Page 82 of Puck

Kyrie nuzzled his cheek. “You’re anamazingdaddy, Valentine.” To the rest of us, “And he’s right. Obviously, it’s not easy, and it’s scary, especially at first, but give them your love and your attention and just try to give them everything none of us had as a kid; they’ll be fine.”

The conversation then shifted to our childhoods, and all the crazy fucked-up shit we’d all been through, which turned into a bizarre competition for who was the most fucked-up, but it was a competition no one person seemed to have a lock on, as we were all equally fucked-up in different ways.

Later that night, after Roth’s smaller yacht dropped us all off at the guest island and Puck and I were in bed, naked and sweating and still gasping, he cradled me against his chest and kissed my cheek.

“You’re serious about all that?” he asked.

I didn’t have to ask to know what he was referring to. “Only about it being worth discussing. In a more private setting, though.”

“Like this one?”

I stroked my fingers through the hair on his chest. “Doesn’t have to be now, Puck. I guess I’m just more curious as to whether you’re even willing to consider the possibility, or hell, ifIam.”

He caressed my ass, thinking before responding. “It’s no crazier of an idea than us jumping headfirst into a relationship less than forty-eight hours after meeting, and having it actually last.”

“You see this lasting, then?”

He spanked my butt in a sharp swat. “You’re not getting rid of me, Cole. You’re stuck with me, now. Too late to back out.”

I tugged on his beard. “Good.”

He reached over, slid open the drawer of the nightstand, and came back with a small black box. “We could make it official.”

I stopped breathing as he opened the top to reveal a two-carat princess cut diamond solitaire. “Puck?”

“Marry me, Cole.”

I kissed him, slowly, deeply. “Yes, Puck. Yes. A thousand times yes.”

He slid the ring onto my finger, and I felt myself crying, but I didn’t bother trying to stop them. Puck himself seemed . . . choked up as we watched the dimmed lights glint off the diamond.

I palmed his cheek. “I do have one small condition for marrying you.”

He frowned down at me. “Okay . . .?”

“Your name.”

He sighed, chuckling. “It would be that, wouldn’t it?” Puck yanked on his beard, which told me he really didn’t want to tell me, but I waited silently, and eventually he spoke. “Okay, well my name really is truly and legally Puck. No middle name, just Puck Lawson. But it wasn’t always. I turned eighteen just after I’d finished boot camp. I’d hated my name my whole life and had been going by Puck since I was thirteen.”

“Why Puck?”

He shrugged. “When I was thirteen, my seventh-grade literature teacher took our whole class to Little Rock for a performance ofA Midsummer Night’s Dream. I thought Puck was the coolest guy in the whole play. All the other kids were going on about Titania and Oberon and whoever, but I was all about Puck. The way the actor played him was as a trickster, a sneak, a practical joker, the kind of guy who could annoy you to death as easily as charm your pants off, and sometimes both at the same time. I just . . . loved the character. I went home and read the play myself, and I didn’t understand shit, but I loved all of Puck’s lines. And since I hated my name, and had hated my name since I was old enough to hate anything, I decided to start going by Puck. Annoyed the fuck outta my dad, because I was adamant about it. Just wouldn’t answer, acted like I didn’t hear him or my teachers unless they called me Puck. The old man even tried to beat me out of it, but I was back at it as soon as I could move my jaw again.”

“Jesus, Puck.”

He waved a hand. “Bah, that was twenty-five years ago.”

“So what was your birth name?”

He blew out a raspberry. “You don’t wanna know.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I don’t wanna tell you.”

“How about if I suck you off? Would that help?”

“No hands.”