He’s not lying; I’ve seen the pictures.
“The reputation followed me even after I was traded to Chicago. For a long time, I didn’t care. The rumors were easier to manage than some of the other crap. Until now, I haven’t had a reason to want to challenge the reputation.” Alex runs his fingers through his shaggy, unkempt hair. “It’s not an excuse, but can you understand where I’m coming from?”
I can. Judging from his torn expression and the way he can’t stop fidgeting, there’s more to this story, I’m sure. He’s made himself vulnerable by pouring his heart out in the middle of a crowded café. What’s more, I believe him. Teenage boys can be cruel, and men can be ruthless with each other. I’ve seen Buck in action with his friends. I can imagine the ribbing Alex would’ve taken as a rookie. It might have been all in fun where his teammates were concerned, but at eighteen it would be hard to take, especially with the media throwing it at him, too.
“It makes sense.” I poke at my cake with my fork, wary. “It doesn’t explain what you said to Buck about regulars.”
“‘Regulars’?”
“Yeah. When you were at my place and Buck forgot his wallet.”
Alex’s eyes go wide, and the color drains from his face. “Oh God. This explains what happened at the bar after the game last week.” He expels a long breath. “I wasn’t sure what Buck knew, if anything at all, and we hadn’t had the chance to really talk. So we’re clear . . .” He leans in closer until his knee is touching mine. “There are no regulars. There never have been. I don’t care if Butterson knows what happened between us. I’ll gladly take a shit kicking from him if you’ll go out on a date with me.”
“Oh.”
He touches my cheek with warm fingers. This immediately disconnects my brain from my body. All I want to do is lean forward and feel his lips on mine.
“Is ‘oh’ code for yes?”
“Um . . .” He seems genuine. It was easier to shrug off his advances when I believed he was a player. If he turns out to be a liar, I’ll be devastated.
“If you’re going to say no, I could ask your boobs. You’ve already said I can take them on a date, and I did get them a Victoria’s Secret gift certificate. They’d probably be happy to go out with me.” His smile is impish.
It’s hard not to return it. His sense of humor is as whacked out and as inappropriate as mine.
“They probably would.” My nipples tighten at their mention. Stupid boobs.
“Please say yes,” Alex whispers.
“My boobs are willing; the rest of me will come along. I’m not one hundred percent sold on you like they seem to be.”
I can’t believe I’m acting like my boobs have a say in the matter.
“That’s fair.” Alex’s eyes dip down. “I’m glad your boobs are sold on me. I’m a fan.”
I roll my eyes. “I guess the feeling’s mutual.”
“Are you busy tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow?”
“I leave Wednesday for almost two weeks. I’d like to see you before I go if you’re available. We could have dinner? I understand if it’s too short notice.”
“I can check my calendar.” I have no plans for tomorrow night. Even if I did, I’d cancel them. Alex sips his hot chocolate while I pretend to check my schedule. “It looks like I’m free.”
“Great.” He reclines in his chair, smiling widely.
This isn’t what I was expecting at all. I assumed Alex would feed me a load of crap, and I’d be justified in my disdain for hockey players. Instead I’m mentally reviewing my underwear options and worrying whether I have anything date appropriate. A trip to Victoria’s Secret is essential. My boobs want to look their best. So does the rest of me.
VIOLET
By the time we leave the café, it’s almost eight. Alex insists on walking me to my car. I’m not opposed. While downtown bustles with business types during the day, it’s a prime club crawl location at night. The University of Illinois is only a few blocks away, making the poorly lit parking lot a perfect meeting spot for delinquent kids. Sometimes I find half-smoked roaches and empty Colt 45s on Monday mornings.
Alex keeps his hand on my waist as we walk to my car. The contact makes me aware of how much I’d like him to touch other parts. I have to remind myself it’s not going to happen tonight. Tomorrow is a different story altogether.
My 4Runner is parked in one of the few well-lit areas in the middle of the lot.
“Is this thing safe?” Alex asks as I shove the key in the lock. It takes a few jiggles before it turns. The automatic locks stopped working six months ago.
“It passed the safety inspection last year.”
He pokes at a rusty spot on the side panel. “I can’t imagine how.”
“Stop! You’ll make it worse!” I put my hand over the rusty spot. “I have it serviced regularly.”
“By who?”
“Sidney has a guy. It’s driveable.” This is only mostly true. There’s a clunking sound my mechanic can’t seem to identify and some issues with the rear axle. I’m not allowed to take it on bumpy roads or the freeway.
Alex frowns as he continues to inspect my vehicle. “You’re sure he’s reliable?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
My 4Runner has been on its last leg for a good year. I bought it with my own money, and I’m sentimental, so I won’t get rid of it. I refuse Sidney’s repeated offer to buy me a new car. It’s too extravagant an expense.
“At least it’s big,” Alex mutters.
“Bigger isn’t always better.” The tank on this beast is bottomless.
“Oh?”
It takes a few seconds to clue in to the double meaning. Maybe he thinks I’m insulting his manhood. I consider his manhood—and how much I hate the word manhood. In Alex’s case, bigger is awesome. The only drawback is how hard it is to walk the day after said manhood has plundered my womanhood. I need to cut it with the historical romance references.
“In some cases bigger, isn’t better. Like with this.” I pat my SUV. “It’s a real gas guzzler. I try to limit my driving to work and the grocery store so I don’t ruin the environment. I’d invest in a hybrid if they weren’t so ugly and expensive.”
Alex is wearing a sexy-as-hell amused smile while he listens to me ramble. One hand is braced on the vehicle, and he’s leaning in. If he moves an inch or two closer, it might feel like he’s planning to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. My brain has stopped working, and I continue with the nonsensical babble.
“For you”—I point in the general direction of his groin—“bigger is sort of better. I mean, huge is nice, too. You’ve got huge covered well. I like it.” I bite my lip to stop the words.
“So what you’re saying is bigger is only sort of better in my case?”
“What? No, no. It’s fantastic, hard on the . . .” I gesture to my crotch. Dammit. I’m making it sound bad. I don’t want to offend him. “I’m sure I could get used to it after a while . . . with some practice.”
“I’m good at practice.”
He moves closer. He smells like chocolate and sandalwood or whatever he washes his hot, firm body with. He’s wearing one of those beanie things, like a ski cap, with a band logo on it. The Tragically Hip, maybe. His hair has grown in the past month; it curls around the edges. I want to press my lips against his and finger those errant strands. Him. Me. I want.
“Can I kiss you?” His palm is on my cheek, his fingers sliding into my hair. “I’d like to kiss you. If that’s okay.”
And he reads minds, too. “It’s okay.”
He’s an inch from my lips. “I’ve been dying to taste you since . . .”
I wait for him to finish his sentence or follow through and kiss me already. Hold up, did he say taste? Hell, I’ll let him devour me.
He traces my bottom lip with his thumb. His fingers are cold. I shiver and inhale an asthmatic breath. Our eyes lock. I can’t look away.
I do that weird thing people do when someone they want
to get it on with puts one of their digits—except for toes—near their mouth. I allow my tongue to peek out and taste his skin. It’s yummy, probably residue from the sugary chocolate beverage he stuck it in earlier. I have the urge to bite his thumb. So I do.
He mumbles a quiet curse. Then his thumb is gone, and his mouth is on mine. Our bodies are flush; he presses me heavily into the frame of my shit heap. If I wasn’t wearing a thick wool coat, I might be able to feel whether or not he’s hard.
He angles my head to the side and sucks on my bottom lip. The kiss grows deeper and more frantic. Well, I’m frantic. I grab for his hair, but his hat’s in the way and my fingers are frozen—courtesy of the mid-March cold. It’s annoying and inconvenient.
Meanwhile, Alex has turned into a jacket-MacGyver. He manages to get two buttons undone. Now I can feel him and he can feel me up. I molest his mouth with my tongue and shamelessly dry hump him for all I’m worth.
It’s fabulous until someone shouts, “Woo-hoo! Give it to her good!”
The mouth fucking ceases instantly. Alex spins to face the would-be voyeur. Taking a protective stance, he blocks me from view. I hide behind his jacket for extra cover. Public dry humping is not something I want to be recognized for.
I peek around his shoulder. Two guys, maybe a year or two younger than I am, stand not more than ten feet away.
“What did you say?” His voice is eerily calm.
One of them loses the cocky edge. He elbows the other in the ribs. I assume this may have something to do with them being skinny and dorky and Alex being broad and angry. Nervous guy’s buddy doesn’t get the hint. Instead he holds up his hand like he’s waiting for a high five.
“Spread the love, man.” He must be drunk. It’s the only explanation for his level of stupidity.
“Uh, Gene, we better go.” Skinny guy eyes Alex nervously.
“Wait.” Gene holds up a finger in his much smarter friend’s face. “It can’t be. No way!” He squints and pushes his black rimmed glasses up his nose. “Oh, dude, it totally is. Alex Waters!”
Word to the wise—NHLers shouldn’t hang out near colleges.
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Alex’s irritation is evident.
“S-sorry.” The guy who isn’t an idiot hauls Gene away.
Once they’re gone, Alex shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get carried away. It’s just . . . it been a while since I’ve seen you, and you taste really good, and it makes me want . . . yeah, anyway . . . sorry.”
“Oh, uh . . . it’s okay.” I wave my hand around like it’s no big deal. I enjoyed the dry hump as much as he did. Maybe more.
“So we’re still on for tomorrow night?”
The question confuses me at first. It’s not like it’s his fault a couple of drunk kids walked by while we were making out. Against the side of my SUV.
Alex rushes on. “Please don’t back out on me. I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
It never crossed my mind, not even for a half second, to flake out on the date. “I won’t as long as you drop the perfect gentleman crap. That’s a deal breaker. My boobs won’t tolerate it.”
“I love your boobs, they’re so fun.” His smile is panty wetting. “I’ll pick them up at seven?”
We’re so weird. I like it. “Seven is great.”
“Perfect.”
“Perfect.” I return the smile. I’ll be counting down the hours until we can resume our make out session.
“I should let you go home.”
Alex holds my door open as I climb in. If I’d been thinking, I would’ve started it while we made out. However, such actions may well have led to an invitation into the backseat where he could have demonstrated how much better bigger is. Those drunk kids would’ve gotten the free show of a lifetime.
I turn the engine over. Alex waits patiently in the freezing cold for me to roll the window down manually.
“Thanks for the latte and the cake.”
“Anytime.”
I motion him closer and kiss his cheek, right where his dimple lives. It pops out at the invitation, and if it wasn’t so dark, I’d swear he was blushing. He’s as sweet as the dessert I polished off in the café. “See you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The 4Runner makes an awful grating noise as I shift into gear. I should get it checked out.
Later on, Alex sends me a cute text to make sure my SUV hasn’t exploded and left me stranded on the side of the road. After forty-five minutes of texting, I say goodnight and shut off my phone, otherwise I’ll be tempted to message him all night. If I’m going out with him tomorrow, I have work to do. By work, I mean some beaverscaping.
It’s been a month since I visited my waxer. I’m currently living up to the furry nickname below the belt. I must return it to its mostly naked status in case Alex should want to pet it, or kiss it, or bury his wood in it.
I root around in my bathroom cabinet for my waxing kit. Typically, I only mess around with my legs, but this constitutes an emergency. The date is too last minute to schedule a waxing appointment.
I heat the wax in the microwave. Since I’m used to putting it on my legs rather than my cooter, I don’t account for how damn hot it is. I have to wait twenty minutes for it to cool, so I can work on ripping out the beaver pelt without burning myself.
Mimicking the actions of my waxer, I lie on the bathmat, apply the wax, and give a firm, quick tug. It hurts like a son of a bitch.
Usually my waxer leaves a wee triangle I trim every week, except it’s all wonky now, so I’m forced to rip that out, too. On the final strip, I mess up and redo the same spot, resulting in a mottled purple patch. It looks like I’ve been punched in the beave. Verdict: Beaverscaping is dangerous.
Coffee is my best friend in the morning. I slept like crap, too anxious and irritated by my excitement over the impending date. I enlist Charlene to come with me to Victoria’s Secret at lunch. I’m not planning to have sex with Alex again. I simply want to be prepared with a new bra and panties set should all my clothes blow off in a freak wind storm.
Charlene heads for the garter belts and corsets. I refuse to purchase anything requiring snappy doohickeys or laces. I need easy. Depending on how much there is on the gift card, I might splurge and buy a new pair of jammies, something more adult than Spiderman.
I waste twenty minutes of shopping time debating the merits of extra padding with Charlene. It’s false advertising. Alex is already familiar with my boobs, so why pretend they’ve grown since he saw them last? I settle on a red bra with minimal padding and matching frilly undies.
On my way to the cash register, I pick out a cute little sleep set. Charlene doesn’t approve. I argue that not everything I buy has to be sexy.
The cashier rings up my purchases. It’s more than a hundred bucks, which seems excessive for a few scraps of lace. I pass her the gift card, hoping it will cover most of it.
“You have $879.43 remaining on your card.” She holds it out and waits for me to take it.
“Pardon?”
She repeats herself and shows me the receipt with the balance.
Charlene grabs it. “Alex gave you a thousand dollar gift card to Victoria’s Secret?”
“Um, uh . . .”
“He’s got it bad for you.”
“Correction.” I snatch the receipt and the bag from the cashier, whose smile hasn’t wavered. She looks like she’s made of plastic. “He’s got it bad for my boobs. He asked them out on the date, not me.”
“You’re so strange, Violet.”
I shrug. She’s right.
The rest of the day passes in a distracted haze. At five I bolt from the office. I need to choose an outfit to complement my new purchases.
My mom’s car is in the driveway when I arrive home. I’m hoping to avoid her. I haven’t told her I’m going out with Alex yet, and I’m not interested in her advice. She’s been asking me about him lately in
reference to the gifts and the flowers. It’s driving me crazy. The Victoria’s Secret bag fits under my coat, so I smuggle it inside and hightail it to the bathroom to get ready.
I hear my mom mid-dress adjustment. I check my phone; it’s five to seven. It’s taken way longer to get ready than I expected. Liquid eyeliner is not easy to apply.
I launch myself out of the bathroom, hoping to get rid of her prior to Alex’s arrival. If I hadn’t been such a hornball when he asked me out, I would have suggested I meet him at the restaurant rather than let him pick me up at home. I’m wearing heels, compromising my already questionable coordination. As I round the corner, I skid on the hardwood and lose my footing and land on my ass in the middle of the living room. It wouldn’t be so bad if Alex wasn’t standing in my kitchen to witness the humiliating display.
I jump up and brush off the fall as he rushes to help.
“Are you okay?” He runs his hands down my arms, checking for injuries.
Other than my ass and my ego, I’m fine.
“It’s a good thing Violet’s so bootylicious! The extra padding comes in handy!”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, willing my hands to stay at my sides and not wrap around her throat. It’s a wonder I don’t have more deep-seated psychological issues. “Thanks, Mom.” I grab my purse and Alex’s arm. “We should go.”
I’m confident I can make it across this particular surface without falling again. Holding onto Alex’s well-defined forearm definitely helps.
“Don’t you want to see what Alex brought you? He’s such a doll!” My mom makes flailing hand gestures between Alex and the flowers.
The bouquet is even more extravagant than the ones he sent previously. I’m torn. I don’t want him to think I don’t like or appreciate them. I also need to get the hell away from my mother. If given the opportunity for further mortification, she’ll pull out my Mathletes trophies from high school. I pick up the bouquet and give it a quick sniff.
PUCKED Page 12
