“Holy shit,” she whispered as she came back down. “Holy shit. Puck, what the hell was that? What was that?”
“You know damned well what it was,” I told her roughly, reaching down to unzip my pants. Condom. Needed a condom. Fuck, I didn’t have my wallet with me, it was back at my apartment. Okay, two options. I could go grab it or see if she had one . . . Both bad choices. Very bad choices. If I left, she might get away. And no fucking way I wanted to know if she had condoms.
That’s when the phone rang.
“Mom,” Becca said, her eyes growing wide. Damn. I might be fucked up, but even I knew that girls shouldn’t say “Mom” right after they come.
It’s like a rule.
The phone rang again. Becca pushed against my chest urgently.
“I have to get that,” she muttered, eyes wide. I stayed put, wondering how the hell we’d gone from her screaming my name to talking about her mother. “She’s been trying to get hold of me. Something’s really wrong.”
The phone kept ringing as it sank in. Becca had every intention of not finishing what we’d started. My cock throbbed, balls tight, and suddenly I was not a happy camper.
“Call her back,” I growled. Becca punched my chest, face growing angry.
“Get the fuck off me. I need to get the phone. Now.”
BECCA
Puck stared down at me, his eyes dark and his breath coming hard. I felt how much he wanted me—no way I could miss that dick of his shoved up between my legs—and I remembered exactly how it’d felt deep inside my body.
Beautiful. Painful. Terrifying.
The phone rang again.
“I have to answer,” I whispered. “It’s important.”
He growled at me and then rolled off, the sudden absence of his heat and weight painful. I jumped up and ran for the phone just as the answering machine kicked in. Mom’s voice filled the air.
“Becca, where the hell are you?” she asked, her voice breathless. “You said to call you at home. I really need to talk to you, baby.”
I caught the handset and hit the button before she could say any more. Behind me I sensed Puck radiating hostility and frustration. Nothing I could do about him right now, so I focused on the phone.
“Mom, I’m here.”
“Becca!” she replied, her voice full of relief. “I’m so glad you answered. Honey, I have to make this fast. Teeny is downstairs and he’s drunk again. I think he’s going to hurt me if I stay here. I need you to send me money so I can get away.”
Her words slammed into me, shattering my emotions along different, conflicting trajectories. Fear, of course. And anger. Toward Teeny . . . toward her, because something about this sounded off, despite all my hopes. With Mom it always came back to money. Why would this time be any different?
“Mom, I don’t have any extra money,” I said quietly. Behind me I heard Puck still, then he muttered something. Sticking a finger in my ear, I focused on my mother, ignoring him.
“Baby, I get that you aren’t rolling in it,” she said. “But this is for real. This isn’t a late phone bill or the electricity or even a fucking car payment. That man is off his rocker and he says he’s going to kill me. I need to get away, and I need to get away soon. You have to send me money right now.”
Her words chilled me. Kill her?
“How much?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
I froze.
“Mom, I don’t have that much.”
“You’ve got a car, right?”
“Not one that’s worth two grand,” I said bluntly. “I could sell everything I own and not have that much.”
“Figure something out,” she replied desperately. “Baby, I can’t get away without your help and I can’t stay here. I know I’ve been a crappy parent—I realize that. But I love you, I’ve always loved you, and I know you love me.”
“Mom, this isn’t about whether I love you. I don’t have the money and I can’t just make it appear out of the air.”
“Can you borrow it from someone?” she pressed. “Make some guy feel good, then hit him up for a loan?”
My stomach twisted.
“No.”
“You’re pretty, always have been,” she wheedled. “Why don’t you go to a strip club? You could earn that money in a night or two, send it down to me. I’d do it myself, but they’d never take me. Not like I am now. I’m too old, baby.”
I closed my eyes, trying to picture taking off my clothes in front of a crowd of staring men. No. No way. How dare she even consider asking me that?
“I can empty my tip jar,” I said. “But it’s not much, maybe fifteen or twenty bucks. I’ll send it to you tomorrow. It’s the best I can do.”
Her voice turned hard.
“He’s going to kill me,” she snapped. “What kind of girl lets her mother die because she’s too good to take off her clothes? You did a lot more than that down here, and don’t think I’ve forgotten how you cried when you left. You didn’t want to ride off with that boy—I forced you to go, to save your life. Now you won’t do the same for me?”
My stomach heaved, and I swayed. Why? Why did she have to do this?
“I’ll send you my tip money,” I repeated slowly. “There must be someone else you can ask, Mom. Can you steal some money from Teeny while he’s sleeping?”
“You’re ungrateful,” she hissed, hanging up on me. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to steady myself, setting the phone on the table. What the hell was that all about? Should I believe her?