Puck Buddies Page 5

  “No. That ship has sailed. If you eat now, you’re gonna barf. You are way drunker than I thought.”

  “Maybe I wanna barf. Let’s go out da back.” Sami nods her head that way, doing an odd half circle. “We needa hide from da paparazzzzi or my dadsss gonnabe pizzzzed.” She blends her words into a jumbled mess.

  “Don’t go out the back. They’ll be expecting that. We’ll go out with my group of friends. They’re a crowd of a dozen people. I’ll hold you up and cover you.”

  “Okay.” She shrugs.

  “I donnnn feel so good.” The blonde straightens her back, taking a breath.

  “Here.” I offer my arm. She hesitates for a second before linking her tiny hands around my bicep.

  “Sssorry.” I don't know what she's apologizing for.

  “It’s okay.” I turn and offer my other arm to Sami. She doesn't appear sorry but she still comes in close. I wrap my arm around her back and try not to notice the fragrance, maybe jasmine or rose that wafts in the air around her. She smells almost exactly the way I remember, even a little boozy. While she’s missing the ale all over her, it’s gin now if I’m not mistaken.

  “Ready?” I ask in a low tone as the hockey players all pass by the front door. Laramie glances my way, laughing when he sees Sami Ford on my arm with a cute blonde.

  “Nice!” He gives me a grin as he strolls over. “You guys headed home?” He waggles his eyebrows.

  “Oh yeah.” Sami wraps her arm around my waist. “He’s in sssome trouble.” She winks and bites down on her shiny lip. She’s a hot mess of confusion bordering on scary and incoherent. And it’s not just because of the sweat stains on her silky tee shirt or the fact her mascara is starting to run. She also has that half-eyed stare going on, where anyone she looks at feels like she’s looking through them.

  “Lucky bastard.” He nods at me like she might actually be something of a prize in the state she’s in.

  “It’s not like that. I’m just making sure she gets home. I need some cover though,” I speak low as I drag the two staggering girls to the door, holding them both upright. “Can you guys go as a herd and take the cameras with you?”

  “We got you, dude.” He gives me a thumbs up as the hockey players and girls head out into the warm night air. The reporters come to life and rush toward the crowd. Laramie is at the back of the group. He glances back at me. “Go right, we’ll go left.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  I wait for a small group of laughing girls to leave the bar and swerve right in behind them, hugging the bricks of the side of the club.

  “Oh shittttt.” The little blonde trips, but she weighs about what my jeans might when they’re soaking wet, so I scoop her up and carry her, while supporting Sami.

  In the streetlights neither of them looks too hot. They’re having problems keeping both eyes open at the same time. If the photographers got a picture of Sami like this, it might earn her another rehab stint. She’s known for them. She got one after the last time we saw each other.

  We make it around the next block with me essentially carrying them both, before I stop to check our status. “No one followed.”

  “I donn feel so good.” Sami twitches like she might throw up and the blonde nods, signaling she’s going to. I help her to an alcove where she leans on the wall and loses her dinner in a doorway.

  “They’re gonna be—hic—excited when dey show—hic—up for work tomorrow.” Sami laughs, hiccups, and quivers.

  We both step back from the barfing blonde, me with my hands in my pockets and Sami hugging herself. The wind isn’t cold, but she’s still sweaty and barely keeping her eyes open.

  “Where’s your hotel?” she asks after a moment of awkward silence. “We could go dere.” She can barely keep her eyes open.

  “My place is next to the Four Seasons on Fifty-Seventh.” I pull my hands out and stifle a yawn. “And no, we can’t. You need to go home. You’re too drunk even for pizza.”

  “Did your friends putchu up?”

  “To what?”

  “In a hotel.” I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. “Do you work in a fffactory? Your hands are rough.” She reaches over and takes one of my hands in hers. “See?” She rubs my palm.

  “No. Are you being serious right now?”

  “Whaa?” She’s already forgotten her question.

  “My friends didn't put me up—and no, I don’t work in a factory. Maybe you should call Colin to come and get you.”

  “Where?”

  “Here. Do you want me to call your dad?”

  “No, fffuckim!” she slurs and I have a terrible suspicion she is exactly who I always thought she was. That regretful and emotional state she was in before was probably just due to some heartburn. She’s an idiotic heiress, the only flavor they come in. The main reason I hate the world we belong to.

  “Whatever.” Annoyed, I turn and check on the blonde. “You all right?”

  “Yeah.” She stands up straight, wiping her mouth. “Ssssorry.”

  “It’s fine.” Exhaling heavily, I lift her into my arms and give Sami a look. “Where to?”

  “Just off Fifffth.” Sami points in the wrong direction. “Do you even know where Fifth Ave is, peasant?”

  “Come on.” I take her hand and drag her the opposite way she’s pointing.

  The illusions I had about the infamous Sami Ford die for real that night.

  In fact, I kinda hate who she is.

  I realize it later when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the elevator on the way down from her place.

  There’s lip gloss coating my collar and cheeks.

  My shirt is sweat stained from carrying her friend for blocks.

  The same friend’s throw up is caked to my back.

  And the number to Nordstrom's is slightly hanging out of my pocket.

  Fuck Sami Ford!

  And not in the literal sense.

  Chapter Four

  Boy toy

  Sami

  “What happened?” Nat moans, covering her eyes.

  “I don't know. I think God hates us.” I tremble from the overwhelming urge to vomit. The daylight creeping in the edges of the shades blinds me and my whole body has a heartbeat pulsating through it.

  “I hate us.” She sits up slowly, leaning against the bed frame.

  “Me too.” I don't dare try to get up. Instead, I reach for my phone and send a single text.

  “Did we have fun at least?” She glances my way, shivering like she might get sick and smelling like she already has.

  “We must have.” I swear I’m whispering but the words are echoing off the walls.

  The doors burst open, filling me with hope that we’ll feel better any second.

  “Nadia?” I turn, cringing when I see a scowling face instead. “Daddy.”

  “You girls have some nerve showing up at three in the morning. Do you have any idea what that looked like? That young man holding you up?” He glares at me. “And carrying your unconscious body?” His stare softens for Nat. “This is not why you came to the city. I thought we were done with these shenanigans, Sami. You promised no more crazy nights. I asked you for one little favor and this is where it goes? Every single time, huh, kid? And here I thought you’d grown up since London. I don't care if you have fun, but you’re bloody well going to be ladies while you do it!” He turns and storms from the room, slamming the doors.

  We both flinch, lifting our trembling hands to our ears.

  “Oh my God, he’s so mad.”

  “No. That was all show.” I shake my head slowly, trying not to spin the room worse. “He’s just doing his due diligence. He has to get angry or he isn't parenting.”

  The doors open again but this time I’m excited to see the person coming in. “Nadia, thank God. You have to revive us.” I offer her one of my arms for the IV.

  “Uh, you know how I feel about needles.” Nat looks like she might forgo the rehydration, anti-nausea, and Advil cocktail Nadia is famous
for.

  “It’s that or suffer.”

  “Fine.” She lies back and holds her arm out after a moment. Her dislike of needles is nothing compared to the misery we’re both suffering.

  The cold IV fluids feel remarkable within minutes. It’s a magical serum.

  “Who’s the young man your dad was talking about?” Nat asks after a while. “I don’t remember anyone. Was it William? Jesus, did he get us home?”

  “I don't know—oh wait.” Memories slip into my hazy brain and a guy is there. “Someone walked us home. You threw up in a doorway and then all over him.”

  “Oh my God,” Nat groans. “Was it William?”

  “No, someone else. It was bad. He got us to the house. Were you there?” I ask Nadia because I can’t recall it clearly.

  “I was. I thought someone was breaking in so I came down to the door to find you—in a compromising situation. Your father came down after me. He was less than pleased.” She’s clearly uncomfortable talking about it.

  “What happened?”

  “It was terribly embarrassing, Miss Sami.” Her eyes widen with worry.

  “Nadia, this isn't the moment for you to be a pillar of discretion. I need details, specifics. What happened? Don't spare my feelings. Just say the facts as they happened. Think police report.”

  Taking a deep breath, she pauses and then rehashes it for us, “You came in with the tall young man. He looked familiar. I believe he’s been here before, but not with you. I think your dad and his are friends. Anyway, he was very large and strong. He carried you both home. When he laid Miss Natalie on the lounge chair in the foyer”—her cheeks redden—“you attacked him, kissing him. He tried to escape, but you told him you wanted to be—” She bites her lip.

  “Spill it!” My head starts to hurt again.

  “You wanted to be screwed by him since you met him in London because he was your blue-collar bitch, and you wanted his filthy rough hands on your pristine body.”

  “No!” I groan, shaking my head. “No! Oh shit! Oh my God.” I close my eyes and let that digest before I wave my hand at her. “Okay. Fuck. What did he say to that? Did my dad see?”

  “No. Your father wasn’t downstairs yet. You stopped attacking the young man when Miss Natalie threw up in the planter.” Nadia gives Nat a look before turning back to me. “Then he tried to leave. He said thank you for curing him of his feelings for you.”

  “His feelings? Oh my God!” I groan and recall small bits. “How the hell did any of this happen? What the shit were we drinking?”

  “Oh, Sami, damn. He carried us all that way and then you gave him your weird peasant speech about the pristine body. You sounded like a Nazi freak.” Nat speaks like she’s clenching her teeth. I’m clenching mine.

  “What happened next, Nadia?”

  “You started laughing and told him what a disappointment he’d turned out to be. That he wasn’t magical at all. You gave him your number and told him maybe it would be easier for him to find you this time.”

  “Oh my God.” It just keeps getting worse.

  “And then he called the number you gave him right in front of you, proving it wasn’t your number. It was for Nordstrom. He was angry and told you he was disappointed in seeing you again and for thinking you were something you weren't.” Her eyes softened. “I’m so sorry, Miss Samantha. You were so drunk, you couldn't have meant—”

  “Oh my God! At what point did my dad come in?”

  “From about the phone call. I think the Nordstrom after-hours message on speaker phone woke your dad up.”

  “What the hell?” Nat falls back on the bed. “I’m never going to be allowed to visit again.”

  I want to tell her to shut up and stop being a baby about her mom, but I can’t. It might actually be my father who never lets us hang out again, and not because of Natalie, but because I’m corrupting her.

  “At least it wasn’t on TMZ or any of the news sites. Somehow they didn’t see you last night.” Nadia tries to make it better but this is a train wreck. “I searched the Internet for a new post about you but there was nothing.”

  “Close the blinds and let us sleep. Call the Banks and tell them we’ve got food poisoning. Nat will be coming home tomorrow,” I bark as I pull my sleeping mask back down and lie back on my pillow, ready to pass out and never think of this again.

  “That was mean. You shouldn’t talk to her like that.”

  “I know,” I groan. I feel bad and will make it up to her. Nadia is the best.

  “Honestly, I have to go home.”

  I lift one side of the mask and glare. “You stink of vodka.”

  “Fine, one more night. But we’re doing nothing but pizza and movies tonight,” she snits.

  “Don't mention food.” I fight a gag.

  I want to sleep but instead end up thinking, remembering things like me laughing when the sound of the Nordstrom after-hours machine filled the foyer from his cell phone.

  Matt.

  His name was Matt.

  And he asked me to go for a walk, just like I wanted him to.

  My heart burns and not from the bile sitting in my throat.

  Chapter Five

  Borrowed whores

  Matt

  Manhattan

  August, 2014

  The place looks the same. The minor renovations haven't changed it much.

  I stroll out onto the deck and take in the view of the city. I’ve missed it. It’s been eight months since I was here last. A long, hard eight months filled with school and hockey and training.

  I’m mentally exhausted but the next part of the ride is about to start.

  The card and bottle of scotch on the table next to the window make me smile.

  The congratulations from my family are fake and the handwriting isn't even my dad’s.

  It’s our butler Benson’s.

  He probably felt bad since they didn't even care that I was added to the roster for the New York Rangers. But Benson cares. He always has. I would know his traditional cursive anywhere. It’s impressive to see someone master the art of calligraphy because he wanted to.

  I don't think I’ve ever done anything because I wanted to, except play hockey. That is the one thing in my life I do because it brings me happiness. Most of the guys I play with are excited to be in the big league. For them their lives are being made by getting picked to play. That’s not why I play. I have the luxury of playing because I love the sport.

  Even if my family doesn’t.

  If anything, I’m risking a lot by being here. Hockey is a sacrifice.

  “Mr. Brimley, you have a call. It’s Mr. Bellevue.” Benson walks in with my cell phone.

  “Oh shit, I didn't realize I left my phone in the kitchen. Thanks.” He nods, as I take the phone, and leaves the room. “Hey, Bellevue.”

  “Dude, I haven't physically called anyone in like a year. I forgot how to make a call. I texted you like eight times. You can’t answer a text? Too high and mighty as a big bad Ranger? You guys circle jerking it at your place right now as an initiation rite?”

  “Yeah, I just finished. Your mom was spectacular. What’s up?”

  “My mom isn't spectacular. Your mom told me what a dead lay she is.”

  We both laugh. Our moms are a running joke we’ve had since we were kids, and we don’t know how to stop. That, and his sister, a girl I couldn’t be attracted to if my life depended on it. She’s another Sami Ford. The classification for bullshit snob in my mind.

  “We on for tonight or what? Hot club near Chelsea Park on the corner of Tenth and West Twenty-Seventh. I sent the location in a text. It’s pretty much invite only tonight, some special DJ is there. I got the owner to put your name on the list.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll bring a friend, okay?”

  “Girl or guy?”

  “Guy. A friend of mine from Michigan might be coming up. Why, you interested?” Even though we never discuss it, I know about his bisexuality. As far as our world goes, he�
��s still in the closet about it. But it’s a walk-in with feather boas and Gone with the Wind posters. It’s something he will never come out about. We all know what happens when someone like us comes out about being anything close to different. It’s worse than eloping with a stripper. I am basically living that life by doing something so pedestrian as playing hockey.

  “No, I don't want more competition for the ladies. For whatever reason, money doesn't bring the pussy the way hockey players do.” He says it exactly the way a snobby rich kid should.

  “Try having a personality. It’ll get you further than your bank account. See ya tonight.” I laugh and hang up, shaking my head.

  My phone vibrates with several messages, escalating in disturbing content. The last message makes me wince.

  Sami Ford will be there. Maybe she’ll let you carry her home, like her little blue- collar bitch again.

  He still torments me over being thrown up on and called blue collar. It’s technically the worst insult Carson could be given. He doesn't know that in the real world it’s not even an insult. Most of the guys I play hockey with come from blue-collar families. Their parents have sacrificed like mad to get them to where they are. Most of them are the nicest people I’ve ever met, until the money gets to their heads. Then they change and become more like the people I’m used to hanging with.

  People like Sami Ford.

  Snobs who can’t get over themselves and abuse everyone they know.

  My brain slingshots back to the night that has haunted me for years.

  How on earth had I been so wrong about her being so cool?

  She did me a solid that night though. She’s out of my system for good, flushed by the stench of gin and vomit.

  “Matthew!” My mother’s shrill voice makes me jump and spin around.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don't say ‘yeah,’ darling. It’s rude,” she huffs. “Are you coming to brunch with us?”

  “No. I didn't even know you guys were here.”

  “We aren't really here. Your father needed to come to town for a quick meeting, and now we’re grabbing a bite to eat and then going home.” Home being Southampton.