Pretty Reckless (All Saints High #1)(87)

I shake my head. “Your future is everything. Don’t throw it away because Gus is trying to get under your skin.”

Later that day, I decide to show my face at the Followhill household, knowing I can no longer prolong what could be my last one on one with Daria before she moves away. I’m still at the don’t-go negotiation stage although I should probably try to focus on getting her to tell me where she is going. Not that I will have much success in that department, either, by the looks of it. In the movies, the bullshit ends once the guy reaches the realization that he loves the girl and makes some grand announcement.

In our story, it’s just one twist out of many.

I park in front of the house, use my key, and stroll inside. I’m downplaying the fact I haven’t been here in days. I find Bailey and Via sitting on the sofa with books in their hands. Daria is on the other side of the room, filling out a document—an application?—and Mel is next to her, staring at the pages Daria is filling out like they are actively trying to stab her. Everyone hears the door close behind me, but Jaime is the one who descends the stairs and volunteers to deal with the clusterfuck also known as my arrival.

He clucks his tongue, shaking his head. Doing the whole theatrics. Via stands up and disappears to the basement. Without seeing them communicating, I can tell Via is no longer Mel and Jaime’s precious project. It’s obvious they barely tolerate her after what she did to their daughter, and rightly so.

Daria excuses herself. She takes her application with her. I want to scream at her that she’s the only reason I came back in the first place.

“Sit at the island,” Jaime instructs me. I do.

Mel stands up and gets a pitcher of lemonade. I look down at my hands. I wonder if things could’ve gone differently. I wonder if they still can.

Jaime takes a seat in front of me and releases a breath.

“You think being a no-show is making things better around here?”

“I think thinking is not my best virtue when it comes to the people in this house. The more I try to make shit better, the more it blows up in my face,” I answer honestly.

“How’s the training going?”

“It’s going,” I clip.

“Are we going to address the fact you shoved your tongue into my daughter’s mouth?”

Among other places, sir.

I raise my eyes to his, showing him that I’m not weaseling out of this conversation. “Look, I know you warned me, and I know I ignored it, but for what it’s worth, it meant something. To me, anyway. Can’t speak for your daughter, who is currently packing her bags and moving away.”

Cheap shot, but I can’t be the bigger person right now. I can barely be human. He should cut me some slack; it was his spawn who made me this way.

Jaime’s gaze shoots to Mel, who flicks her hand across the back of my head on her way to the island. She looks terrible. Skinnier than her usual malnourished self.

“You’ve had your time to sulk about it. You’re coming home after the game.” She sets a glass of lemonade and a plate with grilled cheese in front of me.

Like I’d miss my last night with Daria for the world.

“Can I talk to her?” I apparently ask the grilled cheese because that’s what I’m looking at right now.

“You need to talk to your sister first.” Mel splits the sandwich in half and distributes it between Jaime and me.

“Not happening in this lifetime.”

“Mel, can you give us a moment?” Jaime asks, his eyes still hard on me. She stands up and waves her hand as she saunters upstairs.

“Boys will be boys.”

When she is out of earshot, Jaime snaps his fingers to get my attention.

“Ever heard about the game Defy?”

I elevate an eyebrow. I’m not in the right mental state to think about anything that’s not Daria or the game tomorrow. It’ll be a pretty shit move to lose to save Daria’s skin, but I will fuck over the entire world to protect her.

“The All Saints High tradition? Yeah. Why?” That shit died before I was even in middle school. They stopped playing it over a decade ago.

He stands up, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “I’m pulling the game out of retirement one last time.”

I sit back and laugh.

“You don’t have to defy me. You can just kick my ass. I’d probably do the same.”

“Not yours. I can’t resent your puppy love even though thinking about your busted knuckles on my daughter’s skin makes me want to punch you.”

“Who are you fighting, then?” I ask, but then it comes to me. Clear as day.

Of course.

“Gabe Prichard,” we say in unison.

“He quit last week. Packing up and getting ready to bolt before we get to him,” Jaime explains.

“When is this happening?” I ask.

“Today.”

“I’m coming with.”





Heavy is the fist that belongs to a father who just learned his precious daughter has been mentally abused since age fourteen by her school principal.

Heavier is the fist of a man who learned about it after his daughter has been through hell and back this year.

I’m a take-no-prisoners type of man.

When I aim—it’s for the kill.