Cluck Buddies: A Friends With Benefits Romance

By Theresa Leigh

A full length romantic comedy set in the world of Crown Creek!

Since I started hooking up with with Wesley Maxwell, I have learned the following:
He is good at making people comfortable.
He is good at home repairs.
He is really, really good with his tongue.

And after seven years… that's all I know.
Except for one more thing....
What a bad idea it would be to fall for him.

Things between us are easy. Uncomplicated. I come home to Crown Creek once a month. I have brunch with my hot-mess mother and finicky grandmother. I nod and smile as they fret over why a competent, capable woman like me is still single.

And then I go over to Wesley's house and let him rock my world.

He's honest with me and I'm honest with him. He doesn't want a relationship.
And all I want is good sex.

Things are fine just the way they are.

The girls in my book club think I'm in love with him, but I'm not. He's not the right guy for me. I need a grown up, and he has a pinball machine instead of a door, for heaven's sake.
I can't be with someone like that.

Not even when he rescues the world's tiniest dog.
Not even when he saves me from a total work disaster.
Not even when he shows up at my door in the middle of the night… naked.

We are not a couple. We are something else. And that something rhymes with duck-muddies.
And damn his blue eyes, it's going to stay that way.

...

Cluck Buddies is a silly, sexy spin-off set in the small town of CROWN CREEK. Expect a raunchy book club meeting interrupted by a confused rooster, lots of pun-based dirty talk, a sexy hero who only has eyes for the heroine (if she'd just look up and notice. Make that way up... he's really tall), and a tiny dog with a massive attitude. You can also expect cameos from some of your favorite Crown Creek characters as no one in this small town knows how to mind their own business... especially where love is concerned

• Language: English
• Publisher: LuxLife Publishing
• Release date: Dec 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201748166

Book preview

Chapter One

Wesley

When I was ten years old, I accidentally slammed my dick in a drawer, and learned two very valuable lessons.

Lesson number one was pretty obvious. Be careful where you stick your dick.

Lesson number two was more subtle, but just as important. No matter how careful you are, sticking your dick somewhere always ends up causing you pain.

The kind of pain varies, of course. Sometimes it's emotional pain, like getting dumped by Holly Marcus two days before junior prom.

Sometimes it's physical pain, like getting kicked in the shins by an enraged sorority girl because I didn't bring her a cruller on National Donut day.

But watching water slosh all over my brand-new bathroom tiles – before I'd had a chance to grout – was a brand-new and completely novel kind of pain.

I have to hand it to Melody, she isn't boring. She's nuttier than a squirrel’s wet dream, yes. But not boring.

In fact, coming home from the grocery store to find her in my newly installed bathtub was probably the most exciting thing that has happened to me in weeks.

Melody, I choke. Uh, how did you get in here?

I already know the answer, of course. She got in by climbing the ladder she'd set against the side of my house and popping out the screen in my bedroom. Which makes me wonder, not for the first time, where the hell my neighbors were while this was happening. Crown Creek is a small town, and supposedly this means I should have friendly neighbors showing up at my door with cookies every other day. But my neighbors? They are either hiding from me, or pathologically un-nosey.

Did they not notice the crazy woman scaling the side of my house? Or did women scale houses in this neighborhood all the time, making it it a completely normal occurrence, and my realtor had just failed to mention this fact when I closed? Lately the latter seems the more realistic option.

But I had no time to wonder about my so-unobservant-as-to-be-nonexistent neighbors’ eyesight right now. Melody, I repeat. You need to go.

She continues ignoring me, calmly humming to herself as she soaps her naked body over and over again. It's quite a nice naked body, I have to give her that, but it doesn't change the fact that she broke into my house.

I'm going to call the police, I say.

She hums a little louder before rocking forward to run the water again. The tub is already full to overflowing, so the motion sends another tidal wave of bubbles over the side of the tub. I look down at the puddle I'm now standing in and deeply regret choosing a giant clawfoot tub when I renovated this bathroom. It was always a dream of mine to have a nice, deep tub. Call me ridiculous, but after a long day at work, I just want to be able to fit all 6'3" of me under the bathwater without any rogue body parts sticking out.

But the problem with deep tubs is that they hold a lot of water. Water that's currently dripping through the bathroom subfloor and into my kitchen. I can hear the dripping sound from here. In the past few minutes it's gone from light spring drizzle, to late summer downpour, and I'm getting nervous.

I back out of the bathroom and gently shut the door behind me. Then dial 911.

911, what's your emergency? The operator answers.

I clear my throat. Hi, yes. My name is Wesley Maxwell. I live at 51 Riley St., and there is a woman in my bathtub.

And? The operator sounds perplexed as to why a woman taking a bath is an emergency. I have to admit I can understand the confusion. It's not normally something I would object to either. In these sorts of situations though, it really does depend on the woman taking a bath. And the means with which she enters the house she bathes in."

And, I answer. I'd like her not to be.

Do you know this woman, sir? the operator wants to know.

I glance back at the bathroom. Sort of? On the other side of the door, Melody is still loudly running the water, but I keep my voice low anyway. Better not to spook her. We went on a few dates, I tell the operator.

Is she your girlfriend, sir?

I always hate it when people call me sir. And it's worse when they sound sarcastic while doing it. No, she's the furthest thing from it, actually. I rub the back of my neck, feeling a weird guilt coming over me for talking about Melody this way. Okay, I relent. Maybe I shouldn't have ghosted her and all that, but that's no reason to break into my house. I frown. Wait, is it?

The operator goes silent, as if pondering along with me whether this is exactly what I deserve for ghosting a girl. Melody is cute, no doubt about it, that's why I'd asked for her number when I saw her at the coffee shop in the first place. But it took only a half a date for me to realize we had nothing whatsoever in common. I'd figured she felt the same way once those daily texts trailed off to nothing. Then again, it is a known fact that I am complete shit when it comes to relationships. There are things I just don't know. And there are also things that I don't know that I don't know. Maybe something like this is completely normal. Maybe it goes, first date we get to know each other, second date the girl takes a bath in my tub.

As I ponder this, my phone buzzes in my hand. I can't check the incoming text notification though, because the 911 operator finally speaks up. All right, sir, we are sending someone out. You should wait outside for the officers to arrive.

I balk at this. And leave her alone in my house?

Sir, does she have a weapon?

She's naked, I sigh, exasperated. So, I'm guessing no, not unless she's concealing it in a very uncomfortable place.

Sir, it would still be safer for you to wait for the officers outside.

I groan. You're kidding me. Of all the insanity going on right now, it's funny how this is the part I can't quite believe. I have spent weeks redoing my bathroom, and she's currently destroying it, I gripe. I don't want to leave it. What if she sets fire to my curtains next?

What if she sets fires to you next? the operator shoots back.

I pause. Okay. Well that's a fair point. I'll go wait outside.

Once outside, I mill around in my front yard. I imagine landscaping I'll never do. I wonder if I should mow the lawn yet, and then decide I can get away with a few more days. I look at all the darkened windows around me and wonder once again where all my neighbors are. I wonder why the arriving police cars don't have their sirens blaring — are they taking this as seriously as they should?

I also wonder if the Crown Creek fire department is going to pay for all the sod they just ripped up by parking an unnecessary platform truck on my front lawn.

And then I start getting antsy. How long do these things usually take, anyway? I call to the bored looking officer leaning against the hood of one of the six police cars (and three fire trucks, and four ambulances – apparently there isn't much going on in town today) that showed up to deal with one slightly built and slightly crazy woman in my bathtub.

The officer pulls out a nail file and begins sawing at one of her very sharp looking nails.

I consider myself a fairly easy-going man, but this whole situation is starting to irritate me. Just a little. She's in my house, I explain patiently, namely to feel like I'm contributing in some way to speeding things along. And I don't want to suggest I know how you should do your job, but it can't be that complicated, right? Just, you know… I pantomime throwing a sack over my shoulder. Alley oop, right? She shouldn't be there so get her out of there. It's not that hard. She can't weigh more than 120 pounds soaking wet. Which, I guess she is.

The silence stretches out long, stretching my irritation along with it. I've been trying to stay very polite, but my natural sarcasm is starting to rear its ugly head. Can you at least tell me why it's taking so long? I bet it’s because she's naked, right? I supply. You guys could just get a T-shirt for her from the hardware store. You don't need to send somebody all the way to Buffalo to find her a ballgown or whatever. Can you let them know? Maybe send out an APB saying ix-nay on the allgown-bay? Why exactly am I speaking Pig Latin to an officer of the law? I don’t know. I blame Melody for that as well.

The officer looks up from filing her nails and rolls her eyes. Guess she isn't one for amusing conversation.

I give up and pull my phone from my pocket, intending to do some mindless scrolling while the team of police inside my very wet house deals with the delicate and apparently quite time-consuming task of Melody-removal.

Then I remember the text that came in while I was on the phone. The notification pops up as soon as I turn my screen on.

When I see it, my jaw drops. I immediately check on the police officer to make sure she didn't see my reaction — either the expression on my face or the bulge in my pants.

She's still working on her manicure, though. Thank god. I'm free to stare at the picture on my screen.

No words accompany it. It's just a picture of a gorgeous, petite blonde kneeling up on a bed. She peers at me coyly, with a gleam in her warm brown eyes. One finger is pressed to her mouth, as if inviting me to put something else inside it. She's wearing a red lace bra that lifts up her already spectacular tits, and one strap is dangling off her creamy shoulder, inviting my kisses. And bites.

I tap the screen to enlarge the image and swallow hard, Yes her bra and panties match.

Fuck.

In all the Melody-confusion, I completely forgot what day it was. The first Saturday of the month. Shit, I groan. Jane.

From behind me comes a snort. Yeah. Jane.

I turn around. The blonde from the picture steps in next to me. Her eyes dart around, taking in the mayhem on my front lawn.

Hey, I greet her. Sorry. I didn't get your text until, well, now.

She laughs. Yeah, I wondered where you were. I guess you were busy?

A little. Yeah. I glance down at her. A picture this time?

I was feeling saucy. She grins.

Lucky me. It's a good one.

I think so too. That's why I sent it. You can save it if you want. Happy Birthday or whatever.

I am about to tell her she is either very early or very late when a commotion breaks out inside of my house. Melody streaks — literally — out of the front door, followed closely by several overly-armed police officers.

The bored officer abandons her manicure and makes a flying tackle that sends Melody thudding to the ground. She slaps cuffs on my naked ex-girlfriend's wrists just as another officer runs up and covers her with a robe.

That's my robe, I sigh, knowing I will never see it again. Damn, and I really liked it too. Made me feel like Hugh Hefner.

I'll buy you a new one, Jane says distractedly. If you tell me what the fuck is going on.

We watch as Melody serenely allows herself to be lowered into the back of a patrol car. I honestly have no idea what is happening, I admit.

Maybe start with who that is, Jane prompts.

That's Melody.

Girlfriend?

Barely. But if she was, she's definitely an ex now. I briefly summarize the last hour. A routine case of breaking and bathing. I guess. So, I look down at Jane, remembering our rule. That means I'm definitely single now. How about you? Did you break up with your pretty-boy?

She rolls her eyes. Would you stop calling him that? And yes, Obviously. I'm here, aren't I?

True. You are. So, you want to come in?

Jane looks at the departing police cars making ruts in my lawn. Are you sure? This, uh, doesn't seem like the best time. I can come back next month.

Nah. don't worry about it. Next month she might have a boyfriend again. Jane was the kind of girl that didn't stay single very long. This might be my last chance for a while, and I'm not going to let a minor thing like felony breaking and entering ruin it. It's fine with me if it's fine with you, I tell her. Come on in. I think for a moment. Just... keep your shoes on. It might be a bit wet.

She rolls her eyes again. Is that an invitation for me to say something else is a bit wet too? Because I'm not going to, Wes. I'm better than that and so are you.

No, I mean, it really is wet in here. I open the front door to reveal the Melody-damage. But now that you mention it... you and my floor are going to have that in common really soon.

Chapter Two

Jane

I take off my shoes — because I was raised right, dammit — and immediately step in a puddle.

Damn, I exhale as I look around the wreckage of Wes’s downstairs.

Chaos is its normal state. That’s not the reason for the sinking feeling in my chest. Wes’s house has always been a curious mixture of cluttered minimalism. He owns very few possessions — a kitchen table with only two chairs, a futon couch I refuse to sit on, etc. — but thing are always piled up in a jumbled disarray. Last time I was here — before the Steve-mistake — he had a pile of boxes shoved against the far wall. Now that same pile of boxes is half blocking my entrance.

And sitting in an inch of water. She did all of this? I ask. I can’t wrap my mind around it.

Yup! he answers from the kitchen. The house is on a slope, old foundation. He steps around the corner so I can see him and he tips his hands at an angle, as if I need the visual aid to understand fluid dynamics. I find it cute that he does this, but probably only because I need to get laid so bad. So the flood from here, he continues, pointing above him to where the bathroom is located upstairs, came through the ceiling and down here all the way to —.

Here, I finish, gesturing to the landscape of puddles and rivulets that run over his hardwood floor. It looks like an alluvial plain, I observe, nodding my thanks as he hands me a glass of wine unasked. Remember learning about those in grammar school? I always loved the way that sounded — alloooooovial. When I was ten I thought that would be a beautiful name for a daughter if I ever had one.

He peers over the rim of his dirty wine glass and gives me a look.

What? I challenge him.

You’re weird.

You like it.

I do. He grins and the corners of his eyes crinkle. He has such happy eyes. I really like your weirdness. I’m glad you broke up with that pretty-boy.

Would you stop calling him that? His name was Steve. I mean, I guess it probably still is. I catch his silent laugh and can’t help smiling too. I forget sometimes how easy it is to talk to Wes. I can just talk. Whatever comes to my mind is fine, I don’t have to censor myself. He takes it all in stride. I’m glad I broke up with him too.

Mind me asking what broke you up?

Aren’t you nosy.

Not nosy. He gives me another look over his wine glass. Just interested.

I shrug. Well, I’m sorry that the reason isn’t all that interesting. We wanted different things.

He looks serious for a second. You know, I always hear people say that, ‘We wanted different things.’ But I never know what they mean by it.

Well? I try to toss my hair over my shoulder and then remember I chopped off seven inches last week and have nothing left to toss. I can’t speak for everyone else, but in my case it means I wanted to have orgasms.

He smirks. And what did he want?

To blame me for not having orgasms.

Isn’t it his job to give them to you? Wes sounds genuinely confused, bless him.

To hear him tell it, he was doing everything he could, see. I roll my eyes. I’m being flippant, but there is part of me that is still stung by the bitterness of our last fight. And if it wasn’t happening for me, it was clearly my fault. I picture myself sitting at the end of my bed, my hands crossed over my chest, trying to be patiently reasonable as Steve tells me how none of his other girlfriends had an issue and the problem was how I was ‘too aggressive’ and ‘threw him off his game.’ I'm angry with my past self for even entertaining that nonsense, much less agreeing with him and telling him it was fine that I wasn’t enjoying myself. I’m over it, I say, a little too loudly.

There is a long pause. I look back up to see that Wes is frowning. Are you sure you’re okay? he asks.

I crane my neck to hold his gaze. I have to look up, way way up — damn he’s tall — and feel a rush of affection for him. He’s checking on me right now, in his own, roundabout, Wesley Maxwell sort of way. Thanks, I say, exhaling and rolling my shoulders. Just got pissed for a second, but I’m actually totally fine. Irritated with your entire gender. But fine.

We are the worst, he agrees.

The absolute worst. But whatever. I broke up with him because I realized I’m twenty-seven years old and life is too short to spend my youthful Saturday nights reassuring a guy that it’s fine he can’t get it up.

Wesley’s eyebrows zoom upward. "With you? He couldn’t get it up with you?"

Thank you for the compliment. Unable to toss my hair, I settle for tucking it behind my ears.

You’re welcome. I meant it.

And what about you? I need to know. What was her name, Melody?

Wes shakes his head. We're… obviously not a thing. What with the breaking and entering.

And flooding.

Exactly.

And you have no one else lined up? What am I doing? I don’t want to remind Wes that he could have any girl he wants. Not when I’m ready to take my clothes off in his damp kitchen. But curiosity gets the better of me as usual. You’re so sexy. Why are you always single?

I can’t read, he deadpans.

I blink. Wait. Really?

No, he scoffs. Did you actually believe me?

Of course not, I shoot back. But guiltily, because a small part of me actually did. Why not? It isn’t like I know all that much about him, after all.

Seven years. We’ve been doing this for seven years, ever since I left the community college to start my job at the hotel. I come home to Crown Creek for my monthly brunch date with my mother and grandmother. And then, if he and I are both single, I fuck Wes Maxwell.

And in those seven years, I’ve learned he’s a wizard at cunnilingus, has a freckle on the underside of his dick, and always looks to the right when he cums.

And… that’s pretty much it.

"So you can read? I blurt, ignoring his smirk. What books do you like?"

Books are kind of my thing. I’m suddenly very eager to talk to him about his favorites, and debate our tastes in literature. I bet he likes action novels. Grisham. Crichton. Guy books. I am all ready to make fun of him, but mostly I’m desperate to know if we have anything else in common besides a tendency to bite during sex.

I don’t read, he sighs.

What? Really? How can a person not read? Not even the back of a cereal box?

He looks at me, his gaze completely level. Nah. I’m dyslexic, Jane.

What the? My cheeks flame hot. You are? I didn’t know that.

I know you didn’t. Don’t be embarrassed.

I’m not.

You’re red.

From the wine.

Uh huh.

You’re really dyslexic? I can’t believe this. And I also can’t believe I didn’t know this. Why am I mad at him that I didn’t know this?

Yup. He strikes a ridiculous pose. But you’re right. I’m so sexy, I know. I put the sexy in dyslexia.

I stare at him.

Sexy, he repeats. In dyslexia.

I don’t want to say it. But I can’t help myself. Wes. There is no sexy in dyslexia.

He frowns. Then frowns harder. Jumping jellybeans really?

I scoff at this. Wes used to curse with abandon, but now he swears like a new parent. This was another thing that just sort of… started happening in the past seven years. Like the sex-appointments.

He’s still upset. Now you tell me? No sexy in dyslexia. I’ve been using that line forever! He shakes his head. No wonder it never works.

I hide my laugh behind my hand. It’s a good line! I reassure him. It would definitely have worked on me if I wasn’t eighth grade spelling bee champ.

Ohh, that’s sexy, I’ll have to get you to spell things for me in bed. He waggles his eyebrows. But I’ve got a different line for you, champ. Wanna hear it?

He lets his eyes move over my body and I shiver in anticipation before gulping the rest of my wine. Definitely.

Wes leans in, trailing his lips up my neck before whispering in my ear. Want to go upstairs?

Chapter Three

Jane

At first I try to hide my eagerness as I follow him up his creaky staircase. This lasts about four steps before I give up trying to play it cool. What does it matter that he knows that I’m excited to get to his bedroom?

He knows why I am here. I am here for sex. Good sex. Sex that, after four months of coaching Steve through unsatisfying attempts at the act, I frankly deserve.

I’m thinking about Wes’s bed and not about where I am in his house currently, which is why I round the corner into his upstairs hallway a little faster than I should.

Oof! I cry as I walk directly into a pinball machine.

Wes, who has already scooted around it, looks back at me and laughs. You okay? Uh, careful. Yeah, thanks for that necessary warning after the fact. Did you forget it was there or something?

Yes!! I slap the inanimate object so it understands my displeasure. It’s still here? You haven’t moved it yet?

No. He gives me a look of complete bewilderment.

Why do you still have a pinball machine in your hallway? Here? I gesture to show how it takes up nearly the entire width of it, leaving only a scant few inches of clearance I have to turn sideways to navigate.

Because, he explains patiently. This is where it goes.

I don’t know why I expected him to say something different. I give the machine another dirty look. You must be the only person in the world who uses a pinball machine as his bedroom door.

Yes, I know I am awesome. I’m definitely going to fuck you, don’t worry. You don’t have to keep flattering me to seal the deal. So, uh. Do you want to use the bathroom first?

I sigh. You make it feel so clinical.

Do you not have to pee, Jane?

I groan. We don’t know much about each other, but this part he knows well. Of course I do. I walk past him to the end of the hallway.

Hang on. Wes steps around me and flips on the light switch. Be careful walking in there, he cautions. Don’t slip and bust your ass. He pats my butt affectionately. Let me do the busting.

He’s probably waggling his eyebrows at me. But I’m too busy staring at the wreckage of his bathroom to notice.

I mean, I saw the downstairs already but… You said she broke in and took a bath? Where did she take it, the middle of the floor?

Wes’s bathroom looks like the inside of a car wash. Water still drips down the walls and even from the ceiling. It pools in the corners of the room and runs in right-angled canals between the tiles. The new tiles, I note with a strange spike of sadness. This wasn’t the ugly linoleum I remembered from this past winter. The last time I was here, he’d told me about the tile he wanted to put in, as well as the deep, soaking tub he was looking forward to.

And there was his dream-tub, up on the newly built platform, with soapy water still cooling inside.

I don’t know, Wes sighs as he looks with me. It’s a mess, though.

Are you going to press charges?

He shakes his head. Nah. Melody’s got issues. I’m not going to be a dick.

But…? Anger stirs inside of me. Anger on his behalf. But your bathroom, Wes. You’ve been working on it forever and she destroyed it.

Nothing I can’t fix.

I stare at him. Wes is as infuriating as he is hot. I thought I had already catalogued all the ways he confused and enraged me, but this, his reaction to the complete destruction of all his hard work was the most confusing Wes-thing of all. You’re maddening, I say. Don’t you ever get upset about anything?

Yes. He tugs at my shirt. I’m upset you are still wearing clothes. Hurry up and pee. You can’t cum when your bladder is full.

You know my pee needs way too well. I sigh and slosh my way to the toilet, trusting Wes will shut the door behind me.

And he does, because he’s a gentleman. A filthy-tongued, dirty-minded, completely infuriating gentleman.

I finish up and wash my hands — raised right, I tell you — and open the door to find him posing against the pinball machine. Shirtless.

I grip the doorframe to keep my knees from buckling. We’ve been hooking up — fuck buddies, the term for us is fuck buddies as much as I completely hate it — for years now, but the sight of Wes Maxwell with his shirt off never fails to rob me