Pretty and Reckless (2 page)

“I lost it,” I told him, shrugging my shoulders like it was no big deal.

He opened up the car door, careful not to let go of me, and helped me into the heated leather seat. I situated myself carefully as open vents blew warm air onto my face.

“How could you have possibly lost your shoe in this weather?” He asked, the driver’s side door slamming shut when he got in. “And why are you even wearing shoes like that?” He motioned out the window. “It’s snowing.”

Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious

“It’s a long story,” I said, and the car went silent. “That I don’t want tell.”
 

He buckled his seatbelt. “Fine, how about you explain what happened to your face then?”

I waved my hand through the hot air. “I don’t want to talk about that, either.”
 

“Too bad. I’m not pulling away from this spot until you do.”

My eyes burned when the interior light flashed on, illuminating the entire car, and spotlighting every bruise and cut on my face. If I looked even half as bad as I felt, I looked pretty damn bad. Pain inflicted through me, but I wasn’t sure where every ache was coming from. I hurt
everywhere.

I’d taken a few blows to the face, was having a hard time opening up one eye completely, and tasted blood along my swollen lips. I was positive my ribs were cracked because it felt like Oliver was ramming his foot into my side again with every move.

“Shit,” he hissed, studying my face. I flinched when his chilly hand reached out to lightly caress my chin and get a better look. “We need to call the cops.”

He grabbed for his phone sitting in the cup holder, but I smacked his hand away from it. “No, no cops,” I told him.

He looked at me, startled. “What? We have to call the cops. I’ll drive you. You’ll be safe. Nobody will hurt you.”

Dear God, I felt like I was listening to a self-help ad.

“I’m not going to the cops.”

He’d kick my ass if this were made public. Oliver’s family couldn’t afford this kind of blemish on their name, and I knew my dad would lose all of the government pull he had in Chicago if I opened up my mouth.

“You were assaulted and you’re not going to report it?” He asked, slowly, looking at me like I’d lost my mind.

I nodded, completely aware I’d lost my mind a long time ago. “Correct.”

“We at least need to call your dad. Maybe he’ll talk some sense into you.” If my face hadn’t hurt so badly, I would’ve busted out in laughter.

“He’s out of town,” I lied.

There was no way in hell I was calling him. I would’ve called Oliver’s drunken, woman-beating ass before I’d dial his number.

His teeth clenched, his jaw ticking, as he eyed me suspiciously. “I’m sure he has a cell phone, Elise.”

“I’m not calling him,” I snapped, losing patience.

“Then we’ll go to the hospital,” he insisted.

“We won’t be going to the hospital, either.” My face would heal up in a few days. I didn’t need anyone else knowing about this.

He blew out a frustrated breath. “So you don’t want to go to the hospital, you don’t want to go to the cops, and you don’t want to tell me what happened?”

I nodded again. “That’s right.”

He scrubbed his hands over his clean-shaven face. “Then why did you call me?”

I ignored the pain when I bit into the edge of my lip. “I didn’t have anyone else to call.”

His face fell as he looked over at me with his fingers knotted around the steering wheel. “Tell me what you’d like me to do for you,” he said, slowly. “This goes against everything I stand for, but I can’t force you to get help. Would you like me to take you home?”

I shook my head, sinking back into my seat. “I can’t go home like this.” I had a beat-up face, was wearing a ripped dress, and a single heel. There was no way he wouldn’t hear that I’d come walking through the entrance looking like a battered hooker.

“Is there somewhere else I can take you?”

“I have nowhere else to go,” I answered, honestly. If I went to the hospital, I’d be in trouble. If I went home and people saw me like this, there’d be repercussions. My choices were minimal.
 
“You can rent me a hotel room,” I finally said, narrowing it down to my last resort. “It has to be a sketchy one, under your name, and you have to sneak me in. I have plenty of cash.” I opened up my clutch and pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills.

He brows pulled in. “That would look even worse. Look, you can stay at my place, but this stays between the two of us, got it? This could be really bad for me.”

I nodded, shoving the money back into my bag. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

He geared the car, but stomped his foot onto the brake before pulling away. I got nervous when his deep, dark eyes focused in on me. Something was about to happen and I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like it.

“One more thing,” he said.

I fidgeted with my seatbelt. “What?”

“If I do this, you have to come see me this week.”

Was he crazy? He was fucking crazy.

I shook my head, giving him my best one-eyed glare. “Nu uh, absolutely not. You can drop me back off at that corner because that’s not happening.” I wrapped my hand around the door handle, fully ready to make a run for it if necessary.

I shrieked at the sound of the car doors locking. “Did you really just lock me in?” I asked, my face burning.

He held up three fingers. “Three meets. You agree to it or I’m leaving the doors locked and calling the cops. Three meets, that’s all I’m asking for. You agree and I’ll pull away right now.”

He was blackmailing me. The asshole was blackmailing me. “Fine,” I said, coldly. “I’ll play your ridiculous game.”

His foot stayed on the brake. “Promise me.”

“What are we in fifth grade?” I snarled, resisting the urge to slap him upside his head. “Would you like to circle pinkies, and spit into each other’s palms, too?” I was throbbing everywhere. I didn’t have the toleration to deal with his psychological bullshit. “In case you haven’t realized it, my head fucking hurts, and I have blood all over me.”

“Promise me, that’s all you have to do. It’s easy.”

“Fine,” I groaned out. “
I fucking
promise.”

EIGHTEEN HOURS EARLIER

ELISE

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing the cup from the barista in my glove-covered hand and taking a seat in the back of the coffee shop. The cold winter draft spilled over me each time the frosted door opened with another customer piling in.

I settled into my seat, draping my coat along the back of the chair next to me, and brought the cup to my lips. The sweet liquid scorched the end of my tongue before I swallowed it down quickly.
 
Peppermint, yum.

I settled my elbows down, feeling the sticky table underneath them, and tucked my chin into the palm of my hand. Customers scurried around the shop, spilling creamer, and sprinkling sugar into their cups hurriedly. They bumped into each other without apology as they struggled to make it to work on time. A few sat at tables, positioned in front of their laptops and oblivious to the chaos surrounding them with the help of the headphones connected to their ears. Two middle-aged men transferred documents back and forth, their faces and voices both heated.

Then there was me: the loner with no headphones, no computer, and nobody. Those people: the ones scurrying, studying, arguing, they were all living. I was just
there.
 
I was just surviving.

I quickly looked away from the men when they caught me staring and that’s when I saw him. I jerked my head back, did a scan of the shop, and then looked back his way. It couldn’t be him. Why would he be there?

He’d become the new focus of my attention. I watched him brush melting snowflakes off of the disarrayed amaretto curls flying in every direction at the top of his head, shaking them out, while he patiently waited in line. He slid his black-framed glasses off, cleaned them, and then pushed them back up his nose. A faded, dark green flannel shirt peeked out from underneath his bulky coat and a thick scarf was wrapped around his neck.

I fell back in my seat. His actions weren’t entertaining in the least, but for some reason, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. I squinted a few times, still questioning myself, but I knew it was
him
.

We’d met only once, but I never forgot a face, especially one that I’d wanted to smack an obnoxious smile off of. We’d met three years ago when he’d tried, and failed to put me in my place. He’d looked at me like I was some study project he was going to get graded on, and I didn’t like that.

So I did what I did best. I’d figured out my own way to get him to leave me alone. My way had also most likely gotten him fired, and he had to know it was my fault. There was no way he didn’t hate me.

He gave the barista a friendly grin when it was his turn to order and slipped a few bills into the tip jar. She handed him his coffee, an extra smile on the side, and he thanked her graciously. The guy was too damn nice. Another reason why I didn't liked him.
 

I took another sip of my latte. Should I say something? Hell no, absolutely not. I needed to put my head down and study the table until he left. If he saw me, it would be weird, and extremely uncomfortable. The guy standing inches away from me adding creamer to his coffee knew too much about me. He knew where I’d been. He knew what I’d gone through, whether or not he chose to believe me was a different story, but he knew my struggles.

He also had to know that I’d been the one who’d tried to destroy his career. I’d told him to do the one thing I knew would have him packing his bags.
 

“Elise.”

My eyes flew up at the sound of my name. He stood in front of me with the same smiled he’d given the barista plastered on his face. I stared at him, our eyes locking, while I waited to see where he was going with this. I silently prayed it wasn’t him throwing his drink in my face to get even, scorching my face for scorching his career.
 

“I thought that was you,” he finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I replied, awkwardly, setting my cup down. I’d never actually run into someone from there before. I’d been sent five hours away for that very reason. He’d wanted me far enough so that people didn’t recognize me, but still close so he could choke me with his leash if I decided to make a run for it.

He’d lie about where I’d been. He’d tell them I was away visiting my grandmother, (who was actually living six-feet under), or that I was studying abroad. I doubted anyone actually believed him, given my reputation. My father tried his damnedest to keep our family name clean while I tried my damnedest to trash it.

I was Elise Parks, the out-of-control slutty heir to one of Chicago’s most prominent entrepreneurs. I was the girl who couldn’t keep her legs closed, her hand absent
of
a drink, or her blood stream clean of narcotics. I wore trouble with a crown and I wore it proud.

My infamy started on my fourteenth birthday. After raiding my father’s liquor cabinet with Holly, we’d decided it would be a splendid idea to do cartwheels down the middle of my street. Of course, the cops were called and we were taken away in handcuffs. I remembered how delighted I was when my father came charging into the police station, his face stricken with fury. The outrage and backlash he’d received from my actions made me happy. They made me so happy that I continued to do stupid shit to watch it happen over and over again.

But I was trying to break away from that role now. I wanted to progress, I wanted to move forward, but I was having trouble shedding my reputation. I’d forever be known as the lying, alcoholic slut.

“What are you doing around these parts?” He asked, his brow raising.

“I live here.” I took a drink. “What are you doing here?”

His fingers curled around the edge of the chair across from me and his stomach grazed the back when he leaned into it. “Me too, my family lives here.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said, nervously.

Did he get fired? Did he tell them what I’d said? Was he threatened?”

“As much fun as my job can be,” he said, around a chuckle. “So tell me, how have you been?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I haven’t popped any pills recently, I’ve been clean for three years, and I’m a legal adult so I can pretty much spread my legs to whomever I please,” I rambled off, giving him a smug smile. “So I’d say I’m doing pretty damn good.”

He scowled, his dark brows furrowing together. I could tell he was still as uptight as when we’d met. “Okay, shit, sorry,” I said, holding my hand up and giving him my best look of innocence. “I’ve been on my best behavior.”

He unhooked the chair and shifted back on his heels. “I’m glad to hear that. I expect to never see you back there again?”

My back stiffened and every one of my fingers tingled against my cup. “You still work there?” I asked, around a gulp.

He glanced down at his wet boots. “Yes, a few days a week until they find a replacement for me.” We looked away from each other, the awkwardness getting stronger, until he broke it with a clap of his hands. “So never again, deal?”

“Never say never, Weston,” I mumbled.

I’d been doing my best to keep out of trouble. I’d handed over my sword, giving up my battle of divulging my story, and allowed him to cut away what little self-dignity I had. I gave it all up so I could be free. I wanted to move on with my life, and I knew if I kept trying to get my truth out, I’d only keep getting knocked back down. So I took the cowardly way out and gave up.

But I wasn’t sure how long that behavior would last, either. I wasn’t a methodical thinker. I was more careless, unsystematic, and irrational during my moments of weakness. I made my decisions spare of the moment, never considering the consequences until it was too late. It was fucked up, and in my fucked up mind I knew that. Fucked up people do fucked up things, it’s in our fucking nature.

“I’m a never say never kind of guy, Miss Parks,” he said, setting his cup down onto the table to pull out his wallet. “What can I say? I like to see the glass as half full.” He plucked out a card and slid it my way. “Here’s my card. Call me if you ever find yourself in one of those
never say never
situations.”

I looked at the card warily, eyeing him suspiciously, when a loud ringing came from his pocket. What was his motive?

He snagged his phone from his jacket and looked down at the screen. “My sister,” he said, holding the phone up in the air. “I promised to babysit.” He silenced the call and shoved it back into his pocket. “Try to stay out of trouble,” he called over his shoulder, heading towards the door.

I waited until the bell rung at his departure before grabbing the card.

Dr. Weston Snyder.

 
Dr. Snyder. It had a nice ring to it.

I glanced over to the overflowing trashcan and then back to the card. Should I toss it into the mess? I played with the card in my hands, conflicting if I’d make use of it and then finally threw it into my purse.