Pucking Matt (The Honey Badger Puckers #2)

Chapter 1

“You don't remember me?” I ask, clutching his order like it's a lifeline. Or a weapon. At this point, I'm not sure which I prefer.

Matthew Pearson stares at me, his blue eyes widening slightly.

Oh, he remembers. I can see the recognition flicker across his face as he stares into my eyes, followed quickly by something else.

Gratitude? Impossible. This is Matthew freaking Pearson, the bane of my high school existence, the reason I was labeled out of control, a menace, and worse, a domestic abuse case.

Yeah, fuck you, Matt.

“I don't know who the hell you are,” he says, his voice smooth as butter. Lying butter.

“Still an asshole, I see. Better be careful there. I’ve been practicing my left hook since the last time I saw you.”

Bastard shakes his head, dumbfounded. He’s staring at me like he has no idea what I’m talking about.

He got me suspended merely weeks before high school graduation. It was years ago when I was a senior in high school, and he was a junior with an obnoxious mouth on him. I don’t regret what I did back then and not now.

I resist the urge to dump his protein smoothie over his stupidly attractive head. When did that happen, by the way? When did Matthew "Douchecanoe" Pearson transform from a gangly, acne-ridden teen into this? It's like puberty hit him with a sledgehammer.

Not that it matters. Not that I care. Not that I've been sneaking glances at him since I noticed him, wondering if he still has that scar on his elbow from when I physically attacked him.

Yeah, I remember that day like yesterday. The adrenaline rushing through me was thick. I hadn’t been in a fight before. My nickname in school became Mike Tyson. They also called me a crazy bitch. I might have tackled him down the stairs.

“Here's your order,” I say, plastering on my best 'I definitely didn't just fantasize about tackling you again' smile.

He grabs the bag, and I think he purposely touches my hand. Is that his way of saying he knows exactly who I am? Or is the universe laughing at me? Both seem equal at this point.

I watch as he notices my artistic addition to his takeout bag. The smirk that spreads across his face really makes my hand twitch. But I’m older now. A more mature version of myself, so I wouldn’t dare hit him again, but maybe if he said those same disrespectful words to me, I would.

“Asshole?” he questions. “You got the wrong guy.” He smiles with cash in between his two fingers, showing me how grateful he is. He keeps the smirk on his face, leaving a fucking tip in the jar.

His face may have gone through puberty, but his personality is still the same.

“Have a great day, Matthew,” I mutter as he walks out. He ignores me, of course, walking to his truck.

Oh, I see him meeting with a cute girl. That poor female has no idea what she’s gotten herself into with him.

Matthew Pearson.

What do I know about him?

Too much.

For one, he can take a hit.

He’s a mommy’s boy. He’s privileged because his mom slept around until she started dating Mr. Cress, married the poor guy, and moved in with him.

Matt hated his stepbrother, Grey, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.

Rumor says he lost his virginity inside of the hockey rink.

He’s rude, self-serving, and cocky.

Motherfucker turns around, catching my stare, before he steps into his nice Toyota Tacoma forest-green truck. His face is neutral, blank. I imagine he’s reiterating everything he knows about me too.

After our fight, we found out every possible detail of each other like any angry, raging hormonal teenager would. I swear he even created a fake account to troll me online. I assume this because that’s exactly what I did.

Yes, he’s the biggest piece of shit I know.

Sorry, that’s offensive to shit, actually. He’s worse.

What’s the number one thing to know about him?

I absolutely hate his guts.

“So,” my coworker drawls, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Want to explain why you just committed aggravated assault on that poor takeout bag?”

Matt throws on his high beams, capturing our attention. It’s still day out, so there’s no need for his lights.

“Effing a-hole,” I mutter.

“Is that your ex?” Jen asks, looking at the high beams.

“Ew, no. What? You think I would ever date someone like that?”

Jen shrugs. “Why else would he be staring at you the entire time he was in here?”

I shake my head. “He – what? He wasn’t staring.”

I knew he was lying earlier, but this confirms it. Oh, the lying irks me to my core.

“I hear women love the a-holes,” Jen says, collapsing her hands together.

“It's ancient history. Let's just drop it.”

Jen's eyes widen. “No way now. Damn, girl. What did he do to deserve the Amber Special?”

“Exist,” I mutter, then sigh.

But Jen, like a dog with a bone, isn't letting go. “Come on, spill. I need the deets. Nothing else is going in here. We have time. So, what happened?”

I glance at the clock. Still an hour left in my shift. Plenty of time for Jen to keep pestering me. Might as well get it over with.

“Fine. The short version: He was a dick, I was going through some stuff, and he pushed me too far. It was a very long time ago, but I haven’t seen him since.”

“Not until now?” Jen whistles low. “Damn. And now he's here, ordering protein shakes and sandwiches.”

“Yep.”

“And you little grudge-holder, you.”

“I’m not holding a grudge.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“I’m not.”

She argues back quickly. “Well, how long ago did all this happen?”

I see that she has a point as I look over at her. It’s been four, maybe five years? Yeah, she has a point.

She shrugs and then starts cleaning the counter while whistling to fill this awkward silence.

As we clean up for the night, Jen keeps shooting me curious glances. Finally, she breaks. “So, why are you even working here? I mean, don't you have some fancy corporate job?”

I snort. “Fancy is one word for it. Soul-crushing is another.”

“I can imagine you in a suit and heels, all bossy and shit. But still, why are you working here with losers like us?”

“You’re not losers,” I mutter, shaking my head.

Truth is, I've been asking myself the same question lately. Why am I here, working two nights a week at a job that pays a fraction of what I make pushing papers?

“Look,” I say, leaning against the counter. “My corporate job? It's not all it's cracked up to be. Sure, the money's good, but imagine being stuck in a hamster wheel, running your ass off but never actually getting anywhere.”

Jen nods. “So, like, existential crisis?”

“More like a quarter-life crisis,” I laugh. “I've got a degree and somehow landed a job that has me drowning in spreadsheets and PowerPoint presentations. It's like playing dress-up as a businessman, pretending I'm a real adult.”

“Hey,” Jen says, nudging me. “If you pay taxes, then you are a real adult.”

“Yeah, taxes and hating your job. Two signs you’re in the club.”

She chuckles. “So why stay?”

It's a question I've been avoiding for months. Why do I stay in a job that makes me miserable? The answer is complicated, tied up in knots of expectations and fears and the desperate need to prove something.

“Because,” I say slowly. “It's what I'm supposed to do, right? Climb the corporate ladder, make something of myself. Be stable.”

The word tastes bitter in my mouth. Stable. The opposite of everything my parents were.

Jen's quiet for a moment, then says, “You know, being stable doesn't have to mean being miserable.”

I laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Tell that to my bank account. Or my therapist.”

“So, this job,” Jen gestures around the café. “It's what? Your rebellion against corporate America?”

“More like my sanity check,” I admit. “Two nights a week to relax at a job where I don't have to pretend to be someone I'm not. Where I can just be.”

“You mean like writing asshole on a customer’s take-out bag and getting away with it?”

I grin, feeling some of the tension leave my shoulders. “Try doing that in a board meeting. You’ll get sent straight to HR.”

She smiles. “I think you’re actually crazy.”

I shrug. “Probably.”

As we finish closing up, I realize that for the first time since Matthew walked in, I'm not seething. Sure, seeing him brought up a lot of old crap, but talking with Jen helped.

Maybe that's the real reason I took this job.

Not just as an escape from the corporate rat race, but as a reminder of who I really am.

Not the polished, professional facade I put on for the office, but the real Amber.

The one who's not afraid to call an asshole an asshole, even if it's just in Sharpie on a paper bag.

And if Matthew Pearson doesn't like it? Well, there are plenty of other cafes in the city. Let him get his protein shakes and sandwiches somewhere else.