Page 81 of Pretty Reckless (All Saints High 1)

My fingers quiver around the pen as I stare at my last entry in my journal and the memories of the exact moment she found out slam into me. By the time she reached Grace, the position had already been filled by the runner-up for the job.

When I started the little black book, I never thought I’d reach the level of evilness I did with Via again. But not only did I repeat the grave mistake of preventing someone from an opportunity of a lifetime because of my jealousy—but I did it to my own mother.

I roll on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Recently, especially since Penn and I started hanging out, I’ve been thinking of breaking things off with Principal Prichard. I don’t need him anymore. Now, it burns in me to see him tomorrow and share this with him.

I pad downstairs to get a glass of water. It’s probably close to midnight. All the lights in the house are out, and the only audible sounds are the thermostat humming and the coffee machine, which bubbles water automatically.

I grab a glass of water and make my way back to my room when the front door pushes open. I turn around on instinct. Stumbling in is a banged-up looking Penn. His face is bruised, cut, and downright purple. He limps toward the kitchen, dragging his left leg, his shoulders crashing into walls, a Greek statue, and a massive plant. He is obviously shitfaced on top of being injured.

I open my mouth to ask him if he was at the snake pit, then clamp it shut when I remind myself that it’s not my business. His baby mama can take care of him. He made it perfectly clear. If anything, I should stop humiliating myself by caring for the boy who so ruthlessly played me. Who took my virginity while promising himself to another girl. At least this time he wore a condom.

Perhaps you’re not a worthy longtime mistake to make.

I turn around and start climbing the stairs.

“Scullys,” he croaks. I keep my pace steady. Up, up, up to my room. I can do it. If I don’t turn around. If I don’t get lost in his light eyes and dark soul. “Skull…Eyes,” he amends.

A hand jerks at the hem of my shirt, and he yanks me the two stairs down, back to the landing. He pins me to the wall in an alcove between the kitchen and the living room in one ruthless shove. I wince when I smell the alcohol and coppery blood on his breath.

His eye is swollen, and his lower lip drips blood onto his shoes. Drunken Penn is a sight I didn’t think I’d see on a school night. He usually wakes up at the same time, rain or shine, for his morning strength training, always looking like a million bucks in a tattered ten-buck outfit.

“What do you want?” I hiss. I feel so breakable in his arms.

“A kiss.”

I push on his chest. He is not making any sense.

“Drop dead, Scully.” It actually looks like he might.

I turn back around toward the stairs. He tugs my wrist again. His eyes are pleading. His eyebrows pulled together. He looks…pathetic, and the old Daria would take great pleasure in basking in this sight. But the new one wants to die knowing he hurts. Even worse than that, that he is hurting. That Via reentering his life was not everything he hoped it to be.

“Clean yourself up,” I say quietly. “Or you’ll get seriously infected.”

“Help me?” he croaks, his voice throaty, laced with pain.

“Why don’t you ask your girlfriend to do it?”

“Because she lives two towns over.”

“Wrong answer.”

“Because I don’t want her help. I want yours.”

I close my eyes. I tell myself that I’m just helping him clean up, not getting in bed with him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Penn so messed up. Physically—maybe. He’s a physical player. But emotionally…for the first time since I’ve met him, I see him feel. The walls are soaked with his emotions, the air dense with them.

I make my way to the cabinet above the sink and take out a first-aid kit, motioning for him with my head to come closer. He hops onto the kitchen island and gulps me in as I wash his face with a warm cloth I’m pretty sure our cleaners use to wipe the tiles. Then I clean up his bruises with antiseptic wipes and put a Band-Aid on a gash on his forehead that probably needs some stitches. I don’t ask him what happened. He tells me anyway.

“I fought three guys at the snake pit.”

“That’s dumb,” I whisper.

“Simultaneously.”

“That’s seriously dumb.”

He tries to chuckle, but it splits the cut on his lip again.

“There.” I take a step back. “Bet you’re feeling brand new.”

“How was New York?” he asks.