Hot as Puck: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  I have only a moment to observe the obvious distress of the assembly at large before the group notices Justin and fluttering, swooning, obnoxiously feminine sounds fill the air.

  The next twenty minutes pass in a confused blur as practically everyone in the room offers to pull up a chair next to theirs for Justin—or sit on the floor by his feet in the case of Edna’s teenage granddaughter, Britta, who at sixteen is easily ten times more confident around hot as heck menfolk as I’ve been at any age. We finally get Jus situated in a recliner not far from Priscilla, but hopefully out of jabbing range, and I snag a seat on another love seat next to the newbie, patting her on the knee encouragingly as I settle in and praise the purple-turd-looking thing emerging from her needles, which I’m assuming is going to be a scarf someday.

  “I can’t believe you’re really here,” Britta chirps to Justin, pulling her phone out of her knitting bag. “I follow you on Instagram! I love your feed so, so much.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks.” Justin casts a slightly flustered look my way. I answer him with an “I told you so” smirk. I warned him way back when that there could be uncomfortable consequences to posing nearly naked on social media. Seeing him squirm in his chair as an under-aged girl pulls up his latest shot on her phone—Jus standing on his porch in a scarf and jeans and nothing else—and passes it around the circle is poetic justice at its finest.

  “I knitted three beanies last year for your hats for the homeless drive,” Britta prattles on, “and I’m already figuring out what to work on for this year. It was amazing to see how many hats you got.”

  “Yeah, it was amazing. Thanks for being a part of it.” Jus smiles at the clearly besotted teen before fetching his current project from his messenger bag. “So, what’s everyone working on? I’m halfway through a unicorn hat for my friend’s daughter, and then I’m going to start on some Star Wars stuff.”

  We go around the circle, introducing ourselves and our works in progress, and I learn that Melanie, the newbie next to me, is indeed struggling with a scarf. I offer to help her adjust her tension—she’s got her yarn so tight she can barely get the tip of the needle through to loop another stich—so I’m distracted when Priscilla starts her description of her latest piece. But by the time she rises from her chair to sashay over to Justin to offer him a closer look at the net she’s working on for her Catchers of Men series, I’m picking up on the pick-up attempt loud and clear.

  “The installation is going to feature mannequins tangled in the nets I’ve knitted,” Priscilla says, holding up her work, until it becomes a screen separating her and Justin from the rest of the group. “They’ll hang from the ceiling to give the viewer the sensation that he might be snatched up in a net any moment. It’s going to be a really visceral, almost claustrophobic experience. I’d love to have you over to take a look at things before opening night. It’s so rare to meet a man who’s into sports and needlework. I’d love to get your unique take on the piece.”

  On the word “unique” she presses her hand to Justin’s chest, above his pectoral muscle, but a little lower than his shoulder.

  It’s a weird place to touch someone, I think critically, even as I try not to let the fact that Priscilla is fondling Justin like a piece of meat get to me. Justin and I are here as friends, and he’s free to allow himself to be fondled by anyone he pleases. And as irritating as she is, Pris is very, very pretty. With her long, blond hair, willowy figure, and cosmopolitan style, she’s actually way more Justin’s type than I am. It makes sense that the two most beautiful people in the room should gravitate toward each other.

  I’m trying to get used to the idea that Justin might decide Priscilla is worth taking out for a test date when he leans down to dig through his bag, casually brushing her hand away from his chest in the process.

  “Sounds interesting, but I’m crazy busy this time of year,” he says, pulling out another ball of yarn he clearly doesn’t need at this point in his work. “But you should ask Libby to go. She’s got an amazing eye for art. The kids in her class place in the elementary art show every year, even though they’re the youngest in their division. Don’t they, Libs?”

  “They do,” I say, not missing the glare Pris shoots my way. “But you can’t really compare kindergarten level projects with what Priscilla does at her gallery. I’m sure I wouldn’t have much of value to contribute, but if you want me to swing by next week, Pris, I can.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Priscilla’s lips curve in a constipated looking grin as she sways back to her seat. “But that’s so kind of you to offer. You are such a sweetheart, Libby. The little people you teach are so lucky to have you there to wipe their noses and kiss their booboos.”

  “Thanks,” I say, her comment leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

  On the surface it seems like a nice thing to say, but I can’t help feeling like she intended the comment to make me feel small. Dana has been trying to instruct me on the finer points of shade—even though she insists that most white people struggle with the concept of shade, as well as its proper execution—but my shade-dar still isn’t the best. I make a mental note to ask Dana later if I was shaded, and to inquire as to how I might have shaded Priscilla in return if I were of the mind to retaliate in kind, and turn my attention back to my afghan.

  The conversation turns to the holidays, and all the things Edna and the other older ladies are knitting for their grandchildren. Justin breaks the rule about asking for help—wondering aloud if there’s a faster way to attach the rainbow mane to his hat—but Edna’s so charmed by the fact that this big, manly man is making a rainbow unicorn hat for a little girl he loves that she invites him over to the couch for up close and personal guidance. Britta swings by the love seat to ask more questions about Justin and how long I’ve known him, and Melanie and I end up finding common ground in the fact that we were both homeschooled as kids due to speech delays and stuttering issues.

  “I had no idea.” Britta frowns up at me from her place on the floor. “You always seem so chill and collected.”

  “Do I?” I ask, surprised.

  “Totally. You’re super classy,” Britta says, popping her gum. “Like Audrey Hepburn or one of those old movie stars. My friend Kelly is, too. I can’t pull that off, though. I talk too much, and I cuss pretty much constantly.” Her blue eyes widen as she casts a quick glance over her shoulder to where Edna is now helping Hannah, the other newbie, pick up a dropped stitch, and she turns back to add in a softer voice, “But don’t tell Gran. She would wash my mouth out with soap. I mean, everybody does it at my school, but she’s super old-fashioned about stuff like that.”

  “We won’t tell,” Melanie assures her with a smile, looking much more comfortable than she did when Jus and I walked in. “And I agree, I never would have thought you used to have a stutter, Libby. You’re always so gracious and put together.”

  “Well, thank you.” I laugh self-consciously. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

  Their words make me wonder if I maybe I’m not as much of a hopeless case as I think I am. Maybe my nervous moments don’t show as much on the outside as I’ve assumed. And maybe, once I’ve learned all the things Justin wants to teach me, I will truly be ready to start dating like a normal twenty-something.

  It should be an encouraging thought, but as I head into the kitchen to make a fresh batch of lemonade for Edna, I’m not encouraged. Or excited. Or looking forward to spreading my wings and jumping out of the friends-with-benefits nest. I want to stay in the nest, with Justin, and shut out the rest of the world.

  I’m wondering if that’s bad news—a sign that maybe I’m getting too attached to something Justin and I both agreed should remain casual—when a high voice behind me sing-songs, “Hey there, Libby, darling. Can we talk?” making me flinch so hard I slosh water over the rim of the pitcher and into the sink.

  “Sorry to scare you,” Priscilla says as I shut off the faucet.

  “No, it’s my fault. I was lost in thought.”
I laugh as I set the pitcher down and reach for the lemonade packet from the cupboard. “What did you want to talk about? If you changed your mind and want me to come by the gallery, I really don’t mind at all. I know I’m not a professional, but I’ve been going to museums and openings since I was a kid. My parents are big supporters of art of all kinds.”

  “Maybe I will ask you to swing by.” Pris crosses her arms as she leans her hip against the solid oak dining table on the left side of the kitchen. “But I was actually coming to ask you about Justin. Is he seeing anyone, that you know of?”

  “Um…” I blink what I hope is innocently as I open the lemonade packet and pour it into the pitcher, figuring it’s best to keep my eyes elsewhere as I lie to Pris. “Not that I know of. But he just broke up with a woman he was dating for a while, so I’m not sure he’s looking to get involved with anyone right now.”

  Priscilla chuckles. “Oh, I’m not looking to get involved, either. Just looking for someone who can keep up with me in the bedroom, and Justin looks like he might have potential, you know?”

  “Oh, well…” I stir the lemonade with an intensity and focus that would be more appropriate for performing open-heart surgery. I don’t know Pris well enough to be comfortable having this kind of conversation, and I sure as heck don’t want to discuss Justin’s bedroom “potential” with her or anyone else.

  I’m still trying to figure out what to say to kill this line of questioning without being rude, when she laughs.

  “Don’t worry about it, Libby. I shouldn’t have asked. I had a feeling that kind of question would make you uncomfortable.” She makes a concerned, cooing sound so falsely sweet it makes my tongue curl. “You don’t date much, do you? I mean, you never talk about a significant other. It’s all kids and crafts with you, huh?”

  “Kids and crafts are a big part of my life,” I admit, rinsing the wooden spoon I used to mix the lemonade and preparing to flee the kitchen posthaste.

  I also have a sister I go to art shows and concerts with, friends, family, and volunteer work, and a deep love for long hikes in the woods, but Priscilla doesn’t really want to know about my life. She wants to build herself up by making someone else feel small and strange, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

  “And that’s great,” she says, still in that patronizing voice that makes me want to splash lemonade in her eye. “Not everyone is a sexual being. Our culture would have you believe differently, but I know plenty of women like you. Some men, too. There are lots of people who are perfectly content to live quiet, sexless lives.”

  “It’s been nice chatting with you,” I lie again, going for a personal record for number of falsehoods in a row. “But I should probably get back to the circle before people get thirsty.”

  “Are you okay?” Pris angles in front of me, blocking my path.

  “I’m fine,” I chirp, throat tight.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. Seriously, Libby, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “I’m not embarrassed.” I look at the antique globe light fixture on the ceiling and then the collection of framed rooster prints and paintings on the wall, anywhere but at Priscilla’s stupid, falsely sympathetic face.

  “Unless you wish things were different.” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Unless you were hoping that one day Justin was going to realize that you’ve had a crush on him for years and decide he wants to be more than friends.”

  I cut my burst of laughter short by clearing my throat. “I need to go.”

  “It’s okay, Libby. We’ve all had crushes on people who don’t—”

  “I haven’t had a crush on Justin for years, Priscilla.” I’m about to tell her that even if I had, I wouldn’t be talking about my feelings for Justin or anyone else with her, when she cuts in with a sly smile.

  “So it’s a recent development, then?”

  “No!” I huff.

  “Right.” She smirks. “Your cheeks just turned bright red.”

  “So? I’m uncomfortable talking about a friend behind his back.” I curse my stupid face for making it look like I’m lying.

  I’m not lying! I don’t have a crush on Justin. I just want to be naked in bed with him all the time, find his jokes funnier than they used to be, and my chest got all warm watching him make a gift for a little girl he cares about. And maybe earlier tonight I had another passing thought about what kind of father he might be, and decided again that he would probably be pretty wonderful. But that doesn’t mean I want to be more than friends…

  Does it?

  Oh my God…

  Does it? Am I starting to want more than friends-with-benefits? And if so, what the heck am I going to do about it? I don’t want to call things off now. I need more time, more Justin, more long nights with nothing but his mouth and his hands and the way his body fits so perfectly against mine.

  “Okay, okay.” Pris lifts her hands innocently at her sides, as if she hasn’t just thrown a major wrench in my nice, uncomplicated sex education. “But if you decide you need to talk, you have my number. I’m a good listener.”

  “Thank you.” I stare down at the pitcher of lemonade in my hands, feeling terrible. Maybe I misjudged Priscilla, and she really is trying to help. Maybe the patronizing tone and the certainty that I’m being judged and found pathetic are all in my head.

  “Of course. We’ve all been there, you know.”

  “Been where?” I murmur, gaze fixed on the tiny bubbles on the surface of the lemonade.

  “Hung up on someone who’s totally out of our league.”

  Before I can pour the entire pitcher of lemonade over Priscilla’s mean, self-esteem destroying head, Justin’s voice sounds from the doorway behind her.

  “Hey, there you are,” he says, breezing around Pris like she’s not even there. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, beautiful.”

  And then he takes the pitcher from my hands and sets it on the table, pulls me into his arms, and proceeds to kiss me like my mouth is the most delicious thing he’s encountered in his twenty-eight years on earth. The kiss is slow and deep, with his tongue stroking against mine as his hands smooth down to cup my bottom through my dress.

  For a moment, I’m too shocked to respond, but then I realize he must have heard my conversation with Priscilla, and I melt gratefully into him, twining my arms around his neck and hugging him even closer.

  Oh, this man is a good man. A good, sweet, kind man who would do anything for a friend, including kiss her senseless in front of a big, mean jerk.

  By the time we finally come up for air, I’m dizzy, and my body is humming with the need to get out of here, get Justin alone, and show him how thankful I am for the wonder that he is.

  “I’m ready to go, how about you?” he asks.

  “Very ready,” I glance over his shoulder at the now empty kitchen. “I guess Priscilla decided to give us a few minutes alone.”

  “Good. I didn’t want to call her a fucking bitch to her face, but I might not have been able to restrain myself.” His muscles flex as he pulls my hips closer to his, making my breath catch as I feel the evidence of his need pulsing against my stomach. “If anyone’s out of their league here, it’s me, Libs.”

  “Not true, but thank you.” I press a hand to his scruffy cheek as a wave of emotion swells in my chest, different from anything I’ve felt for Jus before. “For that, and for coming to my rescue.”

  “Always,” he promises, with a sincerity that makes the emotion swell a little bigger. “Let’s get out of here. I need to be naked with you.”

  I nod, not trusting my voice. I need to be naked with him, too, and not because I want to learn more about sex, or because I want to build up my confidence for the man who will come into my life when Justin and I are through. I need it because I need to show Justin how much he means to me, how much I treasure him and love giving him pleasure. I need it because my life is a darker place without him in it and because I have never felt more at home than I do wh
en I’m in his arms.

  Pretty sure that’s the definition of making love, Libs, not hot, nostrings-attached sex, my inner voice helpfully points out.

  The voice is right, but I can’t bring myself to worry about the implications of that right now. As I take Justin’s hand, holding tight as we collect our things and say our good-byes, all I can think about is how lucky I am to get to be with him, even if it’s only for a little while.

  Chapter Twenty

  Justin

  We don’t talk in the car, and when we get back to Libby’s place we don’t bother turning on the lights. We slam the door, drop our shit on the floor, and come together—swift and urgent—in the dark. Her lips crash into mine and her warm curves mold against my chest as I draw her up and guide her legs around my waist, my entire body catching fire.

  “Bedroom,” she murmurs against my lips as her arms lock around my neck, making it clear she’s not letting go until we both get what we need. “Now.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I squeeze her ass tight with one hand as I drive the other into her hair, fisting the silky strands as I kiss her hard and deep. She’s so petite I have no trouble holding her with one arm, a fact that reminds me how tight she was on my finger last night, even after she had already come on my tongue.

  I’m going to have to go slow, or I’m going to hurt her, and the last thing I want to do is hurt Libby. All I want to do is make her feel good, to show her that she is sexy and beautiful and, even more importantly, fun and silly and thoughtful and classy and a hundred other things that make her the kind of woman any man would be lucky to call his.

  Including this man…

  As I move swiftly through Libby’s darkened apartment, devouring her mouth as I carry her to the bedroom, I realize there’s no use trying to deny it anymore. I don’t want to be friends with benefits or to keep this a secret or to help Libby grow confident enough to start a relationship with someone else. I want her to be mine. I want her to think of me the way she thinks of Roger, as someone who might be good enough to go all the way with a woman like her.