Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

“Sure.”

“Maybe the next time I play in Toronto or something.”

“That’d be fun.”

“Don’t feel obligated or anything. I’m having a good time with you, Lily, but if it’s not, like, your thing, or you think it’s getting to be too much, you let me know, okay?”

“Too much how? Like, too many orgasms?” My mouth goes dry, and my hands are clammy.

“Like, it’s getting serious or whatever. I don’t want to make this something it’s not, you know?”

“Right. Of course.” I try not to be offended by the reminder.

“Cool.” He’s so blasé about it. “Sorry about tomorrow. I’ll call if anything changes, ’kay?”

“Sure. Yeah.” I don’t want to get my hopes up.

“Night, Lily.”

“Night, Randy.”

It’s probably better that he can’t take me out for dinner. That’d feel too much like a date instead of it being this casual thing where we bang each other on occasion.

***

I spend all of Sunday shopping with the girls. It’s exhausting. Also, I don’t have money to spend on frivolous crap, especially since I can’t take that dress back anymore. Violet buys us all lunch and splurges on bottles of champagne that cost more than a month’s rent. I’m used to being around Sunny’s family, but this is extravagant.

Violet refuses to go into any bridal shops. She starts itching as soon as we’re within five feet of any store with white dresses. On the way to Victoria’s Secret, we pass a kids’ store with a window display full of those dolls my cousin is always talking about.

“These are so expensive for plastic,” I mumble.

Violet glances at the storefront and starts screaming like she’s being murdered. “Oh my God! Why do they exist?” She puts her hand over her eyes and latches on to Charlene. “Get them away from me!”

“What’s going on?” I ask Sunny, who shrugs at the freakout.

“Maybe she’s really lost it?”

“Stop flailing, and I’ll get you away from the dolls.”

“Don’t say that word!” Violet buries her face against Charlene’s shoulder. “Tell me when it’s safe.”

I’m not sure whether it’s comical or not. Sunny and I follow Char and Violet into Victoria’s Secret.

“Okay. We’re good. It’s all bras and panties and sexy things,” Charlene assures her.

“No fluttery eyes?” Violet’s still covering her face.

“Nope. Not a one.”

She peeks between a gap in her fingers, eyes darting back and forth, assessing her surroundings. She drops her shaking hand. “I hate those things. They’re so creepy.”

“Do—” Charlene makes a chopping motion, cutting Sunny off.

“Let’s get you some new bras.”

Violet nods. We distract her with a pile of sexy clothes. While she’s in the changing room, I ask Charlene what that was all about.

“She’s terrified of dolls. I think she watched too much Chucky as a kid. Buck used to torment her with them when they were teenagers. He’d put them by her bed so when she woke up in the morning, one would be staring at her.”

Sunny frowns. “That’s not very nice.”

“They were kids.”

Alex calls while Violet’s in the changing room, and they have a video chat that everyone is privy to. Sunny leaves the area, uninterested in hearing Alex tell Violet how sexy she is.

Randy doesn’t call, and while I’m disappointed, I can’t help thinking it’s definitely better this way. If I hear from him on a regular basis, it won’t feel casual anymore. Some distance is a good thing. Sex is just sex. Feelings don’t have to be part of anything.

I fly back to Toronto with the Waters on Monday morning. We have to be at the airport ridiculously early, so I’m bitchy and tired by the time I get home. I’m cutting it close. I have a shift at the coffee shop at noon, and then I go straight to the rink at six. I’m in and out of the house in fifteen minutes, and Sunny drives me to work. I’m on my own to get to the rink after that, but it’s not a problem. Busses are frequent and plentiful in this town.

I check my messages on the ride home from the arena at the end of my day. Randy’s sent one, checking to see if I made it home okay. I send him a brief reply, but don’t invite further conversation.

It’s close to midnight by the time I get home. After a flight, a five-hour shift making coffee for stuck-up pricks, and four hours of teaching kids to skate, I’m beat. I hang my keys on the little hook in the front hall, kick off my shoes, and head for the kitchen. I need an unhealthy snack.

I scream at the sight of a man with back hair and a pair of gray boxer briefs gnawing on a chicken bone.

“Who the fuck are you?” I scramble to get my backpack off. My skates are in there. If nothing else, they’re heavy, so smacking him across the face will hurt. If I can get them out quick enough, they’re a decent weapon.