Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(7)

It doesn’t occur to me that she’s calling me at two in the morning. I just answer.

“Hey, Colleen! What’s—”

Her words come out in a rush. And I think . . . I think she’s crying. Which is weird, because—there’s no crying in Colleen. My big sister is rock solid. Badass. She gave birth to three children au natural . . . nothing rattles her.

Only, right now, something definitely has.

“Col, slow down, I can’t understand you . . .”

Between my drunkeness and her hiccups—I can barely make out her words.

“Mom . . . Dad . . . car a-acc-accident.”

Ohmygod. Oh. My. God.

I turn to Bruce and Cher, instantly stone-cold sober—any thought of my promotion dissipating from my mind like mist in the morning light. There’s only one thought, one focus.

“I have to go home.”





Chapter Three


Callie





It turns out, Colleen wasn’t crying.

She was laughing.

And twelve hours later, while I’m standing in the harsh, white, sunlit hallway, outside my parents’ room on the sixth floor of Lakeside Memorial Hospital . . . she’s still chuckling.

“Their legs?” I ask the doctor, hoping I heard her wrong. “They broke their legs?”

I didn’t hear wrong.

“That’s correct.” Dr. Zheng tiredly pushes back her dark hair and adjusts her glasses. “One leg each.”

My sister snorts into her hands behind me, sounding like a horny goose.

“I want them to stay in the hospital another day or two for observation, however, given their ages, your parents are in surprisingly good health.”

Yeah. It’s their vices that keep them young.

My parents sent Colleen and me to Catholic school, but that’s not why we were “good girls” growing up. That was because nothing your parents do can ever be cool. It’s why some behaviors skip a generation. If your parents have tattoos, tattoos are not cool. If they have long hair, crew cuts are way cooler. If they dress in tied-off, midriff-exposing tops and skin-tight jeans, nuns become your fashion icons.

My parents’ heydays were the ’70s Disco balls and bell-bottom pants, Woodstock and psychedelic drugs—they ate that stuff up with a spoon . . . literally. And in their minds, it’s still the ’70s—it will always be the ’70s. Lung cancer? It’s a conspiracy from the money-hungry medical establishment—go ahead, light up another menthol. Liver disease? It only strikes the weak—pour me another whiskey sour. Monogamy? It’s unnatural—where’s the next key party? Yeah, before me and my sister came to be, our parents were swingers.

At least, please, for the love of God, let it be “were.”

I push that line of thought right out of my head and focus on what Dr. Zheng is saying.

“With their advanced ages, the bones will take much longer to heal. They’ll require extensive physical therapy—for months. I’ve given your sister all the paperwork.”

I nod, numbly. “All right. Thank you, Doctor.”

I turn around and gape at Colleen, who’s leaning her blond head against the wall.

“How did this even happen?” I ask.

My sister holds up her hands. “How it happened? That’s a whole other story.”

I flinch. “Do I want to hear it?”

“Nope.” She grins evilly. “But I had to, so you’re going to also.”

Colleen fixes her gaze behind me. “Ryan, you’re back. Perfect timing.”

I turn around—and look at that—Ryan Daniels is a Lakeside cop. I did not know this. He’s also the older brother of my high school boyfriend—I practically lived at his house for those four years. The last time I remember seeing him was when he came home from college early and caught me and his brother dry-humping on his parents’ living room couch. Great.

He smiles at me warmly. “Hey, Callie. Good to see you.”

“Hi, Ryan.”

He must be thirty-six or thirty-seven now, but he looks almost the same as I remember—just with some new, light wrinkles around the eyes and a few strands of gray in his dark hair. But he’s still broad, tall, and handsome, like all the Daniels boys.

“So . . . I reviewed the report again and, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to give your dad a ticket for the accident. There’s really no way around it. Reckless driving.”

Colleen nods, suppressing a giggle. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” My father yells from inside the hospital room. “I’ve never gotten a ticket in my life and I’m not paying the man now!”

Then he starts to sing “Fuck tha Police,” by NWA.

“Dad!” I yell. “Stop it! I’m so sorry, Ryan.”

“They’ve got them hopped up on a lot of painkillers,” Colleen explains.

He chuckles. “No problem.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck the police . . .”

I clench my teeth. “How does he even know that song?”

“The new Buick he bought came with a free satellite radio subscription,” my sister says. “He’s been listening to Urban Yesterday, all the classics are on there—NWA, Run-DMC . . . Vanilla Ice.”