Forever Pucked (20 page)

“Not if she fakes it from the beginning,” I argue.

Alex shifts so he can look me in the eye. He’s particularly intense. “You’ve never faked it with me, have you?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Yes.”

“No, Alex, at no point have I had to do Kegels to cover a lack of orgasm.”

“You’re sure?” His insecurity is endearing.

“You make me come every time. Super MC is my beaver’s soulmate.”

He laughs. “I love you, Violet Hall.” For some reason he sounds sad.

“I love you, too, Alex Waters.”

We lie there for a few minutes, and I start thinking about the conversation I had with Charlene today. I could tell Alex now that I want to set a wedding date. I probably should.

I lift my head. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is even. “Alex?”

I don’t get a response.

“Baby?”

Still nothing. He’s out cold. The man can fall asleep faster than Sleeping Beauty.

I blow out a breath, annoyed at myself that I’ve missed a perfectly good opportunity to make him happy. I press my lips to his temple and whisper, “I can’t wait to be Violet Waters.”

When it’s clear Alex is in serious nap mode and my mind is too busy spinning for me to join him, I get out of bed and put on clothes.

While Alex naps, and Daisy’s out adding to the bomb shelter’s worth of food in the pantry and cold cellar, I sneak into her bathroom, open the window, and empty her aerosol cans of hairspray. There are three on the counter. I leave a tiny bit in one and then hide the one can I have in the back of my closet.

I finish Mission: Dehelmetify Daisy’s Hair as the house alarm beeps, signaling she’s back. I don’t let the guilt eat at me too much, because I’m doing this for a woman whose hairdresser clearly doesn’t know what decade it is. Someone has to step in.

-&-

The next morning Daisy comes knocking on our bedroom door at an ungodly hour. I roll out of bed and grab my robe. I’m wearing shorts and a tank, but still. The tank is white, and Daisy’s already seen more than enough of me while she’s been here. She knocks, but often doesn’t wait until she gets the go-ahead to come in.

Shrugging on the robe, I tiptoe to the door before the knocking wakes Alex. He’s been having performance anxiety dreams, so his sleep has been broken, and so has mine. He’s also used to sleeping on his right side most of the time—so he can spoon me and nestle his dick in the cleft of my ass—and he can’t currently do this because of his shoulder. To compensate, he holds on to some part of me, whatever is closest—my arm, my hair, my boob. The latter is the most common.

I check to make sure I don’t have any dried drool on my cheek before I slip out into the hall, closing the door behind me. “Is everything okay, Daisy?”

“I’m so sorry I woke you, but it’s an emergency.” Her eyes are frantic. Her hair is flat and wet.

“What’s wrong?”

She touches her hair. “Well, I have to pick up Robbie from the airport at nine, and I don’t have any hairspray left.”

“Oh.” I have to suppress my smile of victory.

“I was wondering if you had a can? I could make do with the pump-spray bottles if that’s all you’ve got.”

“I can check for you.”

She releases a tense breath. “That’d be great.”

I steal back into the room. Glancing at the clock, I’m horrified to see it’s only six-fifteen in the morning. It must take a considerable amount of time and hairspray to coif her ’do into rock-hard helmet mode.

Padding to the bathroom, I give it a good minute or two of fake searching before I grab an alternate hair product. As I step out into the hall, I put on my sad face. “I’m so sorry, Daisy. I don’t have any hairspray, but I have gel.” I hold up the bottle. I know it’s not even remotely the same, but I’m pretending to be helpful.

“That really won’t work. Do you think you have any in the spare rooms?”

“We can check.” I know for a fact we don’t, because I’ve taken care of removing all traces of hairspray from the house. Phase one of my mission is complete; now we’re on to phase two: Fix the Helmet.

It might be a disgusting time to be awake on a Saturday morning, but I’ll bite the bullet and manage if it means I can finally hug Daisy without getting a mouthful of crunchy, over-sprayed hair.

I go through the motions while Daisy hovers behind me, growing more and more distressed. When I come back empty-handed, she starts to tear up.

“I don’t have time to go to a store and get more hairspray. What am I going to do? I can’t pick Robbie up looking like this.” She motions to her head.

It’s the most normal her hair has ever looked in the time Alex and I have been together. Daisy is actually gorgeous under that over-teased mop. She and Sunny look almost identical, apart from the fact that Sunny is blond and Daisy is more auburn. I hope I age as gracefully as Daisy. I pat her shoulder. “Come on. I’ll see what I can do.”

Daisy glances at my hair, her apprehension clear. And understandable. It can’t be good, but then she’s woken me up, and I’m an active sleeper. It probably looks like something decided to nest in there. I leave the bathroom and she follows, as there really isn’t another option. I send her back to her room and sneak into mine to get my hair supplies.

Once I’m armed with my arsenal, I knock on her door and wait, because I definitely don’t want to see the parts of Daisy that she’s seen of me. I have no idea if she’s sporting a seriously overgrown beaver bush to match the one on her head, and I have no desire to ever have the answer to that mystery of life.

Daisy appears, her eyes red, and I experience some serious remorse. This has been hard on her. She’s been watching her only son, who pursued a career she wasn’t fully supportive of—for a variety of reasons, unable to take care of himself because of an injury that rocked us all. And now her hair is unsprayed.

But my torment has a purpose. One day I’m going to have wedding pictures. Probably soonish. Daisy will be in them. I would selfishly like her to have normal hair on that day, so I think it’s reasonable to make her cry if it means I don’t have to face this battle later. Besides, she’s three decades behind. It’s time to move past the glory days of college.

I make her sit on the toilet seat, partly so she can’t see herself, and also because I’m short and she’s tall. I use a rounded brush for volume, aware that we’re going to have to move away from her terrible hair in stages. First we need to all but eliminate the need for hairspray; then we’ll work on toning down more of the hugeness. In reality, without spray, her hair will look big for the first ten minutes, and then it’ll settle nicely.

Now I’m no aesthetician. I have the makeup basics down, and I know how to use a flat iron on my hair. But I’m pretty damn confident I can make Daisy look decent until we can visit a hairstylist she doesn’t need a time warp to get to.

I spend the next twenty minutes working my magic. When I’m finished, Daisy’s long hair curls softly around her pretty, delicate features. I know she’s probably going to ruin it with her eighties-style makeup, but it’s a one-step-at-a-time kind of thing.

I set down the hairdryer and brush, finger-comb a few wayward strands into submission, and gesture to the mirror. “Check it out.”

Daisy hesitantly stands, smoothing her hands over the dress that no longer matches her hair. I need to get my mom to take her shopping. Anything is better than the shoulder pads. Well, except maybe my mom’s miniskirts, but mostly her taste is decent. She turns and faces her reflection. Her eyes go wide—I’m not sure if it’s horror or surprise. They kind of look the same on Daisy. She reaches up to touch her hair, then stops.

“You can run your fingers through it.” I demonstrate by pulling mine through the underside, helping to give it more volume, so she doesn’t miss the helmet-y type look.

She exhales a long, unsteady breath and pats her hair. She fingers one of the curls. “It’s so soft.”

I grin, because seriously, what other reaction is there? I feel like I’m a host on that TLC show where they humiliate a person by putting them on national TV, then give them five grand to buy a new wardrobe and stop dressing like a bum, or a cartoon character. For once, I’m not the one who’s under the microscope. I’m also doing a good deed—more for myself than Daisy—but we both win if she likes this look.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“I-I think I do.” She pats her hair again and gives me a wavering smile. I can’t tell if she’s just trying to be nice until she spins around and pulls me into a rib-cracking hug. “Thank you, Violet. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been here to help me.”

It takes me a few seconds to react. This is full-on momma love. I might get emotional about it. Which is the norm these days.

When we break apart, we’re both doing the eye-wipe thing. Daisy hasn’t put makeup on, so there’s no risk of smearing it all over her face yet. It’s the kind of bonding moment we’ve needed—one that isn’t related to the accident or Alex. As helpful as she’s been, it’s been hard not to feel like she’s taking over my place, particularly with how much she dotes on Alex and how much he seems to like it.

I tiptoe back to my room and get my camera so I can record this moment in history before Daisy puts on her carnival makeup. With her toned-down hair, her resemblance to Sunny is uncanny.

I offer to go to the airport with her, but she tells me to get some more sleep and apologizes for waking me up so early. I’m almost disappointed I won’t get to witness Robbie’s reaction when he sees her new hair. I sneak back to bed; Alex is still sleeping.

Unfortunately, I don’t seem to be able to fall back asleep. My mom and Sidney, and Miller and Sunny are coming over for brunch, along with the rest of our close friends, and I fully expect someone to mention the wedding and the lack of a set date. As I lay there, staring at Alex’s profile and the five o’clock shadow covering his cheeks and chin, I realize something important: Even with all the uncertainty, not once did I consider myself unable to handle this situation. Hell, I even took on a bonus mission with his mom’s hair. I know I’m ready for this—to be in this life with him—no matter the challenges it brings.

Today is the perfect time to set a date. All the important people involved will be here, so there’s no reason not to. Besides, with Alex out for the rest of the season, he needs something to occupy his time. Planning a wedding seems like the perfect distraction.

And then I don’t have to do it, and we all win.

Mothers United

ALEX

I wake up to warm, wet suction. I’m slow to open my eyes, sifting through the aches in my body until it’s just pleasure. I look down to find Violet kneeling beside me, her hair pulled up in a ponytail. It’s swept over her shoulder and out of the way so it doesn’t impede my view. And that’s awesome, because her lips are currently wrapped around my cock.

I groan her name and reach out with the hand that works to stroke her cheek. She does that thing where she slides the head across the inside of her cheek before it pops out of her mouth.

“Good morning.” She grins, then goes back to bobbing.

“It sure is.” Sitting up is still more of a chore than I’m up for at the moment, so I settle for rearranging my pillow to get a better view. Then I go back to stroking her cheek and her shoulder, hoping she’ll take the hint and move closer so I can hold her boob while she blows me.

Violet, being the intuitive woman she is, shifts on the bed and settles her boob in my palm while continuing the suck-stroking. I would really love to get her on her back and slide my dick between her tits, then have mind-blowing sex, but my fuck speed is still set at geriatric. It’s pathetic. I know it’s not going to be like this forever, but it pisses me off.

I try to bring my focus back to what Violet’s doing, but now that I’m thinking about what I can’t give her, it’s hard to concentrate on anything else. My hard-on starts deflating. While it’s in her mouth.

That’s never happened before.
Never
. I glance down at the boob I’m kneading and roll the nipple between my fingers. Usually that helps. I need to get back to maximum hardness quickly, but things seem to be going in the opposite direction.

Violet pops off again, frowning as she strokes me. “Alex?”

“Mmm?” She’s noticed. I can tell.
Fuck
.

“Is everything okay?” She loosens her grip.

“It’s good; that feels good.” The crack in my voice doesn’t help things at all.

“But you’re…” She trails off. “Are you in pain? Should I get you something? Maybe this isn’t…”

“I’m fine.” I’m not even close to fine.

I stop fondling her and cover her hand with mine. Lacing my fingers with hers, I squeeze tightly and start stroking, hard and fast.

Violet sits back on her knees, her other hand high on my thigh. But I need more than her hand or her mouth. I need to be in her. I miss a lot of things, but being able to love her, and sometimes just fuck her, is high on the list.

“Get on me,” I grind out.

Violet’s eyes flare. “Are you sure?”

“I want in you.” I almost sound angry, probably because I am. I want to take care of her, and part of that is showing her how much I want her, the effect she has on me.

She exhales a quick breath, but she doesn’t ask any more questions. Instead she carefully straddles me, trying to stay clear of the healing bruises on my legs. She looks uncertain. I can understand why.

I’m typically a considerate lover, and I make sure I take care of Violet the way she needs. I’m not usually pushy or aggressive unless I’m pissed off—like I was that one time in the locker room. Yet even then I made sure Violet came long before I did, and more than once. But my ability to do even that is limited.

I soften my tone as I make a suggestion. “Why don’t you get yourself ready for me, baby.”

She eases the hand that’s not on my cock between her thighs and rubs her clit, slow at first and then faster. I keep up the mutual stroking, easing up when I’m back to a reasonable level of hardness.

“Finger yourself, Violet.” Again it comes out sounding more like a directive than a polite request.