth.

“You can’t say anything to Lance.”

He stops messing around with the radio. “I won’t. Scout’s honor.” He holds up two fingers and gives me a cheeky-ass grin.

“I’m serious.”

“Sorry. I can’t help it. But yeah, I won’t say anything—not to Lance or anyone else.”

“So Sunny was pissed when I got there, but we talked it out, and I smoothed it over.”

“So you did get some action?”

I smile. It’s enough of an answer.

“I fucking knew it! You owe me a case of beer, asshole. How was it? She teaches yoga right? I bet she’s better than a porn star in bed. Just bend her in half and give ‘er—” He makes thrusting motions.

I want to punch him in the side of the head. I suck my teeth.

“Sorry. Sorry, man. That was probably out of line.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I know you’ve been blue-balling it over this girl, so I’m glad you finally got some.”

I can tell he wants details. Before Sunny, I would’ve given them in 3D Technicolor. All the bunnies like to share details—some of them seriously exaggerated—in online bunny groups, so it only seemed fair. It’s weird. Up until now it didn’t feel like I was doing anything wrong by sharing, but Sunny isn’t going to post anything about our weekend sex-a-thon, so I feel like I should keep most of it to myself.

“What about you? How was your weekend?” I ask, shifting the focus.

“You know how it goes when Lance is on a bender. He keeps inviting more people. There were a shitton of girls there this weekend. When I left this morning he was looking rough.”

That’s not an answer. Not the kind I expect from Randy. He’s usually all over providing excessive details. Right now he seems irritated more than anything.

“Natasha was pretty annoyed?” I probe.

“Right? She was a drill sergeant. Lance puked his guts out later. It was epic.”

I hit the brakes when the guy in front of us slams on his. Ahead of me is a sea of red lights and a lot of pickup trucks with huge tires. It’s like we’re on the way to a monster truck rally. It’s Sunday afternoon. We’re in Canada, with an endless supply of land, and we’re sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I don’t get it.