Puck Buddies Page 2

  “I’m—” He offers a hand.

  “Let’s not,” I cut him off, not wanting him to know my name. All this relaxed walking and me staring will end. He’ll know me straightaway. And then it’ll be him staring and me feeling awkward. Not to mention, he’ll see the outfit and sell the story, and I’ll be in for another stint of rag magazine rehab, the only kind that counts in my world. No one cares that I’ve never set foot in a rehab clinic. They care that the magazines and gossip say I have.

  “Not what?”

  “Not introduce. Let’s just let this be a random London meet up. Two lost Americans needing someone to walk with while they wait for a damned cab.” I roll my eyes. “Black cab, no less.”

  “It’s a thing.” He chuckles. “The black cabs are a traditional British cab called a hackney carriage. They’re custom-made even, just for the cab companies. I got the spiel from my driver. I swear, it’s a thing.”

  “If you say so.” I lift my deadened phone into the air. “I’m googling it when I get home.”

  “Do it.” He gives me that cheeky grin again. “So what brings you to London on New Year’s?”

  “My dad insisted we spend Christmas as a family, and he had to be in London so we all came here. Of course. And then I met up with an old friend and my boyfriend and we ended up going to a party.”

  “You don’t sound happy about it.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Is that why you looked lost?”

  “What?” I give him a sideways glance.

  “When I saw you back there, at the tube station, you looked lost but maybe more than that.” Something about the way he says it makes the moment real, not small and friendly, so I am real back.

  “Yeah. I just don't understand how I fall for the stupid stuff guys do every time. They do little things in the beginning that make me think they’re something they’re not and they trick me, but I fall for it every time.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like guys who kiss the top of girls’ heads, hovering there for a moment like they’re breathing us in. We’re suckers for that shit. And the worst part is, I see them for who they are when they date my friends. But I end up with blinders on when it comes to me. Like I forget the guys who say the right things at the right moments are the ones who have practiced it a lot. The Mr. Collinses of the world. I need to date a guy who says all the wrong things because he’s clearly never tricked a girl into being in love with him.”

  His confused face tells me he doesn't get my Jane Austen reference, but he stays with the general topic of conversation. “Is that how your New Year’s fell apart? A guy who says all the right things?”

  “Yeah. It’s like a magic trick and I fell for it again. Anyway, what brought you here?” I don’t want to talk about my New Year’s Eve, at all.

  “Hockey.”

  “Weird. Is hockey a big thing in England? Do they even have ice here? I thought it was all soccer and rugby.”

  “Hockey’s bigger than you think.” He grins. “I mean, it’s not huge–it’s not like it is in Canada or something, but they have a couple of teams that are all right.”

  “And you play?” The question is laden with disbelief. He said driver a minute ago and now he plays hockey? The driver, the beautiful suit, and the shoe ensemble would all suggest otherwise. But his body does scream athlete, especially the way his arms stretch his sleeves even when he’s relaxed.

  “Yeah.” I like the way he smiles when he says it.

  “Are you any good?”

  He looks as though he might answer but then he laughs. “I thought we weren’t getting to know each other. Just a random passing.”

  That makes me grin back. “You’re right.”

  “Can I at least ask why you’re soaked in beer?” He raises one of his eyebrows.

  “How do you know it’s beer?” His question makes me uneasy. He might have been there and followed me.

  “You reek of it. I could smell it across the road when I crossed for the tube. I thought it was either a homeless person or a brewery.”

  “Oh.” I laugh. “It was for five hundred dollars.” I press my lips together, totally ashamed.

  “I have to hear this story.”

  “I was partying and my boyfriend turned out to be a complete ass face so I left and ended up at a pub, the Prince of Wales, over near Kensington Palace. Anyway, there was an impromptu wet tee shirt contest.” I cut the story there. “I won.” I almost smile but the memory of pulling down my strapless dress and pouring beer on my bare boobs to win isn’t something I want to share. I still can’t believe I did it. I don’t even know why I did.

  No, that’s not true.

  I do know why and the look on his face still makes it worthwhile.

  “That’s hilarious. Your handbag costs over five grand, but you soaked your boobs in beer for five hundred bucks. Didn’t see that coming. Not in a blue dress anyway. Shouldn’t it be white?”

  “I guess.” I laugh with him. “I didn’t see it happening either. It was a spur of the drunken moment. It was a stupid end to a bullshit night at the end of a week of bullshit nights, at the end of a bullshit year.”

  “Well, I hope this is part of the perfect start of a new year.” He says it in a way that suggests he might be hitting on me.

  “Do you know where we are?” I don’t want him to hit on me. I mean I do, but not right this moment. I am covered in beer and sweat and God knows what else.

  He lifts his gaze from me to the buildings around us. “No.”

  “Great.” I shiver as a black car comes around the corner.

  “A black cab!” he shouts like an excited little kid and rushes forward, lifting his hand and whistling loud.

  The cab stops in the middle of the road as he hurries to it. He gets the door and grins at the cabbie. “You need to tell her this is called a black cab and I’m not a racist.”

  I climb in to find a well-dressed English gentleman and a spacious backseat.

  “I cannot say whether you’re a racist, but you’re quite right about the name of the car, sir. Black cab. Now where to?” The cabbie has a thick accent, the kind that Jon Snow has in Game of Thrones.

  “One Hyde Park.” I fight the urge to ask him to say, “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

  “I’m not going to say I told you so. Because the man said it for me.”

  “Whatever.” I get comfortable in the chair, excited to be sitting in warmth.

  We drive past the Marble Arch and turn toward my apartment and I have the strangest sensation. We’ve laughed and joked, and I told him something I’ve never said aloud before. And I don’t even know who he is, but I swear we’ve met before.

  I turn to suggest we exchange names now that the night is over and we probably will never see each other again, but by the look in his eyes, he’s beaten me to it.

  “I have to, I’m sorry,” he says as he frowns and raises his hands to my cheeks, lifting my face gently with only his fingertips, but he doesn’t move in. He stays here, close in proximity but not enough. Our breath dances in front of our faces for a heartbeat before he finally bends forward slightly, brushing a trace of a kiss on me.

  He parts my lips with his, slipping his tongue against mine. His hands slide down my arms and pull me into him, into the kiss and the passion that was slowly building and has now burst.

  My hands lift to his hair, hauling him down to me, smothering me with him. He wraps around me as his hands roam my back.

  The cab stops, jerking us both forward, and he pulls back, taking all the warmth and magic with him.

  It takes a second for me to get my breath or open my eyes.

  When I do he grins and winks. “Nice not meeting you, Deb.” He gets out of the car and walks down the road like none of this ever happened.

  I lift my gaze to the driver. “What do I owe you?”

  “The gentleman already paid.” He winks too. “That’s some kiss huh, miss?”

  My cheeks flush and I climb out of
the car. “Some kiss.” I watch him walk down the road, hoping he’ll look back. I still have his jacket. But he doesn’t hesitate. He rounds the corner and he’s gone.

  Deb?

  Why did he think my name was Deb?

  A strange sadness aches inside me as I walk up to the apartment, but it’s replaced with something else, delight.

  I press the elevator and nod at the steel doors. “Perfect start to a new year.”

  The hint of his kiss still on my mouth, mixed with the ache of knowing I won’t ever see him again, is the perfect aftertaste for the theme of the entire trip.

  Especially as my phone goes nuts and the picture of me with the pitcher of beer pouring over my boobs flashes in Messenger.

  Chapter Two

  Friends off

  Sami

  Manhattan

  August, 2011

  The hem of my shirt is caught on a button, exposing my entire side but since we’re at the door to the club and surrounded by paparazzi, I can’t fix it. I don’t like to fidget in public where photos can be taken. If you’re doing anything but soft smiling, you are depicted as if you’ve just had a seizure or injected a hit of heroin.

  Not that it matters. I don’t need to fix the shirt.

  Wearing it this way will set a new trend.

  In a week everyone who identifies themselves as female from fourteen to forty will be wearing their shirt slightly higher on one side, showing off a fake tattoo. Or God forbid, a real tat they get because I have this one.

  Mine’s a fake clover because I need a bit of luck—fake luck—any luck.

  The beefy bouncer leers and I almost grin back, almost.

  My mother’s reminder that resting bitch face is important when this many people are taking photos flits about my head every time I see cameras. One wrong smile and suddenly there’s a photo in the papers of me crying or wasted. Being Sami Ford is a job—one I inherited, not one I interviewed for.

  And we all hate it when we see a picture of my scrunched-up face with a headline announcing how hooked on drugs I am. If I were a crackhead, fine, but I haven’t been high in years. I haven’t even been drunk since the first of January. I was on house arrest, technically. Being in Greenwich is almost a form of jail. At least I had Nat though.

  But now my dad has decided it’s time for me to be back in society. Under the agreement that I’ll be drinking exclusively in places where photos aren’t allowed. It’s the only way for me not to end up in trouble.

  Mainly because, according to the trashy rag papers, I’m a drunken slut. But the stories are lies. Mostly.

  Not that anyone believes my side of it. I was tried in the court of public opinion, the worst court ever.

  The last time I ended up in the papers was the worst, New Year’s Eve.

  I made one reckless choice when I was going through a hard time and they crucified me for it.

  And the other two times I made the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wasn’t even drinking. The first time, I just walked past a known rehab clinic, clinging to my stomach as a bad burrito tried to assassinate me. And the second time, I was laughing and staggering because Natalie, my best friend in the whole world, told me some crazy joke when my heel hit a crack in the cement.

  Everything I’ve ever done has been stuff any normal girl might do at my age.

  But I’m not normal.

  And I don’t have leeway, I have a trust fund.

  So my shirt stays halfway up my torso on one side, revealing far more skin than I had anticipated and what appears to be a new tattoo.

  Nat gives me a sideways glance, clearly annoyed from the stairs where she’s no doubt blinded from the flash. “Why can’t you sneak in the back entrance like the regular celebs?”

  “I’m only here to make an appearance for my dad. I’m still sort of in trouble since the whole London thing. Dad wants good publicity.”

  “Well duh, you flashed your mommas in a random pub when you were seventeen. You got that poor pub in shit. Underage drinking and nudity aren’t cool, even in Britain.”

  “Thanks, dick,” I snarl.

  “Seriously though, if my parents see these pictures, I’m dead.” She offers her version of resting bitch, but it’s always with a nervous quality. On her perfect little face, unsettled nerves are obvious. She has no poker façade at all.

  “Your mom won't recognize you and she never watches TMZ. You’re fine.” I wink and drag her in. “My dad made me promise I would come down, but we don’t have to stay. Maybe like an hour. Do a bit of dancing and leave.”

  The club is bouncing, which means Nat might want to stay. She loves dancing almost as much as she loves protesting. But she has to get in the mood. Thinking about her mom is the opposite of getting in the mood.

  “What DJ is it?” Nat hurries behind our escort to my new private table.

  “I don't know. I think it’s one of the European guys that dated Katy Perry or someone like that.” I slide into the booth next to her, giving her the look. “Let’s just have fun and when we’re done, we’ll go home. Your parents won’t know we even came into the city. I swear. Vincenzo will have us back to Greenwich before they even finish lunch.”

  “You can’t promise that. My mom lives by the society pages. If she sees us here, I’m dead.”

  “Oh my God. I have yet to see a nightclub in the society pages. You need to calm down, for reals. Nadia did your makeup super intense. I barely recognize you. You’re fine.” I can’t fight the eye roll. “Try to remember you’re an adult now. You’re legal to vote for God’s sake. Stop letting your mom treat you like a child. Besides, I need you to focus on something way more important than your mom’s latest hissy fit.” I smile wide, flashing my teeth at her.

  “You’re fine,” she groans.

  “I had spinach in my pasta. Look closer. I can’t walk around here looking like I haven’t brushed in years.”

  “This better not come back to bite me in the ass.” Nat scans the room, still uneasy. She lives and dies by her mother’s opinion, which in my opinion is crap. Her mom has some weird ideas about how to belong to the upper crust of society. As a member of the upper crust, I can tell you, her ideas are whack.

  “Seriously. Are my teeth cool or not?”

  “You’re fine, just stop. It doesn’t matter anyway. You could wear spinach in your teeth and spinach teeth would become cool. Girls have been flashing their boobs and doing wet tee shirt contests for months.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here. Making good publicity for the family.”

  “You’re still only eighteen and in a club in New York. I don’t see how this is better PR for the family.” Nat nods at the dance floor when she sees the look on my face. “A couple of dances and then we go before I get caught for sneaking into the city?”

  “Fine”—I lean forward, gripping her hands—“but I still think you need to remember you’re in an exclusive club where no one is taking pictures. You’re totally safe.” What I want to say is woman up, but I can’t. Natalie Banks is my best, and maybe only, friend.

  Which means I have to tolerate her inability to tell her mom to suck it. Mrs. Banks was a mean bitch as a teacher, and she’s even worse as a parent. She puts the mother in smother. And Mr. Banks is the ultimate doormat. “Yes, dear” is a catchphrase at their house.

  And because of it, Nat is the ultimate goody-goody.

  We’re polar opposites.

  I smoke. She turns on a fan.

  I drink. She gets the barf bag and holds my hair.

  I skip school. She takes notes.

  She’s a huge dork.

  I’ve spent the last couple of years trying to undo everything her mom does so I can break her out of her shell. She’s fun when she lets loose.

  But most of the time she tries too hard to be what her mom expects.

  Normally, she wouldn't fit in with the rest of us rich kids but she’s beautiful. And beauty forces the world to forgive a variety of sins and flaws.<
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  And she’s gorgeous. She looks like a fairy or a tiny angel. Fragile is the word for her. But only in appearance; physically she’s a savage. You can’t fight with her, not even playing around. She’s wiry and cheats. She bites and pulls hair. There’s no actual winning with her. She’s scrappy and fast to my lazy and out of shape.

  The only way to overpower her is to turn on a video game. Then she goes into an ADHD coma and hyperfocuses on the game.

  Needless to say, gaming with her isn't fun.

  With her, not much is fun in the traditional sense of the word, but I still love it. It’s an escape from my life, sort of how being with me is an escape for her.

  She does the weirdest things for fun.

  When we were little I rented a cruise ship for a birthday party, whereas her birthdays were small and homemade.

  I took us shopping around the world, and she made us read Sweet Valley Highs together, some old books her mom had. Then we had to play Sweet Valley High with our Barbies. She always got to be the nerdy sister and I was the slutty one.

  It mirrored our real lives.

  Not that we could have ever passed for twins.

  I’m her opposite, with my tawny hair, dark-green eyes, and tanned skin. Not to mention, I’m way taller than she is.

  “So why are we at this club, like whose is it?”

  “My dad’s friend’s son just opened it not too long ago. He asked if I would show up and be visible to entice others to come.”

  “I can’t believe the rest of the world believes we’d just hang out here, clubbing. We just graduated high school for God’s sake.” She laughs. “My mom would hate this place. Hate me being in this place. Hate me.”

  “She hates everything. Your mom is being a dictator lately so who cares what she hates? Her cockblocking on us being at college together is bullshit. She and I are friends off right now. I don't understand why my dad can’t just pay for you to go to Columbia with me?”