Page 30 of Revenge Puck

“Hell no.”

“I figured you wouldn’t be up for any of that. That’s why I turned them all down. But if you want to give me a few quotes to pass along about this mystery girl of Riley’s, we could keep the buzz going through the playoffs.”

Elle didn’t seem too thrilled about keeping our fake relationship going last night. I doubt if she’ll want to keep pretending through the playoffs. That’s at least three more games, possibly as many as six.

“No quotes for now,” I tell Tommy. “Let me know if you get any offers.”

“I will. Stay focused and keep winning,” the man says before ending the call.

For the rest of the morning, I try to come up with a way to convince Elle to keep putting up with me.

I don’t think she’s the type of woman to accept money. There has to be something, though…

After a team meeting to watch the film from the night before, I’m in a damn fine mood when I head to Elle’s salon.

The Beauty Boutique.

I only saw the outside in the dark last night, the name painted on a window next to the door with the logo of a comb and scissors, or shears, on it. When I walk inside, a bell overhead chimes letting them know they have a customer. Not that they probably heard it over the sound of hairdryers running.

There are six black and silver salon chairs, three on each side of the place, with room to walk down the middle to a tall desk that backs to a wall. One of the chairs is upright in front of a mirror, another is where they must wash hair in the sinks. And the third chair is in front of a helmet looking thing.

Didn’t Elle mention something about going down on Christian in one of her salon chairs?

I try to mentally scrub that image from my head as I wait for the beautiful blonde to look up from the head of white hair she’s brushing and drying at the same time. Her friend, who is putting some foil on some woman’s hair on the other side of the room, smiles and gives me a wave.

I don’t mind standing there waiting, since it gives me a chance to ogle every inch of Elle. With her blonde hair tied up in a messy topknot, her bare neck looks absolutely delectable. Her flowy, knee-length green dress unfortunately doesn’t hug her curves like the jeans last night. It does give me a nice look at her tan legs. And the things it does to her breasts, pushing them up from the low-cut neck…

“Preston.” I didn’t even notice the hair dryer cutting off. “Hey. I can squeeze you in as soon as I finish up here with Ms. Crawford.”

The mention of squeezing me in has my mind going straight to the gutter. Maybe having a fake relationship after going years without sex is a bad idea. I try to refrain from even self-loveduring the season, but if I stand here much longer, I’ll have no choice but to go stroke one out. Or two or three.

“Do you mind waiting?” Elle asks, when I didn’t respond. It takes me longer than it should to realize she’s not asking me to delay keeping my hand off my dick.

“I can definitely wait.”

For her and a much-needed release. Like Coach reminded me, there’s too much on the line to lose my edge now.

“Good. There are chairs, a television, and some magazines in the back. I’ll come get you in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” I agree. I’d rather stand around and keep staring at her, but she probably doesn’t want me lurking. Or scaring her customers who all watch me with wide eyes. Still, just seeing her again has me feeling lighter, like the air goes in and out of my lungs a little easier. It’s as if her close proximity has the heavy pressure lifting from my shoulders for a little while.

That’s probably just my dick temporarily taking over all bodily functions from my head.

I walk to the back, not even sure if the cute little pink and black chairs can hold me, so I choose the black bench seat instead.

And wouldn’t you know, the television is on the local mid-day news, replaying the highlights from last night. They even show a quick shot of Elle in the stands with her sign.

About five minutes later, I hear Elle’s voice setting up an appointment two weeks out, then saying goodbye before the front door jingles.

“Are you sure you want a cut?” Elle asks when she appears in the open doorway, her hands on her hips ready to get to work.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I follow her back to the first chair. She has to lower it in order to reach my head.

“So, this is the inside of your salon, huh?” I ask like an idiot as she drapes a cape over me and fastens it at the back of my neck.

“This is it. How short do you want your hair? And have you reached a verdict on the beard?”

Is it just me or does she seem to be all business today? Maybe she’s just busy and doesn’t have time for small talk since I walked in without an appointment.

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