Page 7 of The Ex Puck Bunny
In our trio, Derek was the bad boy. Trey was the pretty boy. I was just the boy. The boy next door, I guess—normal, wholesome, helpful. Only I lived on the other side of town above a carrepair shop that was later condemned because of the wrongful disposal of oil on the premises.
In reality, I had secrets. I was the one with diabetes. The one with a single mom with problems of her own. The one who had to look after his brother.
The waitress brings my soda.
Derek says, “Finally. You made us wait long enough. I’ll have what he’s having.”
She stares eye daggers at him.
Given that look, he must’ve hit on her before he married Deborah and it wasn’t welcome … or something. However, the waitress doesn’t wear a wedding band, not that I routinely notice these things.
Derek isn’t hideous—at least Deborah thinks he’s attractive. On the other hand, the waitress is a knockout. It’s no wonder the guy with the beer gut referred to her as a puck bunny. She’s every hockey player’s dream with warm brown eyes (when she doesn’t look like she’s going to eviscerate her customers), blondish brown hair that reminds me of caramel (I checked and my blood sugar is solid), a straight nose, faint freckles, and lovely curves hidden behind her apron.
However, her O’Neely’s shirt is on backward and I anticipate Derek pointing that out in three, two, one . . .
“Did you get dressed in the dark or do you hate working here that much?” He points to her shirt.
She looks down and her cheeks flush. “I just hate twit customers like you.”
“Ouch. You hate me? Really? Then no tip for you.” Derek shakes his head.
Mine cats between the two of them, worried about how much this is going to escalate.
“Then no soda refills or popcorn.” She grabs the fish bowl from the table and starts to stalkaway.
Derek says, “I’m telling the owner that you?—”
Before this goes nuclear, I say, “I’m ready to order. I’ll take the pub potato skin pucks, please.”
She turns to me as if remembering I’m here and wears a tight smile. “We’re all out.”
“When will you have them again?” I ask.
“Never.”
Derek tilts his head to the side. “If I ask Uncle Stan?—”
She quickly says, “I mean tomorrow. We’ll have them tomorrow.”
Ah, Derek played theMy uncle owns this placecard. I’ll be sure to leave a big tip because he’s being obnoxious about that fact. Small towns, I tell ya.
“We’ll split the nachos,” Derek says.
“I’ll be sure not to spit in them,” she says, storming away.
My eyes widen. “Dude.”
“She won’t.”
“Just like you know Badaszek will play me this spring?”
He squints at me as if my head is on ice.
“Trust me. She’s not going to spit in our food.” He rolls his eyes. “She’s just been grouchy lately.”
“How do you know each other?” I wag my finger between him and the general direction of the waitress who is stabbing the screen at the computer terminal, probably telling the cooks to accidentally drop our food on the floor.
Derek’s jaw lowers and there’s a strange edge to his voice when he asks, “Are you kidding me right now?”
