Reckless (5 page)

Dash licks his lips, head cocked to the side and eyes filled with shame.

“What happened, baby?” I ask, taking a seat on the side of his bed. I take his hands in mine, which are officially the same size as mine, if not slightly bigger. When did they get so big? I comb his dark waves from his face and lean in closer. “Tell me.”

My son glances at his dad again and then back to me. “Beck was in my room. And he took my iPad. And so I kicked his door down. And then he chased me down the hall, and I jumped over the railing. I meant to land on the sofa, but I missed. Landed on my left foot instead.”

Nathan chuckles. “Boys will be boys.”

“And where were you during all of this?” I snip, turning to him and gifting him a glare.

He lifts his palms flat in the air. “Jesus, Maren, they’re not babies.”

“Right. They’re kids. And they’re boys. And they need to be supervised.” I release an audible groan, turning back to my baby. “This never would’ve happened at my house.”

“Here we go,” Nathan mutters.

“Where’s Beck,” I ask, though I already know the answer.

“At home, with Lauren,” he says.

“Is he in bed?” I check the clock on the wall. It’s almost nine-thirty. “He should be in bed.”

“I. Don’t. Know.” Nathan doesn’t hide the irritation in his tone.

“These boys need structure and supervision and rules,” I say, teeth gritted. This is the Mama Bear in me rearing her unapologetic self. Once she comes out, it’s damn near impossible to put her back in her cage.

“Mom.” Dash gives me a pained look, and I snap out of it. But only for him. I hate seeing him hurt and knowing it could’ve been prevented.

“I’m sorry, baby.” I rub the top of his soft hand, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the forehead. “How are you feeling?”

“It hurts,” he says. “But the ice helps.”

“Have they done x-rays yet?” I ask him.

“No,” Nathan answers. “They’re coming to get him soon.”

“Mom?” Dash asks, brows raised.

“Yes?”

“Are you . . . are you wearing my cleats?” he asks, mouth twisted as he stifles a grin. It’s good to see him smile. It soothes my Mama Bear heart.

Glancing down, my shoulders slump and I laugh through my nose. “Yeah. Yeah, I am, Dash. Is that okay?”

“Alrighty, we’re ready for you, Dashiell,” a nurse announces from the doorway. She pads into the room and brushes the white privacy curtain aside. “Let’s go take a look at that ankle, shall we?”

“I’ll be right here when you get back,” I say, kissing the tips of my fingers and waving as he’s rolled away.

Nathan gives Dash a nod and then retrieves his phone from his pocket. I’m sure he’s about to text Lauren and give her an update, like Lauren somehow gives a flying shit about Dash’s ankle.

Flinging my bag over my shoulder, I head to the hallway in search of a vending machine. Dash loves Snickers bars, and if I can find one for him, it might put a smile on his face when he gets back.

Granted, I probably shouldn’t be rewarding him for doing a bone-headed thing, but I feel like a broken or fractured ankle is punishment enough. And I still blame Nathan. He should’ve been watching the boys, not giving them free rein of his ridiculously oversized McMansion.

Clomping down the tile hall in my cleats, I spot a slew of vending machines at the end. Fishing in my purse as I walk, I retrieve a dollar and some change and begin my search for a Snickers bar the second I approach a snack machine.

“D7,” I mutter to myself, inserting the money and pressing the buttons. The bar releases and drops with ease, and I swipe down to grab it, feeling like Mother of the Year for all of two seconds. A pair of shiny black dress shoes catch my eye as I’m crouched down, and a lump catches in my throat. Rising, I release my held breath when my eyes find his. “Dante.”

“Maren,” he says.

And God, I love the way he says my name. It’s all deep and throaty, inherently. Not forced. Primal almost.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“It’s for Dash,” I say with a smile. I push my glasses up my nose and remember exactly what I look like. My cheeks warm. I’m a confident woman – most of the time – but looking like a slob in front of a man who looks like a million bucks throws me off my game a little. I’m only human.

“How’s he doing? He okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. Thank you. Hurt his ankle fighting with his brother.”

Dash’s lips, which I’m now noticing are soft and full and framed with a hint of a five o’clock shadow, curl up at the corners. “I know how that goes. Grew up with a whole houseful of brothers. We practically lived at the ER.”

“What about you?” I ask, head tilted slightly. “Everything okay with you?”

His smile fades and his amber-green eyes roll. “Yeah. My kid brother decided tonight would be the perfect night to get in a bar brawl with some juiced-up asshole who said something he didn’t like.”

“Is he okay?”

Dante nods. “Oh, yeah. Broken nose. It’ll get reset. He’ll have a good shiner or two for a few days and then he’ll be on his way.”

I spot movement from the corner of my eye, just past Dante’s shoulder, and I glance up to see Nathan standing a few doors down, watching the two of us. I try not to smile, but it secretly pleases me to see him so curious.

There is a karma god, and tonight she’s pulling favors for me.

Nathan continues to stand there, staring and unmoving, face pinched, cell phone frozen in his hand mid-text.

“I better get back to the room. Told him I’d be there when he comes back. Hope everything goes well with your brother.” I give Dante a gracious smile and squeeze past him, clomping away in my son’s muddy, stinky cleats like a boss.

If that man wanted to fuck me before, I’m sure as hell he’s changing his mind at this very moment.

Oh, well.

It was fun while it lasted.

I pass Nathan on my way back to Dash’s room, and he follows me wearing this stupid, dumbfounded look on his face.

“Who was that?” he asks as soon as we step in, just like I knew he would.

Biting a smile back, I answer him with a simple, “Just someone I know.”

Nathan shoves his phone in his pocket and takes a seat in a guest chair, studying me. “Yeah? What’s his name?”

“Is that really important?” I let my voice trail into a sensual sigh.

My ex clears his throat and sits up straight, eyes glued to me. “Yeah? How’d you two meet? You do, uh, you do that dating app? Swiper or whatever it’s called?”

“Through Saige,” I say. It’s a half-truth, so it’s not a total lie. I feel zero guilt seeing how he lied to me like crazy during the last couple years of our marriage.

Nathan laughs an arrogant laugh, like he finds it hilarious that I’d talk to someone Saige recommended. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. Greene men are bred to be arrogant, I’ve come to learn over the years. And they think they’re smarter than everyone. Nathan’s father is the same way. His older brothers too. It’s why I’m making damn sure my boys favor their Cuban side when it comes to personality.

I want them to be humble. Hardworking. I want them to value family. To make good decisions that benefit everyone and not just themselves.

Nathan never used to be a selfish prick. Somewhere along the line, he sort of evolved. I guess he grew into the man he was always meant to be and that was the beginning of the end of us.

“Okay, we’re back,” Dash’s nurse wheels his bed through the door. “Good news. It’s only a sprain. He’s a very fortunate young man.”

“Oh, thank God.” I clutch my heart and go to his side as the nurse locks the wheels of his bed. “Dash, Jesus, don’t ever do that again.”

Dash gives me a relieved half-smile and nods. “I won’t, Mom.”

“I’m going to have a talk with Beckett about not stealing your things,” Nathan says, like he’s all of a sudden trying to win some parenting award. “You two need to get along better. You used to be close. What happened?”

I want to tell him the divorce happened. Their lives were turned upside down. They’re clearly acting out, and this is a cry for help, but I’m sure he’ll brush me off and tell me they’re just being boys.

“Got you something.” I produce the Snickers bar from my pocket and hand it over. Dash’s face lights up.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome, baby.”

“We’re going to wrap his ankle,” the nurse says. “You’re going to want to RICE. Rest, Ice, Compress, and Elevate.”

We listen to Dash’s discharge instructions. Or rather,
I
listen. Nathan keeps checking his phone and pretending to be tuned in. A few minutes later, the nurse brings a wheelchair around and tells Nathan to check him out at the east desk.

“You going to be okay, sweetie?” I brush Dash’s hair from his face again. I love treating him like a baby. I rarely get the opportunity. The older he gets, the less cool it is to need your mom for anything beyond clean clothes and hot meals and a lift to your friend’s house.

“Yeah, Mom. Go home. I’ll be fine.” He sits up in his wheelchair, and for a fraction of a second I see a young man and not a little boy. He’s so tough. And strong. And I love him so much my heart hurts. I wish I was the one taking him home tonight.

“All right. I’ll see you in a few days,” I say, blowing him a kiss, which turns his cheeks a two shades past scarlet. I totally embarrassed him in front of all these hot nurses, and that makes me chuckle.

Making my way to the parking lot a few minutes later, my cleats scuff and drag across the blacktop pavement. I fish for my keys and hit the unlock button, watching my headlights as they flash twice.

The gentle tread of footsteps behind me pulls my attention, and from the corner of my eye I see the outline of a man walking a few steps behind me. Turning to get a better look, I fight a smile when I see who it is.

Slowing down along the sidewalk in front of the parking lot, I say, “Almost feels like you’re stalking me.”

I hear him laugh, it’s a gentle huff of a laugh. “It would appear that way.”

The headlights of a black sports car parked two spots down from mine flash.

“Just coming out to get my phone charger,” he says with a smug smirk. “Going to be here a while. Turns out broken noses aren’t life-threatening, so we’re not being prioritized.”

He’s beside me now, his pace matching mine. I catch a whiff of his spicy, soapy cologne. It makes my stomach do a somersault, but I refuse to let it show.

“You know I’m still waiting to hear the rest of your story.” I stop in front of my car. He follows suit.

His body angles toward mine, shoulders squaring up, and he smirks. “Yeah, well, I’ve been giving it some thought. That’s why it’s taken me so long to get back to you. And I think
you
should finish the story.”

“
Me?!
” I press my pointer finger against my pounding chest and pray he’s kidding.

“Yeah,” he says. “With your penchant for storytelling and all.”

I lift a single brow, not following.

“You made up that ridiculous story about me having a fiancée in Kansas City and all of that,” he says. “You’re creative.
You
tell
me
what happens next.”

My cheeks burn. I’m horrible at flirting, and he’s clearly very practiced. I haven’t had to do it in a long time, and it seems so natural with him, like a second nature. And that’s probably the very reason why I should be climbing in my car and high-tailing it home instead of standing around on the verge of making a very reckless decision.

“You tell me how it’s going to go,” he says. “I think we left off at the part where . . .”

“It’s your story,” I say, cheeks burning. I’ve never so much as written a dirty word in my life. The mere thought makes my head dizzy and my stomach flip, like a teenage girl who’s diary has just been read by her high school crush. I’m thankful for the dark of night and the sliver of moon in the sky. I can stand tall all I want, but there’s no hiding a good blush. “I couldn’t possibly take it from you.”

“Maren.” He cocks his head to the side, studying me. He’s quiet for a moment and then he pulls his shoulders back. “You’re afraid, aren’t you? You’re afraid of what comes next.”

“What? No.” I take a step back, cleats dragging on the blacktop, and I bump into the hood of my car. “Trust me, it takes a whole hell of a lot more than some dashing stranger to scare me.”

I think about telling him I’ve been through two C-sections and a divorce and one case of appendicitis, and his dimpled, chiseled face and corded-steel arms don’t terrify me in the least, but then I decide to shelve that thought because he doesn’t need any more unflattering visuals of me than he already has.

He laughs through his nose. “No one’s ever called me
dashing
before.”

Suddenly I feel out of touch. I don’t know what twenty-somethings call each other these days. I’ve spent the last twelve years with my nose buried in children’s books and my arms elbows deep in puke, poop, and piss. I’ve had more important things to concern myself with than pop culture slang.

“Has anyone ever called you a sexpot before?”

I wrinkle my nose. “No. Never.”

Sounds dirty.

And kind of hot.

“It just means you’re sexy,” he says with a casual shrug, slightly licking his lips. “It’s a compliment. Not an insult.”

Standing here in this getup, looking like last night’s garbage, I find it hard to believe that this Greek Adonis of a man still finds it appropriate to refer to me as a “sexpot.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re crazy?” I ask, stepping around the hood of my car and reaching for the door handle.

He smirks, his attention trained on me with an intensity that makes my mouth dry and my face numb and my ears ring.

“No. Never,” he says.

“Well you are. You’re crazy.” I fight a smile and climb in, pretending not to notice when he shoves his hands in his pockets and watches me drive away.

D
ante

C
ristiano’s situated
in the corner of the ER waiting room, an ice pack over his nose as we wait for his name to be called. He’s half-asleep, half-drunk, and half-snoring, and I’ve just plugged my phone into a nearby outlet.

It’s been a half hour since Maren left, and I’m not sure how far away she lives, but I’m willing to bet she’s still up.

Sliding my thumb across the screen of my phone, I pull up her number and begin composing a text, stopping after a few words because I’m really not sure what I want to say. I just know I want to talk to her.

She’s funny. And charismatic. And unapologetic. And genuine. And more than all that, she’s sexy as hell. Even in that crazy outfit she had on and her hair all messy and no makeup on. The best part is, I don’t think she even realizes how ridiculously hot she is.

Tapping out a message, I decide to say: YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

A minute passes. I watch the screen like a hawk, waiting with bated breath.

MAREN: I’D LOVE A BEDTIME STORY. PLEASE. YOU’VE GOT MY FULL ATTENTION.

Smiling, I think about responding with some kind of joke about bedtimes and bedtime stories, but then I remember our age difference. It isn’t a big deal to me. At all. But I know women can be sensitive of that sort of thing, and the last thing I want is for her to think I have some kind of MILF fetish.

MAREN: I’M WAITING …

Cristiano snorts and snores, waking himself up and then wincing when the pain hits him square in the nose all over again.

“Keep it iced, buddy,” I say, pressing the ice pack firm into his hand and lifting it higher. Returning to my phone, my heart races in my chest. This woman makes me work like a beast for her attention, and now that I have it, I’m not sure what to do next.

This isn’t me.

I’m cool and collected, self-assured and always ready with a comeback, and here I am, tongue-tied and second-guessing all the things I want to say to her.

I don’t want to screw this up.

I want to screw
her
.

All in due time, of course.

Glancing up, I see a little old lady, curly white hair and knitted sweater, staring at me with the biggest dentured grin I’ve ever seen.

“You remind me of my great-grandson, Benjamin,” she says proudly.

“Th-thank you,” I say.

She continues staring and smiling, and suddenly it feels obscenely inappropriate to tap out some filthy story to the woman I’m desperately trying to fuck. It’ll be even more inappropriate if I were to accidentally get a semi.

Great-Grandma here is seriously killing my mojo.

“He was in the army, you know,” the woman adds, her voice just as crinkled and papery as the skin on her shaking hands.

“Well, that’s wonderful,” I say. “I’m very appreciative of his service to our country.”

She grins bigger. “He used to come see me all the time, and then he got married. They moved out east. Connecticut. You ever been there?”

Oh, sweet Jesus. I’m trapped in a conversation I don’t want to be in, and I see zero exits ahead.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Maren has sent me a string of question marks.

“He has four children,” she adds. “Jaylin . . . Janaya . . . Jenson . . . and what’s the last one’s name? Oh, goodness. I always forget. Oh, right. Jacoby. No. Wait. That’s not it . . . these kids and their names these days. Back in my day, we gave our kids
real
names.”

“Cristiano Amato?” A raven-haired nurse calls from the doorway ahead.

I reach across and tap Cristiano’s arm and he sputters awake, appearing disoriented for a few seconds.

“That’s us,” I say to the lady. “It was lovely chatting with you.”

Her face falls, and I feel sorry for her for a moment, but within seconds I’m following Cris back, and the nurse is asking a million questions that he can’t keep up with. When did this happen? How did this happen? Who did this?

I answer them for him. We were at a bar. Some guy was talking shit about our oldest brother, Alessio, saying he took the easy way out by retiring early and that he was a disgrace to Baltimore Firebirds fans everywhere.

Cristiano overheard and wasted no time socking him across the jaw.

The guy stumbled to the floor.

There was blood.

The guy’s pals circled around my brother.

And then some other guy popped out of his bar stool like some drunk ninja and jabbed Cris square in the nose.

By the time I helped him off the floor, the guys were long gone and the bartender was telling us to get the hell out of his place before he called the cops.

“Noble,” the nurse says, smiling and turning her full attention to my brother. “Your brother’s Ace Amato? I love baseball. Huge Bluewings fan. Please don’t hate me.”

The two of them laugh, and she examines him with gentle hands, standing unnecessarily close. Her perfume fills the small room, some fruity, coco-nutty combination, and I’m thinking she probably just came on shift.

She’s younger, like him, and I can tell she sees clear past the fucked-up nose. She can tell he’s a looker. I roll my eyes and stifle a chuckle. I’m used to this. People act like Cristiano’s some kind of god everywhere we go. I’m convinced half the couches he crashed on over these last couple years belonged to girls hoping they were going to get lucky with that lady-killing bastard.

With Cristiano busy scoring points with his nurse, I retrieve my phone and fire off a text to Maren.

YOU STILL UP? SORRY. THEY CALLED US BACK.

Within seconds she replies, YES. BUT NOT FOR MUCH LONGER.

I write, CAN I TEXT YOU WHEN I LEAVE? HOPEFULLY IT’LL BE SOON. THEY JUST HAVE TO SET HIS NOSE.

She takes a little longer to respond this time, and knowing my luck, she’s already fallen asleep, but lo and behold, my phone buzzes a minute later, only it’s not a text coming through, it’s a phone call.

“Hey,” I answer, keeping my voice low and chin tucked. I turn my back toward Cristiano and his nurse.

“I had to call you,” she says, a sliver of a smile in her tone, “because every time I type the word ‘you,’ it autocorrects to ‘you are a stinky butthead.’ My boys have clearly been messing with my phone.”

I chortle. That’s definitely something my youngest brother, Fabrizio, would’ve done back in the day.

“So I didn’t want to send the wrong message,” she says, “you know, literally.”

“Appreciate it. You may have given me a complex. Thought I left my stinky butthead days back in elementary school.”

“Anyway, I’m still up,” she says, sighing. “Something about rushing to the emergency room to be with your son gives a woman a bit of an adrenaline rush. Not sure when I’ll be wound down for the night.”

“Can I call you when we leave?” I ask, checking on Cris from the corner of my eye.

Maren pauses and then exhales. “Yeah. You can call me.”

Victory is mine.

“Don’t fall asleep,” I say. “We need to hash out this story of ours.”

“Story of
ours
?” she scoffs. “This story isn’t mine to tell. Thought I made that clear earlier.”

“Yeah, it is. I gave it to you. I passed the torch. We’re co-writers now. This is a joint venture. Think of it as a group project.”

“I
hate
group projects.” She groans, but I can almost hear her smile. “There’s always one person trying to pawn their stuff onto the other person, and then the other person ends up doing most of the work.”

“I don’t operate like that,” I say. “I’m a fifty-fifty kind of guy. That’s why I started the story and I want you to finish it. Fifty-fifty.”

“Is your brother an author?” I overhear the nurse ask Cristiano.

Cris coughs. “Oh, god, no. No, no, no.”

I excuse myself and take my call to the hall.

“Think about it,” I say, keeping my voice low. “Think about what you want to happen next.”

I hear her release a long, held breath, and I hope she’s sighing and not yawning.

“I’m going to call you as soon as I get home,” I say.

“This feels like a lot of work,” she replies after contemplative silence.

“Excuse me?”

“Having to be all sexually creative,” she says. “Sometimes I just want to be taken, you know? Like slam-my-back-against-the-wall, crush my mouth with a kiss, shove your hand up my skirt and make me yours. Like that kind of taken. Like romance novel taken.”

My cock throbs, and I try to respond but nothing comes out.

“I’ve spent well over a decade having missionary sex in the dark with the first man who ever kissed me,” she says. “And the sex wasn’t even that good! I never came. Not once.”

“I’m sorry. That’s . . . that’s unacceptable.”

I could make her come. I could make her come
so
hard.

“Jesus. Listen to me. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” She sounds flustered now, embarrassed, and her voice is shaky. “I’m not even sure where I was going with all of this. I’m sorry. I’m tired. I should go to bed.”

“No.” I interject. “Do
not
go to bed, Maren.”

I hear her yawn in the background. There’s no mistaking it this time. So much for her adrenaline rush.

“I’ll finish the damn story myself,” I make a promise out of desperation. “All you have to do is wait up for me. Answer the phone when I call. I’ll tell you what happens next.”

“Fine,” she says, her tone satisfied. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

* * *

“
W
here the hell
is the doctor?” I’m pacing the exam room. We’ve been waiting well over ninety minutes now. “Of course you just had to tell them you wanted your nose re-set by a plastic fucking surgeon.”

“
Gesù Cristo
, Dante, settle down.” Cristiano leans against a wall, eyes fluttering shut. “This is my face we’re talking about. This is how I get laid. I’ve got to keep it looking tight.”

“Do me a favor.” I huff, glancing at the ticking clock above his head. “Next time someone’s talking shit about Alessio, stay the fuck out of it. Fans are allowed to have their opinions, and a lot of people were upset about his retirement. It’s not your job to police them.”

“All right, all right,” he says.

“Not like I didn’t want to beat the shit out of that loser too,” I add. “He wasn’t the first to talk shit about our brother, and he certainly won’t be the last. Got to rise above it. Be better than those trash-talking shitheads.”

“I forgot. You’re a classy millionaire now.” Cristiano rolls his eyes.

I purse my lips and blow a hard breath through my nostrils. “Do not. Do
not
start with me.”

“The hell is your problem? You’re on edge tonight.”

My problem is that I was supposed to call a woman almost two hours ago and because of
Fight Club
over here, she’s probably passed out by now.

It’s almost midnight.

I’m not going to call her.

If she was yawning two hours ago, she’s definitely asleep by now.

Fuck.