The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

And Dad. I thought about him too.

Somehow that reminder hurt most of all.

“Am I?” I plucked a cereal box from the counter and poured half of its contents into a bowl. “Guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

He turned around and stalked toward his home office. Soon after, I heard the door slam shut.

“I can’t deal with her anymore!” he roared from behind it.

The cereal box slipped from between my fingers, its contents pouring on the floor.

I plastered my forehead to the cool counter and closed my eyes.

Almost.

You almost managed to prevail.

But you didn’t.

Fourteen Years Old.

Dad buys a baseball bat to shoo the boys away.

“It’s a good strategy.” He elbows me over casserole and soda at dinnertime, winking. “You two are getting so tall. You’re not kids anymore. I need an efficient weapon to chase all the boys away. What do you think, Persy? Can I take them all down?”

She giggles, pressing her finger to a crumb and nibbling on it. “You can do anything, Dad.”

“What about you, Belly-Belle? Think your old man’s still got it?”

I poke the green bean casserole with my fork, trying to muster a smile.

My fifteenth birthday is coming up, and I don’t know how to tell Dad the only so-called boy I have anything with is a thirty-year-old father who is married and doesn’t seem to get the hint that we’re over.

It’s been three weeks since Coach came back to work. He’s tried to corner me almost every day. I always dodge him, but it’s getting harder and harder. The thing is, I can’t tell anyone. Maybe if he wasn’t married … if everyone wasn’t fawning all over his baby, which his wife brought to school the other day in her new blue car. She pushed Stephen in a little stroller and stopped for everyone to coo over him. And then when Coach saw her there, he looked very flustered—almost apologetic—but had still kissed her on the lips before tucking her in the teacher’s lounge.

A story about a coach and a student getting busy together is shameful enough, but when you become a homewrecker too? No thanks.

“Don’t hold your breath, Dad,” I say, finally. “I’m not into the whole dating scene.”

“You will be, at some point,” Dad sighs regretfully.

My mother piles more casserole on his plate, laughing. “Leave her alone, honey. Maybe she’s not ready yet.”

I’m starting to think I’ll never be ready.

The next day, Coach Locken is in a sour mood. He makes mistakes. Yells at us during practice. Makes us do a hundred push-ups because he says we were late, even though we weren’t.

Practice is excruciating. My knee is killing me, but I dare not complain, because I don’t want his hands anywhere near me, so I push through, even when I can barely walk it hurts so bad.

“Penrose, see me in my office in five,” he barks when we’re done. I squirt water into my mouth, eyeing him with open resentment.

“Can’t, Coach. I need to pick up my baby sister from the library.”

Not exactly a lie, although Persy is used to waiting for me.

“She’ll wait.” He storms off to his office.

With a groan, I follow him. I have to lock my jaw not to scream from pain because of my knee. My muscles are strained. I haven’t had one of his massages in weeks. When we walk into his room, he locks the door again.

This time, I feel nothing but dread. I’m on the defensive. My senses are on high alert.

“Sit down,” he instructs.

I do. He leans on his desk, folding his arms over his chest. I look the other way. I’m not going to cry, no matter what.

He puts a hand on my thigh. My eyes jerk up, meeting his.

“Don’t,” I hiss.

“Or what?” He lifts his eyebrows. “We both know you can’t tell anyone what we did. I’m a married man. That makes you a little slut. No one’ll believe you, Emmabelle. It’s going to be your word against mine, and I’ve worked at this school ever since I graduated from college and am well loved and respected. Just get over your little petty drama and accept that this is the way things are going to be. I’m going to have to stick with Brenda for a little while longer.”

“Stay with her for eternity.” I jump to my feet and try hard not to wince when my knee almost collapses into itself from the strain. “It has nothing to do with me. I’m done.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” His fingers lace around my arm.

I pull away, but he tugs me back with force. He is going to leave a bruise… and I don’t think he cares.

Panic climbs up my throat. This is getting out of control. I need an out. I rack my brain for something to say that will make him leave me alone.