Pretty Reckless (All Saints High #1)(47)

“Because it sucks to be me, too.”

Because it sucks less when we’re together even though I should hate you.

I pull her into my embrace, and she pushes back. That only makes me hold her tighter, and she stands no chance. A cheerleader against a wide receiver? You don’t need a PhD in physiology to guess who wins.

“Say it,” I growl into her ear. “Your family is bullshit right now. Your mom’s all up your sister’s ass, and your dad is torn. Make it real. Because the minute it gets real, you have to deal with it.”

I speak fluent Dr. Phil because the only thing the woman who gave birth to me did for the past six years was lie on the couch watching his show and judging other people while getting high.

Shying away from your problems only makes them multiply. Kinda like cancer. Left to its own devices, it will spread to other organs in your body.

Daria is thrashing in my arms, desperate to push me away, her soft crying turning into heart-wrenching sobs. She is shaking against my chest, but her lips stay pursed.

She doesn’t want to admit to the hood rat that life in the golden castle ain’t perfect.

I envelop her. Even when Daria is growling like an injured animal in my ear. Even when the sea glass necklace, her sea glass necklace, burns a hole in my back pocket, right next to her pompom string, demanding to go back to its rightful owner. Even when a scream rips from her throat, and I need to cover it with my palm. I hold her.

“Go to your girlfriend. She needs you more than I do.”

She does. Addy and Harper need me desperately. But they’re not who I want to be with.

“I bet this is your first time breaking.” I wipe her tears away. “I used to break all the time. Under a bridge. Next to a bunch of homeless people. I used to scream at the river and punch concrete walls after Via disappeared.”

She wanted something real and inconvenient, so she is getting it.

“I couldn’t talk for days afterward. I once punched my own face to see if I could cry. The answer is no, by the way. And when my mom died? I went to the snake pit hoping Vaughn would kill me. I let him fuck me up just so I could feel something. Because, you see, I’m the tin man. I have no heart. Not since Via left. She was my entire world. Adriana and Harper, I take care of them, but it’s not the same. My heart was rusty before she left, but after? After, it was gone. Is that real enough for you, Daria Followhill?”

She sniffs and gazes up at me. Her blue eyes are so spectacular, they look like two bowls full of diamonds. Skull Eyes’ lips are trembling around the words she is still too proud to say. Her whole face is shiny with tears and snot. I press a soft kiss to the tip of her runny nose. She immediately sniffs. Like I give a fuck about a little snot.

“You’re Saturn,” she whispers. “Made of iron-nickel and surrounded by protective rings of ice and rock.”

“How do you know that?” I smile, and I know the smile is warm. I know it’s fucking up something in her chest, and even though I shouldn’t, I like it. After all these years, I still want to ruin her. Then put her back together. Then do it again and again and a-fucking-gain.

“Bailey knows stuff about stuff. Sometimes I pick it up at the dinner table. Why were you home late today?” she asks.

Because I knew you’d be here.

“I saw Adriana,” I lie.

I hug her tighter because she is squirming again, desperate to run away, and I can’t let her.

And when she breaks within my arms, I glue her back, tuck her in bed, and kiss her forehead, not letting go until she is sound asleep.





He wants to let her go But can’t seem to set her free

Because if she does end up returning

She’ll see who he fell in love with and flee





Lying on the giant flamingo float in our Roman-shaped swimming pool, I stare up at the sun through my sunglasses. The sun is a lot like hate—beautiful and lethal and essential for our survival. It can blind you, but it also keeps you going. Hate motivates much more than love. Love is content and peaceful. Happy people aren’t driven. They simply…exist. Now, us, hateful people, we’re something else. Hungry and desperate.

Hateful people make the best lovers.

The soft whoosh of the water underneath me tricks me into relaxing my muscles and giving in to nirvana. I blink at the tall palm trees, cloudless sky, and landscape of Todos Santos, and wonder how someone with so much can feel so little.

I feel like a piece of the jigsaw, the one forgotten under the carpet that no one bothers to look for.

“Lovebug? Sweetie?” The double glass door slides open, and Mel walks out in one of her turquoise beach dresses and a giant straw hat. We’re the same size.

Melody was smaller than me when she was my age. A true ballerina, her ribs stuck out, and you could see every fine muscle in her back. Every time she huffs and puffs in front of the mirror, complaining about not being a size zero anymore, she averts her eyes to me quickly and apologizes. “Not that size four is not small.”

No, Mother. It’s just not perfect. By your standards, anyway.

I ignore her, still floating and staring at the sky.

She takes a seat on one of the 2k-apiece yellow and red Moroccan lounge chairs and sips from her skinny margarita. “We need to talk, Dar.”

We actually don’t. We haven’t in years, and you didn’t seem to mind.