Puck Buddies Read online

“Are you sniffing me?”

  I giggle, clearly tipsier than I thought if he’s caught me so easily. “Yes. Sorry. Your cologne is yummy. It reminds me of Christmas, but not in a bad way.”

  “What could possibly be bad about Christmas?”

  “Well, last Christmas, my parents told us they were divorcing, so that sucked,” I say, my spontaneous over-share confirming my tipsy suspicions. I haven’t talked to anyone about my parent’s split, some stupid part of me thinking it won’t be real as long as I refuse to verbalize the details.

  I should retreat to my room until I recover mouth control, but instead, I say, “But I meant the best parts of Christmas. Cider with an extra cinnamon stick, and fresh cut pine trees, and big fluffy socks warm right out of the drier.”

  Shane makes a dubious sound, but when I look up at him, he’s smiling. “Thank you, but it sounds like I need to find something less seasonal for summertime.”

  “No.” I scowl. “I like it. No changing. You’re already moving away. That’s enough changing.”

  Shane purses his lips as he nods. “True. I am.”

  “You’re leaving in June?”

  “Beginning of July, right after the fourth,” he says, his words fanning the smoldering fire of hope.

  It’s crazy. I shouldn’t even consider it. I shouldn’t even consider considering it.

  “So we still have time to make it to the west side for another batch of dirty fries,” he says, the word ‘dirty’ on his full lips making a fine layer of sweat break out between my breasts. It’s a cool night, and my pink flapper-style bridesmaid’s dress is anything but heavy, but I’m clearly losing my mind.

  And my self-control.

  And my sense of self-preservation.

  This isn’t just crazy; it’s dangerous. But there’s something about this night, this man, and Shane’s voice as he asks, “You all right, doc?”

  I shake my head and lift my chin, bringing my lips closer to his. And then, before I know what my foolish mouth is going to do next, I’m kissing him, pressing onto tiptoe, wrapping my arms around his neck, and going for it with everything in me. For his part, Shane doesn’t miss a beat. One moment, there’s enough room between us for the Holy Spirit, the next, he’s pulled me so close my breasts are flattened against his powerful chest, and our hearts are pounding in time, and tingles are sweeping through me from head to toe and back again until I’m dizzy.

  Spinning.

  Flying with my feet still on the ground.

  It is by far the best kiss of my entire life, so hot and intense and all-consuming that I know I have to go for it. Make the leap. Take my stand. Take inspiration from the Alien Days festival still rocking hard below and make one large step for womankind and ask Shane if he might consider planting his flag in my moon dust.

  I pull back, letting the words emerge in a rush, “I like you so much, Shane, and you’re crazy sexy, and I’m all about your body, but I’m allergic to semen. The slightest exposure literally makes my throat swell shut, my eyes go red, and my nose stream snot like that’s my job. And it’s probably only going to get worse with repeated exposure. At least that’s what the doctors said. So I guess it could be considered a life-and-death sort of thing.”

  Shane’s eyes go so wide I’m pretty sure I can see part of his brain peeking out beneath his lashes, but I’m in too far to turn back now.

  “So if you’re up for tackling some crazy shit like that, and all the careful containment that would have to go on to make sure I don’t die after we bang”—I step out of his arms and back toward the door to the stairs—“then shoot me a text tomorrow, and we can discuss details for a Friends with Benefits situation before you leave. Okay? See ya, great kiss, sleep well, bye.” I bolt for the stairs like I’m being chased by zombies—the fast-moving kind, not shuffly, retro-zombs—ignoring Shane’s call for me to wait. Only, I get halfway down the first set of stairs and realize there’s something important I forgot to share.

  I sprint back up, opening the door just as Shane is reaching for the handle, and pant into his shocked face, “Also, I’m a virgin, and you would be my first all the way in the va-jay-jay, so take that into consideration, too. Bye, I’m leaving, don’t follow me, I have to go lock myself in my room and scream into my pillow because I can’t believe I just said all those things to you out loud. The end.”

  I vanish like a little green alien spotted by the Men in Black.

  Soon I’m back in my hotel room, hiding under the covers, madly texting the details of my most recent insanity to Stephanie, my friend who teaches yoga to the Badger boys on Saturday mornings and my only friend—aside from Hailey—who knows Shane personally, when another text pops up on my screen.

  It’s from Shane…

  I don’t need to think about it. I’m in.

  Oh, God.

  Oh my God.

  Oh, sweet baby Jesus, kidnapped from the manger by an unidentified flying object.

  Quickly, I text back, Should we meet up for breakfast to discuss in person?

  Almost immediately, he responds, I’d love to, but I have a date with the torture chamber. I’m pushing hard with my personal trainer to get ready for Kansas City. I’ll be there all morning. Lunch?

  Nose scrunching at the unwelcome reminder of his impending departure, I respond, I’ve got work from noon to ten. Guess I’ll see you Sunday morning, then? Same time, same place? We can bargain hunt and make a buddies-with-bennies plan at the same time?

  Just typing the words “buddies with bennies” is enough to make me feel flushed all over.

  I can’t believe this is really happening, but Shane’s next text confirms this is not a drill. Repeat, this is not a drill—Can’t wait. I intend to be the best benny buddy ever, by the way.

  Best benny buddy, I text back, giggling to myself like the drunk girl I am. Say that three times fast.

  Shane texts back a laughing face and a winking face and then a tiny doctor emoji. See you Sunday, doc. I’ll be counting the hours.

  He’ll be counting the hours…

  This is happening. This is really, truly happening!

  And I’m about to have a June I’ll never, ever forget.

  Chapter 2

  Bree

  Maybe it’s the excitement of the wedding day festivities, maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the enormity/gravity/insanity of the thing I’ve just set in motion hitting with the force of a freight train barreling off the tracks, wiping out a herd of innocent baby sheep as it tears through the prairie, but I’m pretty sure I pass out.

  I remember squealing into my pillow and hyperventilating a little while the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey blasts from the street below my hotel room, but then nothing until I wake up to an insistent pinging near my ear.

  Cracking a single eyelid with a groan, I lift my throbbing head to see weak morning light turning the hotel curtains a lighter gray, and deduce that it is morning, but not anywhere close to a decent hour.

  It’s an obscene hour, an hour so close to the middle of the night it should be illegal to send messages unless you need immediate medical attention, are locked out of your home in a dangerous neighborhood, or some part of you is literally on fire.

  Craning my head a little higher, I bring the digital clock on the bedside table into view over the mound of pillows.

  As I suspected, it’s five after five, which can mean only one thing.

  “Stephanie Love,” I grumble my friend’s full name like a curse as I fumble for the cell buried somewhere in the tangled sheets.

  The device continues to ping-ping-ping, another clue to the early morning texter’s identity. Stephanie is the queen of the text swarm—a multitude of texts descending with such speed they occasionally get delivered out of order, forcing one to use one’s brain far more than the inventors of text messages ever intended—and has the fastest thumbs in the tri-state area.

  My fingers finally close around my phone, and a screen full of messages, all from a pint-sized early riser, p
roves my hunch correct.

  From the texts of Sabrina Marks and

  Stephanie Love

  Stephanie: Are you okay? Are you alive? *terrified cat emoji* Text me back as soon as you get this. I just saw your messages, and I’m freaking out. Sending you good vibes and hoping you’re all right. *praying hands emoji*

  Stephanie: I realize you prefer to waste the best hours of the morning sleeping, but you forfeited your right to loll about in bed all day when you confessed that you were considering doing something that COULD KILL YOU.

  Text me back!

  Stephanie: This is not something to be treated lightly, Bree, no matter how ready you are to cross over to the sexy-times side of the fence. This is a huge decision that has serious consequences. Or maybe it already had serious consequences last night… Maybe you’re in the hospital in a coma, fighting for your life because you had too much wine and made an impulsive decision.

  God, this is why I don’t drink!

  Why do all of my friends insist on introducing drugs into their bloodstreams?! Isn’t the world chaotic enough without adding impaired decision-making into the mix? *tornado emoji*

  Stephanie: Where are you?

  Stephanie: Why aren’t you texting back?

  Stephanie: Argh! That’s it, I’m going to hack into your phone and track you down with location services. Ensuring your safety comes before respecting your privacy.

  Bree: Can you do that? For real? Hack into my phone?

  Where did you learn to do that?

  Stephanie: There you are! OMG, you almost gave me a heart attack. And here I thought I was actually getting good at maintaining my Zen in the face of adversity.

  Bree: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you or wreck your Zen. I was asleep, and by the time I heard the texts, you were already at maximum freak out.

  Stephanie: Not even close. I hadn’t actually hacked into your phone or called the police or the FBI. We still had several levels of freak out to go. I’m just glad you’re okay. I had my phone turned off and didn’t get your texts until this morning. When I first read them, I thought you were joking, but then I did some googling…

  So being allergic to semen is actually a thing, huh?

  Bree: It is. Though I can’t believe I told you. Especially via text.

  I must have been tipsier than I thought.

  Stephanie: Why shouldn’t you tell me? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

  Bree: I know, I just haven’t told anyone. Not even Hailey.

  Stephanie: Really? Why not?

  Bree: Well, I was barely fifteen when I learned of my…affliction. My boyfriend and I were messing around in his basement, and I started swelling up like crazy. Pretty soon I was gasping for breath and turning blue, so he rushed me to the ER on his scooter.

  Stephanie: A scooter? When you were about to pass out?!

  This guy sounds like a real brain trust.

  Bree: In his defense, he was only fourteen, and neither of us could drive a real car, so the scooter was our fastest option. But yeah, he should have called 911. But we were both young and stupid and as terrified of getting caught at his place without his parents at home as we were of potential death.

  Stephanie: I wouldn’t be fifteen again for all the quinoa in Peru.

  Bree: Word. Having an adult body and a kid brain is the worst.

  So anyway, thankfully, we made it to the ER before I passed out and the doctor shot me full of steroids and epinephrine and emphasized how careful I was going to have to be in future…intimate situations.

  I was, of course, mortified. I couldn’t imagine telling my mom and dad that I was allergic to sperm or, more importantly, how I’d LEARNED I was allergic to sperm. So Greg and I waited until one of the nurses went to track down paperwork, snuck out of the hospital, and made a run for it. He broke up with me the next day and I sank into a deep period of mourning during which I was pretty certain God was punishing me for contemplating becoming sexually active at a young age. By the time I realized God has better things to do than punish teenagers for having sex, I was too busy trying to make it as a model to have time to date or worry about penises or things that come out of penises.

  Stephanie: Wow. That had to be kind of a relief though, right?

  I like it when I’m too busy to worry about penises or things that come out of penises.

  Bree: You and Drake on the outs again?

  Stephanie: Is the sun hot? Is the sea wet? Is Drake a liar who lies so much he’ll lie about lying just for fun?

  Bree: LOL. Then why do you keep going back to him, psycho?

  Stephanie: The will is strong, my friend, but the vagina is weak…

  Bree: Seriously?

  Stephanie: Seriously. I am helplessly addicted to his magic stick. And not to be insensitive, but I’m honestly a little jealous of your affliction. It would be nice to have a medical reason to force myself to stay away from peen.

  Bree: Not all peen is jackass peen. Only peens that’s are attached to jackasses.

  Stephanie: Maybe, but an alarming number of peens are jackass-inclined. Have you considered girls, at all? You wouldn’t have to worry about sperm-incited-death if you were a lesbian, and I think we’re all more sexually fluid than society would like for us to believe.

  Bree: I have, actually. When I was in high school, there was this super cute goth girl who worked at my local coffee house who gave me the flutters, but no one since her. Most women do nothing for me. To be honest, most men do nothing for me, either. I’m stupidly picky.

  Stephanie: As you should be. That’s not stupid! Settling is for where to eat brunch or buying the knock-off pebble-surfaced faux-leather yoga mat instead of the four-hundred-dollar original. When it comes to who’s invited into your bed, settling shouldn’t be part of your vocabulary.

  Bree: Agreed.

  Stephanie: Which includes the guy who punches your V card. It should be special, babe, not a fuck-buddy bargain. I mean, Shane’s a great guy, but he doesn’t seem like your type. Like…at all.

  Bree: Which is why he’s perfect! We’ll have fun, but not too much fun. And we’re just friends, so neither of us will get so carried away with emotion that we forget to be careful with condoms to make sure I don’t die.

  Stephanie: Sounds romantic.

  Bree: I’m not looking for romance. I’m looking for a capable man with a good head on his shoulders who knows his way around the female body and has experience correctly using contraceptives.

  Stephanie: And that sounds about as sexy as assembling furniture.

  Bree: You’re unexpectedly unenthusiastic about this. I thought you liked Shane.

  Stephanie: I do like Shane. But he’s meat and potatoes paired with Saturday morning cartoons. You’re foie gras and a frisée salad while listening to a Nina Simone tribute concert. He’s puppy dog tails and sunshine; you’re poetry and moonlight.

  Bree: I see your point, but I also enjoy cartoons and puppies. And I enjoy Shane. We have a lot of fun together. And I’m attracted to him, but not in the makes-me-feel-like-I’m-about-to-vomit sort of way. I think I might actually be able to relax enough to enjoy sex with him, and I know he won’t hesitate to haul ass to the hospital if something goes wrong.

  Stephanie: Of course he wouldn’t. He would fly to the moon and back for you. He would climb the highest mountain, swim the widest river, crawl naked across the desert with cactus needles in his belly and vultures pecking out his eyeballs if he thought that’s what it took to have a shot at your heart.

  Bree: That’s not true. Yes, he’s hinted at wanting to be more than friends, but it’s just a case of mutual attraction, nothing as dramatic as all that.

  And I don’t think vultures would peck out a person’s eyes until they were dead.

  They like food that doesn’t fight back.

  Stephanie: Which isn’t the point and you know it. Shane might seem like your typical beer-guzzling, good-time jock, but he’s got a tender heart beneath the easygoing exterior. He’s a swee
t, thoughtful guy who is incredibly loyal to the people he cares about and goes out of his way to help his friends.

  Bree: I know that.

  Stephanie: Then you also know that he’s not the type who finds it easy to say no when someone asks him a favor. Even if saying no is in his best interests.

  Even if saying yes is going to break his heart.

  Bree: *heavy sigh*

  Stephanie: Does that mean you see my point?

  Or are you just sick of me killing your buzz?

  Bree: I have no buzz, just a mild hangover.

  *heavy sigh part two, revenge of the heaving*

  Stephanie: Which means…?

  Not to rush you, but I have to teach a class in ten minutes.