Puck Buddies Page 6

  Home. It’s a foreign concept now. “Nothing special. Hanging with my brothers, hunting…”

  “Pussy or game?”

  “Bit of both.”

  “And your brother, Cayden, he’s NFL, right?”

  If I have to sit here and listen to what a success and credit to the Beckett name Cay is, I’m going to scrunch up that Beebs poster and choke myself out on it. “He is.”

  Andy nods, smiling, taking a swig of his beer-slash-liquid urinal cake. “You must be real proud.”

  I should tell him how I was heading for the lacrosse big time, how I was fucking robbed, but I keep my mouth shut, forcing a smile. “Yeah, something like that.” Time for a subject change. “What about you guys? What do you get up to besides bromance?”

  Andy likes that. “Oh, you know, fishing, hanging. You like Arrow? We get together sometimes and watch it, make a night of it.”

  I’m confused AF. “Like the TV show, with Stephen Amell?”

  Andy beams. “Yeah, man. He’s bad ass, right?”

  Oh. God, I think. They weren’t lying about the anal gangbang.

  The conversation doesn’t get any better. If anything, it just proves how different our worlds are—the Ivy League I left behind and the bleak backwater hole I’ve been banished to, even though I am here by choice. I look around the table with disgust. These guys call this drinking? We should have ordered a round of seltzers and left it at that.

  I stand, laying down a twenty. I’ve had five beers and I can barely feel it. “I’m going to head off.”

  “Hot date?” asks Ricky.

  I immediately think of Harper’s lips, how warm and wet they were around my cock, the way her tongue snaked around the head of it, the naughty glint of corruption in her eyes as she jerked me off over her shoulder. “You could say that.”

  Andy seems disappointed. “You sure, man?”

  I pick up my coat. “I’m sure. See you at practice.”

  I get the fuck out of that pity party and make my way to the only real bar in town, literally called The Dive. I’m sort of hoping Harper will be there, but when I walk in all I see are local drunks and girls too dumb to do any better.

  It’s quiet inside, but at least it’s a proper bar. The bartender, a woman in her forties, walks over. “What’ll it be, handsome?”

  “Whiskey. Make it a double.”

  “ID?” she asks.

  “Seriously?” I laugh.

  “Whip it out or get out.”

  I consider laying my cock on the bar, but I do as requested.

  “American,” she nods, holding my card and pouring the whiskey at the same time. I can’t tell whether she approves or not. “You up here for the college or the climate?”

  “Oh, I came for the cold reception,” I tell her, slapping down another twenty.

  She smiles, swiping up the note. “You don’t know the famous Branton saying then?”

  The whiskey bites as it goes down. It’s cheap, but it’s a billion times better than the excuse for beer I’ve been drinking all night. “What’s that?”

  She leans over the bar. “When you’re cold, don’t expect sympathy from someone who’s warm.”

  She leaves and I smile down into my tumbler. “Cheers to that.”

  I’m warm enough when I’m with Harper, though, but how long is that bound to last? I count my relationships in hours, not days, lining up my next lay seconds after I get off. I’ve got no fucking idea why I’m so obsessed with this particular girl, only that I’m going to have to get my dick wet to find out if there’s anything more there than fuck-buddy benefits.

  Is an actual relationship doomed to failure? Of course. It’s a train wreck waiting to happen, for both of us, but there’s no harm enjoying the ride while it lasts.

  I tell myself these things and don’t feel much better for it. Becketts are the best brooders you’ll find, my old man always searching the bottom of a glass for answers. I’d like to be searching something else right about now—hot and slick and custom-made to fit my cock, but it’s not going to happen tonight.

  “I’m high up, really high up in the faculty structure there.”

  I look down the bar sideways to see some guy in a silk shirt chatting up the only decent piece of ass in the place. She must be all of eighteen, alone, dressed to impress. Read: Circa-early noughties boob tube and micro skirt to match.

  The girl picks up her cosmo. “What do you teach?”

  “Women’s studies,” says Dr. Douchebag, “believe it or not, with a focus on the anthropological genesis of gender bifurcation.”

  Her eyebrows lift. “Wow, I have no idea what that means.”

  I don’t need to see his face to know he’s winking at her. “It’s basic cultural analysis, but I’m sure a smart girl like you would pick it up.”

  Her hand goes to her chest. “You think I’m smart enough for college?” Jesus, she’s actually taking the bait.

  Her would-be suitor claps his hands together. “For sure,” he says, his head dipping towards her cleavage, “and I’d be happy to provide private tutoring, free of charge, anything for such a pretty girl.”

  She’s blushes, staring down at her stripper heels. “Thanks.”

  He continues to blabber on about his many achievements, how he’s “top of the pile” at Branton, “so to speak.”

  I snigger into my whiskey. Top of the shit pile, maybe.

  Things start to get more personal, Mr. Personality soon detailing how good he is in bed, how he could, I kid you not, “really make” this girl’s night.

  It’s pick-up-artist amateur hour, I’ve seen invalids with more game, but this girl’s lapping it up like warm milk, hungry for more.

  Asshat gets even bolder. “My ex,” he continues, “also a colleague, well, she couldn’t handle my… assets, if you know what, I mean.”

  My ears pique at that. Is he…?

  “She taught women’s studies too?” asks the hapless victim.

  King Cock-a-bout laughs. “God, no. Cultural Studies—Basically the only course they let you flunk five times over, and as for her skills out of the classroom? Non-existent.”

  The girl laughs nervously, but I’ve had my fill of this prick.

  “Excuse me?” I shout.

  He turns, shocked. “Sorry, are you speaking to me?”

  I place my tumbler down and stand, slowly pacing towards him. “Yeah. I extend my hand. What’s your name?”

  “James,” he says cautiously, face crisscrossed with confusion. “Are you in one of my classes?”

  I take the stool beside him, smiling at the girl. “Actually, I’m in Harper’s class.”

  The color drains from his face, but to his credit he manages to retain his composure. “Is that so? Well, do say hello to her for me.”

  He goes to turn away, but I push past him, extending my hand to the girl. “I’m Colton, by the way.”

  “Macy,” she smiles.

  “You know, Macy,” I start, slapping Harper’s ex on the back, “I heard a rumor this guy here can’t get a girl off.”

  Her mouth drops a little. She looks embarrassed, poor thing. “Oh?”

  “Yeah,” I continue, “‘O’ is the problem, not that it’s easy when you’ve got a magic marker for a dick.”

  Poor James has been a good sport until now, but this pushes him over the edge. He leaps up and swings. I duck and step back. “Ah, now there is the enthusiasm you’ve been missing in the sack.”

  He’s beet red, his beady eyes narrowing behind whalebone-framed glasses. “I don’t know who the fuck you are, but I’m going to lay you out real good.”

  I shake my head. “That’s a shame. I hate it when things end prematurely.”

  He charges at me, but I’m ready, stepping aside and letting him crash into the bar.

  Fucking bullseye.

  He holds his gut, staggering to his feet. “You’re dead.”

  “So people keep telling me.”

  “That’s enough!” The bartender
jumps between us. “Stop. Right now.” She looks at me. “This isn’t one of your Yankee cowboy bars, friend. We’re civilized people here.”

  “I’ve noticed.”

  I nod to James and wink at the girl. “I’ll see you around.”

  James is quiet as I leave.

  I step out into the cold feeling surprisingly warm, pleased with myself for a) saving that girl the worst night of her life, and b) standing up for Harper, because it’s one thing to fuck someone when you’re together, but it’s quite another to fuck them when you aren’t.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  HARPER

  Mindy and I are reclined on the sofa, our feet up on the coffee table. I’m wearing Tweety Bird slippers. She’s wearing monster feet. We’ve got a Gilmore Girls marathon going on and nothing short of the Second Coming itself is going to stop us enjoying it.

  Because the first ‘coming’ wasn’t enough, was it?

  Silence, Brain.

  It’s bad enough I’ve got this voice in my head that provides a constant commentary on my life. It’s worse that all said head is filled up with lately is a big glossy of Colton and his magic fingers.

  And mouth. Don’t. Forget. The. Mouth.

  He. Is. A. Student, I remind myself in the same punctuated tone, though it does little to quell the swell of sensation between my legs at the mere mention of his name.

  I dig my spoon into the rocky road like it’s a murder weapon. “How’s the Big D?” I ask Mindy.

  She looks at me quizzically. “I’m going to go ahead and guess you’re talking about the Dean.”

  “Why?” I mumble, mouth full of ice-cream. “You got another Big D I should know about?”

  She shrugs, casual as can be. “Only the ten-inch dildo under my bed.”

  “Ew.”

  “Hey, don’t knock it until you try it, and what about you, with your own kinky toybox?”

  “Those are medical aids—massagers, if you will.”

  “Funny,” says Mindy, “because ‘Turbo Tongue’ sure as shit doesn’t sound like something you pick up at the pharmacy. But, to answer your question, the Dean’s great, the actual incarnation of Wonder Woman. But that boy toy of yours? He sounds like the real star.”

  My spoon freezes an inch away from my mouth. “Say what?”

  On the TV, poor Rory Gilmore looks just as confused.

  “You didn’t hear about James, the bar...?”

  I sit up straight. “No. Why? What happened?”

  Mindy jumps back. “Whoa, easy there, partner.”

  “Tell me, would you,” I press.

  She exhales. “O-kay. You know the shitty town bar everyone frequents, present company included?”

  I have an inkling it’s called ‘The Dive’—rather fitting. “I do.”

  If there’s one thing Mindy loves, it’s spilling the good stuff. She knots her legs under herself, prepping for the reveal. “The story goes James was there hitting on some young thing, apparently muddying your good name in the process.”

  I place my hand on my chest, a big splatter of ice-cream going with it. “My good name?”

  “Apparently, to put it bluntly, he told this girl his ‘ex’ was no good in bed, couldn’t handle him or some bullshit like that.”

  I’m aghast. “He did?”

  “Uh-huh, but fear not, because someone stood up for you.” Mindy reaches for her Pepsi.

  “Who?” My entire body is clenched tight.

  “Like I said, a boy toy, some Branton student.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  Mindy’s finger flits in the air. “That econ chick, Glenda? Gladice? Whatever, she was there with friends, saw it all right up to the part where they almost had fisticuffs.”

  God, it sounds like the most excitement Branton has seen since the gold rush. “And she didn’t know who this mystery guy was who stood up for me?”

  Mindy shrugs. “She just said he was young, cute, looked about ready to kung-fu James’s big fat head clean off.”

  I should be shocked, outraged at such violence, but part of me is pretty proud of Colton for coming to my defense, regardless of his motives. It’s a rare trait, even more so considering we’re not exactly serious… yet.

  Don’t you dare.

  “Oh, oh,” Mindy grunts, bouncing up and down, her attention back on the TV, “I love this part.”

  It’s the scene in season two where good guy Luke pushes asshole Jess into the lake.

  I smile, warm and cuddly inside with the knowledge perhaps I’ve finally found my own Luke—the diamond wrapped in the rough exterior, a real man.

  And here I was thinking they didn’t make them anymore.

  *

  I wrap up class. “That’s all, folks. Please make sure you have your critical theory essay in on time. Bribery won’t help you… unless it involves either chocolate or copious amounts of sugar, and even then I’m pretty picky.” I find Colton. “Mr. Beckett,” I shout, “a word if you wouldn’t mind.”

  We’ve been doing this dance a lot lately. I’ve looked at his file. There are only a few years between us, but given my position it may as well be the Pacific Ocean. Someone’s going overboard… and we’re all out of life jackets.

  He arrives in front of me in a white tee that might actually be body paint. I can make out his pecs, his diamond-cut abs, the ink on his arms. A pair of Ray-Bans is hanging from his jeans pocket. He’s slouching, but god damn if he doesn’t make even bad posture look good.

  “For your information, I don’t mind.” He smiles.

  I swallow hard, checking to see we’re alone, or alone as you can be in a giant lecture hall. “I heard you bumped into my ex last night.”

  “He’s a real fucking asshole. Does he have a giant cock or something? Because from the outside I was getting a serious ‘nothing special’ kind of vibe.”

  James’s ‘cock’ was, well, average—not that I have much to compare it against. Sized against Colton’s lap rocket, though, his poor penis may as well be an ant.

  “He…” I start, not quite sure how to phrase it, “was a mistake.”

  Colton slow claps. “You got that right, but honestly, I didn’t do much. Any guy worth a damn would have done the same.”

  He’s playing it down. “Well, thank you.”

  “You can’t let assholes like that tear you down. You know that, right? You’ve got to stand up for yourself.”

  It’s the story of my life. The slightest hint of danger, of confrontation and I’m hauling ass into the horizon. I’m moved by his concern, can feel the familiar pull of attraction turning the space between my legs into a veritable slip ’n’ slide, but I’ve got to watch myself. If I don’t I’m going to end up in another dangerous public space with my legs around my ears and my clit doing the conga against his tongue.

  I clear my throat, trying to keep my eyes from wandering down to his chest and crotch. “How’s the study going?”

  He’s less subtle. His eyes drop to my cleavage, dropping further to rest on my legs. I can almost feel the way he’s mentally undressing me, the sly smile forming on his lips in sinful knowledge. “I’ve finished the critical theory essay.”

  “You have?” I splutter, a touch too shocked.

  “I focused on Stuart Hall and Richard Hoggart mainly, the process by which power relations organize cultural artifacts.”

  The shock turns into full-blown tachycardia. “Well… good. Great,” I choke out. “I look forward to reading it.”

  He shifts his weight, the ocean of his eyes spilling over with all the sultry seduction they can muster. “Don’t be too hard on me.”

  “I, I, uh, won’t.”

  That schoolgirl’s back fresh from sex ed, giggling with her friends because someone wants to play suck face behind the bleachers.

  The shock refuses to dissipate. I can’t shake the idea that Colton isn’t the idiot I expected, the cliché alpha oaf. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to sound sexy mentioning ‘cultural arti
facts’, but I was wrong. Heaven help me when we hit Representations of Race and Gender.

  “I don’t get it,” I tell him, finally speaking my mind. “I don’t get you.”

  “You’ve got questions?”

  “Many.”

  “So meet me later and I’ll give you all the answers you need.”

  It’s like Satan himself asking Eve to jog on down to the apple tree. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  He leans in, breath hot on my ear. “The best things never are.”

  He turns smiling, and leaves, that bad boy swagger in full, glorious motion, an ass you could frame and stare at all day shifting from side to side.

  I’m not this person. I’m not superficial. I don’t care about looks and shallow crap like that, or I thought I didn’t. Who the hell knows anymore?

  But the fact Colton Beckett might actually have a functioning brain… Well, that’s a game-changer.

  No, I tell myself, you will not go over there.

  The other little voice in my head steps up to the podium. Then why was he smiling just now like he knows you will?

  Boom.

  Mic drop.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  COLTON

  I stand outside the restaurant looking down the driveway. I thought Branton was the middle of nowhere already, but this place is taking it to the extreme. I’m waiting for a group of survivalists to come storming from the forest, a zombie apocalypse perhaps.

  I check my cell again, but it’s the same blank screen it was two minutes ago. I check my watch too, and once more for good measure. Why am I so fucking nervous? It’s like I’m back at Senior Prom waiting for my date, a raging hard-on in my pants and a flattened condom burning a hole in my pocket.

  She might not show—that is the simple truth. I don’t dinner alone, the thought of returning to the flat with nothing but Mrs. Palmer to relieve the tension is far from appealing.

  Lights cut through the treeline, the telltale crunch of tires on gravel as the town car comes into view. My cell chimes, the Uber I ordered for Harper arriving.