Puck Buddies
Page 1
Puck Buddies
A Novel by Tara Brown
Copyright 2016 Tara Brown
http://TaraBrown22.blogspot.com
Amazon Edition
This ebook is a work of fiction and is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. No alteration or copying of content is permitted. This book is a work of the author’s crazy mind—any similarities are coincidental. Any similarities are by chance and not intentional.
Cover Art by Wicked Book Covers
Edited by Andrea Burns
Other Books by Tara Brown
The Devil’s Roses
Cursed
Bane
Hyde
Witch
Death
Blackwater
Midnight Coven
Redeemers
Betrayers
The Born Trilogy
Born
Born to Fight
Reborn
The Light Series
The Light of the World
The Four Horsemen
The End of Days
Imaginations
Imaginations
Duplicities
Blood and Bone
Blood and Bone
Sin and Swoon
Soul and Blade
Crimson Cove Mysteries
If At First
Second Nature
Third Time’s a Charm
The Blood Trail Chronicles
Vengeance
Vanquished
The Single Lady Spy Series
The End of Me
The End of Games
The End of Tomorrow
My Side
The Long Way Home
The Lonely
LOST BOY
First Kiss
Sunder
In The Fading Light
For Love or Money
White Girl Problems
Roommates
Note from the author:
This is the order of publishing, not the reading order. Read them however you want. You decide.
Roommates
Puck Buddies
Bed Mates – coming soon
Prologue
Matt
February 28, 2015
I stumble down the stairs, leaning on my friend Brady and laughing.
We stagger along the path from my boathouse to the main house, both of us cooling off quickly in the frigid wind.
“Good game tonight, Brimstone.” Fairfield nods at me as he passes us, leading some brunette back to the boathouse at the bottom of the property. She giggles and trips but he catches her, lifting her into the air and making noises like he’s a car. He’s such a douche.
I hate that Carson brought him to my house. We both dislike the asshole. But it’s how society works. Had we slighted him on the invite there would have been parental issues. As in mine would have had a shit fit. It doesn’t matter how old I get or removed from it I become, escaping this world is like getting out of Alcatraz.
But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Did you see that dipshit?” I point behind us when I know Fairfield can’t hear me.
“The brunette with the big boobs?” Brady spins, confusedly.
“No, the dick with the brunette.” I chuckle. “Of course you only saw the girl.”
“What?” Brady scowls. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“What about the dick?”
“He’s dating this girl—not the brunette—some other girl. Anyway, he breaks up with her randomly so he can get with other girls. And then when he’s done with them, he gets back with the girl afterward, so technically he didn’t cheat.”
“Bro.” Brady lifts a swaying finger. “That’s a legit play, bro. Don’t hate the player, hate the game. That’s a real way to get off scot-free. No drama.”
“You’re a moron.”
“Whatever.” He grabs his groin. “Men have needs.” He laughs, leaving his hand there too long.
“You mean to tell me if you met the one—the girl who just did it for you—you’d cheat on her if you could get away with it?” He can’t understand the way I do. He’s never been in love. Brady doesn’t believe in it.
“Naw, man. But that’s a unicorn you’re talking about. That girl doesn’t exist. I’m never going to be dumb enough to fall in love. It’s a pain in the ass. My brother used to be cool. Now he’s whipped as hell.” He loses the cocky grin. “But for real, if I ever did fall in love like how he is, and I didn’t kill myself, I wouldn’t cheat. Cheating is something scum does.”
“Right. I enjoyed the kill yourself part though. You’re an idiot.” I steer us toward the house, fighting the breeze the whole way.
“Girls aren’t part of the schedule. Finish my degree and get to the pros, that’s it.”
“Good luck with that schedule.” I chuckle, remembering how I’d had one too. I used to have all kinds of rules.
“My dad never cheated. He was married for a pretty long time, and he never cheated before he died.” He nods his head at the house casually, like he hasn’t just dropped the dead-dad bomb. “I think I need to take a piss. This isn’t the kind of house where you piss on the grass, is it?”
“No. My mom will kill you.” I point to the large door at the far side of the courtyard. “Go through there and go to the first door on the right. I’ll meet you upstairs.”
“Roger that.” He lifts a thumb in the air and staggers for the wrong door. We’ve been friends for years but he rarely comes here. There’s a good chance of my mom hitting on him here.
“He’s going to piss in your mom’s planters.”
Spinning around I come face to face with the girl I was just talking about. “He probably is.” I don’t even turn back to check on him. I don’t care and I can’t look away from her. I have a terrible suspicion she won’t be here if I do and this will be a drunk-induced hallucination.
Only she doesn’t appear the way I would imagine her in this moment. She’s different from everyone else at the party. She’s in jeans, a parka, and a wooly hat—something the Canadians would call a toque. “It’s a cabin fever party.” I point at her jeans. “Bathing suits and flowery shirts.” I glance down at my own bare legs and flip-flops.
“Yeah, I gathered.”
“How are you?” I ask too quickly, desperate for her. It’s the weirdest feeling, but I don't bother fighting it. I gave up on that the moment I lost her.
“Good. I just came to bring a bunch of stuff you gave me when we were in Kentucky. I didn't think you were here. I just assumed your gran would want her cookbook back.” She doesn't sound like she wants to hurt me, but her words and coldness toward me do. “I wouldn’t have stopped in if I’d known there was a party.”
“It’s in the boathouse. Everyone’s down there.” I shiver slightly from the cold air on my bare arms and legs but fight looking cold. “Wanna come in?” She came to this house to be rid of me and my things, knowing I never come here. She wanted to avoid me.
“No.” She says it breathy, in almost a whisper. Her face is filled with regret, but I don’t know which part she’s thinking about. Which acts she regrets. I suspect it’s all the moments I wouldn’t change, even if my life depended on it. They flash in the back of my mind, each one slicing me.
She bites her lip, maybe fighting saying something she’ll also regret, maybe just to avoid talking until she mutters, “It was a good game tonight.”
“I know.” Her expression changes for a second, possibly a twitch, but she doesn’t say anything. She waves and turns. “I have to go.”
“Wait.” I jog over and spin her around. “Wait.” I say it softer the second time. “Don’t go.” I step in closer, brushing her hair away from her face. “Stay with me.”
She lifts her gaze that hardens when her eyes meet mine. “Why?”
“Because I need you.” I drop to my knees, in the snow. “Forgive me. I’m crazy about you and I fucked up.”
Her lips toy with a smile but her eyes are flooded with emotions. She blinks, losing some of them down her cheeks. “Try not to get too drunk, Beast. You have a game in two days.” She pulls out of my hands and turns away, leaving me there to freeze to death.
It’s not the snow and the cold that will be the death of me.
It’s my own stupidity.
Chapter One
Beer-soaked boobies
Sami
Oxford Circus, London
January 1, 2011
5:03 am
Walking past Banana Republic, I look at the blouse on the mannequin and then down at the beer-soaked dress I’m wearing, wishing I could say someone else dumped the pitcher on my chest.
I also wish I had the balls to just smash the window, take her clothes, and leave mine on her. A new outfit might offer a new perspective or even a new opportunity for an otherwise wasted night—wasted life.
Even with the night long gone and the morning here, cold and damp as usual, I don’t feel any newness in the New Year.
I suspect it’ll be the same crap year I just had, only this one I’m graduating. That is one bonus, a little more freedom from my parents.
I shiver as I stroll, hating that London and New York share the same wintery weather, and I can’t say I like either version. Wrapping my arms around myself to stay warm, I want to regret staying in London the extra week but I can’t. The South of France might have been a better spot to party with far better weather, but London taught me something I didn’t know. An important life lesson: boyfriends are bullshit. Love is bullshit. People pretending to be in love is the biggest bullshit.
I’m glad I’m free of Drew, that moron. I can’t believe I dated him for three months. It’s my new record. Actually, the part I can’t believe is that I made it past the first week. His being a Londoner likely helped. We didn’t see much of each other.
My feet are killing me, so I pull off my Louboutin boots and slip on the Tieks I have in my purse. Luckily, I brought my hobo bag instead of a traditional New Year’s clutch. I stuff the boots into the bag and sigh as the teal ballet flats bring me back to life. Pins and needles join the sensation of blood rushing back into my feet.
I look ridiculous in flats with my short midnight-colored cocktail dress, but the boots had run out of blocks left in them four streets back. The ballet flats can go all night, or all day rather.
As I continue down the dark street I glimpse my haggard reflection in a shadowy window and jump. I stop to stare at the mess I am and contemplate calling a car. But by the time the driver gets out of bed, into the car, and here, I could be home in bed.
I drum my nails against my lip, staring at my absurd ensemble in the glass, trying to recall when I saw a cab last.
Normally, Oxford Circus is flooded with them, but in the wee hours of the morning there’s no one here.
The street gets chillier—no, creepier—as I do a full circle and see nothing and no one around me.
I’m alone, in London, in the dark. Like in one of those stupid movies Nat made me watch where the world ends and God forgot to tell the star of the show. She’s alone in the city with her dog and zombies.
Being alone creeps me out more than anything, stuck with only the sound of my own voice and the empty echo of the wind.
I turn and rush past the shops, searching for the tube station. There’s one around here somewhere. I map it on my phone, walking faster as I turn the corners, past the rounded edges of the old gray buildings.
While I’ve been to London more times than I can count, I’ve only ridden the tube a handful of times. But it’s five in the morning, I’m still a bit drunk, and not in the mood to wait, and it’s doubtful I will happen upon a cab.
I hurry to the entrance to the underground, slightly smiling at the red circle with the blue stripe but losing the happy expression when I see it’s not open. My shoulders slump as my plan crashes. It’s exactly the end of the miserable night I should have seen coming.
I want to lift my head to the night sky and ask exactly what I did to deserve this, but I think I know the answer so I just stare at the closed doors.
“Shit. Is it closed?”
I jump, turning to find a guy close to my age with an American accent. “Yes,” I say, trying to slow my breaths from the shock of meeting a stranger in the dark.
“Well, that sucks.” He looks partied out, wearing a rumpled midnight-blue suit that almost matches my dress. His silvery white dress shirt is loose around his neck and the tie is gone, ripped off no doubt, evident in the way his stiff collar is sitting to one side. The lipstick on his cheek, noticeable in the faint glow of the streetlights, is smeared and too pink for his tanned skin tone, so I have to assume a lady friend tore off his tie and wrinkled his suit.
Dry humping will do that every time.
His eyes trail my dress and then his suit. “We look like we planned our outfits.”
“Yeah.” I bite my lip, recognizing him from somewhere and hoping it isn’t some nasty one-night stand. I hate the awkwardness of “I’ve seen you naked and not at your finest, but now we’re at a café with other people so let’s pretend we’ve never met.”
“Well, this is bullshit,” he mutters but I’m stuck staring at his clothes. His calfskin wingtip dress shoes with their burnt reddish hue are exactly the shoes I would have picked for that suit. But he doesn’t seem like the metro type who would know haute couture from a sale at Bloomingdale’s.
Did the lipstick dress him? Did she force the suit and tie?
“Well, shit. For a city known for its cabs, I haven’t seen a black cab in an hour.”
“Are you for real?” I tilt my head.
“What?” He gives me a lazy grin, the kind that normally ends with my skirt up around my waist.
“You can’t say black cab. That’s racist.” I scoff at him. “And most of the cabbies here are white.”
“Seriously?” He laughs. “This your first time here?”
“No.”
“Whatever.” He jerks his head to the right. “I’m headed this way. You wanna walk and see if we can’t find a cab? It might not be safe for you to walk alone.”
“No. I’ll call a car.” I lift my phone and groan, “Never mind. My phone’s dying at this very moment, because why not?” The swirling image hits the screen just before it goes dark. “Shit.”
“Mine died hours ago. Not that I would recall the number to my car. I don’t even know my own phone number.” He yawns. “Look, it’s like fifty degrees out. I’m freezing. Let’s just walk. You shouldn’t be out at this time of night anyway. Where are you going?”
“Hyde Park.”
“Me too.” He sounds tired. “Come on.” He takes his jacket off and puts it around my shoulders, offering me his arm.
“Thanks.” He’s a gentleman. I should be leery of the stranger-danger thing, but he’s American, and I can’t help but trust one polite American over the possibility of meeting a group of random guys in an alley while I have no cell phone.
“No prob.” He takes in a deep inhale and smiles. “I love London at night. There’s no traffic.”
“I�
�ve never seen London this early.”
“Or late.” He’s chipper for the hour.
“No.”
We walk past the old buildings while he natters on about random things, and I focus on not noticing how sexy he is. The lipstick is like garlic to a vampire for me so it’s easy to avoid flirting, although I can’t help but appreciate the work of art he is.
The dim streetlights are just bright enough to note his perfect suit body. Not only is he big and tall, but the pants are clearly tailored to show it off. The way his ass sort of lifts the pants draws my gaze. He doesn’t have a big ass but he’s got a fit one—perky maybe.
In the dress shirt, his shoulders and arms are massive, stretching the material just slightly. It’s a good look, apart from the lipstick on his cheek and shirt showing he’s already had a ride tonight. He’s actually got other girl on him, at this moment, which for me is up there with cologne I don’t like.
But who am I to criticize?
At least he hasn’t got half a brewery on him.
“So where are you from?” He lifts a hand, halting me. “Wait—let me guess—I think I’m good at this. I noticed a bit of a New York accent there, only the refined side of the city. You’re an Upper East Side, Hamptons brat, aren’t you? A debutante or something like that.” His eyes dazzle and I love the fact he has no idea who I am.
“Something like that.”
“I’m kind of from Kentucky, but I’ve been living in the North longer than I ever lived in the South.”
“Cool.”
He’s stupid hot. How is it when I’ve had the worst night ever, the beer-soaked clothes prove it, I run into the hottest guy in London?
God hates me, that’s why.
The way this guy talks and walks reeks of polite confidence, my kryptonite. Not just cute boys though. I like cute boys who know they’re cute, and despite being covered in kiss marks, they have enough manners and poise to say and do whatever they want while not being a dick. Not because they can’t be a dick but because they choose not to be. Like a billionaire who chooses to fight crime at night. It’s a fine line to be cool, confident, and forward without being a bossy jerk.