Reckless (4 page)

D
ante

“
Y
ou should’ve told
me your place was being renovated.” My younger brother, Cristiano, stands outside my hotel room at Noir, a loaded duffel bag hanging from his shoulders. “How goes it,
fratellone
?”

“Cristiano, good to see you. Looking well traveled these days.” I lean in, giving my kid brother a one-armed hug. “Come on in, kid. Kick your feet up. You want a drink?”

He spent the better part of this year backpacking through various parts of the world after finishing law school and deciding then and there that he didn’t want to be an attorney after all.

“Still taking Fridays off, I see,” my brother teases, dropping his bag at my feet and moving toward the mini bar to help himself. His hair is longer than it was the last time I saw him, and his skin is a darker shade of bronze than the one he was born with.

“Still couch surfing, I see.”

“Touché. It’s the best way to see the world,” he says, uncapping a tiny bottle of whiskey and lifting it to his nose. “Whew. Strong stuff.”

I hook a thumb over my shoulder, pointing toward the door. “I’m on my way to the gym. Meeting a guy for racquetball. You want to come?”

Cristiano shakes his head and kicks off his dusty sneakers, climbing into my bed and slipping his hands beneath his head. “Nah. I’m going to stay here for a bit. Relax. Maybe take a nap on a
real
bed. Been traveling all day. Want to go out later?”

“Yeah.” I grab my wallet and keys from the valet on the dresser and check my phone for the fifteenth time today. “We can do that.”

I keep getting this urge to text Maren back. To keep it going. To pick up where we left off. But part of me thinks that ship has sailed. Opportunity knocked and Maren answered with a resounding “No.”

Honestly, I don’t know what happened next.

The truth is anything could’ve happened next.

We’ll never know.

A few minutes later, I’m standing in front of Hotel Noir dressed for the gym, under the midnight-black awning and waiting for the valet driver to come around with my car. I’m not normally a fan of valet, but parking in downtown Seattle is a pain, and it’s a complimentary service so I’ll make an exception.

The driver parks my car in front of the valet stand, and I slip him a tip before climbing into the driver’s seat. My phone buzzes in the moments before I’m about to shift into drive, and my heart skips for one illogical second.

It’s from my racquetball partner, Ridley.

Of course it is.

I scoff at myself. No, I laugh. It’s quite humorous that I’d even assume for a fraction of a second that Maren might be texting me again. What reason would she have? I blew her off like a jackass who just had to get the last word in.

I text Ridley that I’m on my way, pull out of the parking lot, and veer west. I need a good solid hour of sweating and grunting and hitting balls – which sounds dirty – but some of my most favorite things in the world involve getting sweaty and breathless, even if it’s not in a sexual way. There’s something about pushing yourself that cleanses the body and spirit. that, I’m going to come home, hit the shower, and then go out for drinks with the kid brother I only see once a year. If I play my cards right, I might not think about Maren the rest of today.

For some insane reason, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head all day.

But it needs to stop.

Now.

There’s no good reason for her to be there taking up valuable space when she wants nothing to do with me. Plus, every thought I think about that hourglass sexpot is another reminder of the way she rejected me.

Fuck, that was that cold.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been rejected. Matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time. High school maybe?

Yeah. It was high school.

Some hot-to-trot senior cheerleader with Coke-bottle curves who didn’t date freshmen. Dayana Torres was her name.

I’m sensing a theme here.

* * *

B
y the time
I pull into the parking lot, my palms are twitching in anticipation and I’m craving the smack and pop sounds the racquetball makes as it hits the walls. Within ten minutes, I’m laced up and hammering out a few stretches as Ridley gives me a wave from his corner of the court.

“About damn time.” Ridley slides his thumb across his phone, reads a text, and then returns his cell to his gym bag. “Didn’t think you were coming.”

“Why wouldn’t I come?”

“Because I kicked your ass last week.”

“First time for everything.” I grab a ball, bounce it on the ground a couple times, and catch it with the dexterity only an Amato brother could have. My oldest brother is a retired professional baseball pitcher. Athleticism is in our DNA. “Came back to kick your ass again, Rid. Remind you who’s boss.”

“Ha.” Ridley shakes his head and grips the handle of his racquet, keeping his eye on the ball as it soars back at us. He lunges toward it, meeting the rubber ball with a swift smack. “Not for much longer.”

“Come on,” I say with a grunt, smacking the ball when it comes my way. “Why’s it always about business with you?”

“I’m a businessman.” Ridley whacks the ball, sweat dripping down his temple. Though it may be hair product. The man’s hair is in a constant, shiny, wet state and it’s not from the Seattle rain. And it never moves. That’s not normal.

I don’t answer, I keep my eye on the ball. Every time I get together with this asshole, he attempts to discuss the buyout he propositioned me with last year. Ridley was born with a silver spoon, gifted with a million dollars upon graduation from our alma mater, Washington State, and wasted no time buying up software start-ups and becoming disgustingly wealthy.

My company is successful, but it was built from the ground up. Late nights. Long hours. Hard work. I didn’t capitalize on anyone else’s success. I created mine from thin air. My blood. My sweat. My tears.

And he wants it.

It kills him that I won’t give it to him, but I know it’s worth more than the paltry ten million he’s trying to buy it for.

“Until you make me an offer I can’t refuse,” I say, slightly winded, “we’re shelving this discussion.”

I smack the ball so hard it hits the far wall and flies back so fast he misses his opportunity to swing.

We’re playing best of three, but he seems distracted today, frustrated even, so my money’s on two and done.

“Anyway,” I say, grabbing the errant ball and tossing it to him. He rolls it in his palm, contemplating his serve. “What’s new? How’s that girl you’ve been seeing? Tierney?”

“Psh.” Ridley exhales, bounces the ball, and then serves. “We’re done. I was sick of the games. Hot one minute, cold the next. I don’t have time for that shit. Remind me never to date a twenty-two-year old again. She has a lot of growing up to do, and I’m not in the market to do any raising. Give me a
woman
, am I right?”

The ball pops on the wall and flies back, and I grip my racquet. “I saw this woman last night.”

“Oh yeah?” Ridley glances my way.

“Smoking hot. Sexy as fuck. She was hanging out in the bar of my hotel. After she left, her friend came up and gave me her number.”

“No shit? Did you text her?”

“I did.”

“And?” Ridley hits the ball with a lazy swing.

I spare him the details, because I realize from the outside, it’ll make her look crazy. And I don’t think she’s crazy. I think she’s very opinionated and maybe a little Type A, but she’s not crazy. I’ve seen crazy. I’ve dated crazy. She’s not it.

“We texted for a bit, but it didn’t go anywhere,” I say, scoring another point on him. “Come on, Rid, bring your A-game. This is pathetic.”

“You’re distracting me,” he groans. “I thought you were going to have one of your famous Dante stories, but
that
was pathetic. Actually kind of feel sorry for you.”

I laugh. I feel kind of sorry for me too.

“You going to try again?” he asks. “I’ve never known you to back down from a challenge. It’s basically your
modus operandi
.”

Exhaling, I’m momentarily distracted, and he scores on me.

“Shit.” I rub my hand along the five o’clock shadow that covers my jaw. “Yeah. You have a point.”

“I know. I just scored on you.”

“No, I mean, you have a point when you said I never back down from a challenge,” I say. “And I’m not about to start now.”

M
aren

T
he ticking
of the grandfather clock in the hall fills my empty house Friday night. It’s been one hell of a week, and if I have to scan another document I think I might scream, but I made a noticeable dent in those boxes and that feels kind of good.

My fingers drum against the side table in the living room, inches from a half-filled glass of Riesling. I know I should pamper myself. I should indulge in a fantastically cheesy romance movie and do a mud facial and paint my nails and call Saige and meet her at Target for a minimum two-hour shopping spree.

But for some insane reason, none of that appeals to me.

The boys came home this past Monday night, attended school all week, and went back to their dad’s earlier today. That’s two weekends in a row without them, but this month’s schedule is slightly off because my ex felt the need to sweep his lady friend away for a ski weekend in Aspen.

It’s only been a few hours, but I miss my boys already.

Even if they smell funny sometimes.

Even if they eat me out of house and home.

Even if I’m breaking up fights the two of them are much too old to be having.

But here I am. Unmoving. Unmotivated. Un . . . everything.

I’m not sure if I’m just not in the mood or if I only have the desire to do those things when I don’t have the time. So many times I’ve laid on this sofa, exhausted after a day of running the boys to baseball and karate and catching up on laundry, and I’ve daydreamed about what I’d do with mountains of free time, but now that I have that, I feel paralyzed.

Grabbing my phone, I text Saige and ask what she’s up to.

She replies within minutes: PLAYING DUTIFUL HOSTESS. ROB IS HAVING A POKER PARTY. WANT TO HELP ME KEEP THE CHIP BOWLS FILLED? IT’S SUPER FUN. I KEEP SWAPPING THEIR NACHO CHEESE DORITOS WITH SPICY NACHO CHEESE DORITOS, AND I CAN TELL IT’S PISSING ROB OFF BUT HE WON’T LOSE HIS COOL IN FRONT OF HIS BUDDIES. I’M CHEAPLY ENTERTAINED TONIGHT.

I laugh, and my chest tightens a little. I used to do those kinds of things for Nathan. He hosted UFC watch parties at least twice a month, and we were damn near internationally known for our amazing Super Bowl gatherings. People came from miles around for my secret recipe “crack dip.”

I fire a text and hit send: I THINK I’LL PASS. BUT IF YOU GET BORED LATER, YOU SHOULD COME OVER.

Three bubbles bounce on the screen and then her messages comes through: I TOTALLY WOULD, ANGELFACE, BUT I’M PRETTY DUCKING FRUNK RIGHT NOW.

I snort.

I’d text the other girls, but I know they’re all busy with their kids and husbands and social schedules. And jeez, if I want to see Gia, I have to schedule it out months in advance.

DO SOMETHING CRAZY TONIGHT, Saige fires back. I DARE YOU.

I STOPPED ACCEPTING DARES IN THE SEVENTH GRADE, I reply.

Saige sends me a slew of emojis. A chicken first. Then a pile of poop. After that, an angry face shaded in red. And then a blue heart. And then a building and a check mark. I chuckle at her randomness, but I feel like I know what she’s trying to say despite it all.

Translation?
“You are chicken shit. It pisses me off. I love you anyway. You should go out. I approve.”

I send her back two pink hearts and check the time. It’s nine o’clock. I try to picture what my boys are doing. They should be in bed, but I know Nathan’s been desperately playing the role of the “cool, fun, no rules dad” lately, letting the boys eat whatever they want and stay up as late as they want every time they’re over there.

He’s such a competitive ass. Sometimes I think he forgets that
he
cheated on
me
. All of this was
his
doing, not mine. I’m not sure what he thinks he has to prove. I’ve tried discussing consistency and routine with him, stressing the importance of those things since we have split custody. Nathan usually tells me what I want to hear, like he always has, and ends the discussion before it gets halfway off the ground.

Week after week, I’ve suggested professional counseling so that we can learn to co-parent effectively. It’s not about us. It’s about the boys. But apparently Lauren, the woman who replaced me, has talked him out of it time and time again. I’ve never officially met her because Nathan’s afraid I’ll say something brash, but my gut tells me she’s threatened by me, and that makes her unwilling to share the time and attention she so fearlessly stole from me.

If she only knew.

I
don’t
want Nathan. Not anymore.

He’s
all
hers.

She can have him.

I washed my hands clean of him the second I saw her text messages on his phone and that wide-eyed “Oh, shit” look on his face when he knew he’d been caught.

I just want what’s best for the two children we created and brought into this world.

One of these days, I’ll get to meet Lauren. And I’ll say what needs to be said in the most adult way possible.

Because that’s what grown adults do.

I’m not sure how old Lauren is. Beck said she was twenty, but I know that’s not true. I heard her in the background once, when I was on the phone with Nathan. She sounded mid-twenties maybe? I asked Dash how old he thought she was once and he shrugged, like he was too cool to care nor did he think it was an important question. I was only curious.

They like her. A lot.

And I’m not a jealous person, but hearing the way they talk about Lauren sends a burn straight through my middle sometimes. Most of the time I force a smile, brush it off, and change the subject.

I have no other choice here but to embrace my new reality, as messy and complicated as it may be, and focus on the things I
can
control.

I can’t control Lauren.

I can’t control the fact that she has Nathan’s balls in one hand and my boys eating out of the other. She can have my sloppy seconds. But I’ll be damned if my boys so much as hint that they like her more than me.

Settling into the sofa cushions, I rest my hand across my stomach and then tug at the hem of my running tank top. I’ve spent the entire day in yoga pants and it was
ah
-mazing. I should do this more often.

Letting my mind wander, it goes a bit all over the place before settling on that Dante guy from the bar last week. I spent all last weekend thinking about him, and then I spent a lot of this past week frustrated that he didn’t get back to me.

Perhaps some of it was my own fault. I wasn’t exactly a sweet Southern belle when he called, but damn him. I wanted to hear the rest of the story. I
needed
to know what happened next. He exacted his revenge by leaving me high and dry. The man clearly is no amateur, and this most definitely isn’t his first rodeo.

This is why I won’t screw around with younger men.

They fuck your mind.

And they play games.

And I’m too old for games.

I don’t have the energy for games. I have a house to maintain. Boys to raise. A twenty-four-year-old boss to kiss up to.

Ha.

Grabbing the remote from the coffee table, I scroll through the channel listing and settle on a Lifetime movie about a psycho nanny because I’m feeling like a classy broad tonight. No sooner do the opening credits roll when I get a text alert on my phone. Sitting up, I slide the phone across the coffee table and bring it close.

NATHAN: DASH HAD AN ACCIDENT. MEET ME AT THE GRACETOWN EMERGENCY ROOM.

My heart leaps into my throat, my face flushing and my thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, going every which direction. Scrambling off the couch, I run toward the kitchen, tossing my phone in my purse and yanking my keys off the hook by the back door.

A minute later, my eyes fill with hot tears that cloud my vision, and I’m starting the engine of my SUV and punching the garage door opener in the visor above my head. Only when my right foot presses into the brake pedal do I realize I’m shoeless.

Quickly checking my backseat, I spot a pair of Dash’s baseball cleats. They’re smelly and mud-covered, but he’s got big feet, and I’m willing to bet they’ll fit. I’ll slip them on when I get there. Seconds later, I’m tearing out of the driveway, burning rubber down Sycamore Street and trying to remember how to get to the Gracetown ER. My boys are never sick. They never get hurt. I pride myself on ensuring they’re the healthiest, most accident-free boys this side of the Mississippi.

White-knuckling it the entire way, I find a few signs and follow them to Gracetown. By the time I arrive, I have zero recollection of the drive there. Veering into a close parking spot in the front row, I almost forget to shift into park before I shut off the engine.

A minute later, I’m run-walking toward the sliding doors with the bright red letters that read EMERGENCY above them. My stomach is twisted and my throat is dry. I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow. I can’t think.

The clip-clomp of the baseball cleats on my feet annoy the ever-loving fuck out of me, but I try to tune them out. I’m sure I look ridiculous. Cleats. Yoga pants. Neon orange runner’s tank top. Hot purple sports bra underneath. Zero makeup. Thick librarian glasses. Hair piled into a messy knot on top of my head.

But none of that matters.

I have to find my son.

I approach the check-in desk and I’m met with a tired stare from an overworked receptionist.

“May I help you?” she asks, her words robotic.

“Yes,” I say, panting. “I’m Maren Greene. Dashiell Greene’s mother.”

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink.

“He’s here. My husband – my
ex
-husband – said he’s here. I need to see him. Where is he? I need to go to him.” My words are frantic, but not nearly as frantic as the uncontrollable rate at which my heart is pounding in my chest.

The receptionist yawns, then slowly reaches for her computer mouse, squinting at the screen before her.

I wait, unable to stand still and left cleat tapping on the tile floor. Glancing around, the room is full of people waiting, some half-asleep, some clutching appendages, others staring dead-eyed at the TV mounted in the corner and tuned to some sports channel.

My fingers drum against the counter and I stare at the receptionist harder, as if that’s enough to make her move a little faster.

“What was the name again?” she asks, tongue clucking as she talks.

“Dashiell,” I say. “Two Ls.”

She types his name with her two pointer fingers and squints harder at the screen. “I’m not seeing anything.”

“D-A-S-H-I-E-L-L,” I say slowly, enunciating each letter with perfection.

“Oh.” The woman lifts her hand to her lips. “I wasn’t putting the I in there.”

“The I is silent,” I say.

She types it in again and then shakes her head. “Still not seeing it.”

“Oh, for the love of God.” I rest my palm across my forehead, chin tucked and muttering under my breath. “Greene has an E on the end.”

“Is there a problem here?” A man’s voice asks from behind me. The take-charge boom in his question makes the receptionist sit up straighter. I watch her eyes go to him, and I pull in a hard breath, turning around to see who my knight in shining armor might be.

My eyes lock on his first, and everything around me stops for a few endless seconds. Dark lashes frame amber-green irises, and his jawline stretches into a tight curve.

“Maren,” he says. “I thought that was you.”

My heart thunders, drowning out my thoughts, making me forget why I’m here.

“Dante.” I say his name like we’ve met before, like we’re old friends. I didn’t see him up close that night, at least not this close, but I know it’s him. And I know his voice. I know how capable it is of giving me goosebumps and sending my body into a tightly wound, dog-in-heat frenzy with just a few dirty sentences.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“My son . . .” I start to say. “He’s here. I’m just trying to find him.”

Dante’s dark brows furrow as he glances past me, stare trained on the receptionist. “This woman needs to find her son. Is there a reason he’s not coming up in your system?”

“I think she’s spelling his name wrong,” I mutter under my breath.

He steps past me, reaching down to the woman’s desk and helping himself to a pen emblazoned with the hospital’s logo and a Post-It note covered in the Xanax logo, which is crazy because I could really use one right now.

“Here,” he says, handing them to me. “Write his name down. I’ll wait here until she finds him in her system.”

The receptionist tucks her poufy, gray-blonde hair behind her ears and yanks the paper from my hands when I’m finished. She types quicker this time, her expression softening a moment later.

“He’s in room thirty-two,” she says.

“There.” Dante smiles, and I feel the warmth of his palm on the small of my back. For a moment, I wonder how long it’s been there. Everything feels pretty surreal right now, and I’m struggling to exist at the moment.

Sensory overload.

“Th-hank you,” I sputter out, searching for the doors that will lead me out of the waiting area and closer to my son.

Dante nods, hands hooked on his hips. Everything’s a bit of a blur, but in the slivered seconds that pass, I see he’s dressed in slim gray slacks with a skinny black belt and a white button down. He smiles a half-smile, his eyes holding steady on mine.

I don’t have time to ask why he’s here or if he’s okay. I assume he’s okay. I mean, he looks okay.

Dashing down the hall, I find myself standing outside room thirty-two a short while later, and I spot my oldest son’s familiar foot, bare, and sticking out from a white hospital blanket on a rolling hospital bed.

“Oh, god,” I say, clutching my chest and rushing into the room. “Nathan, what happened?”

Glancing at my son, he wears a solemn expression. His dark eyes move between his father’s and mine. He looks okay. He’s alive. He’s awake. Those are all good signs. I scan him from head to toe, stopping when I see a giant icepack on his left ankle.

Oh, thank God.

“Dash, care to tell your mother what happened tonight?” Nathan takes a stern tone with our son, but I know it’s all for show.