Pretty Reckless
“Everything okay?” My dad frowns. “Went to get a glass of water and heard some talking.”
“I’m alone!” I exclaim.
Real smooth, idiot.
I push my hair back, clearing my throat. “All alone, as you can see.”
My smile is so tight it might tear through my skin. Dad jerks his chin toward the bathroom.
No. Please, no.
“Open the bathroom door, Daria.”
“Dad…”
“Now.”
I walk over to the bathroom and open it, stepping aside. He is still by the door all the way across the room, but he has a good view of the majority of the bathroom.
“Open the bath curtain.”
“Are you serious right now?”
“Don’t stall. It’s all fun and games until there’s a boy in the house who wants to get into my little girl’s pants.”
I know it’s foolish, but my heart is dancing in my chest at the reminder that he actually cares. Bracing myself and taking a deep breath, knowing he is about to see Penn, I open the curtain in one go. But Penn isn’t there. I bite down on my lower lip to hide my shock, then turn around back to Dad and shrug.
“Accept my apologies, princess.” He smirks. “And while you’re at it, stay away from boys.”
“Fine.”
“I mean, forever.”
“Go away, Dad.”
“Go to bed. Daddy loves you.”
As soon as he shuts the door, I re-enter the bathroom, looking around frantically. There’s no window, so where on earth is Penn?
“Down here, hideous little monster.” I hear a chuckle.
He is fully clothed, lying in the bathtub, smiling up at me with that grin that can crack up the sky and pull the sun closer.
“Move,” I growl, stepping in with him.
We lie there, him hugging me in the tub, until we drift asleep. There’s no more talking or fingering or kissing. Just the two of us, soaked in something wrong that feels so right.
At half past four, his alarm goes off. We both fumble back to our rooms, and when we reach our doors, his closes with a hiss, not a slam. I smile to myself.
Small victories.
I hate lying to your face
But I love watching what I can do to you
When my mouth says things
That undo you
The next day, I help my mother in the kitchen. She takes out a vegetable casserole from the oven at the same time I’m chopping a tomato for a salad.
“That looks like way too many vegetables and not enough meat. Right, Scully?” Dad walks through the front door and into the kitchen and plants a kiss on my forehead, then on Mel’s lips. Bailey is excused from helping today because she has an exam tomorrow, and besides, Melody says her grueling ballet schedule has left her extra tired.
“Damn straight, sir.” Penn waltzes into the house behind him, still in his football gear. I check the time on the grandfather clock across the room. Seven forty-five. Something kept him in San Diego for an extra hour after practice. Someone, maybe. Addy, probably.
Don’t get jealous. You don’t have the right to get jealous.
“Baby, we need to talk about Bailey’s homeschooling and the other thing.” Melody kisses my dad on the lips, and entirely too much kissing is going on in this kitchen to keep my appetite healthy.
Hold on, what? Bailey is quitting school?
I shoot Melody a look.
“Oh, it’s nothing.” She waves away what must be my bitchiest expression to date. “We’re just trying to make it easier for Bails now that she has six ballet classes a week.”
So I was right, after all. Melody was going to take Bailey and Via and move with them to London. I bet she is devastated that Bailey is hell-bent on staying in Todos Santos with the rest of the Totholes—children of the Hotholes.
“Do I have time for a quick shower? Didn’t catch one at school,” Penn asks.
I smirk to myself, my eyes still on the tomatoes. My mother is very strict about dinnertime unless we have a really good excuse, and we’re already forty-five minutes late to the table. Banging your baby momma, in case Penn is wondering, is not one. She already moved it back once since he moved in to accommodate his football schedule.
She won’t move it back again.
“Sure,” Mel chirps. “Bailey’s not done with her homework, anyway.”
I stand there, slack-mouthed, trying hard not to snap at her. She’d have never let me get away with something like this.
I dump all the vegetables inside the salad bowl in sharp movements.
“Here,” I growl. “I’m going to watch The Real Housewives of Dallas until we eat.”
“Or you can stay with me, and we can look at the new Chanel catalog,” Melody suggests, cracking open a bottle of white wine.
“No thanks,” I quip.
“Hey, maybe we could—”
“Nope.” I plaster my most plastic smile, making a show of batting my eyelashes. “Please don’t embarrass us both by trying again. Even if you offer me a shopping spree in Milan, the answer will still be no.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re eating dinner. Spirits are high. Bailey’s excitement about her ballet classes is contagious. The girl is entirely too perfect compared to the huge bag of flaws that is moi.