Pucking Double

Chapter 1

Miles

The smoke curls from my lips, a lazy trail that mixes with the faint vanilla scent inside my car. My head falls back against the leather seat, and I watch the thin tendrils drift toward the ceiling. The joint burns slow between my fingers, glowing bright each time I drag.

Heat slides down my spine as her mouth works over my cock, wet and eager.

I don’t even remember her name. Honestly, I don’t even care.

Just a warm mouth and a pretty face I’ll forget the moment this is over.

She moans like she’s actually enjoying herself, and I let her. I’m good at taking what people give me.

The car rumbles faintly beneath us, engine still running, radio low. A girl’s laugh filters in from across the parking lot, the sound bouncing between the rows of cars. I don’t care. This is my world, my space.

Until something hard taps against the glass.

I stiffen, grip the joint tighter, and turn my head. A hockey stick rests against my tinted window, the blunt end just under my line of sight. I groan, drag my palm down my face, and lower the window halfway.

Blue eyes stare in, sharp and amused. Jamie. His blond hair is pushed back under a cap, that infuriating grin carved across his face. “You’ve got a death wish,” he says, voice carrying that drawl that’s equal parts judgment and humor. “Do you want to be suspended?”

“Or maybe I just like living,” I mutter, tucking myself back into my jeans as I roll the window down fully. “And they wouldn’t fucking dare.”

Jamie leans against the car stick braced against his shoulder, grin only growing wider. “This is the school parking lot, Miles. You do realize that, right?”

I exhale a plume of smoke out the window, eyeing him. “If your dumbass scratched my car with that stick, I’ll kill you.”

My car gleams under the overhead lights, black paint slick as oil, chrome rims catching every glint. A 1969 Chevrolet Impala that I have gutted and rebuilt until it was wholly unrecognizable and mine.

Jamie smirks and taps the door once more, just to test me. Asshole.

The girl lifts her head, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, lipstick smeared at the corner of her lips. She blinks between us, eyes glazed from the smoke. “You didn’t finish,” she says softly, pout forming.

I cup her cheek, thumb brushing along her jaw. “Maybe after,” I tell her, voice low.

Her lashes flutter. “Okay.”

I know what she’s expecting now.

Reaching into the backseat, I grab my backpack, unzip the worn fabric, and pull out three fat rolls of weed. She sees them and her whole face changes. Her lips curve slowly.

I pass them to her, careful, and she takes them like treasure. “Thanks, baby.” She leans over, presses her mouth to my cheek, lipstick hot against my skin.

She slides out of the passenger seat, already checking the wraps, already smiling to herself as she disappears between the cars.

I get out, the cold air biting against my heated skin. The world tilts for a moment, hazy from the high, then settles as I drag my gear bag from the trunk. The familiar weight steadies me. Jamie watches, amused as hell, his laugh low.

“Seriously? Bella?” He shakes his head, eyes flashing. “You know she’s slept with half the team, right?”

So that’s her name. I’m not sure why I forgot.

“Fuck off,” I say flatly, slinging the strap over my shoulder.

He snorts, the sound ugly in the quiet. “What, do I have to suck you off too to get mine?”

I flip him off as I pull a small amber bottle from my bag, the cap already loose. White pills rattle inside, and I palm a few into my hand. My escape when the world won’t shut up, when sleep won’t come. I pass him the bottle.

Jamie arches a brow, reading the label. “Susanna Wright,” he says slowly, lips curling. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Do you want the pills or not?” I snap, heat in my voice.

He grins and pockets them without another word. That’s Jamie. Never asks too much, never digs unless it matters. He knows where I get them. He knows better than to bring it up here.

He pushes off the car, adjusting the strap of his own gear bag. “We better move before coach has our asses hanging from the rafters.”

I nod, grinding the joint under my shoe, sparks snuffed out.

We walk side by side toward the glass doors of Pointe University. Students spill across the lot, groups laughing, music pulsing from somewhere deep inside the frat row. I ignore them. They’re nothing to me. Background noise.

The locker room reeks of sweat, deodorant, and something faintly metallic that always clings to hockey gear no matter how much detergent you drown it in.

The overhead lights hum too bright, bouncing off chrome lockers, making the place feel like a holding pen before slaughter.

Guys shout across the aisles, laughing too loud, slamming doors, already wound up for practice.

The team is chaos and testosterone, the air humming with that mix of bravado and desperation that comes with knowing none of us are gods here yet.

We’re sophomores, and it’s the end of the season.

Pointe University isn’t a place where they hand you anything—you bleed for it, fight for it, or you’re nothing.

Jamie slides onto the bench beside me, peeling off his sweatshirt, smirking like he owns the room even though we both know he doesn’t.

He thrives on the noise, the hierarchy, the chance to carve out space.

I pull my skates from my bag, run my thumb along the blade, grounding myself in the routine.

It’s always been like this. Hockey has been the one place where I can forget the rest of it, at least for a while.

Coach storms in, voice sharp as a whip. “Gear up. We’ve got Blackridge this weekend, and if you think they’re going to play soft, you’re already beaten.

” His eyes sweep the room like a blade. “This isn’t high school anymore, boys.

You either step up or you’ll be riding the bench until your scholarships dry up. Understood?”

A chorus of yes, coach rattles the walls, loud and eager. I mutter it too, but my phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling me out of the moment. I glance at the screen. One message.

Call me now.

The name on the screen makes my gut twist. Uncle Victor. My hand tightens around the phone until my knuckles blanch. A shiver slides down my spine, cooling the buzz still lingering in my veins.

I shove the phone back in my pocket, drag my hoodie over my head, and start lacing up.

Jamie notices, leaning in. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” My voice is too flat, too quick.

Coach claps his hands, barking for everyone to hit the ice. The room surges into motion, guys grabbing helmets and sticks, the air vibrating with adrenaline. Jamie rises, tapping his stick against my shin. “You coming?”

“In a minute.” My voice feels hollow in my throat. He frowns but doesn’t push, jogging after the others as the door slams shut behind him. The room falls quiet except for the hum of the vents.

I pull my phone back out, thumb hovering for a second before I hit call.

It rings once. Twice. Then his voice, smooth as gravel, fills my ear. “Where are you?”

“School.” I keep my tone casual, like it’s no big deal, like my stomach isn’t in knots.

“Did you do your drop this morning?”

“Yes.” My pulse kicks harder. He’ll want details. He always does.

“Tell me.”

I shut my eyes, lean back against the cold metal locker. “Courtyard of the Marriott downtown. Black Escalade waiting at the curb. Guy in a suit—didn’t even flinch when I handed him the envelope. Councilman Reeves. Took it like he’s done it a thousand times. Didn’t look at me, didn’t say a word.”

There’s a pause on the line. Then a low chuckle. “Good. The man knows his place.”

My stomach twists again. Reeves is on every billboard in this city, smiling for the cameras, preaching about family values. And here he is, hands out for dirty money like the rest of them.

“You’ve got another assignment,” Victor says, voice dropping lower. “Warehouse. Half an hour.”

I glance at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes until warm-up ends. No way I make both.

“You listening to me, boy?” His voice hardens, a dangerous edge sliding in.

“Yes.” My grip on the phone aches.

“Good. Don’t be late.”

The line goes dead.

I shove the phone back into my pocket and grab my bag, breath coming fast. My uncle doesn’t make requests. He makes commands. Ignoring him isn’t an option.

I head down the hallway toward the rink, heart pounding like I’ve already played three periods. Coach catches sight of me at the doors, eyes narrowing. “Miles? You planning on showing up today?”

“My—” I swallow, force my voice steady. “Family emergency. I need to step out.”

His mouth flattens into a hard line. For a second, I think he’ll call me on it. Then he just waves a hand, dismissing me like I’m nothing. “Go. But you’d better be ready for Saturday.”

“Yes, Coach.” I shoulder my bag and bolt before he changes his mind.

I catch the attention of the notorious dealer, Koa. He eyes me with that fucking look, so I stare back. Last year we made a deal that I keep quiet with my shit, I swore to stay out of his way, and in result, we don’t have a problem. I stare back until the wall separates us.

The warehouse sits on the edge of East Pointe, tucked between shipping yards and abandoned factories that nobody questions.

I pull up, kill the engine, and the night feels heavier here.

Shadows press in close, the air thick with diesel and rot.

A couple of guys lean against the side door, smoking, their eyes flicking over me.

“The boss is in a mood,” one says, smoke curling from his mouth. “Keep your head up.”

“Yeah.” My voice is low, rough.

I head inside, the concrete floor cold under my boots, every step echoing. The warehouse smells like oil and old blood, sharp enough to stick in your throat. The deeper I go, the quieter it gets, until it’s just me and the sound of my own breathing.

I remind myself I’m twenty. A man. Victor says it all the time—be a man, stand tall, don’t flinch. But the truth is, every time I walk into his world, I feel like a kid again. Waiting for the blow.

He appears from the shadows, tall, broad, dark hair messy the same way mine always is, steel-gray eyes that cut like knives. My uncle. Victor Thatcher. The man who raised me after my parents died, who carved me into what I am now.

“Do you have it?” His voice is low, controlled, like a predator who never needs to raise his tone.

I reach into my bag, pull out the envelope from the morning drop. Crisp bills inside. I hand it over without hesitation. His fingers brush mine as he takes it, a spark of cold running through me.

He weighs it in his hand, nods once. Then his eyes sharpen. “Good. Because we’ve got a problem.”

My stomach knots.

“Debt defaulter,” he says, lips curling. “Thinks he can hold out on me. Tonight, we remind him what happens when people forget who runs this city.”

His gaze pins me in place, steel boring into my chest. “Think you can do this.”

“Of course,” I nod.