Page 66 of Pucking Around

Movement in the alley a few storefronts down has me on edge. “We should get off the street,” I mutter.

We move down the sidewalk a few more blocks, ducking into a narrow, 24-hour diner that is all but empty except for a small group of frat guys slamming pancakes at the counter.

“Sit anywhere, hons!” the waitress calls. “Be there in a sec!”

Jake leads the way to the booth in the corner by the window. Rachel sits down first. Jake surprises me when he sits across from her. I slide in next to him.

The waitress bustles over clutching a pair of coffee pots. “Caf or decaf, honeys?”

We all order decaf, and she fills our plain white mugs to the brim.

“Y’all eating anything tonight?”

“Just the coffee,” I say. As soon as the waitress leaves, I lean across Jake, snatching up the dish of creamers. “Alright, Hurricane. Spill.”

She takes a creamer too, adding it to her coffee and stirring it with a spoon. “Neither of you have googled me, have you?”

We glance at each other. I sure as hell haven’t. Googling a person you like feels like such a puck bunny thing to do. “No,” I reply for both of us.

She holds her mug with both hands. “I can’t believe I did that tonight. Anyone could have snapped a picture of us kissing in that stairwell. Or coming out of the closet. It was reckless, and I’m neverreckless. But you both just—god—you make me so crazy,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Why are you so worried about some pictures?” Jake presses.

She sets her cup down on the sea-foam green Formica tabletop. “Because it wouldn’t be my first indiscretion,” she admits softly. “And the press is ruthless. They would have splashed it everywhere. They would have said the most awful things—” She catches her words, snatching up her coffee again.

Jake and I share a wary glance. “The press?” he says.

I raise a brow at her. “Are you some secret princess or something?”

She shrugs and gives a little laugh. “Sort of…in a way, I guess.”

“For fuck’s sake, drop the veil already,” I growl.

She drums her fingers on her mug. “Do either of you know the name Halston Price?”

My mind buzzes.

“Halston Price?” Jake repeats. “Wait—oh, shit—wait—” He gasps, leaning forward, elbows on the rickety table. “Halston Price as inHalPrice? Like, Hal Price, lead singer of The Ferrymen?”

Rachel nods, taking another sip of her coffee.

“Oh my god!” Jake cries.

“Easy,” I mutter, glancing over towards the counter. The frat boys are looking our way.

“What?” he says with a laugh. “I’m sorry, but this is crazy. The Ferrymen are one of my all-time favorite bands.” He turns to Rachel, grinning. “I saw them in concert in Amsterdam with Amy. Hal Price is a fucking legend. He’s rock royalty!”

“Yep, that’s daddy.”

Jake laughs again. “Oh god, she calls Hal Price ‘daddy.’ I’m dead.” He snatches up his mug with both hands, taking a big gulp.

Now it all makes sense. Her wanting to keep her anonymity in Seattle, all the sexy little tour t-shirts I’ve seen her wearing when she runs, her sliver-spoon life with a hired driver, the electric guitar tattooed on her forearm. I bet you anything the signature is Hal’s.

My eyes narrow on her. “So, Daddy Hal is a rock god, and you’ve lived in his spotlight all your life? Is that your deep dark damage, Hurricane?”

She nods, her expression solemn. “My family has been torn apart again and again by the press. Daddy cheated on my mom when we were little. He regretted it and wanted her back. But there was picture proof, and it was the 90s, when divorce was still taboo. It ruined him for a while. He took the heat for his infidelity ten times over.”

“I’m sorry,” Jake says, reaching across the table to hold her hand.

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