Page 1 of Reckless
Chapter One
Phoebe
“Take this.”
It isn’t an abnormal occurrence for my father to thrust a gun in my direction. It is, however, odd for him to do so before I’ve even had my coffee. My immediate family, in particular, knows how ill-prepared I am to deal with their shenanigans before at least one dose of caffeine and a full meal.
“Um, I have to catch a plane at nine-thirty. I don’t have time to go to the gun range with you,” I tell him with a lift of my brow. My hands clutch my mom’s favorite mug, which is full of coffee I haven’t even had a sip of yet.
“This isn’t for the range,” Dad says, looking way too serious for six in the morning, which doesn’t bode well. “I want you to take it with you.”
“Jesus, Ben, what the hell?” My mother sounds both amused and horrified as she fills my plate with eggs and bacon. It’s enough food to satiate someone with a voracious appetite . . . like a sumo wrestler. I pass some off to my brother’s plate when she isn’t looking. He grins and wisely keeps stuffing his mouth instead of getting in the middle of the conversation. I implore him with a look, but he merely lifts his shoulders in response. Naturally, that means he sides with Dad.
The men in this family, I swear. They have testosterone and bullshit in spades.
I turn to my father, who still holds the gun out in offering. I don’t have to look twice to know it’s the Glock 42 Subcompact .380 Auto in rose gold I’ve had my eye on. He knows how much I’ve wanted it since I tested it out and fell in love. “Yeah, Dad, what the hell?”
My dad rolls his eyes and lifts the case he’s holding in his other hand. “You can take them on the plane if you bring them in a locked carrying case and check them into baggage. I don’t want you going to California unprotected.”
According to my dad, if you’re not packing, you’re an idiot. But he’s a Marine, so there’s no convincing him otherwise. He likes to say I got my stubbornness from my mom, but we all know it’s from him.
“You act as if I’m going to war. Newsflash, I’m moving to L.A. for work. Something lots of blue-collar Americans do every day. It doesn’t mean I need to arm myself, for goodness’ sake. Besides, my Florida permit isn’t valid in California.”
“Ben, maybe you’re overreacting a little,” Mom says, putting a hand to his elbow and meeting his eyes. I soften, watching the two of them communicate an entire conversation without words. They are lucky to have that kind of connection after nearly thirty years of marriage.
A lot of people aren’t so lucky.
“I don’t think you’re reacting enough, Livvie,” he says in a low voice. “Do you know what the crime rate is in Los Angeles?”
Scoffing, I say, “Don’t you think this is a bit sensationalist? You went to Afghanistan when you were younger than I am. I think I can survive in California.”
“I’m going to put this in your suitcase. Make sure you let them know you’re checking it when you do the rest of your baggage. You can get your permit as soon as you get there to carry concealed.” Without asking him to, he retrieves my suitcase, puts the gun in its case, and secures it with a combo lock I’ve never seen before.
“It’s too early to argue,” I say to no one in particular before drinking deeply from my coffee cup. The fact that I wanted the gun is of little consequence. When Dad gets on a tear about something, especially when it comes to his kids, it’s nigh impossible to get him to back down.
“He just worries about you,” Mom says, bringing cream and sugar in little cow-shaped dispensers and setting them in front of me. I don’t mind black coffee but prefer it sweet and light.
“I know that, but I’m twenty-five. It isn’t as if I don’t know how to take care of myself. I’ve been doing it for a while now.”
“Of course, dear,” she answers, and I know she’s only doing that to allow me to save face.
I haven’t been taking care of myself for a long time. Longer than I’d like to admit.
But that’s going to change.
Starting with this move to Los Angeles.
As much as I love living in the town I grew up in and having my friends and family no more than an hour’s drive in any direction, I feel like I’ll suffocate if I don’t make a change. There’s nothing more drastic than quitting my long-term job and accepting an offer from a publicity firm on the opposite side of the country. It’ll be the first time since my world ended that I’m taking back my life, but I’m ready.
Or, at least, I hope I am.
I mentally straighten my shoulders.
Of course, I am.
It’s time for a change of scenery. When I first considered starting over, my number one requirement was to be somewhere near the water. A Florida girl at heart, I can’t live somewhere without beach access, and the position at CJJ Relations is perfect for me, personally and professionally. It’s an opportunity I simply can’t pass up, even knowing all I would be giving up.
Pulling out my phone, I open my photos app and reread the job description for the hundredth time. When I applied for the unit publicist position, it had been on a whim. Sure, I have the experience—I worked my ass off to obtain a combined bachelor’s in marketing and a master’s in business administration from FSU, but that feels like years ago. I spent two years in California at a smaller PR company before returning to Tallahassee, where I landed a job at a top publicity firm until I quit a year ago. Apprehension gnaws at my stomach. I was once successful, ambitious, and at the top of my game. Can I be that woman again?