RECKLESS — Bad Boy Criminal Romance

by Aletto, Anna

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “How about this? Truthfully, there’s no way we can trust each other. So how about I give you everything we’ve made since we met. And even a little more. I’ll give you over a thousand dollars to survive and we’ll part ways right now. I’ll forget all about you and you forget all about me.”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, I trusted you when I first decided to go with you. For all I knew you could’ve raped or killed me. I’ve put my trust in you. Why can’t you put your trust in me now?”

  I stare downward and think silently.

  “You’re good at this, and you’re teaching me and I think I’m becoming good too,” she says. “It makes sense for us to be together. We’ll make this work out the best possible way for both of us.”

  I pause. We’re both on the bed, sitting face to face. I extend my hand.

  She takes my hand and shakes it.

  But when she tries to release I don’t let go. Instead I tighten my grip and lean in closer to her. “I’m not fucking around,” I tell her. “You need to understand: If you do anything to benefit yourself at my expense I won’t think twice before slicing your fucking throat … You put yourself totally on the line for me, and I do the same for you. Understand?”

  “I’m totally devoted to you and you to me. I swear.”

  I release her hand. “I need to go out for a second. I’ll be right back. Start packing your things.”

  I drive around and end up in downtown Shreveport where I find a payphone outside a bar called Straycat on Travis Street. I dial my old home phone number in Memphis trying to reach my mother.

  “Yeah?” an unfamiliar male voice says.

  “Hey,” I respond, confused. “Is Miss Gillis there?”

  “No, she doesn’t live here.”

  “She used to. You know where she moved?”

  “No, but she might of left a number though. Hold on,” he says, sounding bothered. “I might be able to find it. Maybe not.” He sets the phone down and I hear him yell to someone. The person yells something back and no one gets back on the line with me for the next several minutes. I have to insert more change into the phone.

  Finally he picks the phone back up and says, “I found a number that might be it but I don’t know. You ready to write it down?”

  “I can remember it. Go ahead.”

  He reads me a number with a 479 area code.

  I thank him, hang up, insert more change, and dial the new number.

  It rings a couple times and then my mother says, “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom? It’s Brandon.”

  “Brandon? Where are you?”

  “I wanted to come see you and maybe stay with you a little while.”

  “Sure. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. And hey, I’m going to bring a girl with me, alright?”

  “Sure, bring her. How have you been? What’ve you been doing?”

  “We’ll be there soon and we’ll talk about everything. Just tell me where you live now, okay?”

  Chapter Eight

  While I was in middle school, my hero was the star football player of our local team, the East High School Eagles. His name was Terrell James, a six-foot-four wide receiver. He was lightning quick and on a team touted by the city newspaper as state championship contender. I attended several games of his, though one sticks out in my mind.

  With the clock dwindling in the final quarter of play, the game was tied 28-28. Both teams were trash-talking each other, a genuine animosity between them. A few shoving matches occurred between plays which the referees quickly broke up in an attempt to maintain order. The hostility, however, still lingered.

  Terrell was being covered by the opposing team’s star defender, an all-state cornerback who had held Terrell to relatively few catches. As East High struggled to move the ball down the field for one final game-winning score, Terrell continuously trash-talked this cornerback who he knew to be hot-headed. With only ten seconds left in the game, with the ball at the 50-yard line, Terrell goaded the defender into throwing a punch. The referee threw a flag for a fifteen-yard unsportsmanlike conduct penalty and ejected the cornerback from the game. On the final play of the game, with no one on the defense talented enough to cover him, Terrell dashed down the sideline and caught a deep pass in the end zone for a 34-28 win.

  Terrell was beloved in our neighborhood. Aside from being a star athlete, he was smart and charismatic. He had a list of college scholarships offered to him and everyone expected he’d soon be playing football on Saturdays for a major university. However, everything changed for Terrell in the middle of an undefeated season.

  The coach of East High was a divorced man in his late thirties. He was dating a math teacher at the school, a young woman in her mid-twenties. She came to all the games and even watched many of the practices in support of the team and her boyfriend. Impressed by Terrell’s athletic performances, she often complemented him for playing well. And for senior-year math, Terrell was put in her class. Allegedly, they went from seeing each other every day in class to seeing each other on the weekend as well, their student-teacher relationship turning sexual. These rumors found their back to Terrell’s coach.

  In the next game, with an undefeated season on the line, Terrell was benched. The game was close and, in the second half, East High fell behind by ten points. The crowd chanted for Terrell to be put in the game. His teammates pleaded to the coach. Terrell only sat on the bench calmly with his helmet by his side, his jersey perfectly clean.

  The game ended and East lost, ruining their undefeated season and damaging their run for a state championship. After the final whistle, Terrell stood up. In front of his teammates and in front of the crowd, Terrell walked up to the coach and, without a word, spat in his face. He then stood there, daring the coach to throw a punch. Instead, the coach angrily stomped away murmuring under his breath and Terrell’s season was over. When word of this stunt spread, his college scholarship offers evaporated and Terrell’s football career was over as well.

  After graduating, Terrell continued to live in our neighborhood in a red house with his grandmother. His status gradually diminished and he was rarely seen. No one seemed to talk about him anymore.

  When I started high school at East, I was one of only three freshmen to make the varsity team. I was placed on defense as a linebacker and had great success as a back-up. By sophomore year I was made a starter. The team still had the same coach. His son, who was my age, was now on the team. His name was Antoine – a short, stocky, but incredibly fast running back.

  I found Antoine to be standoffish, often acting superior to the rest of the team. I saw him in the school hallways or at parties and would say “hello”. He mostly ignored me though, so I began ignoring him back.

  I must admit that Antoine was very talented and drew college scouts to our games. His name was always mentioned the most in Sports-page articles about our team. As the season progressed, however, my name was mentioned more and more often as the star of the defense. I led the team in tackles and grabbed a few interceptions, causing some of the college scouts at our games to see Antoine to also ask our coach some questions about me. Apparently this bothered Antoine, because he began badmouthing me behind my back. I tried to ignore it.

  During a practice scrimmage, on one play, Antoine came out of the backfield for a pass. The quarterback threw the ball high. Antoine jumped and snatched the ball out of the air. As he touched the ground I nailed him, jarring the ball loose for a fumble and driving him to the turf. This elicited hollers from our teammates who were impressed by the hit and happy for the egotistical Antoine to have been the victim. He limped off the field to sit out a few plays, though his pride was hurt more than his body.

  The next couple days I heard rumors that Antoine was saying, behind my back, that he was going to kick my ass. After having five separate teammates tell me this, I decided to find Antoine before that sc
hool day was over. Beside our school was a fast-food burger joint where I knew Antoine often ate his lunch. During our lunch period, I saw Antoine crossing the front lawn of our school. I jogged after him and called his name. He turned around and was wearing a baggy black T-shirt, blue jeans, and a diamond stud in his ear.

  I stood in front of him and held out both of my fists at chest level. “Pick a hand,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Pick a hand.”

  “Left?” he chose, unsure.

  I punched him in the nose with my left hand.

  He doubled over, holding his nose which began to bleed. “What the fuck?!” he shouted. “Why’d you do that?”

  “You’ve been saying you’re going to kick my ass. Try now if you’re going to.”

  He looked at me, blood flowing from his nose into his palm. “Fuck,” he repeated. “No, I don’t want to.”

  If he wanted to fight, I was ready to drill him with another punch and not stop until someone strong enough could separate us. “Are you sure?” I asked again.

  “Yeah.” He walked away to find a restroom and clean himself up.

  I looked around and there were some groups of students watching from afar, silent and awestruck because of Antoine’s status.

  After school I walked into the locker room to change for practice. Our coach noticed me and said, “What are you doing here?”

  Confused I said, “Getting ready for practice. What do you mean?”

  “Hold on a second.” He disappeared.

  An assistant coach then appeared and took me into the hallway right outside the locker room. “I meant to call you out of class earlier so I could talk to you,” he said. “I hate to tell you this, but we’re not going to need you for the rest of the season.”

  “I’m off the team? Why?”

  “Coach didn’t go into it with me. He just said we’re in the middle of an important season and we can’t have any conflicts within the team.”

  “There’s no conflict. Antoine and I had a problem and it’s settled.”

  “You can try to talk to Coach about it tomorrow during school if he’ll see you. But you shouldn’t come to practice today.”

  I shook my head. “You know what? Fuck it. That’s fine. Can you give him a message though?”

  “What is it?”

  “Tell him he’s a bitch because he lost one of his best players because he’s too busy coddling his pussy son. And tell him he’s a bitch for not kicking me off the team himself, man to man.”

  As I said this, some of the first players were coming out of the locker room to go out onto the practice field. They pretended not to listen, though they eavesdropped on the end of the conversation. What I said quickly spread throughout the team. The next day it spread throughout the entire school and then throughout our neighborhood. Antoine and his father actively avoided me.

  Weeks after getting kicked off the team I threw on a jacket and walked to a small convenience store down the street from my house. I walked to the refrigerated section and picked out a carton of chocolate milk. A few feet to my right someone opened a refrigerator door and took out a six-pack of Corona. I glanced over and it was Terrell James. He was wearing black Nike sneakers, black sweatpants with a white stripe, and a white wifebeater under a bulky black coat. Terrell looked solid, having added about twenty pounds of muscle onto the svelte frame he had in high school. He glanced back at me and I started to walk to the checkout counter.

  “Hey,” he called to me.

  I turned around, surprised he wanted to talk to me.

  “You must be like the only white person in this neighborhood.”

  I looked at him, not sure if the conversation was going to be cordial or confrontational. “Well, my mom’s black. So what? Do you have some type of problem?

  He chuckled. “Calm down, kid. I think I know who you are. Your last name’s Gillis, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, I thought I heard about you. You just got kicked off the football team going out in a blaze of glory, right?”

  I cracked a smile. “It was something like that.”

  “I loved hearing about that shit.” He laughed. “It sounds like you know how to handle yourself.”

  “When I need to.”

  He smiled. “I gotcha. So, now you’re not playing football anymore, what are you doing?”

  “School, I guess. That’s all I have right now.”

  “Fuck it. Getting kicked off the team is the best thing you ever could have done. You’ll see. It eats up all your time, living and breathing that shit all for the glory of the team. What do you end up with? With football, if you’re talented enough and work hard enough and get lucky enough, maybe someday you could make it pro. You make some money but by the time you’re done your body is so beat to hell and you’ve had so many concussions that you can’t remember how to spend it anyway.”

  I chuckled and we walked together to the checkout counter.

  “Hey, give me that,” he said and took the carton of milk from me. “It’s on me for what I heard you said to Coach Dumbfuck.” He bought my milk, his beer, and a cigar from behind the counter that he stuck in his mouth as we walked outside.

  I thanked him.

  “No problem.” He pulled his coat tightly around himself. “Cold weather is like my own personal hell. I’m going home. I like your attitude though. Since you got some free time on your hands now, do you want to make some money?”

  “Doing what?” I asked.

  “You know where I live? Come by this Sunday. I’m working the night before, so I’ll want to sleep in. Come around noon and we’ll talk about it.”

  FAYETTEVILLE, Ark. – “I need to tell you something.”

  “What?” Angela asks.

  In the Toyota I pull off I-540 and drive into town. Using the GPS I follow 15th Street.

  “My real name is Brandon Gillis.”

  She looks at me, nods, and says, “Okay.”

  “Since we trust each other I thought I’d tell you my real name. Plus I knew you’d probably wonder why my mom calls me Brandon, so I thought I’d clear that up before we even get there.”

  Angela giggles. “Okay, Brandon. I like that name … My name really is Angela by the way.”

  “Yeah, I figured. Especially after hearing it on TV all those times.”

  “Right. So what are we going to be doing here?”

  “Seeing as though your face was on TV for a couple days, I thought we’d take a little time to take it easy, lay low. I know you changed your look and everything, but just to be safe.”

  “For how long?”

  “Let’s start with a month. We’ll go from there.”

  “That’s a long time not getting out of the house. It sounds boring.”

  “Take the time to let the public forget your face while I teach you some things and we get on the same page. It would be lot more boring sitting in a jail cell because we fucked up being reckless.”

  “Do you think we’ll have any chances to make money while we’re here?”

  “This seems like kind of a relaxed college town. We can’t do anything to bring attention to ourselves. We’ll just keep our eyes open.” I drive a ways down Mission Boulevard and turn right into my mother’s neighborhood. It’s a newly developed area, each house well-kept on large, grassy plots of land.

  My mother’s home is a moderately-sized, red-brick house. The front lawn is freshly mowed. In the back is a screened-in porch with a pair of rocking chairs. About twenty feet from the porch, on the side of the yard, a large maple tree stands alone.

  “It seems nice,” Angela remarks.

  I look it over. “Yeah, it is.”

  We park in the driveway which sits before the closed garage on the left side of the house. From the driveway we walk on a stone walkway to the front door.

  A few moments after I knock my mother opens the door. She wraps her arms around me and says, “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’m happy to
see you too, Mom.”

  I step aside and say, “Mom, this is Angela.”

  “Hi,” Angela says with a smile.

  “Nice to meet you.” My mother looks at me. “Is this your girlfriend?”

  “No. Just a close friend.”

  They shake hands and Angela says, “You have a beautiful house.”

  “Thanks. Let’s go in. I’ll show you the inside.”

  The front door leads into the kitchen which has a bar countertop with a few wooden stools. A door on the left of the kitchen leads into the garage. The kitchen, to the right after a small step down, opens into the living room which contains a cushioned brown chair, a sofa, and an old thirty-inch television. The floor is carpeted and in the middle of the wall is a white brick fireplace.

  Down the hallway from the kitchen and living room areas is the master bedroom on the right. On the left are a bathroom and a guest bedroom. At the end of the hallway is a door that leads out onto the back porch.

  “You have the guest room and the sofa in the living room,” my mother says. “However y’all want to do the sleeping arrangements, you can decide. Can I get either of you anything?”

  “I’ll take something to drink,” Angela says.

  I look at her and say, “Why don’t we bring our stuff in?”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “I was about to make some tea,” my mother says. “I can boil the water and draw it while you unpack. Is that alright?”

  “Tea would be great,” Angela says.

  I let Angela take the guest room. She starts to unpack her clothes. I return to the kitchen.

  “How long are you staying?” My mother pours the boiled water into a few tea cups.

  “I’m not sure. For a while, maybe. Is that okay?”

  “You can stay as long as you want. I’m glad you’re here.”

  The tea draws.

  I look at her and say, “I thought you might be upset with me.”

  “I’m not. I’m relieved you’re doing okay.”

  “Sorry I didn’t try to contact you before.”

  “I’ve thought about you. Wondering where you are and hoping you’re safe. Sometimes I’d suddenly feel that something bad happened to you. But I also thought how nice it’d be if someday you just showed up. When I moved I pretty much gave up on that idea, but here you are.”