Pretty Reckless (All Saints High #1)(33)

“I thought you said you didn’t want all my firsts.”

“My mind changes according to my mood and how hot you look at that moment.”

“How very stupid teenage jock of you,” she murmurs against my lips.

“How very indeed.”

Our cart is an invisible cloak until it starts to lower. Her parents will be able to make out our faces if they’re standing underneath the wheel, waiting for us, which I’m sure they are because whether she realizes it—they give a shit.

We pull away together. Everything about us is a power game, and no one wants to be the side that got rejected.

My dick is hard and so is her expression. I think she’s regretting it. I should be regretting it, too. Not because of Jaime. Fuck Jaime. I never asked to crash at their house. But because of Adriana and Via.

But Via isn’t here for me to feel guilty about or sorry to.

Via left me, just like the rest.

“I still don’t like you.” Her whisper caresses my face.

“Me neither,” I say. About her. About me.

We spend the rest of the ride in silence. When we get out of the cart, the operator is tapping his foot, waiting for his money. Jaime slaps a twenty into his open palm, waving at us to join them.

“Keep the change. You two good?” He looks back and forth between us.

Daria says no.

I say yes.

We say it at the same time.

We look each other, and she rolls her eyes. I smile because it’s hard not to.

Melody complains about our level of cooperation when it comes to family functions.

On the drive home, Daria eats the entire apple I threw at her and tosses the core on my lap.

“Checkmate.”





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.