Silver Bastard

by Joanna Wylde

She’d come soon. Then it’d be my turn and fuck if I could imagine anything on earth I’d ever wanted more. Becca exploded around my hand, pulsing and shuddering, clutching my fingers hard enough to remind me just how tight she’d been around my cock.

  “Holy shit,” she whispered as she came back down. “Holy shit. Puck, what the hell was that? What was that?”

  “You know damned well what it was,” I told her roughly, reaching down to unzip my pants. Condom. Needed a condom. Fuck, I didn’t have my wallet with me, it was back at my apartment. Okay, two options. I could go grab it or see if she had one . . . Both bad choices. Very bad choices. If I left, she might get away. And no fucking way I wanted to know if she had condoms.

  That’s when the phone rang.

  “Mom,” Becca said, her eyes growing wide. Damn. I might be fucked up, but even I knew that girls shouldn’t say “Mom” right after they come.

  It’s like a rule.

  The phone rang again. Becca pushed against my chest urgently.

  “I have to get that,” she muttered, eyes wide. I stayed put, wondering how the hell we’d gone from her screaming my name to talking about her mother. “She’s been trying to get hold of me. Something’s really wrong.”

  The phone kept ringing as it sank in. Becca had every intention of not finishing what we’d started. My cock throbbed, balls tight, and suddenly I was not a happy camper.

  “Call her back,” I growled. Becca punched my chest, face growing angry.

  “Get the fuck off me. I need to get the phone. Now.”

  BECCA

  Puck stared down at me, his eyes dark and his breath coming hard. I felt how much he wanted me—no way I could miss that dick of his shoved up between my legs—and I remembered exactly how it’d felt deep inside my body.

  Beautiful. Painful. Terrifying.

  The phone rang again.

  “I have to answer,” I whispered. “It’s important.”

  He growled at me and then rolled off, the sudden absence of his heat and weight painful. I jumped up and ran for the phone just as the answering machine kicked in. Mom’s voice filled the air.

  “Becca, where the hell are you?” she asked, her voice breathless. “You said to call you at home. I really need to talk to you, baby.”

  I caught the handset and hit the button before she could say any more. Behind me I sensed Puck radiating hostility and frustration. Nothing I could do about him right now, so I focused on the phone.

  “Mom, I’m here.”

  “Becca!” she replied, her voice full of relief. “I’m so glad you answered. Honey, I have to make this fast. Teeny is downstairs and he’s drunk again. I think he’s going to hurt me if I stay here. I need you to send me money so I can get away.”

  Her words slammed into me, shattering my emotions along different, conflicting trajectories. Fear, of course. And anger. Toward Teeny . . . toward her, because something about this sounded off, despite all my hopes. With Mom it always came back to money. Why would this time be any different?

  “Mom, I don’t have any extra money,” I said quietly. Behind me I heard Puck still, then he muttered something. Sticking a finger in my ear, I focused on my mother, ignoring him.

  “Baby, I get that you aren’t rolling in it,” she said. “But this is for real. This isn’t a late phone bill or the electricity or even a fucking car payment. That man is off his rocker and he says he’s going to kill me. I need to get away, and I need to get away soon. You have to send me money right now.”

  Her words chilled me. Kill her?

  “How much?”

  “Two thousand dollars.”

  I froze.

  “Mom, I don’t have that much.”

  “You’ve got a car, right?”

  “Not one that’s worth two grand,” I said bluntly. “I could sell everything I own and not have that much.”

  “Figure something out,” she replied desperately. “Baby, I can’t get away without your help and I can’t stay here. I know I’ve been a crappy parent—I realize that. But I love you, I’ve always loved you, and I know you love me.”

  “Mom, this isn’t about whether I love you. I don’t have the money and I can’t just make it appear out of the air.”

  “Can you borrow it from someone?” she pressed. “Make some guy feel good, then hit him up for a loan?”

  My stomach twisted.

  “No.”

  “You’re pretty, always have been,” she wheedled. “Why don’t you go to a strip club? You could earn that money in a night or two, send it down to me. I’d do it myself, but they’d never take me. Not like I am now. I’m too old, baby.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to picture taking off my clothes in front of a crowd of staring men. No. No way. How dare she even consider asking me that?

  “I can empty my tip jar,” I said. “But it’s not much, maybe fifteen or twenty bucks. I’ll send it to you tomorrow. It’s the best I can do.”

  Her voice turned hard.

  “He’s going to kill me,” she snapped. “What kind of girl lets her mother die because she’s too good to take off her clothes? You did a lot more than that down here, and don’t think I’ve forgotten how you cried when you left. You didn’t want to ride off with that boy—I forced you to go, to save your life. Now you won’t do the same for me?”

  My stomach heaved, and I swayed. Why? Why did she have to do this?

  “I’ll send you my tip money,” I repeated slowly. “There must be someone else you can ask, Mom. Can you steal some money from Teeny while he’s sleeping?”

  “You’re ungrateful,” she hissed, hanging up on me. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to steady myself, setting the phone on the table. What the hell was that all about? Should I believe her?

  No.

  It couldn’t be that bad. Mom was a survivor. If she really wanted to leave her husband she could just climb in her car and leave—I knew Teeny. He’d get mad, maybe smack her around a bit. Then he’d pass out and she could run away.

  “Why would you send that woman anything?”

  I jumped, turning to face Puck. He loomed over me, anger written all over his face, and my breath caught.

  “I forgot you were here.”

  His face darkened.

  “Got what you want from me?” he asked, his voice mocking. Then he reached down and grabbed his dick through his jeans, squeezing it lewdly. “Because you left me hanging.”

  Seriously? My eyes narrowed.

  “My mom says Teeny is going to kill her,” I said, emphasizing each word carefully. “She needs two grand to get away and come up here. Your dick is not a priority, under the circumstances.”

  “Bullshit,” he replied, snorting. “She needs two grand to buy drugs, or pay someone off so they don’t plant your stepdad in the ground, where he belongs.”

  I shrugged awkwardly, because he wasn’t necessarily wrong. Not that I wanted to concede the point.

  “She sounded different this time,” I said, and I hated the hint of weakness that crept in my voice. He probably thought I was a gullible fool. Maybe I was. Or maybe she’d finally had enough and wanted to get out. Could I ever forgive myself if Teeny hurt her seriously? “I want to save her from him.”

  “Come here.”

  “Why?” I asked. Puck raised a brow.

  “We weren’t finished.”

  “My mom just called and told me her husband was going to kill her,” I told him desperately. “And you still want to have sex? What kind of asshole says that?”

  He stepped forward and caught my hand, pressing it down against the front of his jeans. His fingers wrapped around mine, squeezing his cock. Dark red stained his cheek, the white of his scar standing out. Sometimes I forgot just how scary Puck could be.

  “The kind of asshole who knows she’s playing you. And yeah, I still want to have sex,” he said. “Been thinkin’ about it for five years, ever since I took you away from that hellhole. Remember? Because it was a hellhole and she’s the fucki
ng devil. That bitch pimped you out and now you’re going to send her money? What the fuck are you smoking?”

  I stiffened. Jerk. Of course, he wasn’t the only one I was angry at, but he was here.

  “She’s my mom,” I told him. “And despite everything, I love her. I don’t know why, but I do and you have no right to judge me for that. I’m not planning to send her a bunch of money. I don’t have a bunch of money. But if I did, it wouldn’t be any of your damned business.”

  Puck leaned down, his face right in mine, a muscle in his jaw flexing.

  “It’s my business now.”

  “Since when?”

  “I’m thinkin’ right about the time you came all over me, screaming my name.”

  I gasped, pulling my hand away from him. Or rather, trying to pull my hand away, because he wasn’t exactly letting it go. Then his other hand came around the back of my neck, jerking me forward into him. His lips covered mine and his tongue tried to push inside. But I still heard my mom’s voice in my head. “He’s going to kill me.”

  I bit Puck’s lip, and it wasn’t a love bite.

  “Jesus,” he said, jerking back. His tongue flicked out, exploring the small cut, which was starting to bleed.

  “We made a mistake,” I said, trying not to look at him. This was hard, considering he was still gripping the back of my neck. I tried to break free, but his fingers tightened, reminding me how much stronger than me he was.

  That’s when the reality of the situation hit.

  I might be worked up about my mom, but there was a big, strong man holding me who was worked up over the fact that he hadn’t gotten his happy ending.

  A scary biker man.

  I licked my lips, suddenly worried for a different reason.

  “I don’t want to have sex,” I blurted out.

  “You did five minutes ago.”

  My eyes searched his, looking for a hint of softness or compassion. All I saw was blazing need tempered with anger. Puck’s hands tightened. I raised my free arm and touched his chest, wishing I could reach in there and find whatever compassion he might keep hiding deep inside.

  There certainly wasn’t any visible on the surface.

  I swallowed. “I really want to go to sleep. Alone. Tonight wasn’t what I planned and I have a lot to think about.”

  “So now you’re telling me you didn’t want it? Because my fingers are still sopping wet from your cunt. Call me crazy, but that usually means a bitch is into it.”

  Bitch? Oh, I didn’t like that. Not one bit. I forgot my momentary fear, defaulting back to pissed off. This was better—anger worked for me.

  “Let. Me. Go,” I gritted out. Puck glared at me, then let go so abruptly I almost fell over.

  “You’re crazy,” he said, stepping back. “I’ve done nothing but take care of you, yet one phone call from that cunt and you forget all about me. Don’t fucking pretend you weren’t as into this as I was—now you’ve got what you wanted and it’s all over.”

  “Yeah, I guess I’m guilty,” I hissed. “I’m attracted to you, asshole, so when you started pushing I didn’t say no, because it felt good. Is that a crime? Maybe you think I’m a slut, so fuck you for that. But even sluts get a vote in who they sleep with. There’s something scary in you, Puck. I know what you really are, and I don’t want anything to do with it. You’re strong and you hit people and I want to talk to someone about my mom, but all you care about is sex!”

  “Bullshit,” he said, shaking his head. “I could’ve fucked you years ago if I only cared about sex, Becs. But I actually give a shit about you, so I left you alone. But don’t worry—I’m not a complete moron. I can smell crazy from a mile away and it’s startin’ to stink in here, so let’s lay this out. Your bitch mother made you fuck strange men. I saved your ass. Why the hell should either of us waste one more second of our lives on the cunt?”

  I gritted my teeth, my hands trembling from way too many feelings exploding all at once.

  “Because you were one of those men,” I told him, my voice cold and hard. “In case you don’t remember? Teeny made me fuck you. I got my orders and I followed them. I’m glad you saved me afterward, but don’t think for one minute that made it any easier when you pushed me down on that bed and shoved your cock up my ass. That hurt, Puck. A lot. So much I could hardly sit on that fucking bike of yours when she forced me onto it. Do you remember that part? Mom saw a chance to get me out and she took it—and don’t you think for a minute that was easy for her. For all she knew, he’d kill her for it and she did it anyway. So you keep telling yourself that you’re a big fucking hero and my mom’s evil for what she did to me, but I’m not stupid enough to fall for it. There weren’t any good guys at that party. You were all bad. All of you. Now get the fuck out of my apartment.”

  He stared at me, and for once he didn’t have a damned thing to say.

  Nope.

  Puck Redhouse just blinked at me like a big, dumb idiot.

  “The door’s over there,” I reminded him coolly.

  “You’re a real fuckin’ bitch.”

  I shrugged.

  “Better a bitch than a rapist. Get out.”

  SEVEN

  SATURDAY

  BECCA

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I studied my reflection, looking for some clue as to how or why I was such a head case. The mirror showed nothing new, nothing interesting to indicate that I’d had one of the best orgasms of my life last night, followed by a complete emotional meltdown.

  Oh, and there was ripping apart the man who probably saved my life. That was nice, too. A woman should really look a little different after something like that, yet here I was. Just the usual plain brown hair, boring eyes, and mouth that could probably do with a hint of lip gloss if I wanted to go out anywhere. At least my teeth were clean . . . I couldn’t brush away the memories, but I had damned fresh breath. That should count for something, right?

  Of course a good night’s sleep would’ve counted for more, but I’d fucked that up, too. Instead I’d spent hours sewing furiously, my Singer’s hum filling the apartment as I shredded the salvaged materials filling my fabric bin. Nothing turned out right, no matter what I tried to create. They were all hideous and wrong, just like me.

  I’d collapsed on the floor at five that morning, passing out from exhaustion.

  The phone rang, and I grabbed it, expecting to hear Danielle’s voice. She’d promised to call me this morning once she woke up. We had a date to do our nails at eleven, a weekly ritual I’d come to treasure for a variety of reasons, not least of which was the opportunity to experiment on a willing victim who never complained when my design innovations failed to translate.

  “Becca?”

  “Mom?” I asked, startled. She’d been so angry last night. My argument with Puck kept replaying in my head. He’d been right—she’d hurt me so many times. Why should I be giving her any more of my soul?

  Because you love her, my heart whispered. This sucked, because it was true.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” she said, her voice subdued. “I couldn’t sleep all night. I shouldn’t have talked to you like that. You need to take care of yourself. I understand.”

  “Are you okay?”

  She didn’t respond, then she coughed, her voice sounding rough.

  “I’m fine,” she whispered, and I knew she wasn’t.

  “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine. You don’t worry about me. I’m sure it’ll be okay.”

  “Did he hurt you last night?”

  She hesitated again. “You know how he gets. I think he broke my arm. It’s all swollen, but I can’t go to the doctor. I’ll get one shot to leave, baby. I can’t waste it.”

  A giant, vicious hand caught my gut and squeezed it hard.

  “I’m going to count up the change in my tip jar,” I whispered. “I’ll send it to you. Maybe I can sell something.”

  “It won’t be enough. Don’t bother.”


  “Mom . . .”

  “Baby, it’s over. You have to live your life. I love you.”

  Then she hung up the phone. I stared down at it, stunned, then ran for the bathroom. I barely reached the toilet in time, and then I was heaving and throwing up until my stomach ached and throat burned.

  I had to figure something out. I couldn’t let Teeny kill my mother.

  Unfortunately, I had no idea how to stop him.

  —

  Nothing felt real after that.

  I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I cleaned up the mess of shredded fabric and loose threads I’d created the night before. Then Danielle called, reminding me to bring over my laundry for our manicure date. I carried all of it down to my car, lost in thought.

  What a crazy week.

  First the job, now my mom . . . Oh, and Puck. What the hell was I supposed to do about Puck? Maybe I wouldn’t have to do anything about him—if he had half a brain he’d never talk to me again. Not after I exploded my crazy all over him like some kind of swollen, bloated tomato left to rot in the sun.

  I glanced over at the doorway to Puck’s building, wondering if he was home.

  I owed him an apology.

  He’d been a dick, no question. But calling him a rapist went too far because it flat-out wasn’t true. He’d had no idea what was really happening that strange, life-changing night. He thought I was some girl he met at a party, some normal girl who wanted to sleep with him and I’d encouraged that impression. When he’d figured it out, he did the right thing even though leaving me would’ve been a thousand times easier.

  He’d called me a bitch last night, and he’d been right.

  Now I needed to act like an adult and own what I’d done. Would my temper ever stop getting me into trouble?

  Walking down the alley, I felt caught between conflicting emotions. I hoped he’d be there so I could say I was sorry and get it over with. I also hoped he wouldn’t answer the door, because facing him was going to suck and I didn’t want to do it. What happened next was completely anticlimactic. I reached for the stairwell door only to find it locked. No buzzer, no intercom, no way of signaling someone upstairs that they had company. I looked around for his bike but couldn’t see it anywhere. Wherever Puck was, I had no way of contacting him.