Pucked Off (Pucked #5)(3)

“Who’s your cock slut?” she asks.

I close my eyes, teeth gritted against what she wants me to say. Words I hate. She knows I’ll never say them myself.

“Tell me, Lance.”

I can’t fucking stand that she wants this, that she makes me do this. Why does she want this? “You are.”

Her smile is triumphant as she wraps her lips around me and waits.

“That’s my girl. Suck like it’s the last time you’ll ever get to have my dick.” I loathe the words as I say them, partially because I can’t guarantee they’re true. And I hate that she loves it when I talk to her like she’s a whore.

I can see the moment she understands that I’m not going to fuck her too, that she’s pushed me as far as she can. She’s broken me in ways no one else ever has.

When I’m seconds away from coming, I lean over to kiss Erin again. She’s so warm and willing. And she’s just a pawn in this game Tash plays with me.

I’m so done with this. I’m so done with being used.

Tash is pissed when I meet her eyes after she takes a shot of jizz down the throat. I get dressed silently while she screams at me, calling me all kinds of names, telling me I’m useless, that I’m an asshole.

I don’t disagree, so I don’t know why she expects more from me. I might want more from her, but I work hard not to expect it.

She follows me to the door, getting between it and me. She’s still naked. “You can’t leave.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m doing.”

She slaps me across the face.

She’s said a lot of horrible things to me—things that made me wish I wasn’t me. Things that make me wonder if this is the kind of hatred I’ll always draw into my life. But the slap is a first.

She follows it up with a backhand to the other cheek.

For a moment I’m thirteen again, standing in the garage, apologizing for missing another shot on the goal, anticipating—with a kind of sick exhilaration—my mum’s first slap to my face.

I grab Tash’s wrists and pin them to the door, pressing my weight against her. Her eyes light up as if this is what she intended, as if she knew hitting me would make me give in. I hate what she does to me. I hate that she makes me weak, and I hate that she knows it.

“Don’t be mad at me for giving you what you want.” She arches, straining against my hold on her, rubbing her tits on my chest.

“I wanted you, Tash. That was it.”

“Come on, Lance. You knew what you were getting into with me.”

“I’m not a toy you get to play with anymore.”

“Fine. No more games. All you have to do is fuck me; then you can go.” She wraps one of her legs around my waist.

I huff out a laugh. “I think you’ve fucked me enough, don’t you? Thanks for the present. I’m sure Erin can help you out where I can’t.” I release one of her hands and reach for the doorknob so I can get the fuck out of here.

“You’re just a fucking whore,” she tells me. “You know that, right? Your dick is the only useful thing about you.” She gifts me with another slap across the face.

“Don’t call me the next time you’re in town. Don’t text. Don’t send emails. We’re done, Tash. For real this time. I don’t care how messed up your life is; you don’t get to take it out on me.”

I wrench open the door, and she follows me into the hall, still naked, still screaming. I wish I had a good reason for putting up with this. Better, I wish I could say for sure that this truly was the last time, that I won’t do this to myself again.

But I can’t.

I take the stairs instead of the elevator, and as soon as I’m outside, I throw up. I want to hit something. I want the feelings on the inside to be outside my body instead.

As soon as I’m able, I get in my Hummer and get the fuck out of there. Otherwise I know Tash will come looking for me, and I’ll end up fucking her in the front seat. It’s happened before.

Instead of heading north to where I live, I drive south out of the Loop. I keep going past everything that’s familiar before I find a bar. I need to drown out all the shit in my head. I need to lobotomize myself against this night. I need the will to stop this thing with Tash.





CHAPTER 2


FIGHT

LANCE

I find a shitty bar—somewhere I’m not likely to run into anyone I know. I parallel park the Hummer like an asshole, taking up just enough space that no one can get in behind me and fuck up my paint, which is likely based on the quality of the cars on this street.

I slip my phone into my pocket, even though leaving it in the car would be a much better idea. Potholes mark my way to the front entrance, the sign flickering, the last two letters unable to stay lit for more than a second before they go dark again.

The interior is even sadder than the exterior. Low lights can’t hide the dilapidated state of this place. A group of older men in worn jeans and threadbare T-shirts sit in the corner by the dartboards. They look my way for a moment, murmur to each other, and return to their conversation with a couple of coughs.

Two other tables hold couples drinking cheap beer out of bottles. At the very back of the bar, two women dressed in tight jeans and flimsy tops play pool. No one is going to recognize me here.