Pucked Off (The Pucked Series) Read online

  It’s the perfect place to get fucked up. I head for the far end of the bar, close to the pool tables and away from the group of old guys. It’s dark over here, less conspicuous. I drop onto a barstool and wait for the bartender. It takes him a minute to get to me, but it’s nice to be treated like a nobody once in a while. It reminds me that I’m only special in my own little bubble.

  I motion to the wall of booze. “I’ll take a glass and whatever’s left in that bottle of Walker.” It’s the least offensive thing they have in the whiskey department, and it looks to be about three-quarters full.

  The bartender taps the wooden bar as I flip open my wallet and pull out two bills.

  He looks down as he takes the money. “You want ice?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He slips the cash into his pocket and sets a coaster and a glass in front of me before he grabs the bottle.

  “Tell me when,” he says as he pours the first shot.

  I tap the edge when there’s about three fingers of whiskey. Then I drain the glass in one shot. We repeat the process twice more before he sets the bottle down on the bar.

  “You’ll be taking a cab outta here.”

  I salute him. “Aye, coach.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “She must’ve screwed you over real good.”

  I pour myself another hefty shot and raise my glass. “That she did.”

  He leaves me to my wallowing. My phone keeps vibrating in my pocket. I pull it out and drop it on the bar, watching the screen light up. The contact reads DO NOT FUCKING REPLY. I wish I was smart enough to take my own advice, but apparently I’m not.

  There are eleven new messages. I’m sure they’re all quite lovely. As much as I know I shouldn’t look at them, I don’t know how long I can contain my curiosity.

  Tash will be gone tomorrow, back to LA. If I can wait until she’s on a plane, I won’t run the risk of trying to see her again. I hate the panicky feeling that thought brings. I hate that I almost regret not fucking her. I hate that I’ve already forgiven her for slapping me across the face.

  I flip my phone over so I can’t see the alerts as the texts keep coming. There’s a fight on the TV over the bar, so I focus my attention there instead. I wish I had a place to put all this anger. Since I don’t, I get this feeling in my spine—it’s a tingle that turns into a burn. Everything starts to feel hot, like I’m a volcano preparing to erupt.

  I pour another shot, hoping it’ll dull the fire. Sometimes I don’t know what to do when I get like this. And Tash makes me worse. I know this. Every time I see her now it takes a few days for me to get things back under control. Last time I did five thousand dollars worth of damage to my bedroom.

  One of the girls from the pool table sidles up to me. She wears her hard life in faint lines on her young face. I look over just as her friend squeezes her way between us.

  She gives me a lopsided smile and scans the bar, maybe looking to score a drink while she checks me out.

  “Hey.” She sits on the stool beside me, knocking my elbow as I tip my glass.

  The drink misses my mouth and runs down my forearm.

  “Oh, God! I’m so sorry!” She reaches over me and grabs for a napkin.

  I don’t think she’s drunk—she doesn’t have the glassy eyes or loose body for that—so I have to assume she’s either clumsy or did it on purpose to get my attention. Which was unnecessary. She had it the second I walked into this place, she and her friend being the only two women without a guy attached to them.

  “You’re fine.” I take the napkin from her so she’ll stop touching me.

  The first girl, the one who looks like life hasn’t been all that easy on her, says something to her friend and gives me an apologetic smile. It fades a bit after a moment, and her eyes narrow slightly, then flare.

  “You look familiar.”

  “I don’t think we’ve met before.” I turn on my grin and my charm, even though I don’t feel like being all that friendly or charming. “I’d remember that pretty smile.”

  “I’ve got a pretty smile,” says the clumsy one. Then she points to my bottle. “Hey, you wanna buy me and my friend a drink?”

  “Barbie!” the other girl chastises.

  Of course her name is Barbie, although she doesn’t look like one in the traditional sense, with her brown hair and brown eyes. Her friend, the one who’s embarrassed now, is more Barbie-looking, with sandy blond hair and eyes that could be blue or green, depending on how the lighting in this corner of the bar messes with things.

  “What? He’s got a whole bottle. He can share.”

  “Sure. You got a glass?” These two seem like a decent enough distraction, and I need one. Besides, I probably shouldn’t drink the rest of this bottle on my own unless I want practice to be hell tomorrow.

  “Over there.” Barbie thumbs over her shoulder. “You should come sit with us.”

  My phone buzzes on the bar again. I flip it over. I’m up to twenty messages from Tash. Fuck her.

  “Yeah. I can do that.”

  Barbie helps me out by grabbing the bottle, and I follow them to their table. It’s conveniently located in the darkest corner of the bar.

  Barbie sits beside me on the bench seat, and her friend sits perpendicular to her. She pours them both a generous shot of whiskey and fills my glass too.

  She props her cheek on her fist, mashing her face into it. “You do look really familiar.”

  “Oh my God! I know who you are!” The other girl slaps the table with a shriek. I cringe and survey the room. Thankfully it’s loud in here. Her voice is drowned out by the blaring country music.

  She leans in closer. “Don’t you play hockey for Chicago?”

  I put a finger to my lips and wink. “Shh. We don’t want everyone to know.”

  “Oh my God!” She bounces in her seat and smacks Barbie’s arm. “I knew it! I told you! Wow. What are the chances you’d be here, of all places?”

  “Just passing by. Lucky, aye?” I’m not the nicest version of myself right now, so it comes out with a bite of sarcasm. She doesn’t seem to catch it, though.

  “Maybe it’ll turn out to be my lucky night.” Barbie gives me a coy look, like she’s trying to be sweet while she propositions me. “Can we get a picture with you?”

  “Sure.”

  The blonde comes around to my other side, and they squeeze together so we can all be in the photo. They’re both touching me. I hate the way it feels, but I try to smile anyway. I want these to end up on social media so Tash can see how little I fucking care.

  My phone buzzes again, and I have to fight not to look at it. Barbie with the brown hair isn’t bad to look at. She’s not drunk, so fucking her isn’t off the table.

  I’m in a bad enough headspace that if she makes another pass at me, I’ll probably go ahead and make it her lucky night. And if her friend is interested, I’ll fuck her too. I’ll even get them to fuck each other first. Just to get back at Tash, because she’s the one who calls me a whore, and she’s the one who made me that way. Then I’ll have a real distraction from this fucking empty feeling in my chest.

  I tap the side of the bottle. If I finish what’s left, I’ll pass out. These girls are another way to deal with all the goddamn blackness eating at me. Neither is a smart option, but my choices feel limited.

  In a way, this makes me exactly like Tash. I’ll use these girls for an hour or two so I can get out of my head and hurt Tash the way she does me. Not that it will work, because I’m not sure if anything she feels is real at all.

  “What’re you doing when you’re done with your drink?” Barbie looks around the bar, then back at me.

  I finger the ends of her hair. It’s dry and brittle, not like Tash’s. Hers is always soft, and it smells like my shampoo because she likes to make me think she wants me like I want—wanted—her.

  I smile anyway. “You, baby.”

  Her echoing smile is both excited and nervous, colored with a hint of fear, like maybe
she thinks she’s making a mistake.

  She is.

  “What about your friend?” I nod to the blonde, whose name I still don’t know.

  “What?” She looks over her shoulder, like she’s forgotten her friend is even there.

  “What’s she gonna do while I’m doing you?”

  “You mean Mindy? Um…I…” She touches her hair, flustered by the question. “I don’t—”

  I rest my arm across the back of her seat and adjust the strap on Mindy’s top. “You two are good friends, aye?”

  They look at each other, and Mindy answers for Barbie. “We’re besties. We take care of each other.”

  “You do, do you?” I move Mindy’s hair over her shoulder, my fingers grazing her throat, making her shiver. She doesn’t pull away, though. “Do you do everything together?”

  Mindy glances at Barbie. “I guess.”

  I lean in and run my nose along Barbie’s jaw until I reach her ear. “Wanna do me together?”

  She gasps a laugh and backs up a bit, maybe to see if I’m joking. Her expression is part excitement, part disbelief.

  I cock a brow. I hate myself so much right now. I feel sick at the thought of having two sets of hands to deal with. But I’ll do it to get back at Tash for pulling this shit on me. Again.

  “Oh my God, you’re serious. You want us both to come home with you?” She brings her fingers to her lips.

  I know that expression. She’s considering it.

  “We’re not that kind of besties,” Mindy says, a little incredulous.

  “How do you know? You ever tried?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  I’m still fingering the strap of Mindy’s top while I close-talk Barbie, so she can’t be that opposed to the idea.

  “But what? You should kiss her; see if you like it.”

  I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be fucking with them. These girls aren’t bunnies. They didn’t come to my party looking to ride whoever is willing so they can brag about it in their online bunny groups.

  These two girls are just on the receiving end of my bad place. I’m feeling messed up, so I’m inclined to do things that aren’t very nice. Sometimes I’m fascinated by the things people will do just to say they’ve been fucked by someone with a little fame.

  Barbie turns to her friend and whispers something. I watch Mindy’s eyes widen as she looks between the two of us. She hesitates for a moment before leaning in closer to Barbie, putting a hand on her shoulder. She kisses her quickly on the lips.

  I laugh. “Not like that.” I lean in, like I’m going for Barbie, but instead I reach past her for Mindy, the uncertain one. I caress her cheek. When she doesn’t flinch away, I palm the back of her neck and pull her forward so we meet across the corner of the table with Barbie between us. “Like this.”

  Touching my lips to hers, I wait for hers to part. When they do, I slip my tongue inside. She tastes like whiskey and vaguely some guy’s aftershave. I don’t have a chance to ask about the source of that.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” A loud male voice stops the party.

  Mindy shoves away from me, her eyes wide with panic as we turn and come face to face with a human tank.

  “Kevin? What’re you doing here?”

  “Looking for you,” he snaps and turns his angry gaze on me.

  I’m a big guy. Pushing six four, I weigh in at two twenty on a light day. This guy has got to be two fifty, and he’s probably the same height as me. Based on how flat his nose is, I’m gonna go ahead and say it’s been broken a few times.

  “Who the fuck is this guy?” The tank grabs Mindy by the arm and yanks her out of her seat. “Fucking whore.”

  Now, that unkind name may very well be accurate. I have no idea, but I have never and will never tolerate that kind of shit. Not even when Tash asked to be called names could I ever give in. Also, manhandling a woman in a bar is another thing at the top of my don’t fucking do it list.

  “He was just buying us a drink. Isn’t that right?” Barbie says, like that explains what her friend was doing with my tongue in her mouth.

  I feel played, which is fitting since my plan was to play these girls. Mindy has a look on her face I know well. I wore it frequently as a kid. The hits I took on the ice were just a warm up for the abuse I’d sustain when I didn’t live up to the expectations set for me at home.

  “We have one fucking misunderstanding and you whore yourself out to the first guy who gives you a little attention?” the tank says to Mindy.

  His grip on her arm is tight, and she makes a sound that melds pain with fear.

  I push up out of my seat, adrenaline rocketing through my veins, burning off enough of the alcohol to give me back my coordination. I step around Barbie, who tries to grab my arm, maybe to stop me, but it’s too late. I need a way to unleash all the blackness Tash has filled me with.

  I roll my shoulders. “Get your fucking hands off her.”

  “Fuck you and fuck her.” He lets her go, though, which is what I want.

  We’ve gained the attention of the bartender and some of the guys in the corner. The bartender calls the tank’s name, but it doesn’t seem to register with him.

  This guy is pissed—not just angry, but drunk, drunker than me. His lazy, dark eyes tell me that. I realize now, as I take in the slope of his forehead, that there’s a good chance he’s a juicer and his rage and mine are not going to be quite matched. My red and his are on totally different levels. Still, the hot tingle that runs down my spine fires me right up.

  I’m probably not going to come away from this unscathed, and the karma in that makes me happier than it should. I anticipate the first punch and block it with my forearm, feeling the sharp pain that travels all the way to my shoulder and up my neck.

  I don’t retaliate right away, aware that if I do, it’s no longer self-defense. But it’s more than that—I want this pain. I would’ve screwed these two girls and maybe gotten them to do something that, under any other circumstances, they wouldn’t have considered. This is retribution for what could’ve happened.

  When Mindy throws herself between us, I’m forced to absorb the third punch—in the jaw—so she’s not on the receiving end. It feels like his fist is made of titanium. I reel and stumble back, hitting a table and knocking over chairs as I go down. The tank is on top of me before I have a chance to do anything beyond raise a defensive arm.

  I’m past letting him have the advantage now, but being on the bottom makes it tough to gain leverage. He grabs me by the shirt and yanks me back up, slamming me into the table while high-pitched girl screams echo in my head. They’re joined by a hollow ringing when my head hits the wooden tabletop a second time. His fist connects with my face, and I taste blood. An elbow to the ribs and subsequent searing pain tells me tomorrow is going to hurt.

  I roll to the side as Mindy comes flailing at the tank, screaming for him to stop.

  No matter how much Tash has fucked me around, no matter how bad it’s been between us, it doesn’t give me the right to headfuck someone else, I remind myself. And particularly not someone else who’s already involved, even if the relationship was undisclosed and appears to be screwed.

  But I’m still not willing to take any more hits now. Especially when the tank comes after me with a chair. He doesn’t get very far, though, because that’s when the police show up.

  CHAPTER 3

  NO CHOICES

  LANCE

  I give the police my statement while a doctor fly-bandages my eyebrow. Just because I didn’t start this doesn’t mean I’m not going to catch heat for it. I’m notorious for starting shit on the ice. I never throw the first punch, though. I’m smarter than that. I push buttons and needle players until I piss them off enough that they lose their cool.

  This isn’t like a hockey fight, though. This was a brawl in a very public bar that caused more than ten thousand dollars damage. Because of Tash. Because I can’t stay away from her, and I keep letting her screw
with my head. I’ll need to call my publicist to deal with the fallout, but right now I’ve got a throbbing headache, and I just want to go the fuck home.

  I hate hospitals. I’ll do almost anything to avoid them. I’d rather get stitched up on the bench without any kind of painkiller than be sitting here. I’m edgy because of it, and a little panicky. Hospitals bring back all sorts of shitty memories.

  The last time I was in a hospital was when Waters, our team captain, took a serious hit that knocked him unconscious. The time before that was the night my brother died.

  I was eleven. He was eight. It was my fault.

  The doctor wants me to stay the night for observation, but I lie and tell him I’ve got a roommate who will wake me up. I can’t stay here. I’ll lose my mind if I do.

  The doctor makes me call my “roommate.” Ballistic is the most likely to wake up and answer, as well as give me the least grief over this.

  As predicted, he doesn’t ask any questions, just says he’ll be there as soon as he can.

  I sit in the chair rather than on the bed while I wait. I stare at the empty mattress and fall back into memories I’ve tried to bury for years, but can’t.

  We were going to be late. It was my fault because I’d been screwing around, playing ball hockey with some of the guys after school even though my mum said to come right home. Now we’d have to run if we were going to make it.

  Quinn wasn’t a fast runner, though, so he kept falling behind, and he was whining about being out of breath. He had asthma, so I slowed down and found his puffer in his bag.

  There was a shortcut we could take, but my mum always told us never to go that way, ’cause it was through a bad part of town. It’d cut ten minutes off our walk, though, and then we wouldn’t be late and Quinn wouldn’t have to run.

  “Don’t tell her we came this way,” I ordered. “We’ll get in trouble if we’re late.”

  He hesitated for a second. Trouble in our house didn’t mean losing privileges and not having time to play video games. It meant my mum losing it. Sometimes when she was mad, she hit me. It’d been happening more often.

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” Quinn said.