The Rake (Boston Belles #4)(35)

Emmabelle had pictures of all of her family members: her mother, her sister, her nephews, and even some photos of that redheaded banshee she called a friend—Sailor.

But not one of her father.

“The daddy issue theory is getting warmer, Sweven,” I said on my way to the door.

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m not the only one with daddy issues. You seem a little too glad your father passed.”

“Party’s tomorrow night. Wear something fun,” I quipped back.

“Wowza. I’m no fortune teller, but I see a lot of therapy in your future, dude.”

“I’m perfectly fine with how I turned out. You, however, have a big, fat secret, Emmabelle, and make no mistakes. I’m going to uncover it.”

As always, she slammed the door the minute I was out of it.

As always, I laughed.




It was only when I got back home that I noticed Belle’s payback for my stuffing her cleavage with a cold drink.

All in all, it was a lovely little surprise.

A used pair of lady knickers stuffed in the front pocket of my slacks.

Sitting at my study, I tugged it out, grinning at the pink lacey fabric. I leaned back in my recliner, throwing my head back, giving it a hearty sniff. I draped the undies over my head and groaned with pleasure, getting a stiffy, when a note fell from them.

I picked it up.

Hey Dev,

You just sniffed my best friend, Ross’ balls.

Hope you enjoyed.

—Sweven





Fourteen Years Old.



“Gross.”

I announce to the universe, because honestly, it is. Watching your parents making out in the front seat of their Honda Accord Wagon like two teenagers is next level cringe.

Persy doesn’t seem to share the sentiment, sighing romantically beside me in the back seat. “Let them be.”

“Nah, your sister’s right. There’s a time and a place for everything, and this ain’t it.” Dad pulls away from Mom, dropping one last kiss on her shoulder before putting his hands where I can see them—on the steering wheel.

To make matters worse (and you have to admit, shit’s already pretty dire if I have to watch my parents exchanging saliva with nowhere to run), we’re in the drive-thru line, about to pick up our burgers and milkshakes. Like I have an appetite after that make out sesh.

Burgers and shakes are a Sunday night staple and a decade-long Penrose tradition. Each week, we grab the food, drive to Piers Park, and annihilate greasy french fries and shakes while watching Boston’s dancing lights.

I’ve already decided that when I get married, a trillion years from now, I’m going to keep this tradition with my husband and kids.

The car before us slides away from the drive-thru, and it’s our turn. Dad rolls down his window and plucks a wad of cash out of his tattered wallet, waving it at the uniformed teenager in the window.

“There ya’ go, sweetheart. And I’ll pay for the person behind us too.”

He does that every week.

Pays for the person behind us.

Sometimes it’s a single mom in a beat-up car.

Sometimes, like today, it’s a group of rowdy college kids. Their windows are open and a thick cloud of weed smoke curls up from their Buick LeSabre.

“That’s very nice of you, sir,” the cashier says, leaning forward to hand him the brown paper bags with our food and our drinks.

Mom lets out a breathless giggle.

“A little kindness goes a long way.” Dad drapes his arm along Mom’s passenger seat. He beams at her like they’re on their first date and he wants to make an impression. I wish Coach Locken would beam at me like that.

I think he came close. Once.

Locken is my track and cross-country coach. And I just happen to be the star of his mediocre team. A team I didn’t even think about trying out for before he walked into my class on the first week of ninth grade and pleaded with us to try out for it.

It’s been a few weeks now, and I think I’m putting a real dent in getting him to notice me. That almost-beam is my breakthrough.

It happened in the cafeteria last week. He was on lunch duty that day. He looked rad in his blue windbreaker—our school logo emblazoned on it—khaki pants, and trendy sneakers. He was way taller than all the other boys, even the seniors, and had stubble and dimples in his cheeks.

“Stop looking at him,” Ross, my best guy-friend, chided, ducking his head down at our lunch table. “He is a grown-ass man.”

“Like it ever stopped you before.” I threw a french fry at him. Ross had just come out to me two weeks ago. Shocking, it was not. I noticed how we both shared the same appreciation of Channing Tatum while watching Magic Mike.

“I only look, I don’t touch.” Ross dodged the french fry like it was a bullet. I think he’s been watching his weight since preschool.

“I don’t touch Mr. Locken.” I pointed at him with a baby carrot.

“Not yet.” He leaned forward and snatched the carrot between his teeth, chewing. “You always get what you want. It’s actually kind of scary.”

I snuck another glance at Coach Locken, and lo and behold, he smiled at me.

Not just smiled … beamed.

I was about to stand up and walk over to him. But then the rest of the cross-country team huddled in the cafeteria. All dudes. There was a cross-country team for girls too, but I was so ridiculously better that Coach decided to let me practice with the guys. I wiped the floor with their asses too, but at least they came somewhat close.