Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance (34 page)

“
Imagery.
”

“Imagery,” I answered Ms. Pine, clearing my throat.

Ms. Pine nodded with tightened lips, turning back to the whiteboard. As I glanced at the back of Daisy's head in the front of the room, a wave of guilt crashed over me. I sunk down in my chair, sliding a head across my forehead.

Before I could wade any further in my guilt, the school bell shook the room.

All students rose at once, fighting to get out of the classroom. I headed to the doorway, where Mr. Pinciotti, one of Dad's accountants, was waiting as scheduled. The chubby, unsmiling accountant's mustache twitched as he handed me a slip of paper.

“Thanks, Mr. Pinciotti.”

“Right. Let your father know I have been trying to get a hold of him since last week.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Have a good day.”

As Mr. Pinciotti headed back to the school entrance, I walked towards Daisy's seat. Honey was hovering next to her table. She tapped Daisy on the shoulder, pointing at me wordlessly.

“Yeah?” Daisy slung her shoulder bag over her head. “What now?”

“Here.”

She took the check from my hands slowly, her forehead wrinkling.

“What is this?”
“It's $5,000. It's for your dad. If you could let him know I'm sorry about the accident, that would be great.”

“I – wait. Really?” Daisy stammered, taken aback. She tucked her hair behind her ear, wetting her lips nervously. “This is way overdue, but thanks, I guess.”

“If you'd let me, I'd like to make it up to you. Show you that I'm more than just a – what was that you called me? A 'rich trust fund hooligan'?”

“Well, I, um, stand by what I said. What do you mean, anyway?”

“My buddies and I are going to the fair at
Winfield
Boardwalk
this Friday. Wanna come with me?”

“What, like a date?” She lowered her head, arching one of her eyebrows.

“Maybe,” I shrugged, smiling. “We'll see where it takes us.”

“I – I guess?”

“Love that enthusiasm. I'll pick you up at 8.”

Chapter Three: Daisy

“I'm home!”

I closed the door to our cramped three bedroom apartment. Kicking off my sneakers, I stepped over a box of our Christmas lights and ornaments to get to the kitchen. I tossed my suede messenger bag onto the island and fetched the pitcher of lemonade Mom made this morning.

Mom was a machine, a blue-collar goddess. She woke up at 5:30 every morning like clockwork to get to
Grover Elementary
, where she drove the school bus everyday. Before she leaves, she would prepare full, nutritious breakfasts for Dad, Ethan, and me. Somehow, she managed to find the time to chop up meat, potatoes, and veggies, and dump them into the slow cooker for dinner later, too. After she dropped the kids off at school, she would rush off to her part-time job as a secretary at a tech start-up. She would be back just in time to drive the kids home after dismissal. That was her life Monday to Friday. Then, every Saturday and every other Sunday, she would pick up extra shifts as a housekeeper for wealthy families in the East Village.

After pouring myself a glass of lemonade, I pulled up an island stool. I dug around in my bag and pulled out the check from the slip pocket. Smacking my lips nervously, I laid the check flat against the granite countertop. As I sipped from my glass, I reread the fancy personal check over and over again.

This didn't even seem real. “
Charles von Weber,”
along with the address of the primary headquarters at
Von Weber Towers
, was embossed in gold lettering. “
Kendrick Clarke
”
was type-written onto the “
Pay to Order Of
” line in all caps, followed by the $5,000.

Five grand was most likely chump change for the notorious von Webers. Charles von Weber was an infamous real estate and hotel magnate, and one of the smug members of the 0.01 % club. Along with his strong business sense, historically bad comb-over, and unmatched carrot tan, the 69-year-old billionaire was an all-around shallow dick. Despite his marriage with ex-model Nancy Partridge, he was often seen partying with women half his age. He also spent his spare time spouting his ignorant, politically incorrect thoughts about minority groups to the media.

Needless to say, I painted Charles von Weber's only son, Miles, with the same brush. Miles was the typical high school girl's wet dream. He was tall; he had a nice car; he was a smooth-talker; and his jacuzzi jets probably spurted liquid gold. And I suppose he was kind of good-looking.

Okay, fine – he was
very
good-looking.

Miles always had his sandy-blond hair in a messy faux-hawk that made the girls swoon. He had small, dark green eyes that squinched even smaller when he smiled. I don't think he was in any sports teams, but he was really fit. His skin was golden-brown from all the time he must have spent out on his family's yachts and speedboats. Everything about his rich-boy persona made my skin crawl, but boy, was he real easy on the eyes. You would have never guessed he was a product of the leather-faced Charles von Weber's swimmers – it must have been the Partridge genes.

I replayed my interaction with Miles after English Lit this morning. Honestly, I was still in shock. Did that really just happen? It pained me to admit this, but I wasn't sure what it was about talking to Miles von Weber that wrapped my body up in tingles. I wanted so much to be repulsed by him, but it was almost impossible when you were that close to a dude that looked like he was spawned by two beautiful Greek deities. On the other hand, I could have just been mistaking adrenaline for jitters. After all, I had been trying to get a hold of him for two weeks, but it was basically
Mission Impossible,
because he was constantly surrounded by a different posse of jocks and cheerleaders. So imagine my incredulity when Miles came up to talk to me twice in one day – not to mention, the check. Even if $5,000 was probably what a von Weber would spend on a night out, I couldn't deny that this was still a token of good will on Miles' part.

It all happened so fast – I couldn't be sure, but it had somehow resulted with us making plans for Friday night. Was it a date? Miles' little “will-he-won't-he” attitude was half as cute as it was frustrating. Excuse me, but I liked having things laid out in the open and explained to me. But at the risk of looking like a complete idiot on our maybe-or-maybe-not date, I invited Honey to come along for reinforcement. Though we all went to
Stonewall
, Miles' friends and I did not live in the same world, and our social circles have never meshed. Allison was the only one I sort-of knew, but our interactions never surpassed small-talk. And up until recently, I had always figured Miles and Allison were an item.

I gulped down the rest of my lemonade and set the empty glass back down on the counter. Picking up the check in my hands, I pricked my fingers against the sharp edges mindlessly. Not that any of this mattered. It was just one night out – Miles was probably just trying to make himself feel better for the whole car ordeal.

Or...could it have been something more?

Noticing the unconsciously upturned corners of my mouth, I pinched my lips at once. Nope – not doing it. I wasn't going to let myself get all excited and worked up over something that could have very well been nothing at all.

“Hey, Daisy.”

The door to my parent's bedroom opened. Dad strolled towards me, adjusting the black-and-red striped tie I got for him last Christmas. His pressed white shirt was almost too tight for his bulky 6'5” stature.

Dad was just as much a hero in my eyes. He needed a double helping of whatever Mom made for breakfast to keep him going throughout the day. He was a supervisor at a tire manufacturing company, and he worked the night shift for a delivery company three nights a week. Working their 80 to sometimes 100 hour work weeks must have been taking an increasing toll on their late 40s bodies. But they continued to wake up at ungodly hours and have never missed a day from work, all to keep me enrolled in the best high school in all of New York state. And for that, I would be forever grateful.

“Hey, Dad.” I hopped off the stool and stood on my tip-toes to peck him on the cheek. I fixed a Windsor knot for him and twirled him around, flattening the creases on his shirt. “Are you just getting dressed? Didn't you have work today?”

“The factory's doing their annual asbestos abatement today, so we had the day off. But I have a meeting with a few of the supervisors in about 40 minutes. So, how was your day?”

“It was...interesting,” I said thoughtfully. I grabbed the check from the counter and handed it to Dad. “Before I forget – that's for you.”

“What's this?” Dad pushed down his black frames and leaned away from the check, examining it. His peppered eyebrows rose higher and higher as he mouthed the print on the check. “Ah. This from the von Weber boy?”

“Yup. According to Miles, a friend of his was driving his car that day, and his friend just never told him about it. Well, that's his version of the events, anyway.”

“Ah, I see. Well, now, what did I tell you? I knew there must've been some kind of mix-up. Now this $5,000 can go right back into our savings account where it belongs, and we're all the better.”

The words lingering on the tip of my tongue couldn't be held back any longer.

“I'm-going-out-with-him-on-Friday-night,” I blurted, my words all strung together.

“What's that, sweetheart?”

Pushing my thumbs into my fists, I took a deep breath and repeated myself.

“I'm going out with him on Friday night.”

“Kay. Have fun.” Too lazy to wash his own glass, Dad swiped my empty one and poured himself some lemonade.

“What?” I gazed at him blankly. “Did you hear what I said?”

Dad peered down at me, his magnified eyes blinking through his ultra-thick lenses.

“My vision might be pretty bad, but my hearing is just fine, thank you.”

“So...you're not mad?”

“Why would I be? Your excellent grades have never faltered, and you're doing so much work for the school paper. You could use a break.”

“Huh. I can't believe you're actually urging your teenage daughter to go out more. You're a shame to all the other dads in the world. What would your brethren say?”

“They would say, 'Good looking out, Kendrick. It's about time she stretched her legs a bit outside of school before she turns into one of those nutty cat ladies.'” The smile on Dad's face vanished. He leaned over, and looked me dead in the eye. “Unless that's where your heart truly lies – if so, know I am all for it. You know what a progressive dad I am.”

“Ha-ha.” I stuck my tongue out at him. “I just – I feel like such a hypocrite for actually being a wee bit excited about Friday night. I mean, after all the...
things
I've thought-slash-said about him.”

“Some people have a change of heart.” Dad shrugged. He reached for a chocolate pudding cup from the fridge. “Don't tell your mom I had one of these.”

“Fine, but that's the only one you're allowed to have.”

“Deal. Anyway, I figured the von Weber boy would come around and do the right thing eventually. He seems like an alright kid – maybe a little misguided, but alright.”

“And why is that?”

“I saw the kid a couple of months ago when I was driving to work. He had a green light, and there were cars building up behind him, but he wasn't budging. People were honking at the kid. Some people stuck their heads out their windows to give him a piece of their mind. Then, the kid calmly got out of his car and walked to the sidewalk. There was this old man that I hadn't even noticed there, but he looked very lost and confused. The von Weber boy took him by the arm and helped him across the street.”

I felt the corners of my lips twitching again as I pictured the adorably heartwarming story in my head, but I quickly brushed it off my face before Dad could notice.

“That was cool of him, I guess.”

Next to the bathroom, the door with the
Mike Jones
and
Three 6 Mafia
posters half-hanging off of it swung open.

Ethan staggered out of his room sluggishly, wearing only his tank and boxers. Though Mom and Dad disapproved of his fully-inked sleeves, I thought his tattoos were awesome. They were beautifully detailed – the work of his friend, Raz, a rad tattoo artist. My favorite was “The Last Supper” portrait inked around his left bicep. Knee-deep in his hip-hop phase, coupled with his eyebrow ring and snake bites, he looked like a kick-ass bouncer, but a horrible date for your impressionable daughter. Truth was, Ethan had was about as dangerous as that bear in all those laundry detergent ads.

“Morning Daize. Dad.”

“Did you just get up?” Dad got up to rinse off his pudding cup in the sink before tossing it into the trashcan. “It's half-past-four.”