Page 12 of Puck

“Oh yeah. So I don’t joke about cigars or guns, and I only joke about sex with a woman I’m really, really interested in having sex with.”

“Oddly specific,” Colbie said. “And I’m not sure being onlyreally, reallyinterested is going to cut it, if you’re talking about me. I’m pretty picky.”

I laughed. “Ah, I see. Well then, I’m really, really, really,reallyinterested in having sex with you.” I gestured at the cashier, who was ignoring us to watch a small TV on the counter. “Ask about the cigars, babe. Please.”

She shook her head but asked anyway; the cashier passed a packet of three cheap but serviceable cigars through the slot, and Colbie passed a ruble note through, but the man just grunted in dismissal and waved us off. Taking back the cash and handing me the cigars, she took the vodka and the cell phone and we left the liquor store, headed back the way we’d came, making for the alley where the rest of the group waited for us.

Once again, I found myself walking beside Colbie and having the devil’s own time trying to keep my eyes off her cleavage, which was distracting and irritating, because I was not typically easily distracted.

I increased my pace so I was a step ahead of Colbie.

“What’s the matter, Puck? Don’t like walking next to me?” Colbie asked, opening her stride to match mine.

“No.” I forced myself to keep my gaze scanning around me, watching for signs of Cain’s assholes coming for us. “You’re distracting.”

“Distracting? What am I doing to distract you?”

I couldn’t help glancing at her and noticing the way she wrinkled her nose in confusion. It was cute. Normally, if something wascute, I avoided it like the plague. Cute was anathema. Kids, kittens, girls young and innocent enough to be considered cute . . . I stayed the hell away—far, far away. I liked Harleys, dive bars, tattoo parlors, and the kind of chicks who liked to get down for a couple hours and then found the door their own damn selves . . . the kind of woman who wrinkled her nose and made me goawwwww. . .? No. NOPE. Nooooo way, José.

Yet there was Colbie, sixteen different kinds of sexy, alluring, hot, and gorgeous, yet also cute as a fucking button with that nose wrinkle and tilted head.

Motherfucker—this was bad.

“You’re existing, that’s what you’re doing to distract me.” I decided to play it like I always played it—shoot from the hip, blunt as a hammer, no filter. “I keep wondering if you’re really wearing a blue bra, and if so, what kind, and how can I get you to show it to me—and then how can I get you out of it? And I wonder whether you’re the type of chick who wears plain and comfortable underwear to work, or the kind who wears fancy lingerie because you like feeling sexy. And I also can’t handle walking behind you because I’ll stare at your ass the whole time, and if I walk beside you, I’ll stare at your tits, and I shouldn’t be staring at you at all, because if the events of the last seventy-two hours are anything to go by, this shit is just getting started, and I have to be on my A-game or we’re all dead. Or, more likely, I’m dead and you’re all being sold into Cain’s network.”

She was quiet for several paces, obviously chewing on what I’d said. “First, it’s not my fault I distract you—lack of focus is on you, not me. Second, my bra really is blue.” She pulled the edges of her shirt open a bit to show a sliver of sapphire blue satin. “And it’s nothing fancy, just a regular bra. Third, I’m the first type, for the most part—I pick underwear based on fit and comfort more than style, although I do have a few sets of fancy stuff, but I don’t wear them very much, and for sure not to work. What are we on, number four? Fourth, it’s also not my fault if you can’t stop staring at me—see also item number one. Fifth, what happened in the last seventy-two hours to make you feel like this is just getting started? Addendum to item number five: if three trucks full of dead guys is this shit just getting started, then maybe I should be a little more afraid than I currently feel. Sixth, who the hell is Cain? And seventh, how would one lose a finger during sex?”

I laughed. “Um . . . that last one is a good question—S&M gone wrong?”

We’d arrived at the alley by that point, just in time for Layla to overhear that last exchange. “Do I want to know?”

I shook my head. “No, probably not.”

She eyed the vodka. “Not really the time to start pounding vodka, Puck.”

I moved away from the rest of the women, sat down in a corner where the brick wall of the liquor store met a tall, leaning sheet-metal fence. There was a stick on the ground, a couple inches long and the same thickness as my finger, missing all its bark; I set that in my teeth and clamped down on it as I heated up the knife blade.

“Shit, Puck.” Layla crouched near me. “Want me to do that?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“You sure?”

I nodded. “I’m sure.” My words were muffled by the stick.

I really wasn’t looking forward to this, but I had no idea when I’d be able to get medical attention, and if this thing kept bleeding like it was, I’d start to get light-headed; I already was a little and feeling kind of nauseous. Probably an infection, like Colbie had predicted. But fuck it, right? Gotta do what I gotta do. I twisted open the vodka and took a shot, then poured some onto my finger—which stung like a bitch as the alcohol hit the mess.

I heated the knife blade until it was glowing red, and then folded my fingers in so I was flipping the bird with my sad, messy little stump. Setting the lighter down, I hesitated a second, two, three . . . sucked in a few deep breaths and held the last one as I lowered the flat of the red-hot blade to the wound.

There was the hissing sound of searing meat, and the sickly sweet smell of cooking flesh, and I bit down on the stick between my teeth so hard I felt and heard the wood crunch and give, and I screamed out loud. I was a tough motherfucker, okay? I’d been shot, I’d been stabbed, I’d been beaten and left for dead, all sorts of shit. Cauterizing that finger? Fucking hurt like a motherfucking bitch. I held the knife on for a few seconds, then pulled it away, gasping, groaning, sweating, stomach heaving—checked it, saw it was still oozing a bit, and held the hot blade against my finger again. I repeated this three more times, checking for fresh blood each time, until the wound was totally cauterized.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” I snarled, spitting out the stick and tossing the still-hot knife onto the ground beside me.

I examined the finger; the wound was gnarly, all red and seared brownish, but it wasn’t bleeding anymore, so I called it done. Well . . . almost. I dumped some more vodka onto the closed wound, biting down on the stick and growling through the burn. Finally, fucking finally, I was as done as I could get.

This time, I took two long swallows of vodka.

“Fuck.” I capped the vodka and levered myself to my feet, woozy from the pain. “That was exciting. Let’s do it again!”