Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (39 page)

Daisy followed me as I flung open the bedroom door. I walked up to the railing of the second floor landing. The three of them gazed up at us, each of their faces more baffled than the next. Ma and Dad exchanged silent looks of shame.

“What's up, Mrs. B?”

Mrs. Bautista took one look at me before bursting into a fresh puddle of tears.

“My goodness, Miles. You haven't heard yet...”

“Heard what, Mrs. Bautista?”

“Miles... Allison – Allison, she –” Mrs. Bautista stammered, gripping her chest. Ma looked startled as she wrapped an arm around her, rubbing her shoulders.

“What's the matter, Mrs. Bautista?”

“Allison – she...she is gone. Her parents found her two hours ago...”

“What? Gone where?” I scoffed, laughing nervously as I peered down at her. But a sense of unease was spreading across my chest, slowly choking me. “You're joking, right? Damn, Mrs. B, I didn't know you could act like that. Did Allison put you up to this?”

“Miles, I don't think...” came Daisy's voice from behind me. I knew she was standing right behind me, but she sounded like she was 200 feet away.

“I'm sorry, Miles. The police – the police are saying it was a home burglary gone very, very wrong. They found Allison's body, strangled and stabbed to death. They think she must have walked in on the assailant. The police have the man in custody...”

I could see Mrs. Bautista's lips moving, but I couldn't hear her.

“
Miles? Miles! Can you hear me? Miles...
”

This guttural, primal howling filled the whole house. I looked around me, the silhouettes of my parents, Mrs. Bautista, Daisy, and every object in the spinning room turning to blurred blobs.

This couldn't be real. Mrs. Bautista must have made a mistake. I just saw Allison at school this morning. And now she's telling me Allison's dead? This was just a fucked-up, horrible mistake.

It was only when the muscles of my jaw started throbbing did I realize that the howling was coming from me.

Chapter Nine: Daisy

TWO WEEKS LATER

A neon-orange frisbee soared 20 feet in the air. From the left, a beautiful Labrador Retriever with lustrous golden-oat fur scampered across the grass. The dog caught the frisbee in midair, wagging its tail as it trotted back to its owners. The owners were a pair of adorable teenage girls who couldn't have been older than 13. They knelt on the grass, cooing and petting the appreciative dog's head.

The park was abundant with faces young and old, but they all shared the same look of carefree bliss. Young children out on picnics with their families chased each other in circles. Kids whizzed across the ramps of the skate park on the right, showing off the newest tricks they'd just mastered. Couples hopelessly in love ambled along the paths hand in hand with that dopey, lovey-dovey look in their eyes.

They were all so unaware – each and every one of them. A part of me wanted to scream out at them, remind them to treasure their moments with their loved ones. Life was way too fragile. Too many die from such heartless, senseless acts.

The authorities speculated that Allison was fast asleep when Ronnie Coleman, a 19-year-old gang-banger from Brooklyn, got into the house. The ripped screen door to the back of her house was how he had allegedly gained entry. He was in the middle of ransacking the Prescott residence when Allison woke up from her nap and found him. He strangled her, but when he couldn't overpower her, he bludgeoned her on the side of her head with a vase, leaving her to bleed out. They found her phone with the number “91” still on the screen. One beautiful life ruined for a couple of bucks. Allison Prescott had her whole life ahead of her – she was the last person to deserve such a brutal, cruel death.

As my eyes skimmed the scenery outside the smudgy window of the
M7, I spotted a familiar figure turning into the corner of a sidewalk. I reached for the rope hanging overhead, ringing the bus bell. While the bus started pulling up to the nearest bus stop, I strapped on my shoulder bag and made my way to the front.

“Thanks!” I said to the driver before hastily getting off.

I jumped the red light, ignoring the honking cars as I took off across the street.

“Miles! Wait up!”

Miles staggered backwards at the sound of his name. He had to spin around cautiously to keep himself from falling over. I froze, stunned by his disheveled state. His shirt was creased, and there were dirt stains all over his sleeves and pants. He took a final swig from the paper bag in his hand before crushing the bag and tossing it aside.

“What?”

The coldness in his voice stung, but I quickly overlooked it. It was understandable – Allison's funeral was yesterday. I couldn't even begin to imagine what it was like to have to carry your best friend's casket.

“I – sorry, it's just. You've been avoiding me for two weeks now. How – how are you doing?”

“I'm doing just fine – can't you see?” Miles belched. His words were slurred and barely coherent. He pulled out a crumpled cigarette and lighter from his pocket, lighting up.

“I didn't know you smoked.”

“I don't.”

I tugged on my thumb, taking a deep breath.

“Do you want to go somewhere and talk, maybe –”

“No.”

“Okay, maybe not now. It's just, I've got something to tell you.”

“What?” Miles took a long drag from his cigarette.

“I heard you got your acceptance letter to
Haas Business
at
Berkeley
last week, so congrats. I wanted to tell you that I was thinking of taking the half-scholarship at
UC Irvine
instead. I haven't told my parents yet, but I think if I get two jobs and we see each other every weekend, we could –”

“Wait – what about
Northwestern
? I thought that was your dream school.”

“Yeah, but...”

“Are you out of your fucking mind? We've only been doing this for two months – don't be fucking stupid, Daisy. I thought you were smarter than this –”

“Stop, Miles.” It took everything I had to keep my voice from cracking, but I failed. “You don't mean any of that – you're drunk. We'll just talk about this later.”

Miles flicked his cigarette to the side calmly. He squared his shoulders and stood up straight. The cloudy, drunken look on his face evaporated.

“Look, I'm just gonna set this straight. Don't waste any more of your time on this. This was just a fling. We've had our run –”

“Shut up. You don't mean that.” My voice came out much higher than I'd anticipated. “You're –”

“You were just some girl I fucked for two months. What were you expecting – you think we're gonna run off, get married, have a bunch of babies? Don't be ridiculous, Daisy. Like I was saying – we've had our run. It was fun, but it's over. Move on.”

My chest puffed out as my blood boiled inside me. I wanted nothing more but to pounce on him and knock him the hell out, but I couldn't. As unbearably vicious and blunt his words were, I knew he was right.

“You should go. Take care of yourself, Daisy. I'm sorry.”

I looked at Miles, my eyes exuding with hatred.

“Fuck you.”

I turned on my heel, sprinting in the other direction before he could see my wet cheeks.

XXX

“I'm home.”

I shut the door behind me and kicked off my shoes. The strap of my bag sagged off my shoulder, falling next to the shoe rack. I trudged to the kitchen sink heavily, like my legs were made out of barbells. Twisting the tap, I splashed ice cold water onto my face, cooling my burning and puffy cheeks.

“Mom? Dad?” I called out in the clearest voice I could muster. “You guys ho – right.”

I sighed, remembering that it was barely half past 5 in the afternoon.

“Ethan?” I tried, making my way towards his door. I pounded on the creased face of a scowling
Mike Jones.
“Ethan?”

The moment I pushed open Ethan's door, I knew something was wrong.

I stepped inside his abnormally spotless room. My eyes flitted from the half-open doors of his barren closet to the folded sheet sitting on his made bed. I couldn't even feel my legs anymore as I floated towards the bed.

As I unfolded the note and read the four short lines over and over again, I dropped to my knees.

“
Tell Mom and Dad I'm sorry. Please don't come looking for me. Be good, Daisy. I love you all. – E”

I clutched the note to my dry-heaving chest, curling to a ball on the floor next to Ethan's bed. My tears bled into the freshly vacuumed carpet, the fibers still warm on my face. Knowing I'd probably just missed my brother by a few minutes, I bawled even harder.

The world giveth, and the world taketh it away.

This couldn't have been happening. I was grasping the crumpled note so hard it tore in my fist. The voice inside of me screamed like a demented banshee, pleading with any spiritual force that would listen.

I was ready to wake up from this nightmare now...

The End of Book 1

Read the Complete Series Now

Subscribe to Get an Instant Update for New Releases

Bonus Book 2

Billion-Dollar

TANGO

— Book 1 —

Written by: Christina Clark

Copyright © 2016

Disclaimer.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All Rights Reserved

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Chapter One: Jolene

The sound of my graphite stick scratching against the white canvas of my sketchbook never failed to comfort me. With my butt as broke as the next poor sap stuck in the quicksand of student debt, this was probably the closest I could get to “relaxing.” As I carefully colored in the shading of an apple, I reached over to the kitchen counter next to me, blindly groping for my glass of water. Proving not all women were infallible when it came to multitasking, I promptly knocked it over. Water soaked into the messy stack of old bills and scrapped sketches.

“Damn it,” I grumbled, scolding myself under my breath. “Real smooth, Jolene.”

I grabbed a rag and swiftly swiped across the countertop, gaining on the stream creeping toward the plate of barely-eaten breakfast I swore I'd clear up hours ago.

“Christ on a cracker – my sweet, innocent eyes!”

My roommate, Vivienne Santos, stood in the doorway of our apartment. A theater major, she tended to overreact sometimes. She stared at Gary Griffin, my model for the day. His hunky SFSU quarterback physique was sitting butt-naked in our living room with his hands trussed up over his head with handcuffs nicked from the Props Department.

“Oh, well hello to you sunshine,” I chirped, giving her a half-assed salute as I tossed the rag back into the sink. “You're home early. We weren't expecting you for at least another hour.”

Shielding her eyes like a vampire entering a room with its curtains drawn at noon, Vivienne crab-walked inside and booted the door shut behind her. Gary's ears perked at the extra commotion in the room. Twitching his nose frantically, the old-lady scarf blindfold loosened over his eyes and slid down the bridge. He spat out the picture-perfect apple stuffed inside his mouth, his eyes squinting as they adjusted to the light.

“How you doing, Vivienne,” Gary greeted her before turning towards me. The golden ring around his eyebrow jiggled as he groaned, “Come on, Jolene, I've been sitting here for over two hours now. I'm sweating in spots I ain't even know existed. We done here?”

“And you've been a real trooper,” I commended him, stopping the rolling apple with my foot. “My readers everywhere thank you for your service.”

“Oh, please,” Vivienne cackled, throwing a towel over Gary's lap as she untied his wrists. “Your readers are a bunch of nerdy pervs. Now that you've added pictures to those filthy stories you've been writing, your reader base has doubled. Defense rests.”