Pretty Reckless by L.J. Shen

The night before senior year

I spotted you on those bleachers

You looked adorable

Your heart cracking for a guy

Who would love to smash a foot in it and crush it into pieces

Almost Eighteen.

The snake pit is crowded tonight.

It always is when Vaughn fights, and Vaughn always fights. He breaks noses almost as well as he breaks hearts. Breaking hearts, in case you’re wondering, is his second-favorite art. At least six girls have moved to different private schools just to run away from the misery of seeing him gliding through the hallways since he got into All Saints High. He has three more years here, and parents across town are locking their daughters up and shaking with fear.

Every popular guy at All Saints High and our rival school, Las Juntas, in San Diego fights at the snake pit as a rite of passage. This is not my usual scene, but Blythe, Alisha, and Esme dragged me here on the night before school starts. They’re avid Vaughn observers. The jerk spent summer vacation in a studio in Italy sculpting and returned two days ago, so now they need their fix of his beautiful, listless face.

The truth is, Vaughn is too cruel to fall in love, in lust, or even in like. This, however, is a lesson they’ll learn the hard way. I’ll have plenty of fun watching even though I’ll do the whole OMG-sweetie-he-is-so-not-worth-it act.

Side note? He totally is.

“How can someone so violent create such delicate art? He is fuckable to a fault.” Blythe munches on her Little Mermaid red hair as she stares down at Vaughn, who is pacing back and forth on the field, his tattered black clothes clinging to his lean muscles.

Legend claims the snake pit, a deserted football field on the outskirts of San Diego, got its name after a snake plague caused it to be abandoned. The faded, chipped blue bleachers are where the guys are slumped drinking beer. We, the girls, sit with our legs crossed, sipping expensive wine from the bottle and vaping. The Las Juntas crowd sits on the bleachers opposite of us. They don’t wear Swiss brands and drive German cars. They pass half-empty bottles of tequila and rolled-up cigarettes.

“Gross, Blythe, he’s a sophomore.” Alisha, part African-American, part Dutch, and all gorgeous, makes gagging noises beside me.

“Shut up, you would take a full-time job as his reusable condom if he’d have you. You didn’t come here to watch sweaty nobodies get whipped.”

“Who is he fighting, anyway?” I pop my fruity bubblegum, rearranging my dark green velvet minidress on my thighs. My ten shades of shiny blond hair is half-tied into a silky black bow, and I look Pinterest-ready. My winged eyeliner is on point, and my pout is red and matte, creating the perfect film noir effect.

I’m Daria Followhill.

Cheer Captain.

Rich Bitch.

Little Miss Popular.

See something you like? Too bad. I don’t do boys. Men, on the other hand…

“No idea, but I don’t envy him. The fights today have been brutal so far, and Vaughn is the best fighter in the pit, so they usually save him for last.” Alisha examines her manicured fingernails.

“Here comes the meat,” someone hollers three rows down, and we all stand and crane our necks to check out the unfortunate soul going against the Vaughn Spencer. I rise on my tiptoes as the crowd on both sides erupts in barks, pumping their fists. The scent of sweat, alcohol, and dried blood from the previous fights lingers in the air like a cloud. The twang of human desperation hits my tongue.

I see a tall, well-built figure zigzagging toward Vaughn on the dead field. He is clutching a bottle of what looks like something alcoholic, and his ear-length dark blond hair—or is it light brown? —falls across his forehead. I can’t see his face, but I don’t need to. There’s a hole in his red shirt, right where his heart is, and my hand goes straight to the small piece of sea glass hanging at my throat.

Don’t faint, bitch. You’re wearing a super-short dress.

For the past four years, I’ve become a pro at avoiding Penn Scully. A miracle, considering he is a star football player and I am a cheer captain at schools of the same size and in the same county. So far, we’ve played against each other twice each year. Our teams always make the play-offs, and All Saints is always on the losing end.

I couldn’t face him after everything blew up with Via. Every time we had a game against Las Juntas, I either faked period cramps or slipped into my car before the game was over.

“Someone pinch me.” Blythe claps her hands excitedly. She is wearing a nude-colored cropped shirt to match her pointy nude-pink nails. “Penn Scully, Las Juntas’ wide receiver, is the hottest thing in SoCal. I’ve been wanting to sit on his face for a while now, too. Tonight’s my lucky night.”

“From what I hear, you’re in the business of parking your ass on anything it fits on. Just a heads-up, Vaughn doesn’t like his food fast.” Knight chuckles behind me. I twist my head to face him, arching a brow. I’m just trying to pretend seeing Penn doesn’t make my heart twist in my chest, unchaining itself from its arteries.

A chick I don’t know is sitting in Knight’s lap, trying to hoover his ear into her mouth with her arms slung over his broad shoulders. His legs are spread lazily, and he is wearing a vintage Gucci jacket and white Air Jordans. His jeans are tailor-made for him, and his haircut costs more than my upmarket tote bag.

Knight is gorgeous, and not only does he know it, but he would also advertise it on a billboard if it were possible. Hooded green eyes, dimples as deep as his Casanova gaze, pouty red lips, and a jaw you could cut cheese with. His chestnut brown hair is softer than medieval-themed porn, and everything about him screams hedonism.

We all live on the same cul-de-sac in the same neighborhood, and our parents are best friends. Knight and Vaughn are the closest to each other, practically brothers, which is weird because they are also like fire and ice. Vaughn is a crazy artist with psychotic tendencies, and Knight is the definition of a popular jock.

One is Edward Scissorhands; the other is Zac Efron’s prettier long-lost brother.

“Is your girlfriend going to get pissy when she realizes you came home with crabs? They make pretty useless pets.” I bat my eyelashes sweetly at him. Luna is not his girlfriend although he would die trying. That’s why I never really liked Luna Rexroth. She is the original Via. The girl who created the Hulk inside me. The girl who Vaughn always smiled at and Knight followed blindly. Daddy once laughed that Luna is like a Sicilian nun. Once a year, the nuns appear behind lifted curtains so their families can see and adore them because they miss them so.

“That’s Luna. When she appears, everything stops.”

Yup. And I cease to exist.

“Suck a saggy cock, Dar.” He clamps his joint between his teeth, cupping his hand over it to light it, then blows a chain of gray smoke straight into my face.

“Is that an invitation? Because there’s a pill for your Q-tip of a dick.” I jerk my chin up.

“Baby, my cock is too hard for you to take. The only pills you’ll be needing are three Advil to handle the aftermath of having me inside you.”

“Inside me? In your dreams, Knight Cole.”

“Hard no. In my dreams, I have Luna’s legs wrapped around my waist, and the rest is NC-17. No offense, Tiffanie.” He pats the girl’s ass with the hand holding his Zippo.

“Stephanie.”

“Don’t make it awkward, babe. I forgot you were in my lap until Elsa here pointed it out.” Knight motions to me and laughs.

“Too bad you’re a sophomore, and Luna is a junior. She’ll never date you.” I’m just egging him on. I mean, Luna probably wouldn’t date him, but it’s not because of his age. She’s trapped in her own little universe. She is the sun, and he is the Earth. Always circling around her and getting an inch closer every lifetime even though the burn could ruin him.

He cocks his head to the side, his smile so wolfish, his teeth look pointier than usual.

“Oh brother, if you knew how many of your senior friends gave my cock mouth-to-mouth when they were juniors, you’d have a heart attack.”

A loud, shrieking, “Whoa!” interrupts our banter.

The crowd winces in unison, and we all snap our heads back to the field, watching Penn fall to the ground on his way to the center of the pit. My Marx. They haven’t even fought, and he’s already knocked down on his ass. He looks super drunk. Vaughn is going to kill him before he realizes where he is.

I turn my attention back to Knight.

“You need to tell Vaughn the fight is off.”

“Look who’s got her thong in a twist. Why? You placed a bet with Gus tonight?” Knight is rubbing the girl’s ass, but he’s not into it. He never is. I go crimson, my head so hot it might explode. My hands ball into fists beside my body. I don’t want Penn to end up in a hospital tonight even though he hates me and probably wouldn’t want my concern. Guilt swirls in my stomach as the memory of him tearing up his sister’s acceptance letter plays in my mind.

“Whatever. As if I’d ever talk to Gus voluntarily. But this loser is obviously drunk. Vaughn’s going to slaughter him.”

“He is a huge-ass football player on a team consisting of straight-up gangsters. He can hold his own,” Knight shoots back darkly.

As the starting quarterback of All Saints High, Knight’s had the dubious pleasure of playing against Scully. Rumor has it, Penn is the best in the county. Maybe even the state. Principal Prichard has tried to offer him a scholarship several times so he could join our team, but lucky for me, Penn is the loyal type.

“Knight.” My voice breaks, falling off the cliff of indifference. I’m begging. The girl in his lap shoots daggers at me with her gaze. “Vaughn could get into real shit if this goes south.”

His face morphs from bored to annoyed. He pushes the girl off his lap and hands her the remainder of his joint.

“I’m not going to break it apart because you’re being a vagina, but I’ll go downstairs to make sure these two dicks keep it clean.” He swipes his tongue over his lips, and his tongue ring pokes out.

I look back at the field, and both guys have taken off their shirts. Knight is right. Penn is a far cry from the emaciated boy who gave me the most precious thing in the world four years ago. Muscled, sinewy, and imperial, he has zero percent body fat and bulging arms. A prominent V points down to his holy grail, and by the way my fellow cheerleaders sigh beside me, they’ve noticed it, too. Vaughn is skinnier in comparison. Not that it matters. He has a feline patience you cannot help but admire, and when he’s in his element, I’ve seen him take down guys triple his size without breaking a sweat.

They circle each other, quiet and deadly and serious. Vaughn is expressionless, as per usual. Stoic and calm. Penn looks out of focus, wearing a loony smile on his lips. The glass bottle slips from between his fingers and rolls on the ground, and people burst out with laughter that echoes in my heart.

“Does he fight here often?” I ask no one in particular.

“Nope.” Gus, our football captain who sits two rows down, takes a pull of his beer. His friends beside him are passing a clipboard with names written on it between them. They’ve been placing bets on the fights all night, and this one takes the cake. Gus snatches the clipboard and pushes it into his duffel bag, balling his varsity jacket and stuffing it on top to conceal it. Guess he still thinks it’s a secret that he runs a betting ring. Rumor has it, he makes a small fortune running these bets, and Vaughn—the guy who hates money and everything it represents—gets a cut. Everyone knows what he does with it. Saving so he can open his own studio without touching a dime of his parents’ wealth.

“Penn’s not the get-drunk-and-fight type of dude, and I’ve partied with his school plenty. Something’s up.” He finishes his bottle and rubs his hands together.

Something’s up.

I need to stop this guilt-fest. I’m not responsible for his problems. A different girl—a brave girl—would have faced him by now. Not me. He knows what we did that day and how it led to his sister’s disappearance. I never asked for his forgiveness because—let’s be real—I don’t deserve it.

My breath catches deep inside my throat as the two measure each other on the dead field, their body language a perfect mirror. Vaughn is the first to throw a punch in Penn’s face. It’s a heavy blow, and Penn’s nose bursts with blood. People shriek and suck in a collective breath. Penn stumbles backward, laughing and shaking his head as if he dodged the hit. He licks the blood on the corner of his upper lip, then pounces on Vaughn in a way I’ve never seen before.

Bengal tiger.

I almost forgot how quick and graceful he was. Is. Just like his sister.

Penn jams Vaughn to the ground, locking his knees on either side of Vaughn’s torso, then rains sloppy fists down on his face. Some hit. Some miss. I want to throw up. The crowd is screaming. This hasn’t happened before. Vaughn has taken some serious beatings over the past couple of years, but he’s never been thrown to the ground. Vaughn knows better than to squirm and waste his energy. He learned jiujitsu before he was kicked out of three different classes for being disobedient.

“Spencer! Spencer! Spencer! Spencer!” All Saints High students chant from our side of the bleachers, throwing empty cans of beer to the sidelines. Students from Las Juntas, the other school, remain silent but no less intimidating. They are less prone to public gestures, but I know better than to think they’re any less loyal to their football star.

Vaughn has a busted lip and a black eye before he manages to roll on top of Penn and mount him, kneeing his ribs. Penn pushes Vaughn clumsily, and before I know it, they’re stumbling back upright again. Vaughn is toying with an obviously plastered Penn, but his fists are precise and accurate. I see Knight striding along the sidelines of the football field, running his fingers through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“Let’s wrap it up, V. Asshole’s more sauced than a cliché abusive dad in a teen film, and you’re bleeding like a chick on her period.”

“Which is why I’m not going to kill him and just teach him a valuable lesson. He’ll thank me.” Vaughn winks, spitting a lump of blood as he circles Penn again. He’s in a mood when he fights.

Vaughn sends a roundhouse kick to Penn’s chin. Blood sprays across the dirt, shooting from his mouth like a rainbow. He falls, a beaten and bloody mess, and doesn’t move.

One second.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

A scream erupts from my mouth before I can swallow it down and rings in my ears. Blythe, Alisha, and Esme tug me down the bleachers. Knight enters my periphery, wrapping his arms around me quickly.

Knight is hurling people left and right with his shoulders as kids pour out to the field in what looks like a massive fight between the two schools. Knight ushers me to the parking lot and shoves me into his powder blue Aston Martin Vanquish Volante. His back seat doesn’t have much space, and I’m forced to sit straight and slap a hand over my mouth so I don’t puke. He twists a bottle of water open and hands it to me. I take it, but my hands shake too hard for me to take a sip without spilling it all over.

“Puke in my back seat, and it’s game over for you, Followhill.”

He circles the convertible, then hops over the driver’s door into the seat without opening it. Like a summoned demon, Vaughn appears from the chain link entrance of the field, wiping his face with the hem of his black shirt. His jeans are torn, and his makeshift belt consists of his army boots’ laces. Knight throws a finger in Vaughn’s direction as his engine roars to life.

“You’re high if you think you’re getting into my car looking like Carrie after the bucket scene.”

Vaughn fires a paper-dry look.

“Calm your tits, Cole. I’m bumming a ride with the Las Juntas crowd.”

Knight’s eyebrows jump to his hairline, and his eyes widen in disbelief. “You are fucking high. Get in the car, moron.”

“They jumped us on the field,” Vaughn clips as if it’s a good explanation for his decision. The scent of weed and blood makes my head dizzy.

“And they’ll hand you your asses without the football team fighting on your side. Don’t do shit before I come back. I just need to cart Princess Vagina back to her castle.”

Vaughn raises his leg and readjusts a piece of masking tape he plastered against the bottom of his army boot that is completely torn.

“The fight tonight shouldn’t have happened.” He spits a clump of blood onto the concrete road.

“Please tell me Scully didn’t break anything other than Daria’s black heart. She looks like she’s caught some feelings.”

I punch Knight’s leather seat from behind. I still can’t breathe, but I’m grasping at every piece of information about Penn hungrily.

“His mom died this morning.”

There’s a beat of silence, in which I scream so loudly in my head, my ears ring. I look over at Knight, a guy who sees this scenario as something very real, and I’m not surprised to watch him freeze on the spot.

“That’s why they started the brawl.” Vaughn exhales. “When Daria was busy having a nuclear meltdown—great form, by the way”—Vaughn pins me with a look—“some guy ran onto the field and dragged Scully out of the dirt, screaming she overdosed this morning. Consequently, on his eighteenth birthday.”

“Get the fuck out.” Knight’s jaw goes slack, and he punches the steering wheel so hard, the piercing shriek of the horn lingers in the sky for a few seconds.

Vaughn dips his head.

“His second birthday present was his stepdad kicking him out of the house. Las Juntas’ players aren’t gonna touch me. I’m just gonna stitch him up and make sure he’s okay.”

“I’ll tag along,” Knight says even though he knows it’s dangerous. His first football game is in one week, and it’s against the Las Juntas Bulldogs. They’ll break his legs without even thinking about it twice. Of course, I can’t tell him this.

Last year, the outgoing seniors of All Saints showed up at Las Juntas High School in the middle of the night, took down their flag, replaced it with a pirate’s flag, and smeared the pole with Vaseline for an end-of-school prank. Going there without his crew, even with Vaughn, is not only asking for trouble, it’s begging for it. But that’s the thing about Knight. Taking risks is a hobby of his.

“Just dropping Dar at home.”

“Fine, whatever, I’ll come with you guys,” I huff. I know I can’t face Penn, especially considering the circumstances. I’m probably the last person he wants to see because I will only remind him of what he’s lost. And if my snotty friends hear I hung out with the Las Juntas crowd after spontaneously screaming like the world was ending tonight, they would have a field day.

Still, I want to see that he is all right. Personally, I guess.

“Shut up,” both Vaughn and Knight say in unison.

Vaughn takes a step forward, appearing under the streetlamp. The tawny light illuminates the damage Penn inflicted on his face. Both his eyes are black, his lip and eyebrow have cuts, and there’s swelling on his forehead that will only grow worse by tomorrow morning. He’s never been beaten up so badly before.

“Don’t bother, Mother Teresa. Dudebro’s not gonna hang out for long,” Vaughn says.

“Yeah?” Knight asks.

“Blythe Ortiz just coaxed him to go home with her afterward. Not sure how he can fuck in his state, but I guess that’s for them to discover tonight.”

Both guys chuckle darkly. Blythe. Why am I not surprised? She is so boy crazy. Girl, Interrupted. By dick. It doesn’t usually faze me that Blythe is boy crazy since it actually makes me look better, but her touching Penn is just gross on so many levels because (A) he is clearly badly injured, and (B) he was my first kiss. Which in my weird mind means that no one from All Saints can touch him now. “He’s eighteen. He can fuck in any state—all fifty—even when he is physically in a coma,” Knight deadpans. There’s silence for a beat, and then he adds, “Gus is probably losing his shit. He put a lot of money on this fight, and technically, there’s no winner.” Knight strokes his chin.

“Gus needs a life and a neck. Not in that order. Guy’s a douche, and I’ve met socks more sophisticated than his ass,” Vaughn replies dryly. “He’ll survive.”

“You get in bed with him business-wise.”

“I get in bed with anyone I can fuck over and have my way with business-wise,” Vaughn says calmly.

I look down at my hands in my lap. Why do I feel so guilty? Vaughn bends over and pats my back like a big brother even though he is two years younger than me.

“Don’t sulk. Scully is a tough motherfucker.”

They don’t know.

Not about Via, and not about Penn.

Not about my sea glass necklace, and not about the green Hulk living inside me.

I flip my hair and smile, but I’m not there. Not really. Even when Knight drives me home under the beautiful starless sky, the color of the night so pure, my eyes sting. The moon looks as lonely and seductive as ever, and Penn is somewhere underneath it, digesting his new reality.

Knight kills the engine and gestures his chin to the entrance of my house. A Tuscan-style mansion with eight bedrooms, it has a two-story foyer, a wine cellar, a ballet studio, and a pool that looks like it bleeds into the cliff of the mountain in our in a gated community called El Dorado. My dad is in investments, and my mom…well, she invested in bagging the right man, I guess.

Her former high school student. But that’s a story for later.

Knight helps me to my door. He shoves his hand into my crocheted purse and fishes out my keys, kicks the door open, and punches in our security code.

“You look wasted, and I look inherently guilty. Please snap out of your bullshit meltdown before we hit the second floor,” he drones, throwing my arm over his shoulder and dragging me up the stairs of the darkened foyer. There’s a huge black and white picture of my mother arabesque-ing in ballerina attire, staring ahead, her elegance casting a regal vibe on the entire house.

It’s not that late, and chances are, my parents are still awake. If not, Melody will wake up when the clock hits midnight. She always sets her alarm to make sure I don’t break curfew.

I don’t remember Knight tucking me in bed, but he does. I’m still wearing my dress and makeup. Time doesn’t move. It just stands still in the room like heavy furniture.

Penn Scully is in trouble.

Big trouble. He just lost his mom and is about to be homeless. Just a few miles away, I’m tucked in my imported queen-size bed with designer Egyptian sheets wrapped around me and an entire aquarium wall filled with pink champagne staring back at me.

My actions are what got him into trouble.

If it weren’t for me, he’d still have his sister around. Maybe his mom wouldn’t have gotten addicted to crack or whatever. I squeeze my eyes shut and resist the urge to cry. He gave me the rarest thing in the world, and I gave him heartache. His mom died on his birthday. There’s some relief in this pain I’m feeling. It reminds me that despite my bitchy ways, I’m still capable of hurting for someone else.

The sound of bare feet padding across the hallway attacks my ears. I recognize Mel’s quiet pace and graceful movements. My door creaks open, and she tiptoes her way in. Normally, I pretend to be asleep to avoid conversation. I stopped calling her Mom and started calling her Mel shortly after Via disappeared, but I don’t even remember why. We’ve been growing apart since, and talking to each other, one on one, is kind of torture. But right now, I don’t know if I can pretend to be asleep.

Melody leans over and presses a kiss to my forehead, a gesture she has repeated every night since the day I was born. Lately, she’s been hovering over my face an extra second to smell my breath for alcohol. I’m sober tonight, though I wish I wasn’t.

“Good night, Lovebug. Did you have a good time at the movies?”

I momentarily forget the lie I told her before I left the house tonight.

I clear my throat, meaning to say yes, but the truth claws out like a scream.

“I saw Penn Scully.”

Her body stiffens, then she sinks down to sit on the edge of my bed. She is trying to school her expression, but her lower lip quivers, and I see it even in the dark.

“How…how is he?”

“His mom died today.”

I’m shocked at my own words. I haven’t spoken about him…ever. No one knows what happened with Via and him. I never came clean. When Melody pressed me about it, I vehemently denied knowing anything. And I guess, in a sense, I convinced myself it didn’t really happen. Until tonight.

She cups her mouth, looks down, and her shoulders begin to shudder. I scoot to a sitting position, pressing my back against my upholstered white satin headboard.

“It’s his birthday,” she says.

But of course, she remembers Via’s birthday.

“He fought tonight.”

She looks up at me. There’s so much agony in those pupils.

“At Peet’s?”

“The snake pit.” I roll my eyes. “Yeah.”

“Is he okay?” She doesn’t even scold me for going there.

“I don’t know. He’s not exactly my crowd,” I quip. I trust Vaughn not to walk away from Penn unless he’s sure he’s okay. Physically okay. Vaughn doesn’t do feelings. And Blythe? Even if he shows signs of wanting to talk about it, he’ll never make it. She’ll sit on his face before Scully can tell her how he feels.

“What happened to his mom?” Mel asks.

“They said overdose.” I fling my hair to one shoulder and start braiding it.

Her nostrils flare, but her mouth barely moves as she speaks. “That’s horrible.”

Isn’t Scully supposed to be loaded? Rich people usually don’t die from drugs. They go hug trees in fancy rehab centers in Palm Springs and come back thirty pounds heavier and thirty K poorer. Via was supposed to be swimming in it. I always thought Penn wore shitty clothes in the same way Vaughn does. To show the world he doesn’t give a crap about money.

“Anyway, I just thought you should know since you were so close to Via.”

Even after all these years, it still feels like death to say her name.

Melody stands and looks around my room, wanting to find something specific. Maybe she is looking for Penn. Picking up strays is not my forte. Luna, my neighbor, is the one who usually saves the injured birds, frogs, cats, stray dogs, and there was even a deer once. If someone were willing to smuggle Penn through a bedroom window, it’d be her. Knowing my luck, he’d end up falling in love with her, too.

“Are you, like, going to talk to him or whatever?” I ask. My heart is beating super-fast in my chest. Penn knows what I did. He could tell her, and she would hate me. She might never admit it, but she would. Hell, maybe she already does. When was the last time we talked? Really talked, like this?

Mom halts at my threshold, clutching the doorframe, her head bowed down. “I’ll do what I should have done when Via was around.”

I wake up late the next morning with the feeling of an impending calamity scratching at my skin with its pointy claws. Jumping out of bed, I race downstairs to get a glass of water. When I pass my parents’ bedroom door on the way back upstairs, I hear them whisper-shouting.

My parents are insanely in love, sometimes to the point of gross. Nothing’s more embarrassing than having your folks hit second base on the bleachers while they cheer you on during a pep rally. More so when your father used to be a student at All Saints High, and your mom taught his senior English lit class.

I know whatever they’re talking about is serious, so of course, I press my ear to their door without even considering giving them their privacy because—hello, I’m me.

“Just tell me why?” Mel growls.

“Because I was a teenage boy once, so I know firsthand how much I don’t want one under my goddamn roof, especially with two teenage girls around.”

“He’ll behave.”

“Like the way he behaved last night, busting Vaughn’s face at the snake pit? Nah, I think I’m good. Vic gave me the rundown.”

Vicious is Vaughn’s dad and the deadliest mofo in the neighborhood. I crushed on him when I was five. Baron “Vicious” Spencer is still a hottie, so #SorryNotSorry.

I have no idea what they’re talking about. Penn? Living here? Why?

“Jackie Chan Jr. was hardly the victim here. Besides, you fought at his age, too,” Mom points out.

“Exactly, Mel. I wouldn’t want teenage me anywhere near my daughters. Not in the same house, and frankly, not even on the same continent. This kid ought to have a family somewhere. Where’s his sister? We’ll buy him a plane ticket. Business class. I’ll throw in private school tuition if you just get that idea out of your pretty head.”

“We’ve been anonymously covering his football costs for years, Jaime. I’ve even gone as far as talking to his stepdad once and trying to open a line of communication. He doesn’t need money. He needs love and people who care about him. If such people existed, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. I got off the phone with his stepdad a few minutes ago.”

“Christ,” Daddy mumbles.

“Guess what? The man is not even coherent, and Penn’s things are already packed.”

What in the name of the Holy Spirit and Kylie Jenner’s Botox fairy is happening? I thought Penn was rich? Why would he need my parents to pay for his football? And why does it sound like Melody wants him to move in with us? I clutch my glass of water harder.

“If he touches Daria…” He doesn’t need to complete the sentence. There’s a baseball bat in the basement that he named The Kissing Boot. He said he’d use it to beat the asses of guys who tried to kiss Bailey and me.

“There’s too much at stake. Besides, just because they’re the same age doesn’t mean they are going to sleep with each other. I’ve never met two people more different.”

Silence. I know Mel won, but I’m not sure what it means. I think I just got myself into deep shit without even realizing what I was doing. Penn Scully can’t move here because we’ll kill each other before he walks through the door.

Who am I kidding? He’ll be the one doing the killing.

“Nothing will happen,” Mel repeats. “But we need to contact a family lawyer first thing tomorrow morning. I just got his file from Jim Levin, his counselor. He’s no longer a minor, but there’s still paperwork.”

Bitch is not wasting any time pulling strings and making things happen. I bet she bought us all matching Christmas sweaters and is already planning to take the annual photo with her adopted hot child hugging his new sisters and a Labrador puppy on the family couch.

“I’ll text Vic right now. Fucker probably has half a dozen on retainer with the number of enemies he’s made in his extended family alone.” Daddy sighs.

The glass slips from my hand, almost in slow motion, and I watch it crash right atop of my foot. I fight the scream wrestling out of my mouth as it crushes my bones, my foot softening the loud thud, and watch the water splash onto the carpet and the glass rolling off my toes.

I bite my lip so hard, the metallic taste of blood fills every corner of my mouth. Tears block my vision, and they help with keeping the scream at bay.

“Did you hear something?” Dad asks behind their door.

“It’s probably nothing,” Mel retorts.

Yup, I think. That would be me.