Pucked Love

by Helena Hunting

  “Right?”

  We find Poppy and Sunny huddled with sleeping baby Logan over by the sweeter sexy things in pinks and greens and florals. I glance around, wondering how soon we can get out of here now that I’ve seen my mom. I note a couple in the porn star area. There are actual stars signing posters and old school DVDs, and even some VHS tapes for the serious diehard fans. Which is kind of sad.

  “Hey.” Violet elbows me and points to the right. “Doesn’t that guy look like an older version of Darren?”

  I follow her gaze and note the couple, probably in their fifties, posing for pictures. The woman is outfitted in a silver mini-dress and has definitely had her boobs done, and likely a lot of other things, including her face, but she still looks mostly human. The guy is tall, wearing only black leather pants with a zebra stripe down the side. He’s still rocking a pretty decent body for being older, complete with four pack, even if it’s the tiniest bit saggy.

  I scan all the way to his face and take in his dark, slicked-back hair. “Huh. That’s weird. He does look a lot like him.”

  “You need to take a picture with that guy. Tell Darren you found his future self—and he’s a porn star! The resemblance is uncanny, isn’t it?” Violet turns to Poppy and Sunny, who both nod their agreement.

  I give in and let her drag me over. My mom seems to know them personally, so she flits on over and introduces us. “Rod and Cherry, this is my daughter, Charlene. She needs a photo with you!” Rod and Cherry. I guess subtlety isn’t their thing. My mom squeezes me between them and snaps a million pictures.

  I send one to Darren with a laughing emoji and the caption: Your next profession could be a porn stunt double for this guy.

  “So you’re a Chicago hockey fan, Charlene?” Rod’s smile is blindingly white and eerily like Darren’s.

  “I am.”

  Rod leans in closer. “Can you keep a secret?”

  It’s starting to creep me out how much he looks like Darren. His voice is even deep like Darren’s, and he has the same icy eyes.

  “Uh, sure?” I’m hit by an odd sense of foreboding.

  “My boy plays hockey in Chicago.” Rod’s grin grows even wider as he looks over my shoulder. “And you’re wearing his name on your back.”

  DARREN

  I typically sleep on the flight home, but this time all I can do is tap on the armrest and count down the minutes until we land.

  My worries revolve around Charlene. After the picture and caption, I fired back a message telling her not to talk to them. I tried to follow it up with a phone call, but it went right to voicemail. In my panic, I made some irrational demands, to which she responded that this certainly wasn’t a phone conversation, let alone one to be had over text messages.

  I honestly never thought there would be a reason to tell her about my birth parents since they had almost no hand in raising me.

  I go directly to her place from the airport, even though it’s unlikely that she’s home from work so we can have a discussion. The Uber drops me off in front of her house. I have my hockey gear with me, which is somewhat inconvenient, but I didn’t want to stop at home first. Charlene’s car is missing from her driveway, and in its place is a mini red Winnebago hooked up to a small SUV.

  The Winnebago is a shock, mostly because Charlene has a thing about RVs, regardless of size. I know this because once on our way to Alex’s cottage we stopped at a gas station and she nearly had a panic attack when one pulled into the bay next to us. She refused to let me get out of the car until it left.

  When I tried to pry more information out of her, she mumbled something about where she grew up and how she associated RVs with bad men. At that point I knew little about her upbringing, but I’d never seen her in such a state of panic.

  So seeing this Winnebago in her driveway brings up all sorts of questions. Ones I’d like some answers to. I run my sweaty hands down my thighs and gather myself before I finally ring the bell. When it swings open, I’m face to face with a woman dressed in a black leather corset and a pair of heels that could double as murder weapons.

  She slides her hand up the doorframe and the other one goes to her hip, which she juts out. Her brow arches and a grin forms on her wine red lips. “Well, hello there. If you’re trying to get me to go to your church, I’m afraid I’m far too sinful for that. Would you like a demonstration?”

  I look down at myself. I’m wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt. I suppose I can see how she might mistake me for a church type, but…did she just proposition me? I slip my hands in my pockets and glance over her shoulder, trying to see past her, but she takes up most of the doorway.

  “I’ll have to pass on that. I’m here to see Charlene.”

  Her smile falters as she inspects me in a new way. “Oh? Is that right? And who might you be?”

  “I’m . . . uh . . . her boyfriend?” For some reason it comes out as a question.

  “Oh! Yes, of course! Char-char can be so secretive about stuff like that.” She gives me a conspiratorial wink.

  Char-char? “I guess?”

  She motions for me to come inside. “She should be home soon. Would you like to come in?”

  “Sure. Thank you.” When I enter the kitchen, I freeze. The counter is covered in sex toys. More specifically, the kind I typically find in Charlene’s I thought I might like it but I changed my mind trunk. What the hell is going on here? “May I ask how you know Charlene?”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m so distracted. I haven’t even introduced myself properly. I’m Whensday, Char-char’s mother.” She extends a hand.

  “Oh! I didn’t realize you were visiting Charlene. It’s nice to meet you.”

  I’d tell her mom I’ve heard a lot about her, but the truth is, I haven’t. I know the basics. That she’s a Dominatrix, and has been since Charlene was a teenager. Before that they lived in a rural community, and Charlene’s father wasn’t a good man, so they left. Aside from those details, I know little about Charlene’s family or her early life. Neither of us is particularly keen to talk about our childhoods, so we don’t.

  “It’s always nice to meet Char-char’s friends. A mother worries, you know.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  I agree even though I wouldn’t know what that’s like. My parents gave zero fucks about me. I’m fairly certain that hasn’t changed in the past decade. And my grandparents, who did raise me, are about as warm as ice.

  Charlene’s mom crosses to the counter where a plethora of dildos and other sex toys are laid out on dishtowels. I make a mental note to throw out every dishtowel in the house.

  “It’s such a small world, isn’t it? Char-char had quite the adventure meeting your parents this weekend! The resemblance between you and your father is actually rather uncanny. So smart that they went into directing since porn stars have such a short shelf life. No one wants to watch boobs flop around when they’re trying to get off, do they? And don’t get me started on old balls, am I right?”

  I’m not sure if she honestly expects me to respond. I’m also suddenly very aware that as fucked up as I might think I am, based on what I’m seeing and hearing, Charlene is just as much a mess. It doesn’t appear that her mother sheltered her in any way from her chosen profession. It makes me want to protect Charlene from all the bad things in this world, myself excluded.

  “So how long have you been dating Charlene, exactly?”

  I go with vague. “We’ve been together for a while.”

  “Really? Hmm. . . Well, enjoy her while you can.”

  What the hell does that mean? “I’m sorry?”

  “Char-char doesn’t often let people get too close to her. Well, apart from her girlfriends, anyway.”

  My mouth is suddenly dry. I contemplate how well I really know Charlene, because there’s some truth in what her mother has said. Charlene has always been the one to pull back in our relationship. I’ve allowed it because I don’t want to risk losing her by pushing her, but we’re two years into
this, and I don’t have the sense of security I’d like to.

  “It’s been nice visiting her. She has such fun friends. They all enjoyed themselves at the convention. You know, I tried to raise Charlene in a very sex-positive, shame-free lifestyle, at least once it was just the two of us.”

  “That’s important.” I’m not sure what else to say to that.

  “It really is, but sometimes I think it might have been better for Char-char if she’d had a more normal childhood. She was always so sweet, and smart as a whip! My God, she could recite her times tables up to twelve by the time she was four. It’s no surprise she works with numbers. If I’d had her smarts, maybe I would’ve made better choices.” She gives me a rueful smile. “I’d always thought maybe one day Char-char might want to travel the world with me, but she seems settled and happy here.”

  “She is happy, and very much settled.” Her house is homey, her life has a routine and comfort in it, and I’m part of that.

  She tips her head. “You play professional hockey, yes?”

  “I do.”

  “That means you travel often?”

  “During the season, yes.”

  “Mmm. . .” She says something that sounds like close but not too close. “That must make relationships challenging.”

  “I’m in Chicago during the off-season, and Charlene is very independent, as I’m sure you know.” I force a smile, aware that even if she doesn’t have the most conventional job, she’s still a mother making sure her daughter is taken care of. “She also has good friends who are always here when I’m away.”

  “Those girls she spends her time with seem like a family,” Whensday observes.

  “They’re very much like sisters,” I agree.

  “That’s good. She needs that. She was always surrounded by a lot of—”

  The door slams before Whensday can finish that thought. “Mom? I’m home!”

  Charlene’s voice is the balm I’ve needed since the plane landed, even if her words aren’t directed at me. I’m simultaneously calm and anxious. I wonder if this is how Charlene feels on a regular basis when I return from away games.

  She comes to a halt as soon as she sees me. Her eyes dart to Whensday, then to the sex toys in the drying rack before they swing back to me. “What’re you doing here?”

  I guess we’re ignoring all the awkward. “I wanted to see you. I thought we should talk.”

  She arches a brow. “You could’ve called first.”

  Her mom seems to be oblivious to the sudden tension. “Darren and I were talking about professions. We have a lot in common with all the traveling we do, don’t we?” She looks to me for confirmation.

  It’s really the only thing we have in common apart from Charlene. “I suppose—”

  Charlene directs a withering glare at her mother. “Well, that’s nice. I don’t like living out of a suitcase, so I guess that makes me the odd one out.” She motions to the sex toys in the drying rack, refusing to look my way as her cheeks flush. “Why is this stuff sitting out like this? Can’t you put it away?”

  “I couldn’t pack them wet. And honestly, Char-char, it’s not as if Darren hasn’t seen it all before.” Whensday turns her bright smile on me.

  How would she know what I’ve seen and what I haven’t? And suddenly it all clicks. Charlene wanting to try new things and then deciding against it. Charlene’s box of I thought I might toys. They were never her idea; I just didn’t realize that until now.

  With her mother’s traveling sex shop lying all over the kitchen, I can see exactly how Charlene came to believe this is normal, expected even. Prior to this moment, it hadn’t occurred to that her mother might influence those choices, mainly because I’d believed she and her mom weren’t all that close. This alters my perception of the antics she often pulls, and I have to wonder if she only suggests half the things she does because she’s been brainwashed to believe I won’t want to have sex with her otherwise.

  A phone buzzes from somewhere amid the sex toys on the counter, and Whensday moves things around until she finds it. “Oh my! I didn’t realize it was so late. I have to get going!”

  Charlene helps transfer the toys into Ziplock bags, which her mom dumps into a small suitcase. I don’t offer my assistance until everything is packed up since this whole situation is uncomfortable enough as it is. I carry the suitcases out to the little RV. Charlene is extra skittish once we’re outside, close to the Winnebago. I might need to push for more information about the whole RV thing considering the way she keeps pulling at the collar of her shirt as I load her mom’s bags. Once I’m finished, I get a hug from her mother and head back inside so they can say their goodbyes.

  I pace the kitchen for a minute, then peruse her fridge for something to drink. Charlene has wine, but it’s in a box. I’m not sure I’ve ever consumed wine in such a fashion, but I believe the conversation we’re about to have requires alcohol, so I retrieve two glasses from the cupboard and fill them. Generously.

  A minute later Charlene returns. Her back is to me, so she hasn’t noticed me yet.

  I don’t say anything as she stands there, facing the door, fingers flexing on the knob, the other hand at her throat. Eventually she turns, working the buttons of her blouse free.

  “Shit!” she yells when she sees me standing on the other side of the kitchen, leaning against the counter.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” I hold out the glass. “Would you like some wine?”

  Her lips flatten into a thin line, but she crosses the kitchen and grabs the glass. Some of the wine sloshes over the edge and lands on my foot, soaking my sock. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She tips her head back and chugs the contents. A dribble of wine spills down her chin, and she swipes it away with the back of her hand.

  “Your mother seems . . . nice.” Based on the glare I get, I’m not sure that was the best conversation starter.

  “Really, Darren? That’s what you’re going with? My mom seems nice?” She steps around me and heads for the fridge. Wrenching it open, she pulls out the box of wine and slams it on the counter beside me. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on her brow and her neck. Her hands shake as she fills her glass and drains it, again.

  As she fills it a third time, I would like to point out that it typically only takes her three glasses of wine to get a buzz, but I don’t want to make her more upset.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Charlene freezes with the glass halfway to her mouth. “What are you sorry about? That my mom is a lunatic? That you lied about your parents? That you tried to boss me around over text messages?”

  I’m not sorry about meeting her mother. If anything, it gives me a much better idea of who Charlene is. But I’m also uncertain if I can explain fully what I am sorry about, so I address the parts of that question that I can. “I didn’t lie, and I was concerned.”

  “Really? Because I’ve seen a picture of you with your parents, and neither of them looked like Cherry or Rod.”

  “Rod and Cherry may have created me, but they didn’t raise me. My grandparents did. They actually adopted me.”

  Her defiant, suspicious glare changes to confusion. “I don’t understand. You told me you were raised in a strict house that lacked affection, and privacy was not permitted. Those were your exact words.”

  “And that is very much the truth.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were raised by your grandparents?”

  “I didn’t think it was necessary.” I swallow down the panic that comes with being forthcoming about my family history. I’ve never told anyone about this. Not even Alex knows. Well, I’m sure he does now, but I’ve kept this terrible secret my entire life. Because it’s very much the reason I’m as fucked up as I am. And the reason for the NDA agreements. “Please come sit with me so I can explain.”

  She exhales a shaky breath, but allows me to take her hand and lead her to the living room. She waits until I sit on the couch before moving to the love seat. I�
�m disappointed but unsurprised that she wants space.

  I sip my wine and try not to allow the displeasure to appear on my face. I make a mental note to have a couple cases of good wine delivered to her house so she doesn’t feel compelled to drink this shit. Running my hand up and down my thigh a few times, I take a deep breath. “I’ve never shared this with anyone, Charlene. I had hoped I would never have to.”

  I take her in, noting the protective way she cups the bowl of the glass in her palms, warming the white. When I reach her throat, I note her missing pearls and my chest constricts. Charlene always wears them, and the significance of their absence is like a razorblade slice across my heart. Her expression and her posture are both guarded. I hope I haven’t lost all my gains because of this.

  I hate my parents so much for making me feel secrecy is necessary.

  “I was raised by my mother’s parents.”

  “Because your parents are porn stars.”

  “Yes.”

  She doesn’t ask for more information, but silence will only widen the gap between us. She wants me to tell her without having to prod.

  “My parents started dating in their last year of high school. They were eighteen and careless.”

  “And your mom got pregnant,” Charlene says softly.

  In a lot of ways our stories are similar. Young adults making mistakes and having kids—us—way before they were ready. “She did. And because of my grandparents’ beliefs, she kept me. They agreed to support her if she broke it off with my father.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  “She did not. They ran away together—such a romantic notion, isn’t it?” I smile at the irony and glance at Charlene, who looks sad. “They learned very quickly how difficult it is to afford a child with no education and no support from family, so they found a way to make money. And they made a lot. But with certain professions, there’s a lifestyle.” I look down at my hands and a disjointed series of memories that never made much sense until I was older flicker like an old movie behind my eyes. “At a young age I was exposed to things I shouldn’t have been.”