Reckless: A Bad Boy Sport Romance (66 page)

“
Jackson! Get the hell out of my way!”

I threw the door open and raced down the steps. Jackson was still standing by the front door, his watery eyes trailing after his tantrum-throwing mother. His red face was distraught, with his glasses starting to fog up and his eyebrows and chin shaking with emotion.

“Jamie, what is your problem?” I demanded forcefully, flaring up in anger. I looked down at Jackson anxiously, placing an arm on his quavering shoulder. “You okay, Jackson?”

Jackson pushed up his glasses and wiped across his eyes with the back of his hand, nodding. He pointed to his shirt, which bore a cartoon “Tea-Rex” in a top hat and monocle, sipping tea. There was a track of grape juice running down his neckline, seeping into the white fabric.

“You clumsy little – ” Jamie flung her purse onto the sofa. A throw pillow fell onto the ground. She punted it straight across the room, tassels flying and all. “I told you not to drink your juice without the lid in the car! If you're as bright as your teachers say you are, why can't you follow simple –”

“Hey, Jamie, back off! What is your problem?” I hissed, stepping in front of Jackson instinctively. “Are you seriously throwing a fit right now over a little stain? I'll take care of it – it's not like you even do the laundry around here –”

“Whatever, Carrie, you're the one who's always telling me I should stop coddling him –”

“Hey, Jackson, why don't you let me talk to your mom for a minute?” I nudged him gently towards the stairs.

“Okay,” Jackson sniffled. When he got to the foot of the stairs, he looked back at Jamie. “I'm sorry I didn't listen to you, Mommy. Please don't be mad at me anymore. I'll be good next time. And also, you have some kind of vegetable stuck in your teeth –”

My sinking heart bounced right back up at Jackson's innocently inappropriate timing. When he noted Jamie's twitching lip curl, he hauled ass up the stairs and into his bedroom. I picked up the pillow Jamie kicked across the room and put it back in place.

“What the hell has gotten into you? Don't you ever take anything out on Jackson again –”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” Jamie shot back. She looked like she was biting her tongue to keep herself from sticking it out at me. “I don't know if you got the memo, but Jackson came out of my vagina –”

I exhaled deeply through my lips, unfurling my fists.

“Okay, let's just stop this before it gets out of hand. We're both going to calm down and settle this like adults. What happened, Jamie?”
Jamie fell onto the couch and crumbled forward, catching her head in her hands.

“I got fired, okay?” Her voice was muffled through her fingers.

My shoulders slumped defeatedly at the news. But when I saw how vulnerable and broken my little sister looked on the couch, my chest tightened. I plunked down next to her, rubbing her shoulders. Jamie instantly tensed up under my touch, like one of those strange plants that shrunk back under your fingertips.

“I'm sorry, Jamie. But it's going to be okay. We'll get through this.”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You'll find something else to do. I'll even help you look.” My words rang with more confidence than I actually felt. “We're gonna be fine. I mean, I just got promoted, so I'll have a little extra money laying around to put towards the bills. And I'll take up some more freelancing jobs if needed –”

Jamie jerked upright and edged away from me, her tone cutting with hatred.

“Sure, rub it in. Moved on to yet another football star, now a promotion? I'm so thrilled things are going so well in Carrie Toussaint's perfect little world, like it always does –”

I threw up my hands in surrender, removing myself from the toxicity in the living room and starting up the stairs.

“Jackson! Why don't you change into a new shirt and get ready? We're going to Moleman's Pizza!”

Chapter Thirty-One
: Kingsley

The stage looked real nice. It was all pimped out with flowing white curtains wrapped around the Grecian pillars, purple stage lights, and white furniture. A single spotlight shone on the center of the stage, displaying the 4 performers.

The string quartet was dressed in coordinating white formal wear. I couldn't really stand classical music, but something about hearing it played live was different. I mean, I nodded off a couple of times, but when I was awake, there were a few notes here and there that got me choked up a little. Shame there was almost no one to see it. Less than 30 people filled the 2,500 seat auditorium.

Farrah sat on the far right of the chaise longue. She looked stunning tonight, dressed in a long, one-shouldered gown with gold on her belt and strap. Her eyes and lips were done up with gold makeup, too, and there were tiny white flowers peeking out of her curly dark hair. She'd been playing for nearly 2 hours now, but she kept her back straight and her shoulders poised as she weaved her bow across her gleaming black viola.

The purple lights dimmed, drawing our eyes to the focal point of the stage. The classical tune transitioned to “More Than a Feeling” by Boston. I smiled, leaning forward in my seat to get a better earful. The pale ginger dude with Matrix-style sunglasses was killing it, his fiery hair flopping around in his enthusiasm. Farrah closed her eyes, her lips spreading to a slow smile as she felt the music, swaying her head to the beat.

When the song ended, the foursome lowered their instruments and got up to their feet. The raucous cheers of the crowd made up for the pitiful audience. I joined the applause. When Farrah's eyes scanned the crowd, landing on mine, her eyes lit up. I nodded at her as she waved at me, reaching for the bouquet on the empty chair next to me.

I hung back on the front aisle as Farrah posed for a few pictures. When she finished, she picked up the hem of her gown and rushed towards the stage steps. I met her halfway, handing her the bouquet and pulling her in for a quick hug. The audience members started pointing in our direction, whispering excitedly.

“King! You – you really came!”

“I said I would. You were terrific tonight. That redhead on the violin, too – that dude was epic.”

“Oh, that's Charlie,” said Farrah. That smile on her face wasn't going anywhere. “Thank you so much for coming tonight. This really means more than you think.”

“Don't worry about it...”

My eyes drifted past Farrah's head over to the older couple on the opposite end of the auditorium. The suited man was tall with a bald, egg-shaped head. His wife looked like she'd just stepped out of the salon, with fluffy graying hair and a radiant face lined with soft wrinkles. She held onto her husband's arm, fingering her pearl necklace.

“Sorry, Farrah. I gotta go, but I think you've got company.”

Farrah stirred, her smile faltering. But when she peeked over her shoulder, it was like she'd forgotten I was even there. She bolted towards her parents, flowers swinging in hand.

I made my way out of the auditorium, walking as quickly as I could to avoid run-ins with college-aged fans or haters. Whistling wind blew past me, ruffling the flaps of my jacket. I jammed my fists into my pockets as I headed for my car, which was parked 3 blocks away from campus.

When I found my car in front of the closed antiques shop, just where I'd left it, I took out my keys.

“King! Stop right there.”

I furrowed my brows, turning around slowly. Ivanka marched down the sidewalk in her clunky heels. The wind whipped her light hair out of her face. A blast of ice ripped across my chest at the look in her wide, unblinking eyes. The look when she raised that cleaver over her head was nearly one and the same.

“Ivanka? What are you – how'd you know where I was?”

“Never mind that,” Ivanka barked. She halted by the curb, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “You haven't been answering my calls again –”

“I left my phone at home,” I interjected coldly. This shit was draining. “Why didn't you just get one of your other booty calls to come over –”

“I know you went to see that bitch after work yesterday.”

“Yeah, I did. Look, Ivanka, you need to lay off with this possessive bullshit – we're not even married –”

Ivanka's cheeks went red with embarrassment, her eyes bouncing back and forth as she struggled to think of a comeback. When I turned my back on her, she let out a whine that sounded like an injured weasel. I unlocked my car, reaching for the door.

“Mark my words, King. If I can turn everyone on Carrie, I can easily do the same to you or any other skank that comes your way.”

I paused, my gut churning as my twitchy eye started acting up.

“It was you.” I turned towards her slowly, my jaw unlocking in my disbelief. “Where'd you even hear –”

Ivanka looked torn, as if she knew she'd said too much, but wasn't ready to back down.

“I – I go to spin class with Valentina D'Angelo.”

D'Angelo – that was the last name of one of the mobsters that paid me off. I gulped, licking my lips. When Ivanka noticed my hesitation, she continued. She smiled, her words picking up as her confidence returned.

“Luca's niece. That's right. You boneheaded thugs are too stupid to realize that a woman is always 2 steps ahead of you. I've always known, and unlike you silly men, I choose the perfect time to play my pieces. My connections will never run dry. I have friends in all the right places, eyes and ears in all walls you come across. So if you think you're –”

“Yeah, you're fucking nuttier than squirrel shit. Do what you gotta do, Ivanka, but this shit's over.” I yanked open my car door and slipped inside.

“What? But, no, King, just wait –”

I warmed up the engine and turned my music up full volume, drowning out Ivanka's pleas before backing out of my spot.

If Ivanka wanted to play dirty, game on. This psycho had no fucking clue who she was dealing with. Nobody was going to fuck with The King and get away with it.

Chapter Thirty-Two:
Carrie

“Jilted Fan Claims Justin Styles is Her Baby Daddy!”

I stared at the empty canvas of the Word document below the headline. With my muses either suffering from bronchitis, or simply too uppity to cooperate with the mindless reporting, I was drawing a complete blank. The screeching laughter of the preppy teenagers sitting in the table next to me wasn't helping my writer's block, either.

Still, this was leaps and bounds better than suffering Jamie's moody wrath at home. Jamie had been out of work for a little over a week, and her attitude with me worsened with every passing day. At least Jamie came to her senses the day after she went ballistic on Jackson, and had been spending all her time apologizing and trying to make it up to him. I would've greatly preferred if she'd spend more than just 20 minutes of every morning scrolling through Craigslist for a job, but I was going to give her another week before I was going to start getting on her case about it. Though it was well-deserved and a little expected from my end, Jamie was coping with the loss of her job the Jamie way. As per usual, this entailed multiple status updates on Jackson, as well as “empowering” selfies lambasting “The Man” and minimum wage with dumb hashtags.

I picked up my weightless mug, frowning as I peered inside the frothy, empty contents. Clucking my tongue, I set it back down and reached for another forkful of my pistachio crepe cake. Who was I kidding? The real reason I got out of the house was so I could have a reason to have one of these scrumptious bad boys. As I deconstructed the creamy green layers with my tongue, a distinctive pair of size 14 Nikes appeared next to my table.

“Bad time?”

Kingsley pushed aside my empty mug, replacing it with a fresh cup of coffee. I crossed my foot over the other under the table. Accosted with the thoughts of my last “me time” session, my heart fluttered in my chest.

“It's fine, I guess.” I slid up in my seat, playing with the ends of my college hoodie. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“No problem.” Kingsley pulled up the chair across me. He laid a tube of Bengay and a bottle of Ambien on the table. “Just to be clear, I wasn't following you or anything. My folks are in town, and they asked me to come out and run a few errands while they sleep off their jet -lag.”

“Uh-huh.”

The urge to smile at Kingsley's presence quickly faded when I thought of him and Ivanka. Feeling the sting crawling through my chest once more, I closed my laptop and leaned back in my chair. I folded my arms, holding onto my elbows.

“I don't think I'm going to be able to get any work done, anyway. So. I'm here, you're here. Let's get this done with. What's up?”

Kingsley looked around him, lowering his voice.

“I'm sorry, Carrie. I never meant to hurt you, just hear me out. I'm not asking for anything in return – all I'm asking for is a chance to explain myself.”

“Go on.”

“Ivanka told me everything, and I'm sorry for not only hurting you, I –”

“Hurt me? Don't flatter yourself. I'm just pissed off,” I lied blatantly, and the look on Kingsley's face told me he didn't believe it, either.