Pretty Reckless by L.J. Shen
It was love at first sight
Hate at second
Lust at third
But four is my lucky number
So mine your ass shall be
Time moves differently when you live a lie.
You swim against the stream, and every second feels like three hours and some change.
I park four blocks from school at buttfuck o’clock, an hour before practice starts. Mornings are for strength training, and afternoons are the real deal on the field.
Not only do I not live with Rhett anymore and dread the day he will get an unexpected visit or phone call from a school official, but I also have a brand-new Prius. The first time I have something semi-nice, and naturally, I don’t get to flaunt it.
To make sure my friends don’t ask Rhett about me when they see him at the gas station or supermarket, I tell them that he’s losing his mind.
“Early dementia,” I explain to anyone willing to listen. “The drugs really did a number on him.”
Nobody questions it. But to give my alibi an extra shine, I have Adriana—Addy, my girlfriend—tell everyone she spotted Rhett arguing heatedly with a jukebox at Lenny’s, the diner where she works.
This is the first time I’ll see my team since Friday’s game. I needed the buffer time to digest what happened, and when the players begin to trickle into our chipped-wall locker room, I’m already there, hands on hips, with one leg flung over a bench. Our rusty lockers have so much graffiti, the color lies somewhere between gray and purple. The place always smells of dust, piss, and poverty.
Josh, Malcolm, Camilo, Kannon, Nelson, and the rest arrive before Coach Higgins. The fact he ain’t here yet gives me pause. Coach is never late. Well, other than the time his wife went into labor. He was ten minutes late that day as he yelled at her on the phone. “Well, Meredith, it’s our first baby. You’re not gonna have her in the next hour. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
On the same note, I don’t know how his balls are still intact.
I close the door behind them and lean over the wall, crossing my arms.
“Care to explain the fuckery that was Friday night?”
They all stare at the ground. Shit doesn’t make any sense, and I’ve been trying to put it together all weekend. I know in my bones that my teammates are savages. All Saints is not a bad team, but they usually get ahead because enough money is thrown into their shit like a mid-ranked NFL team. We have the talent, the motivation, the hunger.
“Cold feet,” Kannon spits out, looking around him for moral support. He lands on the bench with a thud, tugging at the beanie that secures his hair and letting it fall to his shoulders.
“All the trash-talking and the pranks just got to us. It was the first game of the season and on their home field. The bleachers were all blue. It was just too much,” he explains.
“Other teams will always try messing with our heads.” I rub the back of my neck. “We can’t let that shit get to us.”
“Why?” Josh sneers. “Because you have a scholarship to a D1 college lined up and we all need to fall into place and make you look good? Shit happens. You missed the after-game hangout. Is that how you’re gonna be every time we don’t meet your majestic expectations?”
I stare at him, trying to keep my fists to myself. Josh is a linebacker. He is talented but with a fuse shorter than a hamster’s dick. Possibly even Camilo’s. Twice, he got into fights with players from the opposite team last year, and one of them ended with both players rolling under the bus that was supposed to take us home, kicking and screaming. I know he frequents the snake pit, and that he’s fought Vaughn a few times. I also know his dad doesn’t want him to go to college. He’s got an auto shop business to take over, so he ain’t going anywhere. He was born in this neighborhood, and he’ll die here, too. Senior year is his last chance before he kisses the football dream goodbye.
“It’s not about me.” I bare my teeth, feeling white-hot anger climbing up my throat. Although, I know part of it is. And so what if I want us to succeed? Every single motherfucker on this team will benefit if we win the league. There’re enough scholarships to go around, especially when you’re from my zip code. Just because Josh is too much of a pussy to stand up to his family and say no doesn’t mean we need to look like shit.
“Leave it.” Kannon stands, putting his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll do better next time.”
I shake him off, stepping toward Josh so we’re nose to nose.
“Are we gonna have a problem this season, J?”
He bumps his chest with mine, tilting his head sideways with a manic look glazing over his eyes. “Sure hope so, man. Can’t pass up a chance to fuck you up.”
If I head-butt him, I risk suspension. With my rich track record consisting of fighting people for food, cigarettes (done with that shit, BTW), and even football gear, I can’t afford any slipups. I gave Coach my word I’d be on my best behavior this season, and he, in return, will give me a heads-up before the scouts arrive at our games or whenever a college asks to see my tapes. I assume head-butting a teammate would fall squarely in the realm of acting up.
“Keep talking like that, and I’ll make sure you’ll have to drink from a straw for the next few months.” I shove my index finger into his face.
And that’s when his fist swings at my face.
I duck my head and dodge it, then punch his lights out, acting purely on instinct. He drops like a brick. Malcolm and Nelson drag him toward the bench to try to set him up and assess the damage. Camilo punches a locker and curses. Then he turns around and pushes me against the wall, getting in my face.
“You lecturing me about being a hothead? Really, Scully?”
The door flies open, and Coach Higgins blazes through it in perfect shit timing. Also on instinct, Kannon throws himself over a passed-out Josh, covering the asshole, who is probably still seeing stars, but more importantly—covering for me.
“Scully!” Higgins yells into the bowels of the locker room. His tan, round face is red, and his brown hair is everywhere. I hurry toward him, eager to push him out the door.
“’Sup, Coach?”
“Don’t use that slang with me like I’m one of your homeboys,” he spits out, and I bite down a smile. “Get your ass to my office.”
I follow his chubby short frame, wondering if Coach was a decent player before he started teaching. Then I wonder if he’s feeling bitter about having to train a bunch of people who were born with the right height and build and talent. I’m guessing we’re going to have a hard discussion about the game on Friday. He’s going to bitch about it for a few minutes, and then we’ll move on. In the four years I’ve known Coach, he’s seen me at my worst—underfed and underdressed, zombie-ing around on zero sleep when I needed to work part time to make sure I had food in my stomach. He’ll cut me some slack, as he always does, because he knows my life is in the toilet.
Tucked between the lab and the restrooms, his office is decorated in yellows and browns. He sits back behind his desk, and says, “We have a problem.”
I fall into the chair in front of him, releasing a yawn.
“Chill, Coach. It’s just one game. Besides, I—”
“Ain’t nobody talking about the game.” He slaps the table with his meaty palm, roaring, “I just got off the phone with Gabe Prichard, All Saints High’s principal. He told me about your little incident in his locker room Thursday.”
Dafuq? My mind reels with four thousand different questions. Why now? What happened? Has she dumped him? Did her parents find out? How does that fare for my sorry ass? I can’t get suspended. I. Can’t. Get. Suspended. Fuck all the Prichards and Joshes of the world.
“Spill it, boy.” Coach laces his fingers together, cradling an invisible baby he’s about to toss across the room. I’ve never seen him so red in my life. Then again, the principal of the most affluent school in California has never threatened him before.
“What, no beer and porn? I need to be in the right mood to talk about my sexcapades.” I stretch my long legs. “I hooked up with a chick from there. I didn’t touch shit. Other than the chick.”
“Daria Followhill,” he clips, digging his fingers into his eye sockets in frustration.
“That her name?” I play dumb.
“You know her name, Scully.”
Who the fuck doesn’t?
“Is she too princess for me, Coach? Think I should aim a little lower?”
“I think wherever you aim, don’t do it in her direction unless you want your football career dying a sudden, painful death. I struck a deal with Prichard, who seemed adamant about you not going anywhere near his school again unless in a professional capacity. I gave him my word that you will keep away from Miss Followhill, and he, in turn, will overlook the fact you were trespassing.”
I live with her. I want to laugh in his face. But since volunteering this information is a no-go, I smirk. If he’s expecting a thank you, or worse—any type of cooperation—he obviously hasn’t been paying attention.
It’s not that I don’t want to go pro—I do. Hell, it’s my best chance to get out of this shithole. It’s that I don’t listen to people like Prichard, who only care about themselves and their dicks. If I’ve learned one thing about this life, it’s that you can’t let the bad guys win.
And Prichard? He doesn’t want me off Daria’s back because he’s concerned for her. He’s doing it because he wants her.
“Scully, give me your word,” Coach probes, his ten-month pregnant belly poking out of the edge of his red Coach shirt we got him for Christmas. “There’s too much on the line, and there’re a lot of pretty blondes out there. You’ll be drowning in them at any self-respecting D1 college. Besides, think about Adriana.”
I tip my head down, gesturing with my open arms.
“You have my word, Coach Higgins, that I won’t get suspended.”
He doesn’t catch the semantics.
Because to him, I’m just a dumb kid, and she’s just one blonde bimbo out of many.
I’m still clad in my gridiron football pants and varsity jacket when I kick the door to the Followhills’ mansion open, holding my duffel bag, school backpack, and a huge-ass Amazon Prime box Bailey ordered. Probably more poetry books we’ll burn through over the weekend. I don’t wanna know what the Followhills’ credit card bill looks like at the end of every month. Their daughters spend money like it’s a competitive sport.
“Bailey, I swear to fucking God, you consume words just as much as you speak them, and that’s somethin’,” I groan. No answer back, so I guess the house is empty.
I dump the box in the foyer and walk over to the kitchen to fix myself a nutritious meal consisting of six slices of pizza and shove them into the microwave. While I wait for them to heat, I gulp down an entire carton of orange juice. It’s crazy how quickly things change. When I moved here less than two weeks ago, everything in the fridge was so small and cute and mini.
Small cottage cheese. Tiny boutique personal bottles of juices. Individual cheese strings. Then I arrived. Melody got her Costco card two days later when she realized I’d eat the fucking counter if no one stopped me. Now everything here comes in bulk. There’s enough meat in the freezer to reassemble an entire farm.
I lean a hip against the counter and hoover the pizza slices. That’s my afternoon snack sorted. I wonder what Melody has in store for dinner. I have practice every day from three thirty to six o’clock, then I shower and do homework. I don’t have time to play house with the Followhills, but one thing I never pass on is their fucking dinner. They sure love their fancy meals, and when Jaime is in a good mood—which is basically always—he slips me a Bud Light, too.
Mrs. Followhill is a drill sergeant about being prompt. But since I moved in, Bailey said dinner on the nights Melody doesn’t teach has changed from six thirty sharp to seven fifteen when I get out of my shower. She’s all right, I guess, for doing that. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to resent her when she is trying so damn hard.
Harder than my own mother ever did, actually.
After I wash my plate, I go upstairs to dump my shit in my room, which used to be a guest room, but the Followhills have decorated it with Raiders merchandise, a flat-screen TV, an Xbox, and a guitar (more proof rich people love the whole show. I don’t play the guitar). There’s even a dark maroon pillow with my name and jersey number on it. Every day when I come home, I find more new personalized Penn shit. I already told Mel that if I catch her trying to put a diaper on me in the middle of the night, we’re done.
I turn around, about to head to the shower, when I see Daria on my threshold in her barely there cheer outfit. The tiny, cropped, tight black and blue top and miniskirt should be illegal anywhere that’s not a strip club or my bed.
Arching an eyebrow, I kick my shoes off, then throw my jacket on the floor. She folds her arms, leaning one shoulder against my doorframe. I know we’re alone, because if we weren’t, she wouldn’t be standing here, openly ogling me. Jaime doesn’t want us to be alone. Wouldn’t be surprised if there are new cameras in the house, too. My phone starts flashing with text messages. Adriana, having a sixth sense and wanting to remind me that she exists.
Addy: Miss you!
Addy: Come to Lenny’s.
Addy: When am I going to see you?
“Do continue.” Daria’s gaze drops to my crotch, where it stays. “You were in the middle of something, weren’t you?”
I grab the red pillow and throw it at her. She catches it and flings it back on my bed.
“Go play with your Barbies, Skull Eyes.”
Her smile widens, and she blushes. It occurs to me that I might have a hard-on. I look down. Half-mast and firmly covered. So why is she practically red?
“You haven’t called me Skull Eyes in forever.”
“It’s not a fucking pet name. Don’t send our wedding invitations just yet.”
“Mhm-hmm.” She nods, biting down on a pink fingernail.
“How’s your little boyfriend, Gus, doing? Still sucking ass for a living?”
“Penn Scully presents: When life gives you lemons, become a bitter jerk.”
“One game,” I stress. “You won one game. Life didn’t give me lemons. It gave me a good opportunity to get even.”
I need to make sure that Daria is a hobby, not an addiction. Adolescent hearts are trash and as loyal as a starving stray cat. They’ll take anything. Even scraps. I don’t want to feed my rusty tin heart junk. And Daria, she stomped on it hard enough for me to know she’s not even a greasy burger. She’s a Pop-Tarts covered in cyanide.
I shoulder past her. She follows me into the hallway, and I’m trying to keep my heart rate reasonable, but the heart wants what it wants, and right now, apparently, it wants Pop-Tarts. The hair on my forearms stands on end, and my dick jerks in my pants. It wants a shot of cyanide, too.
I stop when I’m in the bathroom and turn to her.
“All right, show’s over. Get the fuck out, Dar.”
“Dar!” she squeaks. She really softened up to me after the Ferris wheel. The other option is that she is messing with my head to try to get me to fuck her and get in trouble.
Let’s admit it, it’s probably the latter. Daria doesn’t have a heart, and she still hates me.
“Now I get two pet names. Should I get us friendship bracelets, P?”
“As long as they’re pink. Yellow makes my knees look fat.”
I’m bantering with her. I deserve every bullshit thing coming my way.
I hope Via’s not really dead because her ghost would chase my ass all the way to hell for playing nice with Daria. But wherever Via is—she’s not here. And I may hold a good old grudge against Daria, but my anger toward my sister is still fresh.
“What do you want?” I gather phlegm and spit it into the sink.
“You’ve seen me naked twice. I’ve seen you naked never. I think it’s time we change that,” she says. I stare at her for a full minute, in which none of the things that should cross my mind—my football scholarship, Prichard, her parents, Via, or my poor girlfriend, who had to endure the Blythe Ortiz rumor the first week of school—occupy me. The only thing I’m trying to figure out is if this is some kind of a prank because my dick might never recover from the disappointment if it is.
“Are you gonna tell your daddy I’m being inappropriate?” I mock, pushing my lower lip out. I wouldn’t put it past Daria to fuck my dick in order to fuck me over and throw me out.
“Are you gonna tell my daddy I lock myself up with my principal in his office three times a week doing Marx knows what?” she counters, pouting.
I see what she’s doing. She’s trying to tell me that we both have leverage on each other. She’s giving me power, and I never turn power down.
“I ain’t old and saggy. Would that be a problem?”
“Absolutely. Get the hell out of my bathroom.” She laughs, but it’s nervous.
I get rid of my shirt, exposing my torso. I have a prominent six-pack, cut, golden, and impressive, with that V that makes girls stupid and a trail of light brown hair arrowing from my navel and into my pants. I watch her watch me. I’m so hard my brain can barely function. All my blood is in my dick, and it’s so engorged it might explode if she just looks in its direction.
So this is what it feels like to die of horniness. My obituary is going to be embarrassing if anyone bothers writing it.
“That’s all nice and dandy, but what are your pants still doing on?” She licks her lips, pulling out the rubber band holding her hair in a ponytail and snapping it into the sink. She shakes her head, and her hair gets all puffy and sexy.
I pull my pants and briefs down in one go, then my socks, because very few things are more pathetic than naked men in socks. Then I stand, hard as a fucking stone. Both my cock and my expression.
She stands in front of me and says nothing for a long time. Then she takes a step toward me and lurches forward, almost touching me. My throat bobs with a suppressed groan, thinking she is going to touch me—thinking she might even touch it—but she turns the water on behind me and removes her top. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, but I can’t tear my eyes from her pink nipples, flat stomach, and the curve of her hips.
“Let me know what hole I should slide your tip into.” I swallow again. God. She is stripping. For me.
“Don’t think you can afford me, Scully. I don’t accept coins or coupons.”
The tables have turned again, and I want to flip them up and rip the walls down to show her nothing has changed. I still hate her. I still just want to fuck her.
“We’re taking a shower together, silly,” she finally explains, shimmying out of her skirt. Her black cotton panties follow suit. “But you’re not going to touch me. Because guess what? Even though you don’t know how I feel about all my firsts, I do. And you don’t deserve shower sex with me.”
“You’ve never had sex in the shower?” Bullshit with a capital B. This chick has probably seen more cocks than a chicken farmer. Getting naked with me and not letting me touch her is payback. But it’s a price that might cost me my balls.
“I plead the fifth,” she purrs. Goddamn America.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We both get into the shower. I’m aware her family might come home early from dance and work, but I still don’t care. It’s not that I don’t like Mel, Jaime, and Bailey. I’ve just been let down by so many people in my life, so getting attached and giving a shit are not really a top priority to me.
Once inside, I grab the soap bar, lathering my body. She squeezes the hundred and five colorful bottles of whatever bathing oils she is using. I sniffed them all, and I’m not surprised she smells like a cake surrounded by every type of fucking flower known to mankind.
I watch her body moving, bending, straightening, living, and wonder why we’re doing this. Nothing’s gonna come out of it. It’s pure, delicious torture. It makes my muscles and cock ache, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The tormentor tormented by its prey.
“Had a good day at school?” She bats her eyelashes, a sugary-sweet smile gracing her lips. I think back to the conversation I had with Coach this afternoon about Prichard and my football career. Another guy would snitch on Prichard to her and let her deal with the mess. But (A) I don’t take orders, especially from idiots in expensive suits, and (B) on the off-chance this puts her in a vulnerable position, I’m not going to have him press her back against the wall.
“I survived it.” I flex my biceps when I rub soap off my shoulders to see if she’ll check me out, and sure enough, she does. She averts her gaze quickly when I smirk.
“How ’bout you?” I ask.
“It was okay.” She clears her throat.
“Daria”—I snap my fingers twice—“I’m right here. You can talk to my dick, too, but he’s more of an action man.”
“You grew up from that scrawny kid,” she says quietly, turning off the water behind me, and for a moment, our bodies are flush. Her stomach brushes my dick, but neither of us moves. We just stand there, dripping wet, with my dick poking her navel. Close but afar. Nervous, but bold. I’ve never done this before with anyone. Got naked for the sake of being naked. I feel like I should take control of the situation, but then I’ll have to shut her down, and as much as I feel shitty about doing this to Adriana, I can’t not do it, either.
Daria raises herself on her tiptoes and brushes her lips over my ear. I bend down the rest of the way to accommodate whatever it is she wants to tell me.
“Thank you for another first, Scully. I’ve never been naked with a man in a shower.”
Before I know it, she’s wrapped in her pink towel and sauntering out of the bathroom, leaving me in the shower with my hard dick pointing at the tiles.
I relock the door and rub one (fine, two) out before I can get out of there.
1-0 to the home team.
