Wanna Puck?

by Layla Valentine

  I was a puddle of molten satisfaction. I sank into his bed as if I were one with it, my consciousness drifting on a hazy glow. He kissed my shoulder tenderly, indicated breathlessly that I should move to the pillow, then collapsed beside me.

  Snuggled into his Egyptian cotton sheets with his masculine scent all around me, I fought against the urge to drift off to sleep.

  I knew better than to sleep beside a one-night stand; something about dreaming in the same sphere, or lying skin-to-skin forged a bond which overwhelmed logic. I had broken my own heart that way more than once, and I had been determined not to do it again.

  In the last second, in my last glimmer of conscious thought, I told myself I really should get up and leave; but then his warm, heavy arm wrapped around my waist and he trailed his fingers lightly over my belly.

  With a comfortable, satisfied sigh, I drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  Golden sunlight kissed me awake, and I stretched luxuriously out on the infinitely comfortable bed. He must have spent thousands on this, I thought blissfully. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, a delirious smile already playing around my lips.

  I turned toward where I expected him to be, only to find his side of the bed empty. Curious and lazy, my gaze roamed around the spacious bedroom for a clock. The one on the bedside table said 8:16, which was better than I had expected.

  “Mm, good sleep,” I murmured as I stretched again. “Now, where did he say the bathroom was?”

  I padded around naked, opening doors. There should be a bathroom attached to this bedroom, shouldn’t there? I found the closet first, just as a door opened behind me.

  “Looking for something?” Dante’s voice asked, hard and suspicious.

  “Just the bathroom,” I said breezily, still too happy from last night’s adventure to get defensive.

  Dante pointed at the third door in the room, and I thanked him. I gave him an extra little wiggle as I walked into the bathroom, hoping I could convince him to give me a repeat performance. There was nothing like a bit of horizontal cardio to start the day off right.

  But when I returned, he was already fully dressed, looking bored and a little impatient. He had my clothes in his hand, and he shoved them at me as I approached.

  “Oh…um, thanks,” I said, confused by the sudden change in his demeanor.

  “Yep.”

  “I had a great time last night,” I said, watching his face to gauge his reaction.

  He smiled briefly, absently scanning the room. Confusion was beginning to pound into some sickening mix of shame and fury in my chest, and I turned my back on him to dress in peace.

  “Hope you got enough for your story,” he said with an oddly gloating tone.

  “I have enough to get me started, at least.” Dressed and composed, I turned back to him. “Did I do something to piss you off?” I asked bluntly.

  Surprise finally broke through the detached look on his face.

  “Not at all,” he said. “You got what you wanted; I got what I wanted. It was a satisfying transaction.”

  “Transaction,” I repeated bitterly.

  He just shrugged casually and glanced at the door as if he were impatient for me to leave. I shoved my feet into my shoes, clenched my trembling hands into fists, and found my purse.

  “I’ll just forget about that dancing date you invited me on, I suppose?” I asked with acid in my tone.

  Half a dozen expressions brushed his face, none of which solidified. His only answer was a nonchalant shrug.

  “I see.”

  I was seething. With all of my things on my person and in hand, I stormed to the door and yanked it open. I was halfway down the hall when I realized he was behind me.

  “I can see myself out,” I snapped.

  “I have no doubt,” he said, but didn’t leave my side.

  “What is wrong with you? Are you actually two people, or do you just like screwing with women?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me. I like to win, and I know what it takes to win. Don’t take it personally.”

  “Don’t take it personally!? How the hell else am I supposed to take it?” I demanded, whirling on him.

  “Look, darlin’,” he said, setting his hands on my shoulders as if I were a child on the brink of a meltdown. “You’ve got your own game to win. Keep your eyes on the prize. You got what you came for, didn’t you?”

  More than what I came for, really, I thought. I raised my chin defiantly.

  “You need help,” I told him. “Normal people don’t change their whole personalities overnight.”

  “I didn’t.” He shrugged, letting his arms drop. “I’m a competitive person. You knew this before you talked to me. You’re just missing one tiny detail.”

  “Which is?” I demanded, my hand on the front doorknob.

  Dante smirked, an expression which should have made him less attractive, but somehow didn’t.

  “Palmer and I aren’t just competing on the ice,” he said. “And goals aren’t the only things we’re scoring.”

  Every nerve in my body fired and I froze. He didn’t mean…?

  “Quit speaking in code.”

  “Really? I thought a writer would understand subtlety. Ah, well. Palmer and I are competing to see how many women we can bed before the end of the season. Thanks to you, I’m winning.” His smirk grew wider, making him look almost menacing.

  I hated myself for the sudden twist of arousal deep inside of me. With my heart pounding fit to burst, I suppressed the urge to claw his eyes out. Composure regained, I looked up at him, meeting his smoldering eyes with shards of ice.

  “You know, last night I was impressed at how mature and sophisticated you were for a jock,” I spat. “I thought you would be above these stupid, immature, childish games. Clearly I was wrong.”

  I didn’t wait for him to answer before I stormed out, slamming the door behind me. I cursed him all the way down the hallway, into the elevator, and out the lobby. Once outside, I realized I didn’t have my car, and cursed him again. Shivering with rage as much as cold, I called a cab.

  Chapter 8

  My fury only increased when I stepped out of my elevator to find my neighbor Luis lurking by my front door. His ratty bathrobe hung to his knees, exposed in the cutoff pajama pants he wore. His scalp glistened within the nest of thin blond hair which he insisted on keeping in spite of his rapidly spreading forehead. He always seemed to be hovering in the hallway, but this was the first time I had caught him at my door.

  “Did you need something?” I asked as civilly as possible.

  “Oh! There you are…oh.” He looked me up and down disapprovingly. “Walk of shame, I see.”

  “That only works if I’m ashamed of myself,” I pointed out lightly.

  “I see,” he said, his frown becoming a glower. “You know, young lady, you should really be more careful about your reputation. There are some terrible characters around.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said seriously. “Mrs. Morales told me just yesterday that there’s some creep in the building going around looking backwards through peepholes.”

  He flushed bright red and shuffled away from my door. I moved past him to unlock my door when he grabbed my wrist, and I froze.

  “If you need a chaperone, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” I hissed, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Can I go now?”

  Without waiting for an answer, I yanked my arm away and unlocked my door as quickly as I could. Luis opened his mouth to speak, but I ducked inside and slammed the door before he could. His irritating presence would have been a mere annoyance most days, but today it only stoked my rage.

  With my mind filled with everything that was wrong with the male species, I marched to my computer. I was set on writing the most scathing, career-destroying expose on Mr. Drake that I could come up with. My fingers flew over the keys, fueled by my hurt.

  Dante Drake: Heartthrob, star player, ass
hole. Yes, dear readers, the man you all love and adore is one-hundred-percent douche bag, and I will tell you why. Mr. Drake is not only determined to ruin Joel Palmer, he is dead set on ruining every woman who has the misfortune of crossing his path. He will whip up your emotions, see into your soul, and then…

  I paused, hands poised, waiting for instruction. The “and then” was tripping me up, filling my mind with memories from the night before.

  “And then he’ll rock your world,” I mumbled, staring off into space.

  My body still held the impression of him. His firm torso. His gentle, demanding hands. His talented mouth, and God, those lips. A hot chill rushed over me, pooling in my belly.

  “No, damn it! I’m pissed,” I scolded myself. “Who does he think he is, using me that way? How many women has he slept with and tossed aside? Somebody needs to warn them.”

  I glared at the cursor flashing on the screen, willing my brain to put the words together. They wouldn’t come, and I had a sneaking suspicion that I knew why. I didn’t want to ruin him, not really. An article like this would not only end his career, it would kill his chances at having a fulfilling personal life.

  Not that he deserves one, I thought bitterly. But still…did I even have it in me to be that cruel?

  I did, and I knew it. If I were pushed to it, I could be the most vindictive person I knew. But Dante was right; I got exactly what I came for, and it was glorious. I didn’t regret the dinner and I certainly didn’t regret the sex. The only wound I carried lay on my pride, and my pride wasn’t worth a man’s livelihood. With a heavy sigh, I selected everything I had written and deleted it.

  “Congratulations, you get the ‘I wasn’t a bitch today’ gold star,” I muttered to myself.

  I was far from finished with him, though. He would not get away with making me his pawn in this childish game. I refused to allow anyone to control me like that—unless it was in the bedroom, and the control was firm but gentle…

  I shook the thought away. How on earth was I supposed to stay angry at him with those images replaying in my head? I fixed a scowl to my face and set my mind on a more active path.

  “Can’t undo it,” I murmured. “Wouldn’t want to, though. No, bad thoughts! Focus.”

  I rocked in my chair with my knees tucked under my chin, staring at the blank page on the computer screen as if it would magically tell me what to do. I felt like the solution was right in front of me, but somehow I kept missing it.

  I absently began reshuffling the pile of papers and stray notes on my desk, stacking by size, then color, then…something fell out of the stack, onto my lap.

  “Joel Palmer—All-star player, sex god. Ha! Really?” His phone number was printed underneath, with “Call me” printed in tiny letters under that.

  “Can you get any more disgustingly sure of yourself, Mr. Palmer?”

  But I was beaming. The pieces all fell together with that single little card. I knew exactly what I needed to do.

  “H’lo?” he answered, his voice thick and sleepy.

  “Hello, Mr. Palmer,” I said, keeping my voice low and just the tiniest bit husky. “This is Livia Ramos, the reporter.”

  “Mm? Oh! Hello, Livia.”

  I could feel his leering grin over the phone, and I rolled my eyes, suppressing my laughter.

  “I really appreciate you giving me your number.” I oozed sensual suggestion with no subtlety whatsoever. I didn’t trust him to pick up on subtlety. “I was left terribly unsatisfied after our quickie interview. I would really, really love to talk to you again.”

  “Well, well! I would love for you to talk to me again. Couldn’t really talk with my agent right there—you know, he gets a little bit picky about what goes in print. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with yet.” He let out a little grunt, as if he had just flexed a muscle. He was utterly, delightfully transparent.

  “Oh, good,” I cooed. “The sooner the better! I’m just aching to get this story.”

  “Aching, are you? Well, I know how to handle that. Just call me Doctor Palmer.”

  After a millisecond of debate, I allowed the giggle he was expecting to titter out of my mouth. It left a stupid aftertaste, but I could deal with it in the name of sweet revenge.

  “Well, doctor, where and when?”

  “My place,” he said proudly. “Eightish…maybe nine.”

  “Pick one, silly!”

  “Okay, nine,” he laughed. “Gives me time to rinse off this hangover. Here, let me…”

  He gave me his address quickly, and I wrote it down as my eyebrows crept up my forehead. I recognized the area; it was full of celebrities and the financial elite. Just how much were they paying this kid, anyway?

  “Don’t be late,” he said. “This will be a very…long…talk.”

  “I can’t wait,” I told him in my best sexpot voice. “I’ll see you then!”

  “Bring your appetite,” he instructed. “But eat dinner first. If you know what I’m saying.”

  “Oh, my!” I tittered, rolling my eyes. “I’ll do just that. Bye!”

  I ended the call, checked to ensure it had disconnected, then sat back and howled with laughter.

  “Let’s hope his sex game is better than his pickup game,” I gasped through my cackles. “I could make a pizza with all that cheese.”

  I had plenty of time to prepare, and I used it well. I left the house at 8:30 with a fully-developed strategy and my hormones dialed in on “young stud.” I never knew revenge could be so much fun, and I smiled wickedly as I drove over to his house.

  Chapter 9

  Wealth filled the air like an intoxicant as I entered Joel’s neighborhood. Massive mansions sat far back from the road, their yards put together like works of art.

  I found myself distractingly enthralled by a topiary menagerie marching alongside an illuminated reflecting pool, and then by an intricate fountain which looked like it would have been more at home in ancient Greece. The mansions themselves were veritable castles, towering against the inky black sky.

  After winding through this oasis of wealth for a while, I found Joel’s address. I was almost disappointed; though his mansion was large and glittering, the property was nothing more than a bare slab of earth. As I stepped out of the car and inhaled, though, it all made sense. It smelled brand new, like sawdust and fresh paint and mud.

  I carefully kept to the path as I walked to the door. I had chosen to wear suede heels to the swanky neighborhood, and ruining the hundred-dollar shoes would put a serious damper on my night. The doorbell played ten seconds of a rock song in chimes, a strange choice which made me wonder if Joel had any foresight whatsoever. Did he imagine that he would still enjoy that in ten or twenty years?

  “Livia! Right on time,” he greeted, grinning as he flung the door open wide.

  “You weren’t too hard to find,” I said with a flirtatious smile. “You’re king of the hill, out here.”

  “It’s great, isn’t it?” he said rapturously as he took my coat. “They just finished it last month. I’m still trying to Palmer it up, but…you know.” He shrugged carelessly and flashed me his boyish grin. “Would you like a drink? I’ve got this massive wet bar in here—come on, it’s super cool.”

  I was instantly comfortable with him, which surprised me. He was like a big overgrown puppy when he wasn’t clashing with Dante, rolling in his own success without a care in the world.

  “Oh, wow,” I breathed. “That’s the biggest wet bar I’ve ever seen in an actual house. You could open a club in this room.”

  It actually looked as if he had. The large room just off the foyer boasted a full-sized bar along one end, sparkly black tiles on the floor, a massive built-in sound system, and what appeared to be multi-colored track lights on the high ceiling.

  A single couch sat in one corner with a long coffee table in front of it, as white as the floor was black. The sparkling paint on the walls gave it a galactic feel, which I was sure would be emphasized with different lighting
. For now, only the few standard white bulbs burned above me.

  “I thought about it,” he said as he walked behind the bar. “But they wanted all kinds of licenses and things, and I do not have time for that. I mean, maybe I could find the time. But that’s boring, isn’t it? It’s like being back in school.”

  He was mixing drinks as he spoke, one after the other after the other. He had six lined up on the counter when he was finished, each a different color.

  “There,” he said, gesturing proudly. “Take your pick!”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to ask me what I wanted?” I asked with a laugh.

  “No,” he said firmly. “Girls never know what they want, except they do, but they won’t tell you that. Trust me, this method has saved me about a million headaches.”

  “Wow, a whole million,” I teased. “That’s quite a record for someone your age.”

  He winked at me, but I could see the slow blush creeping up his neck. He might be a party-hard womanizer, but there was still something almost innocent about him. He was young, I reminded myself. Younger than I was, though I wasn’t about to tell him that. I tapped into my inner college chick, balancing her against my grown-up journalistic skills.

  “Ah…I haven’t had one of these in years,” I said as my gaze fell on a muddy green drink.

  “Be my guest,” he said with a flourish.

  “No, I literally can’t remember what happened after I swallowed it,” I giggled. “Let’s see what else you have.”

  I finally chose a pale pink and orange drink which smelled more like juice than liquor, and Joel grabbed something dark and sparkling.

  “Let’s move to the other room,” he said, glancing at the single couch disdainfully.

  “The living room, I guess,” he continued as he walked a step ahead of me. “I honestly don’t know what to call them all. There’s the wet bar room, the pool table room, the room with the bookcases, the room with the couches, and three rooms that don’t have anything in them yet. Plus the bathrooms and kitchen and stuff, and I’m sure I’m forgetting something.”