Sexy Motherpucker: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  His eyes soften. “I am stupid. I’m sorry.”

  I lift a shoulder and let it fall with a laugh even as my throat gets tighter. “It’s okay. We’re all stupid sometimes.”

  “Some more than others.” He leans closer, until I’m pretty sure he’s about to kiss me again. But I decide I’m okay with that, since kisses, hugs, and all other forms of comfort are sounding good in the wake of my near-death experience—fuck it, I’ll worry about redrawing my line in the sand once I’m not on the verge of going into shock—when a siren whoops behind him.

  Brendan glances over his shoulder, lifting a hand to someone I can’t see from my position flat on my butt in the snow. “Hey! We’re over here! She’s okay, but there’s no way she’s walking or skiing out. She tweaked something in her knee.”

  “Got it,” a male voice says behind him. “We’ll be there with a stretcher in a minute. You two hold tight.”

  Brendan turns back to me, relief and regret warring in his expression. “I should get down to the bottom and help Chloe. She made it to the lift line okay, but she’ll be scared if one of us doesn’t show up soon.”

  I nod, making shooing motions with my gloved hands. “Go. Tell her I’m fine, and I’ll see you guys back at the chalet or wherever they take broken people.”

  “I’ll call Angie and Steve, and we’ll all meet you in the infirmary.” He stands, but before he leaves, he bends low, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”

  And then he’s gone, leaving me swimming in a strange mixture of melancholy and exhaustion, proving my adrenaline rush has truly left the building. Thankfully, the two ski patrol officers who arrive a moment later are sweet, adorable, hippie boys, clearly devoted to easing the pain and suffering of the recently wiped out.

  They crack jokes and praise my not-running-into-trees-skills as they load me onto the stretcher like precious cargo and carry me through the woods to their snowmobile. They strap the stretcher, with me still laid out on top, onto the back of their ride and fire up the engine. The cutie with the brown beard drives, while the cutie with the red beard rides backward, leaning over to assure me that everything is going to be fine.

  He makes some more jokes about how gingers are the craziest people on the slopes, accounting for an unusually high percentage of ski patrol rescues, considering how few natural redheads there actually are in the world.

  “But we heal fast,” he says, with a wink. “You’ll be back out here tearing up the double black diamond before the end of the season.”

  “Highly doubtful.” I arch a wry brow. “I’m going back to figure skating. At least when I wipe out doing a turn, I don’t have that far to fall. And there are no trees the size of my Subaru lurking in the woods, waiting to crush my face.”

  “Nah, don’t give up,” Ginger Beard says. “Get back on that horse and show it who’s boss.”

  We chat some more—enough to convince me that Ginger Beard is trying to hit on me, which is cute considering he’s maybe nineteen years old, tops—and then we’re back at the chalet, where I’m once again ferried across the snow like a wounded warrior returning from the battlefield.

  The bearded patrol boys get me settled in the infirmary, where Brendan’s torn MCL diagnosis is seconded by the medic on duty, a fresh-faced blonde with a freckled nose she wrinkles in sympathy as she puts my wounded knee through its limited paces.

  “Okay, so it doesn’t seem to be that bad. Definitely not the worst sprain I’ve seen this week. But I think you should head to the emergency room at Memorial, over in Hood River, and get checked out. Just in case,” she says, her brow furrowing. “Do you have someone who can drive you? If not, I can ask the staff at the lodge if they have anyone free to shuttle you over. You shouldn’t be driving or putting weight on that knee until you get a brace.”

  “We’ll drive her.” Angie bustles in, followed closely by Steve, and hurries over to envelop me in a big hug. “Oh honey, Brendan told us what you did. Thank you so much!”

  I smile at Steve over her shoulder. “I didn’t do anything except get myself hurt and ruin the fun.”

  “Ridiculous,” Steve says, his expression as serious as I’ve seen him so far. “You didn’t ruin anything, and we’re honored to drive you to the hospital. Brendan and Chloe are still about thirty minutes out. The lift let them off at the top of Sweetheart’s Mile, and Brendan said Chloe needed a few minutes to rest after all the excitement. But they’ll be here soon, and we’ll all head to the ER.”

  “Oh, no.” I shake my head. “Seriously, there’s no reason to wreck the day. I can ask about a shuttle at the lodge or—”

  “Stop it. Right now,” Angie says, squeezing my hand. “We’re taking you and then treating you to lunch, and that’s that.”

  I text Brendan—who is still at the hot chocolate hut at the top of the mountain with Chloe, waiting for her to finish her “I made it down my first double black diamond without breaking any bones” celebratory cocoa. I ask him to stay and enjoy the day with his daughter and Angie, while Steve takes me to get my knee checked out, assuring him that minimizing the impact of my accident on the group is what will make me feel better the fastest.

  After half a dozen texts from Brendan insisting he wants to drive me to the doctor, and an equal number of texts from me arguing that he should stay and take care of Chloe because he’s the best skier in the group, not to mention large and scary-looking when he needs to be, the better to defend her from rampaging snowboarder assholes, he agrees.

  But not before texting, Okay, but I’ll be counting down the minutes until I get to see you tonight. Chloe and I are both sending good vibes your way, beautiful. Text me as soon as you get the official diagnosis.

  I text back, Will do, and slide my phone back into my coat pocket, ignoring the fluttering in my chest.

  It’s a stupid flutter—Brendan is grateful that I put myself at risk for Chloe, and it’s making him text things he usually wouldn’t. That’s it.

  Or maybe he’s aware that Angie and Steve are hovering as I text him back, and that “beautiful” was just fertilizer thrown onto the manure pile to shore up our fake relationship.

  But even as I convince myself not to take the sweet words too seriously, I swear I can feel the good vibes Brendan and Chloe are sending down the mountain humming in the air around me, wrapping me up in a warm cloud.

  As Steve guides his truck down the narrow, snow-covered road toward the main highway, I can’t help but turn and look back, wondering which of those dots swishing down the Sweetheart Run might be my dots.

  Mine.

  Neither of them will ever be mine.

  My head knows that, but my heart keeps my gaze trained on the mountain until Steve turns the corner and the slopes disappear from view.

  Chapter Thirteen

  From the texts of Laura Collins and Libby Collins

  Libby: Oh my God, are you okay?!

  Justin just got off the phone with Brendan. He said you got into a skiing accident after some jerk shoved Chloe onto a double black diamond and you went after her like a crazy, but incredibly sweet and brave and wonderful and selfless, stupid person!

  How are you still alive, La?!

  Is anything broken?

  Can you walk?

  Did you have to go to the hospital?

  Why didn’t you text me?!! Or call!!?

  And why didn’t Brendan give Justin more information?!

  And why didn’t Justin ask for more flipping details before he hung up?!

  What is wrong with the male of the species, Laura? What’s with the just the facts, cards held close to the chest, no need for backstory crap?

  There are times when a phone call needs to last more than two minutes!

  ARGH!!

  OH MY GOD PLEASE CALL OR TEXT ME BEFORE I FREAK OUT AND JUMP IN THE CAR AND DRIVE EAST UNTIL I FIND YOU, WHEREVER YOU ARE. BRENDAN IS REFUSING TO ANSWER HIS PHONE EVEN THOUGH I’VE CALLED FOU
R TIMES! AND JUSTIN IS TELLING ME NOT TO TEXT IN ALL CAPS BUT I CAN’T HELP IT BECAUSE I AM SO WORRIED MY INTERNAL MONOLOGUE IS JUST ONE BIG SCREAM-FEST RIGHT NOW.

  ARGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!

  I’M SO WORRIED!!!!!!!

  *

  Laura: Hey. Relax, sis. No need to freak out.

  I’m okay. Just a little foggy.

  The doc at the ER gave me some pretty intense painkillers. It’s just a torn MCL, and I should be fine as long as I ice, rest, and use a brace for the first week or two until I see how fast I’m healing. But the guy who checked me out gave me the good drugs, anyway. I zonked out at four o’clock yesterday and slept all the way through until Chloe brought me breakfast in bed this morning.

  *

  Libby: Aw, the sweetheart. I bet she was so scared.

  Thank God she’s okay. She must be an amazing skier.

  *

  Laura: She is. She ended up doing the same run again later that afternoon with Brendan. Brendan’s father-in-law took me to the ER so the rest of the crew could stay and enjoy the day. I didn’t want my injury to wreck the trip for everyone.

  *

  Libby: That’s very thoughtful of you. I would have wanted Justin to carry me down the mountain and make a big deal out of babying me and kissing me and telling me he won’t leave my side until I’ve recovered.

  But I’m a terrible sick or wounded person.

  *

  Laura: Yes, you are.

  And Brendan isn’t my boyfriend, so…

  *

  Libby: Oh yeah?

  That’s not what I heard…

  *

  Laura: What? What do you mean, that’s not what you heard?

  *

  Libby: Justin said Brendan was asking for romantic mountain lodge recommendations. Ones that aren’t solely focused on skiing, since you clearly won’t be able to ski anytime in the near future.

  *

  Laura: Oh, that…

  It’s nothing, Libs.

  Angie and Steve are insisting on babysitting so Brendan and I can have a “romantic weekend.” They know what a hard time he’s had finding sitters, so they wanted to give us a chance to be alone before we head back to the city.

  We had to say yes so they wouldn’t get suspicious about why we don’t want to shack up alone together in a fancy hotel.

  *

  Libby: I don’t know. If that’s all it is, why was Brendan so adamant about finding something romantic? His in-laws won’t be at the hotel with you, right?

  *

  Laura: Right…

  *

  Libby: Right. So they won’t have any idea where you end up going.

  You guys could shack up at a Best Western, or drive back to Portland and stay at your own separate houses, for all they know. If Brendan’s looking for real, actual, in the flesh romance, then I think you had better be prepared.

  *

  Laura: Hmm…

  *

  Libby: What does that mean?

  *

  Laura: That means I’m in the car with him right now, on the way to this mysterious, romantic lodge Justin recommended.

  *

  Libby: Really! So, ask him!

  Ask him what’s up with the romance!

  Justin and I need answers! And you guys would be so cute together! And we could double date!

  *

  Laura: No, we could not.

  *

  Libby: Why not? It would be fun!

  *

  Laura: It’s complicated. Trust me.

  *

  Libby: It doesn’t have to be.

  Come on, don’t be a baby, La. Just ask him what’s up.

  You’re good at flirting and stuff. You can get the scoop without it being weird.

  *

  Laura: It’s already weird, Libs. You have no idea.

  *

  Libby: I have no…

  OMG! YOU’VE ALREADY SLEPT WITH HIM!

  *

  Laura: Keep your voice down! No caps!

  If he looks over at my screen, he might actually be able to read them, psycho!

  *

  Libby: okay, okay, but—

  omg you’ve already slept with him!!!!!

  When? Why? And why didn’t you tell me!?

  *

  Laura: Last summer.

  For the usual reasons.

  And because it was a one-weekend kind of thing.

  There was no point in discussing it.

  Though, I did sort of mention it that time I warned you about the dangers of sleeping with friends…

  *

  Libby: Oh my God! Brendan is the guy who said he wasn’t interested in banging you anymore and made you feel terrible and sad and doubtful about the adorableness of your vagina!

  *

  Laura: Yes, but I’m seriously going to turn off my phone if you use that word again. I’ve been injured, Libby. Have some pity on me and lay off the V-word.

  *

  Libby: Okay, okay. Though Justin agrees that I should be able to torture you for at least a year or two in retaliation for the time you asked the bikini waxing lady to check to see if there was anything wrong with me down there.

  *

  Laura: I did that because I love you!

  And because I could tell you had concerns…

  *

  Libby: Still a serious violation of privacy, La.

  Not to mention the sister code. And probably the law.

  *

  Laura: Fine, I won’t do anything nice for you ever again! Happy?

  *

  Libby: No. I’ll be happy when you tell me that you and Brendan are getting back together. heart emoji

  *

  Laura: We were never together in the first place!

  And I don’t want a fuck buddy.

  So, if he’s planning to take me to some romantic lodge thinking he can woo his way into my pants for another weekend, after I’ve made it clear I’m not interested in sex without feelings, he’s got another thing coming.

  Another thing like a stick beaten repeatedly around his big, stupid head.

  I’m starting to think I should have taken those crutches from the hospital, after all…

  *

  Libby: Okay, I hear you. But what if he’s taking you on a romantic getaway so he can woo his way into your heart!

  *

  Laura: Doubtful. Seriously doubtful.

  And the more I think about this, the angrier I get…

  *

  Libby: Uh oh. Don’t go there, Laura.

  The crazy rage spiral is never the answer!

  *

  Laura: It’s not a crazy rage spiral if there is a reason for the rage, Elizabeth!

  *

  Libby: Well at least make sure there’s a reason first, okay?

  And if you and Brendan decide to date, tell him I’m thrilled and that I really like him, but that he had better treat you right or I’m going to make him a big batch of Ex-Lax brownies.

  Okay?

  Laura?

  Are you making sure there’s a reason for the rage spiral?

  Just remember that violence is never the answer!

  Laura? Laura?

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brendan

  Laura tosses her phone back into her purse with enough force to make the bag scoot across the console between us. “Pull over.”

  “What? Why?” My gaze moves between Laura and the road ahead, but there isn’t an exit in sight. “If you need a bathroom, I should probably drive over the median and head back to the last turnoff. I don’t think there’s another exit with a gas station until—”

  “I don
’t need a bathroom. Now pull over,” she repeats, pointing a stern finger to the shoulder. “Now, Brendan. This very fucking second.”

  “Whoa.” A frown claws at my forehead. “What did I do? Who were you texting?”

  “You’re not the one asking questions, Daniels,” she snaps, her volume rising. “Now, are you pulling over, or am I going to have to jump out of a moving vehicle with a strained MCL?”

  I reach out, locking a hand around her wrist as my foot eases off the gas. “Don’t even joke about something like that. Seriously.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do.” She snatches her arm free. “And don’t touch me.”

  “All right.” I lift my hand in surrender. “I’m pulling over right now. Relax, okay?”

  “You don’t want to tell me to relax right now,” she says with a burst of clearly not-at-all-amused laughter. “Seriously. I can’t believe you’ve lived with a redhead and a redhead’s temper for seven years and haven’t learned what a serious mistake that is.”

  She has a point, I admit as I guide the Cruiser to the side of the road and shift it into park, taking a beat to center myself before shutting off the engine. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my own redhead, it’s that being logical, centered, and honest is the only chance in hell of winning an argument when she’s riled up.