Puck by Wilder Jasinda

  "Colbie, honey, lemme give you a piece of advice when it comes to dealing with Puck: don't ever underestimate him. He puts up this bad boy, trash-talking, brash and bold, take no shit and give no shit facade, but there's more to him underneath all that." She snickered. "You just gotta put up with a lot of flirting and pickup lines to get to it."

  It's always nice to know friends got your back.

  4: Story Swap

  I was well aware I was giving Puck mixed signals. The reason for those mixed signals was that I was feeling pretty damned mixed about the guy. On one hand, I admired his toughness and tenacity--the street kid in me appreciated that in him. And on the other hand, he was everything I hated in men--charming, arrogant, and self-assured. Don't get me wrong, timid men were boring, but men like Puck? They didn't stick around long, and that was something I'd had enough of in my life. More than enough. Too much. He was attractive, and he knew it. He affected me, and he knew it. And I hated both of those facts. So the back and forth. I wanted him, I didn't want to want him.

  Sitting in the opening of the van's rear doors beside Layla and Kyrie, I watched as he trotted away, cigar clamped between his teeth, and I wondered what I was going to do about him.

  "You should give him a chance," Layla said.

  I shot her a surprised look. "Did I say that out loud?"

  She blinked at me. "Say what out loud?"

  I felt myself blush. "Nothing."

  "You were thinking about him, weren't you? Trying to figure him out?"

  I shrugged. "More . . . trying to figure out what I am supposed to do."

  Layla's wink and grin were . . . salacious. "Do about him, with him, or to him?"

  "Yes," I said, unable to hold back a smile.

  Layla laughed. "That's Puck for you."

  There was a gunshot. A silence, then two more gunshots in quick succession, another longer pause, and a fourth and final gunshot. I felt my heart rate ramp up, felt the bizarre twinge of worry.

  Layla just laughed again, and I realized she'd been watching me. "Don't worry. If Puck was on the losing end, there'd have been a hell of a lot more shooting."

  "It only takes one," I said.

  "Not when it's Puck we're talking about."

  "You think a lot of him, don't you?"

  She lifted a shoulder. "Yeah, I guess. He's an asshole, he's vulgar, he's a horny fuckboy, he's rude, he's blunt . . . but he's also intensely loyal, insanely smart, a great friend, and really, really funny. I'm close to all of the guys who work for my husband, but I think Puck and I just . . . get each other the best."

  "Good for you." I tried to sound convincing. "But he's not my type."

  Layla snickered. "Honey, Puck isn't anyone's type. You don't go looking for guys like Puck. They find you, and somehow, you're never quite able to walk away after that."

  I eyed her. "Speaking from experience?"

  She bobbed her head side to side. "You could say that."

  "How'd you meet your husband?"

  Layla hesitated. "That's . . . a complicated story to tell," she answered.

  Kyrie moved up to stand between Layla and me. "Not really," she said. "Her husband worked for my husband."

  "Oh really," Layla drawled, laughing sarcastically. "Is that what we're saying, now?"

  Kyrie blushed. "Fine. It's a little more complicated than that."

  Layla snorted. "I'll say. Valentine . . . purchased Kyrie. The idea was she'd work off her debts the old-fashioned away, shall we say, but that sort of went sideways. As in, they fell in love. Of course, Valentine had enemies who wanted to get at him. There was some kidnapping, a lot of people shooting at other people, some more kidnapping--of me, this time. Nick was sent to rescue me, and in the process I kind of fell onto his dick and from there fell in love with the rest of him."

  I blinked a few times. "Um. Hold on, there's a lot to . . . unpack, in that."

  It was Kyrie's turn to snort. "I'll say."

  I stared at one woman and then the other. "Valentine Roth . . . bought you?" I asked Kyrie. "So you fucked him to pay your way free? And then his enemies kidnapped you, then Layla, and then . . ." I blinked again. "You don't live boring lives, do you?"

  Kyrie shook her head. "No, we certainly don't. Well, I do, now. But Layla doesn't. And I think you might be getting the wrong idea about Valentine and me. It really is impossible to explain without sounding stupid, though. Let's just say I was placed in a position where I had very few other options but to do whatever Valentine wanted. Which, it turned out . . . was me. That turned into something more between us, and eventually it stopped being about money or sex and started being about us."

  "That's the SparkNotes version, I take it?"

  Kyrie nodded. "That's . . . the abridged SparkNotes version."

  I blew out a breath. "You people are complicated."

  "You have no idea," Layla said. She glanced past me at the alley down which Puck had vanished. "Oh, here he comes."

  He was approaching at a leisurely stroll, pistol in his hand held low at his thigh, chewing on his cigar, which was still lit, still in the same place between his left molars. He had a handful of white paper napkins in his other hand and was wiping at his face . . . red with blood spray. His cargo pocket bulged with weight--pistols taken from the newly dead, I assumed.

  He stopped near Layla, Kyrie, and me. "That was easier than I expected. Cain must be sending his C team after us for now."

  Puck shoved the gun behind his waistband at the small of his back and climbed back behind the wheel of "our" van. Layla and Kyrie tucked their legs into the van, which left the shotgun seat open; obviously they were conspiring to keep me near Puck as much possible. I went along with it, taking the passenger seat. Once we were all safely inside the van, Puck backed out of the gas station and headed down the alley he'd only just vacated.

  He shot me a cocky grin as I buckled in, eyeing the blood etched into the wrinkles of his neck and around the corners of his eyes. "Don't worry, babe, none of it's mine."

  I rolled my eyes at him. "Forgive me if I don't weep into my apron from relief."

  Puck's grin was amused. "Oh, don't tell me you weren't at least a little worried."

  I shook my head. "Nope."

  "She was totally worried," Layla said, suddenly crouched directly behind the two front seats.

  I glared at her. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

  She just laughed. "The side of getting you two alone so you can get busy."

  Puck high-fived her. "I like that side. That's my favorite side."

  "By all means," I said, sweeping my hand in a sarcastic gesture toward the panel van as we passed it, parked on the side of the road. "Let's get in the back of that van and get it on."

  Puck made a face, finally removing the cigar, staring at the end, which was now cold. "Oh, I don't think you want to do that. It's . . . a little messy in there." He jerked a thumb at another alley as we passed it, pinching off the cherry of his cigar and stuffing the stub into the cargo pocket of his pants. "That's a likely looking alley, though."

  "Oh yeah, up against the wall in a dirty alley," I mocked. "You really know how to show a girl a good time."

  Puck leaned close, whispering, "Honey, when I show you a good time, you won't just forget where you are, you'll forget who you are."

  I felt his breath on my ear, felt the sizzle of his proximity, the heat and the promise in his words; somehow, I found myself believing him. Not that I'd let him know that, of course.

  "You think so, do you?" I said, arching an eyebrow at him.

  "I know so."

  "Better be a hell of an orgasm, then."

  Puck laughed. "An orgasm? Colbie, Colbie, Colbie. You don't get it, do you?"

  "Get what?" I looked at him, irritated at his confident, arrogant, knowing smirk.

  "An orgasm won't make you forget shit." He leaned toward me again as we stopped at a traffic light, and I inclined my ear to him, expecting another whisper. What I got was his teeth, sinking
into my earlobe, his breath hot, his lips grazing my ear. "So many orgasms you lose count? That might do the trick, though."

  I fought the urge to gasp. His teeth on my ear . . . stupid. Cliche. But dammit, why did it affect me so badly? Why did I have goosebumps all up and down my arms? Why was my heart racing?

  "Bullshit," I breathed. "You can't make me lose count."

  "Oh no?"

  I shook my head. "Before it was a dozen times, now it's so many I'd lose count? Yeah, right. What's next? So many orgasms I propose to you on the spot?"

  "You doubt me."

  I shrugged. "I find it hard to believe."

  He frowned at me thoughtfully. "When was the last time you had more than two orgasms in a row?"

  I went several seconds without answering. Glanced back, making sure Layla and Kyrie and the others were otherwise occupied in their own conversations.

  Puck's gaze was sharp. "You never have, have you?"

  "Sure I have," I lied.

  Puck laughed. "You lie, Danvers."

  I kept my voice low. "Fine, you're right. What's your point?"

  Another few moments in silence. "Wait . . ." Puck grabbed my arm and stared hard at me before turning back to the road. "You're not--" His inquisitive sideways stare was meaningful.

  I stared back at him for a moment, trying to fill in the gap. And then the penny dropped. "Am I . . . what? A virgin? God, no. Jesus, Puck."

  He blew out a breath of relief. "Thank fuck. Virgins are a lot of work."

  "And you know this from experience, do you?"

  He shrugged. "Once, which was enough."

  "I'm not sure what to think about that. It seems to be a pattern with you."

  "I am who I am. I've been around, yeah. But I'm always up front about the way things are, and I'm not going to apologize for being who I am, or the way I am."

  "So a virgin agreed to a one-night stand with you?"

  "Something like that."

  "Explain."

  He eyed me. "Why?"

  "I'm curious."

  "About me sleeping with a virgin?"

  "Yes."

  He bobbed his head side to side. "I don't really like to talk about the women I've been with, especially to other women." He cocked an eyebrow at me. "It never goes well, I've learned."

  "I'm just curious. It's not going to change my opinion of you."

  He laughed, but it was somewhat mirthless. "Something tells me that your opinion of me isn't very high anyway."

  "Not true."

  "Tell me why you want to know."

  I thought for a moment. "I'm genuinely curious. You're an interesting person. And I remember being a virgin. For most girls, it's a pretty big deal, and I don't see how a girl would be willing to give that to a random stranger in a one-night stand, especially going in knowing exactly what it was. So . . . I'm curious."

  Puck sighed. "Fine, I'll tell you. But you have to share something of an equally personal and revealing nature."

  "Personal and revealing?" I asked.

  He nodded. "I'd tell you anything you want to know about nearly anyone else I've been with." He held up a hand and ticked off his fingers as he listed. "There was Miss Hewitt, my first, when I was thirteen. Substitute gym teacher, stone-cold fox, and yeah, she got fired for it. Molly Clancy, my first girlfriend, fourteen. Or maybe it's the one-night stands you're interested in . . . Amy, last month. Met her at a bar, went to her place, left the next morning having gotten zero minutes of sleep. Clara, a few nights before Amy, same story. Hannah and Georgia, roommates. Yes, at the same time. I left them passed out in Hannah's bed. Passed out, I emphasize, from what you might term a surplus of orgasms. Sherry, Eileen, Tory, Kendra . . . same story. Those girls were all different nights, by the way. Want to know specifics about them?"

  "None of that is personal or revealing."

  He shrugged. "Not particularly. I sleep around. I pick up barflies. I'm not a pickup artist, I don't have a line I use or some funny little gimmick."

  "How do you get them to go to bed with you then?"

  "I buy them a drink. Engage them in conversation, and I listen to them." He winked at me. "And then I promise them three orgasms to every one of mine."

  "And that works?"

  He nodded. "Oh yeah. Most women are undersexed, I think. Underpleasured. Don't know the meaning of a truly good time in bed with a man who knows what he's doing. I may not look like Channing Tatum or Brad Pitt, but I like to think I've got a certain . . . aura about me, know what I mean? Promise a woman she'll come more times in one night than she ever has, she'll go with you out of curiosity, if nothing else."

  "And you think that's how you'll get me naked, huh?"

  He grinned. "I'm hoping."

  "Dream on, Bullwinkle."

  "Oooh, a classic cartoon reference. Now you're talking my language."

  I couldn't help a grin. "You like cartoons?"

  "Hell yeah! The classics, though. Looney Tunes, Rocky and Bullwinkle, Mickey Mouse, The Flintstones, The Jetsons, Transformers. I'll even include the 1990s Batman animated series, but I usually stick to pre-1990."

  I couldn't help a thrill of excitement. "Cartoons are my secret indulgence. I have all the Looney Tunes on boxed set, like literally every single one ever made." I felt a blush creep over my cheeks. "I have a sacred ritual. Every Saturday and Sunday morning, I eat a huge bowl of cereal and I watch cartoons in my underwear."

  "Chuck, Fritz, or Tex?" he asked.

  I sighed. "How am I supposed to pick?"

  He grinned. "Good answer. Why? Why cartoons?"

  I hesitated. "That would probably count as my personal and revealing anecdote."

  "We're back to that?" He ran his fingers through his beard. "I thought I had successfully diverted us away from that. Damn."

  I couldn't help a laugh. "Nice try, but no."

  He snapped his fingers and then pointed at me. "You're good, Miss Danvers, I'll give you that." A few moments in silence.

  "Okay, we'll do this in two stages," Puck said. "Stage one, we trade heavy personal shit. You tell me why you like cartoons, why you have a sacred weekend ritual--and don't think I missed the fact that you watch them in your underwear. I have this image of you in superhero boy briefs and nothing else, eating cereal out of a mixing bowl, watching Bugs Bunny. Don't ruin it for me with the truth."

  "And in turn you'll tell me what?"

  "I'll let you choose between three options: how my dad died, what my tattoos mean, the tragic story of how my first and only serious girlfriend died."

  "Molly Clancy?"

  He shook his head. "That was innocent hormonal teenage infatuation. We walked from our neighborhood to the mall twice a week and had fumbling, awkward sex in her parents' basement."

  I thought hard. "And the second stage?"

  "What I suggested--I'll tell you about how I ended up being a virgin's first, and in turn, you have to tell me something of equal value."

  "And what would you consider equal value?"

  He bobbed his head to one side. "That's up to you, but it has to be sexual in nature."

  I nodded. "Okay. Fine. You're on."

  He gestured to me. "Ladies first."

  I laughed. "Oh no. This whole trade personal stories thing is your idea, so you go first." I glanced out the window. "Where are we going, anyway?" I asked.

  "I was just thinking about that." He gestured behind us with his head. "I'm going to try to find somewhere we can wait for Anselm's guy to call me. We can't just drive around forever."

  Somehow, Puck's hand found its way near mine, and I stared at him then back down our hands, which had somehow managed to get all tangled up, resting on the cracked vinyl armrest of my seat.

  I stared meaningfully at our hands. "Um. Puck?"

  He gazed at me, a study of innocence. "Colbie?"

  "Why are you holding my hand?"

  "Because I want to. Because I've been walking next to you thinking about holding your hand, and it's wigging me the fuck
out. Makes me feel like I'm twelve instead of thirty-seven." He squeezed my hand. "So I'm holding your hand. Because I want to."

  I eyed him. "You're thirty-seven?"

  He nodded. "Yes ma'am. Thirty-eight as of November third."

  "You seem younger."

  He grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."

  "It was one." I glanced down at our hands, still joined. "Why does it make you nervous?"

  "Because I like you. You make me nervous, just in general, and I don't know why. Because I like you, I suspect. You're different. You're playing a hell of a game of hard to get, and that turns me on, and I'm not totally sure I'm gonna win this game, and that would be a first, which also scares the hell out of me. But mainly because I've never wanted anyone as badly as I want you."

  "We've known each other for a matter of, what, two hours?"

  "And here we are holding hands."

  I nodded. "I'll concede that point. I've never held hands with a guy on the first date before, let alone within hours of meeting him."

  "See? There's a thing. Sparks, or whatever you wanna call it."

  I poked him in the shoulder. "The trade, Puck. Stop trying to divert the conversation."

  He laughed. "Can't get anything by you, can I?" Puck turned back to me. "So, heavy shit first. Which of three options do you want to hear about?"

  "The tats."

  He blew out a breath. "Shit. You're good, Colbie." He reached up, touched his shoulder where the tattoos began. "This"--he indicated a classic car--"is a 1939 Ford Coupe. My old man owned one when I was a kid. It was his pride and joy, his baby. He named it Evelyn." His voice took on a gruff, scratchy drawl. "'You and Evelyn, Puck. You're it, you're all I got.' I'm not sure who he loved more, me or that Ford. So the tattoo of the car is in memoriam of Pops."

  "What happened to him?" I asked.

  Puck didn't answer immediately. "That's the danger of telling you about the tats--each one has a meaning and memory."

  "Thus the reason I asked about them--I'll learn more about you."

  He nodded. "Pops was murdered. It was . . . ugly." Puck paused, tugging on the end of his beard with his free hand. "He was a gambler. A good one, most of the time. Only, one night he got involved in a game where the stakes went a little too high for his blood, but he wouldn't back out, wouldn't fold. Knew he could win, because Pops was that good. Only, the guys he was playing against didn't play fair. They cheated, and my old man . . . he didn't take that shit lying down. Didn't go well. They roughed him up, forced him to take them to our house. I was there, saw them coming. I hid. Watched them rough him up so he'd tell them where he kept his valuables. He didn't fucking have shit, of course, but that didn't stop them from trying. So he gave them the keys to Evelyn, the only thing he had of value. They took the keys and shot him."