Devon Hartford - Reckless

I smiled to myself as the massive bouquet and whoever was carrying them approached the fountain. I felt increasingly nervous as the flowers got closer and closer. By now, I would’ve expected the person holding them to have turned and headed off toward their destination.

But the flower man kept coming, until he stopped right at my feet.

Gulp.

I couldn’t see around the bouquet. Who was it?

Christos?

The flower man lowered the bouquet.

Hunter Blakeley.

Oh, great.

I had a moment to thank the fact that Kamiko wasn’t here to witness yet another guy throwing himself at me. Not that Hunter was right for Kamiko. Hunter was right for himself, and that was about it.

“Hey, Sam,” Hunter smiled.

Yes he was handsome. For once, he didn’t have his aviator sunglasses on and his amber eyes seemed to glow like warm embers in the overcast light.

“Hey, Hunter.” Did I sound like I was groaning? I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t exactly want to be polite to Hunter, either. Not after how he’d treated Romeo and Christos. Screw it. Maybe I needed to be rude.

“I bought these for you,” Hunter smiled, setting the bouquet down on the bench next to me. “Think of it as a peace offering. For what I said to your friend,” Hunter smiled.

Did he expect me to thank him? After what he’d said and done? I glared at him. “He has a name, you know,” I growled.

Hunter’s smile dimmed slightly.

“You don’t even know his name, do you?” I shook my head. “You’re a jerk, Hunter.”

“Would it help if I said I’m sorry?” he asked.

“Not to me, it wouldn’t. Besides, I can see right through you, Hunter. You’re not here because you care about my friend’s feelings. His name is Romeo, by the way. Maybe you can remember that and apologize to him the next time you see him.”

Hunter scoffed at my suggestion.

“Yeah,” I smirked, “that’s what I thought. You’re just making a play for me, Hunter.”

His mouth opened to protest.

“Zip it,” I barked. “Let me try this one more time. You have met my boyfriend. He is a real person. We are in love. And…I. Am. Not. Interested. Okay?”

“But—”

“Do I need to hire a skywriter to put it up in smoke clouds for all of San Diego to see? ‘Samantha Smith has a boyfriend. She is not going to date Hunter Blakeley. Or go out with him. Ever.’” Did I sound harsh? Maybe I did, because I was mad. I wasn’t going to let Hunter get away with being charming when I knew it was all an act. A Lame Damian sort of act.

The quivering smile on Hunter’s face gave it all away. He was forcing himself to smile. Trying to hide his anger. Not because he thought his anger was inappropriate or undeserved in this situation, but because he knew it worked against his goal of getting in my pants. That was it. I believed he lacked any genuine compassion. Any he may have given would have just been for show.

I gave Hunter a flat smile. “You should probably go,” I said. “No, never mind, I’m leaving.” I packed up my sandwich, grabbed my book bag, and walked away, leaving Hunter and his ridiculous bouquet at the Central Fountain.

I wasn’t at all surprised when Hunter showed up in Sculpting class an hour later without the bouquet. Maybe he smartened up and gave it to Marjorie. Somehow, I doubted it. I was, however, completely surprised that Hunter didn’t speak to me during any of the breaks during class, and didn’t follow me after class.

Had he finally gotten the message? I hoped so. Because I had far more important things to worry about than Hunter Blakeley. As I drove home from campus, I thought about the fact that I needed to actually call my parents and tell them I was moving out of my apartment, and didn’t need their bribery money to become an Accountant.

I was done with that.

I was going to be an artist.

When I pulled into my apartment and clomped upstairs, I was determined to figure out exactly what to say to them to set them at ease. My stomach flipped and dropped at the thought.

After distracting myself for several hours with homework, I decided I needed some advice about handling my parents.

I decided to give Christos a call. He would know what to say, even if all he had to offer was encouragement.

Unfortunately, he didn’t answer his phone.

I left a message and hoped he’d call back soon.

Too bad I didn’t hear back from Christos until late the next day.

CHRISTOS

After spending another day in my studio with Isabella, I sent her home and picked up the mail. I opened an invoice from Russell Merriweather’s law firm. There were way too many zeroes in the amount after the dollar sign.

At the rate I was blowing through my cash, I was going to be broke before my trial was over. Oh well. Being broke beat going to prison.

I walked to the hand-carved mahogany liquor cabinet in the living room and debated having a drink. Whiskey sounded really good. As I reached for a clean glass, an image of Samantha flashed through my head, followed by a picture of my mom walking out the front door of my parents’ house for the last time.

After releasing a heavy sigh, I set down the glass and decided to go for a jog up the hill to my grandad’s bench instead. I always loved sitting up there and enjoyed the view. It was meditative and exactly what I needed to relax.

I changed to running clothes and walked out the front door of the house, ready to get my blood pumping.

A black Mercedes convertible whipped off the street and drove up my driveway.

Tiffany.

Great.

Her dad was in the car with her.

Even worse.

The shining car rolled to a stop right in front of me. Tiffany was all smiles, “Hey Christos.”

“Hey, Tiffany,” I sighed. “Hey, Mr. Kingston-Whitehouse.” I hated calling him that. I think he liked that I, and probably everyone else who knew him, hated calling him that. His first name was hyphenated too. Westin-Conrad. No shit. All those syllables. It took two weeks just to say the guy’s damn name. Westin-Conrad Kingston-Whitehouse the Filth.

Filthy, as in dirty.

For short, I thought of him as Wes-Con.

The only difference between Wes-Con and your average street criminal was the expensive team of lawyers he kept on retainer. Fucking nouveau American Royalty.

Anyway, I knew for a fact Wes-Con never drove himself anywhere. He always had a chauffeur. But Tiffany loved to drive, so I’m sure she’d offered to take the wheel for Dear Old Dad.

Wes-Con would do anything for Daddy’s little girl.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I asked while opening Tiffany’s door for her. Like I said, it was a gentleman thing.

She was all tan legs and about an inch of skirt. Her pastel top was equally minimalistic, showcasing more of her lusciously tan shoulders and delicate neckline.

Tiffany gave me her hand, like she couldn’t stand up without my help. I indulged. It was easier than making an issue out of it. She stood and I closed the door.

Wes-Con gave me a wide-eyed look when I didn’t dash around to open his door, like he was stuck inside Tiff’s convertible. He could get out of his own damn car. Believe it or not, he unbuckled his own seatbelt, but he fumbled with the door handle, like he’d forgotten how door handles worked from lack of practice, before climbing out of the car. He played off his ignorance like it was normal.

He wore standard-issue Martha’s Vineyard golfer’s attire. Had nobody told him this was San Diego?

“Christos,” he said, walking around the car, his hand already out and ready to do some greasing. Wes-Con shook firmly, and held my elbow with his other hand. It was this bizarre, upscale authoritarian thing, like he was saying, “you are now under my control.”

Okay.

“Good to see you, young man,” he said.

I smiled at him. “Likewise. Come inside. Can I offer you two something to drink?” I knew how to play the game too.

“That would be fantastic,” Wes-Con said.

I could tell Tiffany was deferring to her dad. That definitely meant they’d strategized in advance. I remembered reading somewhere that you should never fight a war on two fronts. It had fucked Napoleon, and it had fucked the Germans in World War II. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to fare much better with two Kingston-Whitehouses going for my throat.

Oh well, into the lion’s den. At least it was my den. I led them into the Manos house.

“How is Spiridon?” Wes-Con asked.

“He’s doing good,” I nodded.

“Is he painting again?”

“Not really. I think he’s retired.”

“It’s a damn shame,” Wes-Con said. “Your grandfather is a living legend in the world of landscape paintings.”

Although I wished that was a simple compliment well-earned by my grandfather, I sensed it was merely an opening stratagem. Set your opponent at ease. When their defenses are down, attack with great force. I think Sun Tzu or somebody said that.

I walked over to the liquor cabinet in the living room. I guess I wasn’t getting away from it as easily as I’d hoped. “What can I get you to drink?”

Unlike most people, for whom that meant water or iced tea or soda, for Wes-Con, it only meant liquor. The harder the better. I could respect that.

“Do you have any scotch?” Wes-Con asked.

“Of course.” I poured two glasses of thirty-year-old Glenfiddich single-malt, neat. I knew for Wes-Con, this was the cheap stuff. He could deal. “You want one, Tiff?”

“No, thanks. Do you have any Zima?”