Reckless

by Devon Hartford

  “Promise me you’re not going anywhere?” I pleaded.

  Move it, skank…

  “I promise,” Christos said solemnly.

  I eased further into his loving embrace, my back warmed by his solid front. Enfolded against him like this, I felt shielded from all the terrible things the world might throw at both of us, like his powerful arms would defend me from all forces that might try to tear us apart. Nothing could come between us.

  So why was I still worried?

  I’m talking to you, pinhead…

  No answer came as I drifted off into deep, dreamless sleep.

  CHRISTOS

  THREE MONTHS EARLIER…

  In the morning, a couple of deputies led me out of the crowded inmate dorms at the downtown jail and shackled me in the hallway while I leaned my face against the cold cement wall. When I was chained, the deputies walked me through a bunch of security doors and hallways that slowly transformed from bulletproof and cement to painted sheetrock and carpeting.

  At the end of a new hallway, a third deputy opened a door into the side of a dark, oak-paneled court room.

  Russell Merriweather stood ramrod straight, waiting for me behind the defendant’s table. He was a dark-skinned African-American man in his mid-40s wearing a perfectly fitted athletic-cut suit. He was even taller than I was, although not quite as built. He struck an imposing figure anywhere he went.

  The deputies hovered on either side of me like I was Public Enemy Number One.

  “Give the young man some breathing room, if you please, deputies,” Russell commanded.

  Both deputies stood stoically behind me. Neither of them moved an inch.

  Ignoring them ignoring him, Russell reached forward and pulled me into his chest. He embraced me affectionately and clapped me on the back. Whispering in my ear, he said, “What kind of trouble you got your ass in this time, boy?”

  I couldn’t stop a huge grin from drawing out my dimples.

  Russell pulled away and looked me in the eye. “Stow it,” he murmured. “Game face from here on out. Got it?”

  I nodded solemnly, and reeled my smile back in.

  “Keep your mouth shut, and I’ll do the talking, feel me?” he ordered quietly.

  Russell pulled out a chair for me. I would’ve done it myself, but it was embarrassingly awkward with my wrists chained to the belt around my waist.

  I leaned toward him and said quietly, “Such a gentleman.”

  “I know how to treat a bitch,” he whispered in my ear before sitting down next to me. His face remained blank and rock calm. Only his words belied his good humor and confidence. “If you’re lucky, I’ll buy you dessert. Now shut the fuck up.”

  The judge had not yet entered the courtroom, but the judge’s assistant was already sitting at one of the tiered sub-desks surrounding the judge’s palatial bench.

  A moment later, a door opened at the back of the courtroom.

  “The Court will now come to order,” the uniformed bailiff said. “All rise for the Honorable Geraldine Moody, presiding.”

  The judge walked in, her black robes billowing around her like a dark ghost. She was not what I expected. Normally, when it came to judges, I imagined some kind of stern, cranky Judge Judy grandmother-type, or an aging tough guy who fancies himself the law of the land, Old West style with six guns holstered beneath his robes. The woman in front of me was a graceful beauty. Older, but still radiant. Long blonde hair fell to her shoulders and careful makeup enhanced her features. She sat down primly on the edge of her chair, scooting up to the desk, looking like the fucking Pope on high.

  Had this been any other situation, I would’ve flirted things to my advantage. One look at Mizz Moody, and I decided to hold my charm in check.

  She surveyed me with a single top-to-bottom glance. A savage scowl flashed across her features, but was quickly quashed by her professionalism. Somehow, I felt like I was the guy who’d run out on her after cheating on her, leaving her with a hefty mortgage and stranding her children high-and-dry without a father. Not that I knew the first thing about Geraldine’s personal life. But her expression told the story.

  I wished my prison jumpsuit had long sleeves to cover my ink. My confrontational tats were incriminating me without me opening my mouth.

  “The State of California versus Christos Manos, felony arraignment,” the judge’s assistant read from the paperwork in front of her.

  “Mr. Manos,” Judge Moody intoned, “There’s been a complaint filed in case SD-2013-K-071183A against you that alleges count one, charging the defendant with felony Aggravated Assault, which occurred on September 22nd, on or around 8:30 a.m., in violation of section 240 of the penal code, Christos Manos did willfully and unlawfully attempt, coupled with a present ability to commit, a violent injury on the person of Horst Grossman.”

  Horst Grossman? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. That was the name of that fat fuck who’d tried to bite Samantha’s face off on her way to SDU yesterday? It suited him well.

  “Count two,” Geraldine continued formally, “Christos Manos did willfully and unlawfully use force and violence on the person of Horst Grossman. An enhancement is alleged, in violation of section 243 D of the penal code, Christos Manos did willfully and unlawfully use force resulting in the infliction of Serious Bodily Injury on Horst Grossman.”

  In other words, I punched that fucking lunatic when he tried to jump me because I was helping out Samantha, and he got hurt.

  “How does your client plead?” Geraldine asked Russell without once looking me in the eye. Business as usual for her, I’m sure. If she had any kids, she probably never looked them in the eye either, unless she was sending them to bedroom lock-up for leaving dishes in the sink.

  “We are entering a plea of not guilty, your honor, on all counts,” Russell said smoothly.

  “Shall we discuss the matter of bail, Mr. Schlosser?” Geraldine asked the Deputy District Attorney.

  “Due to the seriousness of the charges, the State asks that bail for the defendant be set in the amount of $25,000.”

  “Your honor,” Russell said calmly, “Christos Manos has significant ties to the community. His family is here, and he is a graduate student at San Diego University. He’s not at risk of flight. If it pleases the court, we ask that he is released on his own recognizance, your honor.”

  Judge Moody flicked her eyes at me, then flipped through the paperwork on her desk. “Due to the defendant’s prior record of ongoing offenses for reckless driving, numerous speed contests and exhibition of speed, multiple counts of misdemeanor assault and multiple counts of misdemeanor battery,” she paused to jot down a note, “bail will be set in the amount of $150,000.”

  “If your honor would please note,” Russell said gently, “my client has not committed any crimes in the past two years. I would ask for bail to be set to a more reasonable amount.”

  The judge lowered her head and glared at Russell from beneath her brows. “I can set bail at $175,000 if you would prefer, counselor.”

  “No thank you, your honor,” Russell said confidently, showing no sign of reproach.

  “$150,000 it is,” Judge Moody said flatly. “The defendant is not to have any contact with the victim and shall be restricted to the state of California until trial.” She consulted her calendar. “At this time, I will set a trial date of February 14th, 2014, at 10:00 a.m., and a pre-trial date of February 12th, 2014.”

  A trial on Valentine’s Day? The universe was having a laugh at my expense on that one.

  “Anything further from the State, Mr. Schlosser?” Judge Moody asked.

  “No, your honor,” the Deputy Distract Attorney answered.

  “Anything further from the defendant, Mr. Merriweather?”

  “No, thank you, your honor,” Russell smiled curtly.

  The deputies led me out of the courtroom. Russell followed.

  In the carpeted hallway, Russell asked one of the deputies, “May I speak with my client in private for
a moment, gentlemen?”

  “I’ll give you two minutes,” the guy with the buzz-cut replied.

  “Thank you, deputy.” Turning our backs to the officers, Russell walked me several paces away. “You need me to call your grandfather for bail money?”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “I don’t have any choice.”

  “You could call your dad.”

  “No way.”

  “Thought I’d ask,” Russell smiled. “You really oughta cut the man some slack, Christos. He is your father.”

  I ground my jaw.

  “Anyway, I’ll call Spiridon and have you out by this afternoon. You heard what the judge said. Keep your ass in town. And don’t get in any trouble. In other words, keep it under the speed limit and keep your hands to yourself. I advise you to garage that crotch rocket of yours and take the bus. If I find out you get in any more fights? I’ll bust your ass myself. Feel me?”

  “Like a sandpaper massage,” I said.

  “Don’t get smart with me, young man.” Russell squeezed my neck with one large hand and shook me affectionately. “This is the last time I save your ass. Hear me? I don’t want to do this again. You’re better than this, Christos.”

  “I promise you, Russell, this was self-defense.”

  “You got any witnesses?”

  I thought about Samantha. She’d seen the whole thing up close and personal. Maybe too personal. That scumbag Horst Grossman had put her through enough already. Did I want to drag her into my mess too? Make her take the stand while Horst fucking Grossman gave her dirty looks and the whole courtroom stared her down? Hell no. I’d known her for all of one day. She deserved better. Besides, I didn’t want her to see how much of a fuck up I really was underneath my carefully constructed yet fragile facade. I wanted her to believe I was the man I wanted to become, not the punk I’d been for most of the last six years.

  “No witnesses,” I said.

  “None?”

  I shook my head.

  Russell’s lips pursed in a flat smirk. He slapped my shoulder vigorously. “Don’t worry. I’m glue. I’ll make the self-defense claim stick. They’ll have that guy brought up on battery charges for hitting your fist with his face by the time I’m through.” He grinned wide.

  “I hope so.”

  Agápi mou…

  What have I done?

  Chapter 10

  SAMANTHA

  PRESENT DAY

  In the morning, I awoke feeling rejuvenated and excited for the first day of Winter Quarter classes, and with the pleasantly certain conviction that my year was off to a great start. Losing my virginity to Christos the night before had swept away any remaining ill feelings I’d had after Tiffany’s bitchery on her yacht.

  With any luck, my entire 2014 would be as fabulous as the last twelve hours.

  Christos and I had a quick breakfast of toast, eggs, and orange juice at my apartment, before heading out the door.

  Christos drove his Camaro home. He said he had some work to do in his studio, but he might drop by campus later.

  I imagined us carpooling to SDU together, like a happy and contented married couple. I was so looking forward to that day when our matching cups of coffee sat in the cup-holders as we held hands the entire drive. My mental image was so sweet, I wondered if I might induce my own diabetic coma thinking about it.

  I snickered to myself as I drove along the Pacific Coast Highway and gazed out at the Pacific Ocean.

  My commute this morning was a brilliant contrast compared to my first day of classes three months prior. I knew to get an early start to avoid traffic. No spilling my coffee causing the screaming fat guy to chew me out afterward. Parking was a snap, no shoehorn necessary, and I made it to class with time to spare.

  My first class was Sociology 2, another one of my General Ed classes. The professor was ancient and looked ready for the grave, or else she was back from the grave. Either way, she had a distinctly mummified appearance that matched the tone of her lecture delivery.

  I think every sentence she uttered slowly suffocated my will to live. I pictured each one of her drowsy utterances fluttering out of her mouth like mummy bandaging that wrapped me up from toe to top, slowly mummifying me as she droned on and on and on. And on.

  And on.

  Groan.

  I imagined by the end of class, I too would be completely mummified. Perhaps the entire class would be similarly swaddled. And you wouldn’t even hear crickets chirping in the tomb-silent room because the crickets would be mummified as well, laid to rest for eternity inside their little cricket sarcophagi.

  Sigh.

  Last quarter, I’d sort of enjoyed Sociology 1. I don’t know what had changed. This time around I could barely keep my eyes open for the entire hour, and I’d gotten plenty of sleep, and other wonderful things, the night before.

  Maybe I couldn’t focus because images from last night with Christos kept flashing through my mind. The tingling between my legs wasn’t helping either.

  I willed my memories to take a breather while I tried to concentrate. But Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn’s droning delivery was putting me to sleep.

  I did the only thing I could think of. I pulled out my sketchbook and started doodling. The next thing I knew, I had drawn a picture of Christos in a sexy pose, wearing a Pharaoh hat and mummy bandages for pants, showing off his awesome eight-pack. That wasn’t helping any.

  Determined to pay attention to the lecture, I closed my sketchbook and put it away like a good girl…and realized class was over. Not only that, the text document on my laptop intended for note-taking was blank. Great. But I did have a great drawing of Christos the Pharaoh in my sketchbook. Why did I feel like I was in the wrong class?

  Groan!

  I swear, I’d tried hard to listen to the lecture about the structure of society and how it impacts the people who are a part of it, but it wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I scooped up my laptop and my bag and headed to my next class.

  Hopefully, Managerial Accounting would be better.

  I cringed at the thought.

  Oh, joy.

  At least Madison was in accounting with me.

  SAMANTHA

  The lecture hall for Accounting was on the other side of campus from my Sociology 2. I had to hoof it not to be late, but I knew exactly where I was going. The perks of experience! I would be on time to class so I wouldn’t have to miss a single riveting Accounting fact!

  Can I get a fist pump?!

  Yeah!!!

  Sigh.

  At least I was getting better at this college thing and didn’t feel like a newbie anymore. That was something, right?

  Yeah.

  :-(

  I opened one of the double doors at the back of the hall and was greeted by a packed theater-style room with plunging rows of seats that brimmed over with chatty coeds. You’d think from the energy in the room that it was a nightclub before some hot new band hit the stage.

  Was I missing something?

  I was in Managerial Accounting, right?

  I scanned the room for Madison. I’m sure she’d saved me a seat. There was no sign of her that I could see. I texted her.

  I’m here. Where r u?

  A minute later I spotted Madison waving at me. She sat in the middle of the room, amongst a crowded row of students.

  I trotted down the stairs and squeezed into her row. I nearly tripped on a half-dozen people as I made my way toward her. At one point I stepped on some girl wearing a purple hoodie and Converses.

  “Hey!” she snarled.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled as I stumbled to avoid landing in her lap. This move caused me to sway back toward the row below, but I righted myself by flailing my arms. I swung forward and almost landed palms-first in the lap of the guy next to Purple Hoodie.

  He of course smirked and nodded. “My lap is free,” he said suggestively, “if you need a place to put your hands.”

  I scowled at him. “Uh, no?” I blundered past and scrunched my way th
rough more knees and backpacks until I plopped down next to Madison. “What up, Mads,” I sighed, sinking into my seat. “Do I have, like, huge flipper feet or elephant ankles? I barely made it through that gauntlet,” I said sarcastically, nodding back the way I’d come.

  “No, Sam,” Madison smiled. “Your feet and ankles are normal. Sorry about the crowd. It was totally empty when I got here.”

  “Fundamentals wasn’t nearly this packed. What’s the rage with Managerial Accounting?”

  “Easy A? I have no idea,” Madison confessed. “So, have you recovered yet from our New Year’s cruise?”

  “You mean from Tiffany bombarding me with her all-night Bitchkrieg?” I rolled my eyes, then thought about last night with Christos, and smiled. “Pretty much.”

  “I can’t get over that she slapped you.”

  I’d almost forgotten. “Yeah, Tiffany is over the top. She should be locked up in a padded cell. With any luck, we’ll never see her again. At least she’s not in any of our classes.”

  Madison laughed sarcastically, “Probably because she’s a Cosmetology major.”

  I grinned, “Does SDU even have a Cosmetology major?”

  “If they don’t, maybe Tiffany’s dad can donate a Mani-Pedi Building or a Salon Wing to the university.”

  “Would they call it the Kingston-Whitehouse Whore College for Women?” I said snidely. Something suddenly smashed into the side of my head. I whipped around. “Hey!”

  Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse’s book bag had just clipped me in the back of the skull, nearly beheading me.

  “WTF!” I growled while ducking in case of another sneak attack. “Watch where you’re going, Tiffany!”

  “You got it wrong, Scumantha,” Tiffany sneered, “they’d call it the Poor House College for Campus Pumps like you, and I’m not talking about shoes, you cum-dumpster.”

  Madison rolled her eyes. “Shut your barking vagina, Tiffany, I can smell your dog breath from here.”

  I giggled.

  “Twat did you say?” Tiffany snarled at Madison.