Puck

by Marata Eros

  A low throb starts at my temples, and my hands rise, kneading the tender area.

  “Another headache?” Denni asks.

  I nod, dropping my hands.

  “We’ll revisit this at our next session.”

  Maybe we won’t.

  Denni frowns as she scrutinizes my expression. “Don’t even think about not coming back next week.”

  I sit up from the classic shrink’s couch and lean forward, swinging my legs around. I plant my elbows on my thighs and let my hands dangle between them, more weary than when I began the day. “And why shouldn’t I think about it?”

  Denni’s knees nearly touch mine, and her silver-blondish hair shines like tinsel in the light that pours through the floor-to-ceiling window inside her high-rise office. “Because your nightmares have decreased in frequency since our sessions began.”

  I scoot back—away from Denni and the truth she symbolizes. “Yeah,” I croak out reluctantly.

  “This is what we’ve been working toward.”

  My exhale’s rough. “I hate having to talk about this bullshit.”

  She smiles. “The ʻbullshitʼ you allow yourself to remember.”

  “Yes,” I finally reply.

  Denni is silent for so long, I look up from staring at my feet.

  I meet her eyes, full of compassion. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

  “Oh, but I do, Puck. I’m so sorry.”

  I stand, and she reaches for my hand. Her grip is surprisingly strong for an older woman’s. “I am sorry I couldn’t protect you from that man. I am sorry that I can’t take away your pain. I am sorry you must relive that pain to heal. This is the process. It is never easy to become healthy.”

  I don’t jerk my hand away from hers. Denise Small came highly recommended. I sure as fuck wasn’t going to talk about my rape and sodomy by dear old dad with another dude.

  Fuck that.

  So here I am with a shrink who prefers not to prescribe meds and is about five foot tall in heels. She’s also the fiercest female I’ve ever met, besides Candi.

  Denni advocated for me when I couldn’t for myself. When I blame myself for the atrocities my father committed against me and Candi—she defends me.

  Even against myself.

  But whenever I’m here, I sweat. My heart pounds. My head aches. A sense of profound anxiety nearly overwhelms me.

  Denni calls those fun episodes panic attacks.

  “Have you ever thought about what draws you to others?” she asks quietly, breaking through my thoughts. “You’re a protector, Puck. You were probably born that way. And the one who should have protected you—violated you.”

  I shut my eyes and float inside my own brain.

  “Stay with me,” Denni says in a disembodied voice, then she squeezes my hand so hard, it brings me back to the present.

  My eyes snap open. “I know what he did. I was there.” I glare down at the diminutive lady in front of me, hating her with every fiber of my being.

  Her eyes search mine. “It’s not me you hate, Puck. It’s you. And until I can get you to navigate the path back to loving yourself, you will feel this sense of helplessness, the sense of being adrift inside your own skin.”

  I drop her hand, defeated. The breath I suck in is wounded, like me, and I exhale slowly. “You’re right.”

  “Yes. But this isn’t about winning or losing. This is about a victory of the soul.” Her hand makes a fist. “You matter, Puck.”

  She retreats from my personal space, and I breathe again. “You crowd me, doc.”

  Her smile is wistful. “Only when you need it, Puck.”

  I nod and move around her, toward the door. Hand on the lever of the door, my skin warms the metal beneath my touch as I listen to internal excuses, but I say aloud, “Next week.”

  “Yes,” Denni answers.

  I don’t run out of there, but my exit is crude.

  I loathe government entities—especially the social work merry-go-round. I never was much for them anyway, but now that I’m out of it, no longer an undercover cop and have my slice of Americana within the fam compound, my tolerance is zero.

  Not a fan of the reminder of what I had to be a part of. Mainly because my career ended on the sour note of my father's near-rape of me while my sister watched, helplessly chained to a radiator.

  Taking deep breaths, I walk out of the office where Perry begged me to turn in some paperwork for a case we’re working together.

  I’m not totally out of it yet—government entities and all the bullshit that comes with that. Now, I catch scumbags without all the restrictions of being in law enforcement. I work as a consultant with my undercover cop best friend, Perry.

  Consulting’s more my speed.

  Stepping out of the office, I find my hands empty. My cell is jammed in my back pocket, and I’m wearing my Road Kill MC cut.

  Why not? Nothing to stop me from wearing it now. No considerations of the murkiness of the law to get in my way. And Viper, the prez of the club, is like a brother to me. In fact, he really is my brother. By marriage. I might like him because he loves my sister and takes great care of her and Gabe—Nah. Probably has nothing to do with it.

  Or everything.

  My mind drifts for a moment. Lazy dust motes float in front of the gigantic wall of glass that makes up the front of the City of Kent Social Affairs Center. It’s a fancy name for wasting taxpayer money under the guise of helping those who can’t help themselves.

  Yeah, I’m a cynic.

  Seems like I always come full circle to white-knighting. For children. For the kid I was. I don’t need a shrink to psychoanalyze that self-assessment. I got it. I know it.

  I almost get out of the social justice warriors headquarters without thinking about Charlotte Temperance, the one social worker who did us right by getting Calem placed with us.

  Actually, I knew she worked out of this building, but I got distracted by the task at hand and forgot about her. For about thirty minutes.

  Temp is like a tick. Sucking my blood day and night. I’ve spent an embarrassing amount of time jacking off to that last image of her as she walked away toward her shitty, state-appointed minivan.

  I can have any woman I want. Hell, I do. But none of the pussies I dive into wipe my memory of that one day that I met her. That handful of minutes when Temp infiltrated my consciousness. She’s more than some disposable lay. Charlotte Temperance is a human being I want on some primal level I don’t wish to examine too closely.

  Movement at the edge of my sight jars me from my thoughts, and I turn slowly.

  The hall is utterly empty, a feat for this time of day. It’s as though the cosmos parted the seas of time for just that fractured moment between us.

  When I see her, I can’t contain my surprise. Just her, no one else occupies that space. That moment.

  We’re frozen as we take each other in.

  Then shock washes over me when I visually seize on the state of her face.

  I know damage caused by a fist when I see it. The yards that separate us aren’t enough to dim the shiner around her eye or the mark marring on the smooth fair skin of her neck, so stark against the inky color of her hair.

  The way she holds her body shouts “I’m in pain.”

  Her every expression stands out in stark relief. Those sea-colored eyes widen at whatever expression I don’t bother checking.

  Anger floods my system, followed quickly by its pal, adrenaline.

  Who the fuck put their hands on Temp?

  I stride down the long corridor like I own it.

  In the last month since I saw her, I’ve very much come to think of this woman as mine. I intend to find out who laid their hands on her.

  Chapter 3

  Temp

  Holy shit.

  The man I’ve been actively fantasizing about is coming at me like a runaway locomotive, murder on his chiseled features.

  My hair whips into my mouth as I frantically look around for anything t
hat might have caused that expression.

  Seeing nothing, I turn back to Puck, who is now standing before me.

  Oh, baby Jesus.

  He looms over me. “What in the fuck, Temp?”

  I lean back, my hands loose by my sides, and plant my non-dominate foot behind me like I’m a runner at the starting line. I feel the features of my face tighten at my next thought. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

  Puck grips my shoulder, and without any thought whatsoever, I rear back, sinking my fist into his gut. It’s a piercing strike, like I’ve trained for and done in real life.

  Puck bends over because I stole his breath.

  I retreat a step while he relearns how to breathe.

  Then he does the unexpected.

  Dropping to his knees, he wraps his arms around my legs. At first, I’m so surprised that my entire body relaxes. Then Puck tightens his hold and jerks me off my feet.

  Fuck!

  I slap my palms on the ground to arrest my fall, but the impact is still jarring. Biting my tongue, I groan, and the taste of copper pennies fills my mouth. The sharp pain only adds to the injuries I already have.

  Lifting one hand, I try to pry Puck off me.

  He’s not that easy to move. Unlike Ritchie, he has a hundred extra pounds of pure muscle, not a slab of lard.

  He’s pinned me with his body, my knees are flat at my sides, and he’s holding my wrists above my head with one of his hands. Our noses are Eskimo-kissing close.

  “What the absolute fuck was that?” he hisses, dark eyes tight.

  Shit. “Don’t hurt me,” I say in staccato gunfire reply.

  “Not planning to,” he says carefully, tossing his words between heaving breaths.

  “Let me go then.”

  His jaw clenches. “No fucking way. You’ll have my balls for earrings with those capable hands of yours.”

  I can’t help my lips tweaking at the corners, though every inch of me hurts. “Capable hands?”

  I guess he wasn’t going to hurt me after all. Bad call, Temp.

  But he was going to do something, and I’m fresh from my interaction with Lionel Ritchie, so forgive me so fucking much for jumping the fight-or-flight gun.

  “You’re hurting me,” I say, because it’s the truth.

  He frowns. “What?”

  “Wrists,” I hiss, my hand strained.

  Instantly, Puck releases my hands and sits back on his haunches, still hovering uncertainly above me, probably wondering if I’m a psycho bitch or just on my game. Maybe a little of both.

  “Move,” I say, aware that other people have entered the building.

  Footsteps are heading toward us in a hurry.

  Puck moves from above me then stands. He holds out a hand, and after a moment’s pause, I take it. His palm swallows mine, and I’m reminded how much larger than me he is.

  I surprised him, plain and simple. And that wouldn’t ever happen again. I got my pass this time. How could I have misjudged him so much? How did I not see that violent potential? I don’t have daddy issues or bad boy fantasies. I had a run-of-the-mill childhood, and though I speak Korean and have some traditions that aren’t strictly “American,” I’m still normal.

  I’m healthy and functional. As healthy and functional as someone in my line of work, who sees the stuff I do, can be, at least.

  But I’d just spent the better part of five weeks feeling like Puck was the one who got away.

  Nope.

  Turns out he’s got some issues. Ones I didn’t see.

  “Hey, lady, you okay?”

  We turn together, still holding hands, and look at a guy who’s obviously just come from a security job.

  His hand is on his weapon.

  Oh shit. This has gotten bad, fast.

  Puck makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “Calm down, buddy. I’m an ex-cop.”

  Nervous hazel eyes flick to my face then to Puck’s. “You do that to her face?”

  I feel Puck’s hand tense around mine and realize we’re still holding hands.

  I release his.

  “Hell no!” Puck denies loudly.

  Ignoring Puck, the guy turns to me. “He telling the truth?”

  I nod, clear my throat, and say, “Yeah. He didn’t do this to my face.”

  The good Samaritan’s brows hike. “Okay.” With an uneasy head shake, he walks away slowly. The other handful of people give us curious looks but disperse.

  Great, just great. Harvey read me the riot act, and I have another incident right here in the hall of my workplace. Nice. “Puck,” I begin in a low voice, and he turns.

  We face off for a breathless mess of heartbeats.

  Puck pegs hands to hips. “I think we got started off on the wrong foot.”

  I step back to avoid a crick in my neck from looking up at him. “That cliché works.”

  We stare some more.

  “Can we go somewhere else, Temp? Not loving the potential for an audience.” He jerks his jaw in a vague loop of the open hallway, which is quickly filling with people as though an invisible floodgate has been opened.

  I nod slowly then narrow my eyes at him. “Just don’t touch me.”

  The knot between his brow tightens. “Listen, Temp, let’s get something straight up front. I don’t hurt women.”

  “Then what were you doing by grabbing me?”

  He leans down until our noses are almost touching. “Forgive me if I was a little stunned to see someone had used your face as a punching bag.” His square jaw tightens, and I notice there’s a cleft at the center of his chin.

  Almost without a thought, I reach up and trace my finger over the natural divot.

  Puck’s eyes close for a shade longer than a blink.

  I drop my hand.

  “I’m sorry I socked you,” I say, my voice low.

  He blinks again, the typical notoriously long guy lashes sweep over those gorgeous brown irises. “Forgiven.”

  I hesitate for a beat then concede, “I’m shaken up still.”

  His wide smile is instant. “Clearly.”

  Puck turns, sweeping his arm in front of him. “Coffee’s safe.”

  Yes it is.

  As a sign of trust, I move in front of him, leading the way.

  I didn’t think it’d be hard to have Puck at my back. But proving through a gesture is harder than I thought it’d be.

  He was right.

  Being in public helps. I guess there’s just a sense of vulnerability I can’t shake.

  My body hurts. Period.

  And I’m confused. Lust and fear are all twined up together. I’ve been thinking about Puck in a what-if kind of way for weeks. Then to have him just show up out of the blue and come off like a polished version of Ritchie caused my brain to short-circuit or something.

  Now on top of all those other emotions, embarrassment inserts itself like a cherry on top of my slice of awkward cake.

  We walk to Starbucks. My work building is only blocks from Kent Station, which is blocks from—well, everything. A person can have almost anything at their fingertips.

  Coffee is a good start.

  Puck hits the handle of the glass Starbucks door with his palm and pushes it wide while straightening his arm.

  I walk through, and he lets the door swing closed behind us.

  Without waiting for me, he heads to the line and stands behind someone.

  I go stand next to him.

  Curious eyes flow over my face then look expectantly at Puck.

  This is so awful. A guy I was interested in—might still be, I admit to myself—is getting fingered for being my abuser.

  I wipe damp hands against my jeans.

  We reach the counter, and a girl who’s maybe eighteen years old, with a nametag that reads Madison, says, “What do ya want?”

  Puck turns to me, raising an eyebrow.

  I rattle off, “I’ll have a breve with whole cream instead of half and half, extra froth and sugar-free
caramel, please.”

  Madison gives me a bored look, painstakingly writes my weird order on the cup, then looks to Puck.

  “Black americano. Tall.”

  Madison can’t suppress a small eyeroll before she flounces off to give the empty cups to the barista.

  I rummage inside my clutch purse, searching for a five to cover my order.

  Puck restrains my hand by wrapping his fingers gently around my wrist.

  My sleeve rides us, revealing the ugly ring of bruises. We stare at the marks forming a handcuff around my wrist.

  “Fuck me,” Puck breathes out in a tone barely louder than a whisper.

  My throat makes a dry click as I swallow. “Yeah.”

  Madison comes back, and Puck tosses a twenty on the counter. The girl nods, her messy bun swinging back and forth on her head as she does.

  “Twelve dollars and thirty-nine cents,” she recites, but her voice is background noise.

  Because Puck is lightly fingering the wound around my sore hand. “I’d kill anyone who touched you like this again.”

  The girl fades, and I see only Puck. I hear only his voice. It’s as though only the two of us exist in that moment.

  He leans down, his breath warming my temple. “I might kill him now.”

  Puck straightens, and the girl drills the moment with her voice, “Your change.”

  I jump, and the frozen moment shatters.

  Puck releases me.

  The brand of his touch is a fiery tactile memory on my skin. I take a shaky inhale. I’m in trouble.

  This strange man is the most intoxicating mixture of tender brutality I’ve ever been witness to or ever conceived of.

  Suddenly, I want to fix him. And I want Puck to fix me.

  Does that even make sense?

  Puck smiles at my expression. It’s an evil little tilt of lips, full of secrets. And intent.

  After stuffing a couple of dollar bills into the tip jar, he breaks his promise to not touch me, taking my elbow as he guides me toward the counter where our coffees get plunked down.

  The gal bellows out his name, and he releases me to grab our coffees. Then he says, “Choose a seat where I can see the exit.”

  I give him a curious glance then scope out the seating.

  Not many people are having coffee at two in the afternoon. I walk straight to a pair of cozy overstuffed chairs and a small circular glass table seated on top of a rounded, squat stone pillar in front of a huge window.