Pucked Over (Pucked #3) (43 page)

Thinking about her makes my dick excited, which sucks because I don’t have the coordination to do anything about it. I hate that she doesn’t live closer. Canada isn’t that far from Chicago, but it’s enough distance that it makes this whole dating thing that much harder.

I want to call her. I know it’s a bad idea. I’m drunk, and she’s probably asleep, considering it’s after two in the morning. Or maybe it’s already five. I can’t read the clock. My logic filter isn’t working, so I feel around for my pants. They’re on the floor. I almost fall out of bed trying to get them. I dig the phone out of the pocket. The battery reads nine percent. It’s enough for a quick call. It’ll probably go to voice mail anyway.

As predicted, it rings four times, and I get her message.

“
You’ve reached Sunshine Waters. I’m probably busy cleansing my chi, but when I’m done I’ll give you a dingle. Remember, karma is your friend!
”

I hang up without leaving a message and call again. I get voice mail a second time. On the third try, she picks up.

“Hello?” Her voice is raspy with sleep. It’s similar to how she sounds when she comes. I’ve only been able to do that with my fingers so far. Sunny wants to take things slow. I need to get control of the puck before I can score my favorite kind of goal.

“Hey, sweets. Did I wake you?” It’s a stupid question. Of course I woke her; I called three times in the middle of the night.

“Miller?”

“I’m sorry. It’s late isn’t it?” I roll over onto my back and starfish, letting my balls breathe. The rustle of sheets filters through the phone. I imagine what she might be wearing based on our late-night Skype chats. She’s a baggy-shirt-and-shorts girl. Sometimes she wears one of those sheer shirts so it’s like she’s naked, but not. Sadly, she always wears a sports bra with it. Those things are the worst invention in the world. They ruin perfectly good cleavage.

“What time is it?”

“Uh,” I squint at the clock on the nightstand, as if that’s going to make it easier to read the numbers. I’m better with analog clocks than digital ones. “Pretty early.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long pause in which neither of us speaks. “Were you out with the boys tonight?”

“Yeah.”

The softness in her voice is replaced by sharpness. “Who?”

“The usual. Randy Ballistic and Lance Romero. A few of the other guys showed up later.”

“So you’re drunk?”

I knew I shouldn’t have called. I wish I had someone around to stop me from doing stupid shit all the time. At least Randy kept the bunnies occupied and away from me. Most of the time Lance isn’t much help. He encourages bad decision-making.

“I had a few drinks. I wanted to hear your voice.” It sounds like a line, but it’s not. I really do want to hear her voice, even if that makes me seem whipped.

She makes a little noise, like maybe she’s stretching or trying to get comfortable. It goes straight to my dick, inflating it like a helium balloon.

“That’s sweet, Miller,” she says on a sigh. I love that she uses my real name instead of my nickname. “But don’t you think it would be better to call when you’re sober and it’s not the middle of the night? You interrupted a nice dream.”

“What kind of dream? Was it a sex dream?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“It was, wasn’t it?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“It’ll be a million times better when you let me get you naked in real life.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Butterson.”

“I’m just sayin’, when you let it happen, it’s gonna be awesome times a billion.”

She sighs.

“Sweets?”

“You should sleep off whatever you drank. Are you still coming tomorrow?”

“I’ll come for you right now, baby.”

There’s a knock on the door. I hear Randy’s voice followed by a giggle. I cover the receiver, at least I think I do, and shout, “I’m sleeping!”

“Are you at home? Who’s with you?”

“I’m at Lance’s.”

After a sharp inhale she asks, “Are you staying there overnight?”

“Natasha’s coming in the morning.”

“Who?”

“Our trainer. We’re using the pool for plyometrics.” I’m way less slurry now, so I can get that word out without messing it up. “Plus my car’s here, and I’m being responsible by not driving.”

“Are there girls there now?”

“Lance invited some friends back. I’m in bed.”

“How many friends?”

“A few.”

“Are any of them your friends?”

“No, baby. The only friend I have right now is my left hand.”

A long silence follows.

“Sunny? You still there?”

“I’m here. I should go, though. It’s late. I have to teach yoga first thing in the morning.”

“You sure you don’t want to tell me about that dream you were having?”

That gets a half-hearted laugh. “You’re impossible. You should lock your door. ‘Night, Miller.”

My phone dies before I can answer her. I don’t have a charger handy, and I’m too tired to put clothes back on and look for one. Instead I shut my eyes and picture Sunny in her bikini—that’s the least amount of clothing I’ve seen her in—and grab onto my kinda-hard dick. I don’t have enough coordination, brain power, or energy to keep the image in my head and rub one out, so I just hold my handle in one hand and my dead phone in the other.

Then I pass the fuck out.