Curveball

by Jillian Quinn

  “What time is it?” She presses the cigarette into the ashtray and reaches for the soft pack of Newports on the table.

  I grip them and crush the package in my hand, my teeth clenched in anger.

  “Hey!” She stands up, swats at my hand, and almost falls onto the table. “Give them back.”

  “No,” I growl. “Let’s go. Time to get cleaned up.”

  I give her my hand to hold on to and lead her upstairs—but not without trouble or a fight. I force her into the bathroom and turn the knobs on the shower. They creak and groan as she takes a seat on the closed toilet lid.

  Hovering over her, I have no idea what I want to say at first because so many emotions and so much adrenaline are running through my body. “You need to stop this shit! I’ve been saving for years, and I have enough money now to send you to rehab. You’re killing yourself, and you’re forcing Sammy and me to sit here and watch you do it.”

  She sobs into her hands and bends forward, her elbows pressed into her thighs. “I’m sorry, Mark. I want to get better. I want to do right by you kids.”

  I hunch down, staring at her. I hate that I look so much like her. We have the same auburn hair, except mine is more brown and hers is more red. When she actually washes it, her hair curls at the ends, something I did not inherit but my sister did. She has green eyes, only a shade lighter than mine, and the same dusting of freckles along her nose and cheeks. She was beautiful once. Even Luca’s father used to tell me stories about how the men in the neighborhood would trip over their feet to get a look at her. And, now, she’s become this…

  What has she even become? A drunk. A bad mother.

  Once she started drinking heavily and popping pills, her looks went away. Underneath the smudged red lipstick at the corner of her mouth and the caked-on mascara that appears as though it has been on her lashes for at least a few days is a normal person. With her curls piled on top of her head, they hang over her forehead and fall into her eyes. I can’t believe this is the woman who was supposed to raise me.

  Only Luca and his family know about my mother. Hunter knows I have to take care of my family, but I’ve never wanted to tell another person about how rough my life is outside the walls of the fraternity house. I couldn’t wait to join Delta Sig with Luca during our freshman year, as I was desperate to get away from the hell I’d called a home for most of my life. But I always felt guilty about leaving my sister behind, knowing that my mother couldn’t even take care of herself, let alone a child.

  With my dad serving time upstate for robbing a Wawa convenience store with a gun, I have been the only male in this house for as long as I can remember. I’ll probably have kids of my own by the time he gets out of prison.

  “Where’s Sammy?” I suck in a deep breath and let it out. Holding on to the vanity next to the toilet, I pull myself up and push back the shower curtain to check the water temperature.

  “She’s in her room,” she mumbles under her breath, still slurring her words.

  I turn around to face her. “Take a shower, brush your teeth, comb your hair, and find something decent to wear.” Pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers, I sigh. “Please. Just do this for Sammy, if not for yourself. I can’t take it anymore. She needs a mother.”

  She covers her face with her hands and mutters to herself between sobbing, repeatedly apologizing. Every week, I find her in the same condition, and every week, I go through this with her.

  I lift her from the toilet seat and hold her up until she gains her footing and pushes out a hand to hold on to the wall for support.

  Brushing a strand of hair from her face, I bend down to her height. “Can you do this on your own?”

  She nods. “I think so.”

  “Okay.” I remove a towel from the linen closet and hang it on the hook on the wall next to the shower. “I’ll make coffee and something for us to eat. Call if you need me.”

  Once I’m in the hallway with the door shut behind me, I can breathe easier. Controlling my raging anxiety and anger is not easy when I have to watch her ruin everyone’s lives. All the illegal things I have done over the years is for them. But she insists on traveling down the same path of destruction.

  I knock on the door at the end of the hallway and call out for Sammy, concerned when I don’t hear any noise. My mother hasn’t fallen in the shower yet, and with her taken care of, I need to make sure Sammy isn’t in here, crying her eyes out again. If only I could take her away from my mother and have her live with me, but I live in a frat house, full of horny boys and all sorts of shit that she doesn’t need to get involved with.

  When she doesn’t answer me, I push the door open, relieved to find her lying flat on her back on the bed and listening to the iPod I gave her for Christmas. She has no idea I am here. Singing to herself, she stares blankly up at the ceiling, belting out the lyrics to a Taylor Swift song.

  Sinking into the old mattress, my weight shifts the bed, and Sammy sits up, her mouth open wide, as she strips the earbuds from her ears and throws them on the blanket in front of her.

  She lunges herself at me and throws her arms around me, squeezing me tight as I hug her back. “You’re here early,” she breathes. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too, kid.” I plant a kiss in her hair and hold her head against my chest. “Are you okay?”

  Sammy peels away from me, sits down on the mattress, and folds her legs over one another. “Yeah, I’m fine. Same old, same old.”

  Even though she’s in high school now, I know this situation with our mom cannot be easy for her. I went through it at her age, and my mother has only gotten worse over the years. She has no desire to quit drinking and probably never will. My only hope is that I can land a big contract with a Major League Baseball team, preferably the Philadelphia Phillies, and petition the court for legal custody of my sister. I would feel better if she could live with me at least until her eighteenth birthday in two years.

  I sit on the edge of her bed, my palms flat against my jeans. “How’s school? Is anyone giving you any trouble?”

  She shrugs. “It’s okay. This one kid was messing with me until the principal had him removed from my class.”

  Speaking through clenched teeth, I almost spit my words. “Who’s been bothering you? Give me his name.”

  “It’s okay. Principal Simon took care of it. She said Uncle Luciano came to see her last week.”

  “That’s good. But, if anyone messes with you again, I had better be your first call. Got it?”

  Sammy nods in acknowledgment.

  When I was at the Marchese villa in New Jersey over New Year’s, I mentioned to Luca’s father that Sammy was having trouble with the teachers at her school. They allow the kids to gang up on each other because Philly schools are rough, and let’s face it, they don’t get paid enough to give a shit if the kids kill each other. Most teachers are lucky to make it out to their cars at the end of the day at some of the inner-city schools.

  I stand and hold out my palm to Sammy. “C’mon. I bought food. I’ll make you something to eat. What do you want?”

  She reminds me so much of my father with her wide blue eyes and long dark brown hair that she pushes over her shoulder as she smiles. You would never know we share one ounce of DNA.

  “Eggs, bacon, and toast.”

  “Breakfast for dinner again?”

  She nudges me in the arm and laughs. “You got a problem with that, big bro?”

  “No”—I take her head in my hands and give her a noogie—“little sis.”

  On our way downstairs, I yell for my mother, who is now in her bedroom, “Dinner will be ready in fifteen!”

  “Okay,” she mumbles through the closed door. “Give me a minute.”

  “I’ll make the coffee,” Sammy says, excited, as she practically hops down the stairs. “You make the bacon. I want it extra crispy.”

  I mirror her smile. “Whatever you want, kid.”

  The expression on my sister’s face alone
makes everything worth it.

  Now, I have to get Fat Tony to hurry up and get the rich kids from Long Island to come down here and race us. That kind of money could buy a lot more than a quick stint in rehab for my mother. It could buy her and my sister a new life.

  Chapter Twelve

  Olivia

  It took Fat Tony over three weeks to organize a race between the Broad Street Burnouts and the Long Island Lowriders. According to Mark, the crew from New York has some of the best East Coast drivers with trust fund money to spend on premium cars. Considering the name of their crew, I expected to find a bunch of low-to-the-ground classic cars with hydraulics, bouncing up and down like an old-school Snoop Dogg video. I am surprised to find at least a dozen imports—ranging from luxury cars, such as BMW and Mercedes, to souped-up cars that look like prop cars from the Fast and Furious movies. Instead of the crowded streets of South Philadelphia, Tony chose a more secluded location on the outskirts of the city in an industrial park so off the beaten path that I doubt cops would ever find us out here.

  With Donna at my side, pounding beers and laughing at the guys as they crack jokes, I am starting to feel more like Mark’s girlfriend. And, while he has yet to put a label on our relationship, he made it clear that I was his the day we fucked in the hallway at the gym. I never wanted to belong to someone as much as Mark. Ever since then, he’s stopped calling me Teach and started using my name. I secretly liked when he called me Teach though.

  Tony has his hand inside the back pocket of Donna’s jeans, her petite body pressed into his lanky frame. She pretends that they’re not serious, but he looks at her as if he’s head over heels in love with her.

  And why wouldn’t he be?

  She’s one of the coolest people I’ve ever met. Every day spent with her is not only filled with events, but it’s also unpredictable.

  Mark slips through the crowd, his eyes locking on mine for a few brief seconds, before he wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against his chest, causing my feet to lift up from the ground before he sets me back down. “There’s my lucky charm.” He gives me a peck on my cheek.

  “Your prize will be waiting for you at the finish line, so come claim me,” I mutter against his lips.

  He presses his lips to my ear and whispers, “Give me your panties.”

  “No way!” I stare at him in shock. “We’re in public.”

  “That’s part of the fun. Now, slip your hand under your coat and up your skirt. Then, tug down those panties that I know are soaking wet, and hand them over.”

  “They weren’t wet before you started talking like this.” I keep my voice low even though the noise from the crowd drowns out our conversation.

  He grins so wide, it reaches up to his green eyes. “Be a good girl, and take them off.”

  With spring around the corner, the freezing cold temperature I had to endure the last race is on its way out, replaced by a cool breeze that only requires a thin jacket. I wore what Mark had instructed—a short, tight skirt and blouse, similar to my teacher outfit at the club, beneath a black trench coat. I hadn’t understood his choice in overcoat until now.

  “Why didn’t you just ask for a pair of panties when you picked me up at my apartment?”

  He shrugs. “Because this is more fun.”

  Looking over my shoulder and to my sides, I pretend like I’m leaning over, and I use Mark’s thick body to shield myself as I quickly sneak beneath my skirt, slide my thong down my legs, and step out of it. I bunch my underwear in my right hand, now feeling exposed but somewhat free, and shove it into the pocket of his black Strickland University hoodie.

  “Good girl.” He places his big hand at the back of my head and kisses my hair. “Now, I know I’m going to win.”

  “Break a leg,” I say, smiling, before he disappears into the crowd.

  He always manages to talk me into things I never would have done before I met him. At one time, I thought dating a student was the worst idea in the entire world and that I would burn in hell for committing some imaginary sin against my profession. That was, until I realized we’re both, in our own ways, sinners, living in a city of sinners. I dance on bars for money, and he illegally races cars to take care of his family.

  Is it a sin if we’re doing it for a good reason?

  I try to rationalize both of our behaviors, using everything I learned in college about ethics, to wrap my head around our situations, except choosing between right and wrong is not quite the same as representing a client with an adverse interest.

  Mark gets into his car and hangs my thong around the rearview mirror, as if it were an air freshener, which makes me laugh uncontrollably.

  Donna gives me a strange look, one eyebrow raised, and the corner of her mouth turns up. “You know, people think you’re crazy when you start laughing at yourself.”

  “Shut up, brat.” I nudge her in the arm, and she chuckles. “I was laughing at Mark, not myself. I’m perfectly sane, thank you very much.”

  “The jury’s still out on that one.”

  “Are you worried about this race?” I ask, my expression matching the seriousness of my tone. “Mark says they’re the best, but it sounds like their methods are questionable.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. They sound like a bunch of spoiled brats who are just used to getting what they want. But they haven’t dealt with our men yet. You have nothing to worry about. For all the tricks those rich dudes might try to pull, I’m sure our Philly boys have even more up their sleeves.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but Mark can’t afford to lose that kind of money.”

  She pats me on the shoulder. “Stop worrying. He will be fine.” Then, she tugs on my jacket and pulls me through the crowd, so we can get a closer look.

  Lined up in a row are six cars—three from each crew, all varying makes and models—waiting their turn for the race to begin. Mark inches forward from the center of the pack, the Mustang growling in the quiet air. A blue Subaru Impreza WRX STI pulls up next to Mark, and through his passenger window, the driver makes a gesture to Mark that I can’t make out.

  Mark just nods, his usual evil grin plastered on his face, and rubs his index and middle fingers against his thumb, back and forth, as if telling the guy he’s going to take his money. He looks so damn sexy behind the wheel of such a powerful car, and with my panties hanging from his mirror of all places, it’s like I’m in the car with him. I wish he’d let me ride shotgun during the race, but he says it’s too dangerous.

  Dressed in a tight red bandage dress and heels, a girl breaks away from the crowd and stands in the middle of the street. She gives herself just enough room for the two cars to drive past her as she holds the flag above her head and then lowers it, signaling them to go. The Mustang blows by so fast that the girl’s long black hair blows in her face. Getting a better jump-off at the start, Mark has a split-second lead on the other car, but both of them almost in a deadlock.

  My stomach knots because I have no idea who’s winning once they disappear around the corner.

  Donna assures me that Tony and their guys have people placed around the track to make sure no one cheats. All I can hear are the engines roaring from a distance and each sound of their tires as they squeal against the pavement, the noise alone causing the nerves to bubble in my chest.

  Mark always tells me he has a twelve-second car. Well, it’s been more than twelve seconds, and there’s no sight of either car. After what feels like ten minutes—even though I know that’s all in my mind—both cars round the corner again with Mark in the lead.

  I knew nothing about cars before I met Mark. But, over the last month, I’ve learned so much about things I hadn’t care about before I met Mark. He’s changed my life in ways I never expected.

  Mark crosses the finish line, the fender of his car only an inch or two over before the man holding a clipboard and stopwatch yells out the time. Both cars come to a stop, and Mark steps out of the Mustang with a cocky smirk, looking victorious—as he
should because my man won.

  I run over to him, about to lunge myself at his thick body, when the driver of the other car comes over and sucker-punches him, his fist landing on Mark’s right cheek. His head turns to the side on impact, and I scream his name. The crowd erupts into an uproar. Different members of each crew are now gripping each other up, some landing punches in response while others stick with verbal abuse. The words cheater and sandbagger are thrown around a lot among the men who claim Mark must have done some modifications to his car that they didn’t know about prior to the race.

  Mark rights himself, spits the blood from his mouth at the tall, blond-haired boy who punched him, and then lifts him by his navy-blue henley. He seems so unfazed by the blow that it doesn’t surprise me when he head-butts the boy and releases him. The boy staggers backward, holding on to his head, confused and disoriented.

  I’m so turned on right now, I want to drag Mark into the backseat of his car, despite how small and uncomfortable the bucket seats are, and ride his cock until I can’t feel my legs anymore. The things he does to me, without even trying, drive me insane. I never thought one man could ooze so much sex appeal.

  The group settles down after someone blows a whistle, followed by several car horns honking to get their attention.

  Fat Tony gets on the hood of a bystander’s Honda Civic and brings his fingers to his lips to whistle. “Did we come here to race, or did we come here to fight?” His deep voice carries, commanding those around him to glance up. “I don’t know about you, but I came here to make some money. So, can we get back to it before the cops show up?”

  A young preppy boy shouts, “You guys cheated!”

  “I didn’t fucking cheat,” Mark growls, his eyes pointed at the boy and his mouth turned up into a snarl. “Just because that import piece of shit couldn’t handle American muscle doesn’t mean I cheated.”

  “Check under his hood,” someone else says.