Pretty Reckless: Chapter 23

Why didn’t you tell me we were in love?

Why did you wait for me to find out

When you broke my heart?

I show up on Cam’s doorstep the same night looking like death and probably not smelling much better.

Kannon is peeking behind him, as well as Cam’s sister, brother, mother…his entire neighborhood, basically, stares back at me like I’m fucking ET, complete with the bike and white knitted throw. Naturally, I’d have an audience on the worst day of my life. Karma has a sick sense of humor like that.

“I haven’t been living with Rhett for a while now.” I jump straight to the bottom line, pleasantries be damned.

“We know.” Cam opens the door wider, stepping sideways so I can enter. “Everyone knows, Penn. You think no one tried to drop by? Leave a message? Even your hookups were wondering where you were. No one said anything because we figured you had your reasons. Where were you?”

“The Followhills,” I say. “Via’s there now. She’s back.”

“And how do you feel about it?” Kannon asks.

“Shit.” I smile tiredly.

Everyone nods. Cam’s sister jerks me by the hole in my shirt.

“Little punk, you really got in over your head.”

The week is unadulterated torture. I don’t even bother showing up to the Followhills’ for food and sleep. I sleep on Camilo’s couch, ghosting a worried Mel and a furious Jaime. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, probably on my ass, when Jaime finally confronts me about touching his daughter. But so far, he seems more irritated than cross.

Jaime: You can’t avoid this forever.

Watch me.

Jaime: You realize I’ll see you at the game, right, Einstein?

Good point, but I’m eighteen. I don’t think further than what’s going to happen in the next ten minutes.

Jaime: Daria’s been asking about you.

Of course, I’m dumb enough to take the bait.

You BS-ing me, sir?

Jaime: Yes. But you need to come home if you want to see her before she gets on that plane.

What I don’t tell him is that I can no longer see planes in the sky without being filled with hatred toward those fuckers. Every jet is a personal offense against me. Whenever Via tries to call, I send her to voicemail. When she shows up at Camilo’s with her horrid Jeep, I slam the door in her face, regretting it didn’t hit her ass in the process.

Since we’re tapering toward the end of the season, Huggins is giving me shit for hitting it too hard and not backing off. I have so much pent-up rage in me I could give the biblical Samson a run for his money. Coach Higgins is trying to make sure that by the time we get on the field Friday night, we’re so hungry and ready, failure is not an option.

Gus has been sending sporadic text messages with question marks. I don’t know how much Via has told him, but I do not negotiate with terrorists. On Thursday, a mass message goes out from Colin, Gus’s goon, that there’s a spontaneous gathering at the snake pit for special pre-play-off fights.

I lock the football team in the locker room as soon as I get it.

“If I hear any of you miserable fucks have been fighting, I’ll raise hell, you hear me?”

Everyone nods. Everyone but an angry Camilo. “They’ve been talking trash about us all season.”

“So what? They’re just words,” Kannon replies.

“Words are everything,” Camilo responds. “They called me a fucking beaner.”

I shake my head. “Your future is everything. Don’t throw it away because Gus is trying to get under your skin.”

Later that day, I decide to show my face at the Followhill household, knowing I can no longer prolong what could be my last one on one with Daria before she moves away. I’m still at the don’t-go negotiation stage although I should probably try to focus on getting her to tell me where she is going. Not that I will have much success in that department, either, by the looks of it. In the movies, the bullshit ends once the guy reaches the realization that he loves the girl and makes some grand announcement.

In our story, it’s just one twist out of many.

I park in front of the house, use my key, and stroll inside. I’m downplaying the fact I haven’t been here in days. I find Bailey and Via sitting on the sofa with books in their hands. Daria is on the other side of the room, filling out a document—an application?—and Mel is next to her, staring at the pages Daria is filling out like they are actively trying to stab her. Everyone hears the door close behind me, but Jaime is the one who descends the stairs and volunteers to deal with the clusterfuck also known as my arrival.

He clucks his tongue, shaking his head. Doing the whole theatrics. Via stands up and disappears to the basement. Without seeing them communicating, I can tell Via is no longer Mel and Jaime’s precious project. It’s obvious they barely tolerate her after what she did to their daughter, and rightly so.

Daria excuses herself. She takes her application with her. I want to scream at her that she’s the only reason I came back in the first place.

“Sit at the island,” Jaime instructs me. I do.

Mel stands up and gets a pitcher of lemonade. I look down at my hands. I wonder if things could’ve gone differently. I wonder if they still can.

Jaime takes a seat in front of me and releases a breath.

“You think being a no-show is making things better around here?”

“I think thinking is not my best virtue when it comes to the people in this house. The more I try to make shit better, the more it blows up in my face,” I answer honestly.

“How’s the training going?”

“It’s going,” I clip.

“Are we going to address the fact you shoved your tongue into my daughter’s mouth?”

Among other places, sir.

I raise my eyes to his, showing him that I’m not weaseling out of this conversation. “Look, I know you warned me, and I know I ignored it, but for what it’s worth, it meant something. To me, anyway. Can’t speak for your daughter, who is currently packing her bags and moving away.”

Cheap shot, but I can’t be the bigger person right now. I can barely be human. He should cut me some slack; it was his spawn who made me this way.

Jaime’s gaze shoots to Mel, who flicks her hand across the back of my head on her way to the island. She looks terrible. Skinnier than her usual malnourished self.

“You’ve had your time to sulk about it. You’re coming home after the game.” She sets a glass of lemonade and a plate with grilled cheese in front of me.

Like I’d miss my last night with Daria for the world.

“Can I talk to her?” I apparently ask the grilled cheese because that’s what I’m looking at right now.

“You need to talk to your sister first.” Mel splits the sandwich in half and distributes it between Jaime and me.

“Not happening in this lifetime.”

“Mel, can you give us a moment?” Jaime asks, his eyes still hard on me. She stands up and waves her hand as she saunters upstairs.

“Boys will be boys.”

When she is out of earshot, Jaime snaps his fingers to get my attention.

“Ever heard about the game Defy?”

I elevate an eyebrow. I’m not in the right mental state to think about anything that’s not Daria or the game tomorrow. It’ll be a pretty shit move to lose to save Daria’s skin, but I will fuck over the entire world to protect her.

“The All Saints High tradition? Yeah. Why?” That shit died before I was even in middle school. They stopped playing it over a decade ago.

He stands up, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “I’m pulling the game out of retirement one last time.”

I sit back and laugh.

“You don’t have to defy me. You can just kick my ass. I’d probably do the same.”

“Not yours. I can’t resent your puppy love even though thinking about your busted knuckles on my daughter’s skin makes me want to punch you.”

“Who are you fighting, then?” I ask, but then it comes to me. Clear as day.

Of course.

“Gabe Prichard,” we say in unison.

“He quit last week. Packing up and getting ready to bolt before we get to him,” Jaime explains.

“When is this happening?” I ask.

“Today.”

“I’m coming with.”

Heavy is the fist that belongs to a father who just learned his precious daughter has been mentally abused since age fourteen by her school principal.

Heavier is the fist of a man who learned about it after his daughter has been through hell and back this year.

I’m a take-no-prisoners type of man.

When I aim—it’s for the kill.

Prichard’s got a house on the outskirts of Todos Santos. The only light from the distance is the one of his Alfa Romeo. Otherwise, it’s pitch black as we turn onto the dirt road, me leading the way in my Tesla and Vicious’ Mercedes following closely. Trent Rexroth, my high school friend, is next to me, and Penn Scully—bless his broken fucking heart—is in the back seat, looking ruthlessly determined with dead eyes like the rest of us. Vicious and Dean signal us with the lights to stop. I throw the vehicle into park and twist around.

“You wait here.”

“No fucking way. He hurt her,” Penn spits out, his fists already balled. Gabe losing his job is not enough for me. Not by a long shot. I want him to lose everything else, too, including his ability to sit down for the next couple of years.

“You can get into trouble,” I warn him, but my heart’s not in it. If someone hurt Mel, I’d probably kill them, too.

“Oh, and you can’t?”

Trent’s shoulders shake with a conceited laugh next to me.

“Why?” Penn challenges.

“Prichard’s got too much to lose. He can’t touch us.”

“Can anyone?” Penn wonders aloud, just as Trent’s door opens from the other side. Dean whistles for him to get outside, swinging my baseball bat and parking it over his shoulder.

“Maybe God,” I answer curtly.

“Even that’s debatable.” Dean snickers. “God, I missed the days of good ole shenanigans. Out, Rexroth. Lover boy.” He whistles to Penn. “Make sure you’re good and quiet unless you want your football dream to flush down the toilet.”

Prichard, who is oblivious to our parked vehicles a mere few feet from him because our lights are off, comes out of his house, flinging two suitcases into the trunk of his running car. I get out of the car and round it with Vicious, Dean, and Trent following close by.

Every muscle and bone in my body is lit and hot with adrenaline as I tap his shoulder from behind. His body turns rigid, hard like stone. He turns around, and his face whitens, his car lights illuminating the fear on his ugly-ass face.

“Good evening, Mr. Prichard.” I smile like the fucking royalty I am in this town. Too important to touch, too golden to lose control. Dean swings the baseball bat behind me as though he is warming up.

Prichard is shaking his head violently.

“Oh, no. No, no, no. I’ve already talked to your wife. We settled things. We…”

“You didn’t settle anything with me,” I clip. Mel told me what she did after she did it, and although I wanted to kill her, I could understand where she was coming from, too. “Us letting you off the hook is only because we don’t want Daria to suffer.” I erase the distance between us, smiling devilishly. My eyes are dead. My muscles loose. “Now it’s time to pay.”

Vicious slaps the trunk of the Alfa Romeo shut at the same time I push Gabe on the back of his car, bending him over in one, rough movement. Dean hands me the baseball bat, chuckling.

“And if we find out you went to another godforsaken town and tried to rekindle your career…” Dean pushes down Prichard’s pants and briefs in one go, exposing the milky-white ass of a middle-aged man. Bright as the goddamn moon.

“Help! Help! Help!” Prichard is bawling like a baby.

Even through his pussy cries, I can hear the leaves crunching under Penn’s shoes as he advances toward us. He can’t keep himself out of this. Good. I wouldn’t let an asshole who can sit by and let something like this happen to Daria touch her.

Penn is by my side now, shoulder to shoulder. I don’t say shit because Prichard can’t know he’s here. He’s not as protected as we are.

“Heeeelp,” Prichard drawls, his face still slammed against the cold surface of his trunk, his cheek smeared all over it.

“Shut up,” I bite out metallically, ripping his sports jacket from his body and balling it in my fist. I shove it into his mouth until he gags and chokes on it.

Vicious plasters his hand over Prichard’s back and looks at me, smiling serenely.

“Say a few Hail Marys, you sick son of a bitch. Maybe it’ll slow down your perverted ass on its way to hell.”

I strike Gabe with the baseball bat across the ass, using every ounce of power and muscle in my body. The hit is so hard, the sound rings in our ears and we take a few seconds to let it die down.

The second hit is even stronger as though I found my footing. I think about everything my daughter has been through these past six months.

About her mother, whom I love more than life itself, who insists on saving everything that’s broken, and in doing so, had a hand in breaking our daughter.

I think about how I can’t stand to look at the eighteen-year-old girl who lives with me because she tarnished my princess.

I think about her twin brother, who is too in love with my daughter to give her up, whether he knows it or not.

On my third strike, Gabe spits out his jacket, yelping to the sky like a lone wolf.

After eighteen strikes, one for every birthday my daughter has celebrated, I pass the bat to Vicious, but it’s Penn who puts his hand on my arm and takes it without asking for permission.

I shake my head, motioning for him not to say a word. It’s too dangerous.

He opens his mouth, talking to Gabe Prichard, but staring at me.

“Thank your lucky stars that I’m not alone because if we were, you’d be dead by now,” the boy says with no trace of emotion in his voice.

“Penn? Penn Scully?” Prichard chokes.

Penn swings the bat, hitting him so hard I actually wince. Prichard faints on his trunk.

By the time we drive back home, Prichard is bleeding and can’t make out shapes, let alone faces. Before we leave, we tuck a copy of Mel’s recording into his jacket’s pocket to make sure he knows not to mess with us. Especially with Penn.

Prichard will take this, like what he did to Daria, to his grave.

“Just gonna grab my shit from Camilo.” I fling my backpack over my shoulder and let Mel kiss my cheek. It’s almost midnight, and it looks like we’re going to eat in the middle of the night, but that’s because the Followhills all understood why Jaime and I had to leave to take care of business before Prichard skipped town.

Mel is chopping vegetables as lasagna bakes in the oven, giving me her stay-safe pleading eyes. Forever the multitasker. Bailey is beside her, squeezing lemons into iced tea. Via is outside, sitting on a lounger by the pool, hugging her knees together. The undercurrent in the house has changed. Via is no longer the prized, newly found miracle. She was dragged down to the status of a mortal.

“Do you need help?” Mel wipes away at her nose with her sleeve while cutting onions. “Packing, I mean.”

“Only if Daria is offering.”

I’ve officially lost my privilege to go up the stairs and ask her myself. Jaime throws me threatening looks when I even look at the stairs leading up to the second floor, and Daria doesn’t seem to be coming downstairs any time before her flight. I wonder if he realizes I’ll have to go up there when I go to bed tonight.

“Jaime can help you.”

“He can carry his half-empty duffel bag on his own.” Jaime is flipping channels, obviously not done holding a grudge.

“I’ll be back before dinner.” I grab my keys and snatch a garlic bread roll on my way to the car. Out of habit, or maybe because I’m not done quite torturing myself, I twist my head to see if Daria is watching me through the window. No dice. Her bedroom light is off through the curtain. Mentally, she checked out of here long before she got on the plane.

As I drive to Camilo’s, I try to call him to make sure he knows I’m stopping by.

He is not answering, and I’m growing irritated. I gave him a direct order to get his ass as far as possible from the snake pit. If I manage to keep my fists to myself when Gus shits systematically through everything I know and love, so can he.

I park in front of Camilo’s door, knowing I can’t knock on it at midnight. Then I hear a baby crying and a woman mumbling in annoyance and know I won’t be waking up anyone. I knock. His sister opens with her toddler on her hip. I push past her to retrieve my duffel bag by the couch.

“Where’s your dumbass brother?” I ask.

“Hell if I know. Maybe that place all the cool kids go to.”

“The snake pit?”

“That what it’s called?” She laughs, opening the microwave in the open plan kitchen to grab a bottle and shove it into the baby’s mouth. “Make sure you protect that pretty face of yours, Scully. Cheekbones like that, you can knock your rich girl up and live off her parents’ money.”

When I drive to the snake pit, my nerves hit an all-time high. Camilo is both hotheaded and easily swayed into doing stupid shit. I know that because for a while, doing stupid shit was our favorite pastime. I kill the engine outside the deserted football field and race my way toward the chain-linked gate. Screams and curses pop in the air like gunshots. There’s a cloud of anger and sweat rising from behind the bleachers, and as I hop the chain-linked fence and get in, I see why.

It’s a goddamn warzone.

There’s a mass fight, and everyone is in it—including Knight, Vaughn, Colin, Will, Josh, Malcolm, and Nelson. Both the Bulldogs and the Saints are in it to win it. Underneath all of them on the dry, brown earth is Camilo, lying on the ground.

I track toward him, shoving people off him as the crowd thickens. Players stomp and kick each other, paying him no attention. Camilo doesn’t move.

“Dafuq happened to you?” I lower myself on one knee. I’m afraid to touch him because I’m not sure of his injuries.

“Broken…I think it’s broken.” He barely finishes, looking down at his leg. I follow his line of sight and see it clearly, even through his jeans. His leg is bent unnaturally. Cartoon-like. His fibula is all distorted. It looks bad.

“We need to get you to the hospital,” I say.

“No shit, Sherlock.” He laughs, his voice dry and crisp. He’s been lying like this for a while, I gather. I call an ambulance while Gus sneaks away from the bleachers, hollering in his wake, “Clear out, clear out, Scully invited the pigs.”

Everyone’s sprinting past us now, leaving dust in their wake. Guys push and yell and plea. They boo at me as if I give a fuck. Knight grabs the end of my shirt and yanks me up. I shake him off.

“I’m staying with Cam.”

Vaughn stops next to him, eyeballing me hard. “You have a game tomorrow,” he reminds me.

“Would you have left Knight?”

Both Knight and I look at him. He claps his best friend’s shoulder.

“His funeral. Let’s go.”

I turn back to Cam. “What happened?”

But I think I already know. Gus didn’t think I’d throw the game, so he sent someone to make sure my quarterback wouldn’t be able to play. It was a calculated, cold move to get rid of Camilo and eliminate our chances of winning.

“Colin went straight for it. Tackled me down and jammed his foot to the side of my knee. Knight and Vaughn came two minutes too late and shoved him off me.”

By the casual way he tells me this, I understand that it still hasn’t sunk in.

No football.

No scholarship.

No future.

“You’re going to be fine,” I lie, elevating his upper body.

He laughs.

“I’m not an idiot, Scully. I know what’s up. You were right. Is that what you want to hear? Because you were.”

My team just lost one of its greatest players.

For nothing.