Page 106 of Pucking Wild

A few weeks? This woman can have more than that. She can have months. Years. Hell, if she’ll only give us a real chance, a chance to be more than just friends, I’ll be her sweet puppy for the rest of my fucking life.

38

Ispend the whole of Thursday morning running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Between helping Joey set up for a volunteer clean-up event over at the beach and playing phone tag with two city council reps, I somehow manage to bake two dozen of my famous triple chocolate chunk oatmeal cookies.

Apparently Shelby O’Sullivan is hosting a huge birthday party tonight, and I promised Rachel I would make an appearance. All the Rays will be there, which should make for a wild and crazy night. I’m hoping Shelby will accept my cookies as a peace offering.

Her party has a “favorite fictional character” theme, and I’ve been putting together an outfit all week. Is it funny and on theme? Yes. Will I look hot? Double yes. Is Ryan going to lose his freaking mind? Obviously, my entire point.

The doorbell rings just as I’m putting the finishing touch on my lipstick.

“Shit.” I glance at myself in the mirror. I’m wearing my sexy devil costume, complete with red leather skirt, lacy bustier top, black fishnets, and little black horns peeking out the top of my head. My makeup looks flawless—a dramatic smoky eye and cherry red lips.

Tossing my lipstick down with a soft laugh, I saunter off towards the front door. Whoever it is better be ready for a bit of a jump scare. I peek out through the fogged glass of the front door and see a mail truck driver hop back in his truck and drive off.

Opening the door, I glance down. A smallish box is perched in the center of the welcome mat. I pick it up and read the label and my heart stops.

It’s addressed to me.

No one has this address except a few of the Rays and my lawyer. And no Ray would send me something by mail when they could get it to me in person. It’s certainly nothing to do with Out of the Net. My list of suspects narrows down to one.

“Well…fuck.”

I slam the door shut and throwing the bolt. Then I carry the box like a bomb into the kitchen and set it down, glaring at it.

“What’s your game now, huh?” I say at the box.

Snatching a knife from the block, I stab into the flaps of the box, aggressively cutting through the tape. Whatever waits for me in here, it’s not going to be good. Dropping the knife down with a clatter, I tear the flaps and fold them back.

The box is full of confetti—no, shredded paper. He dumped the contents of a paper shredder into a box and mailed it to me?

And then it hits me.

“Oh my god.” I pick up a handful, inspecting it more closely. Yep, these are printed pages. I can just make out some of the words. He shredded the divorce papers and mailed them to me unsigned. Tears sting my eyes as I open my fingers, letting the confetti fall back into the box.

“Goddamn it,” I say, my voice catching.

I shift the confetti a bit and see a small envelope. Bracing myself for the worst, I pull it out and flip it over. He didn’t bother sealing it. I take out the contents, unfolding the papers. My heart sinks out of my chest. It’s printed screenshots of the bullshit tabloid articles featuring Jake and me. He scrawled a message on the top page. I recognize his sloping cursive:

Whores don’t get to make demands

“Lovely.”

My fingers shake as I delicately fold up the papers, slipping them back inside the envelope. I set the envelope down on top of the shredded divorce documents and pick up the box, taking it to my room. I leave it on my dresser as I go into the bathroom and snatch my phone. Flicking through my short list of contacts, I press Charlie’s name and dial.

“Hey, honey, how you doing today?” comes his cheery tone.

“He didn’t sign, Charlie,” I say in greeting.

“I—well, I haven’t heard back from his counsel yet, but theydohave till end of day—”

“He didn’t sign,” I say again. “I know he didn’t sign, because I have the contract right here and it’s unsigned.”

“You have it? How—”

“He shredded it unsigned, and mailed it to me,” I explain. “Charlie, how did he get my address? You are the only person up there who has it.”

“Well, I would never—”

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