Next to Never Read online

  I shoot forward again, grabbing for the hat, but I just miss it as he pulls it away.

  “You still didn’t tell me your name,” he chides, smiling like he just loves this little game of his.

  I bare my teeth, breathing hard. Moving forward, I slam my palm into his chest, pushing him backward and making him stumble. Taking my chance, I reach out and grab the hat out of his hand.

  He shakes with laughter and grins at me as I squeeze the cap in my fist.

  But then his face falls and his eyes focus over my head. “Can I help you?” he asks, an annoyed tone to his voice.

  A shadow falls over me, and I feel someone at my back. Twisting my head, I see Jared, my oldest brother, hovering over me and looking at Asswipe like he’s just dying for the kid to give him a reason.

  “Oh, no,” I hear someone say. I look behind the guy and see another kid heading up to us. He swings an arm around the shoulder of the guy talking to us and pulls him back. “I’m sorry, Jared. He’s new in town.” He pulls the guy back until they both turn around and head away, the scared one mumbling something in the new kid’s ear.

  And then they’re gone.

  I sigh and twist around, facing Jared. “I handled it,” I tell him. “You’re really embarrassing sometimes.”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “The sister of the head of JT Racing driving a bicycle is embarrassing.”

  I growl under my breath and pull the hat down on my head again. I’m not having this conversation. Jared, Madoc, and Jax had just been waiting for me to turn sixteen, get my license, and pick out a car. They couldn’t wait to work on it, make modifications, whatever . . .

  They’re still frothing at the mouth for me to change my mind.

  “Do you want a ride home?” he asks. “I was heading there, anyway.”

  I glance at his pickup, parked at the curb, with his eight-year-old son, James, and Madoc’s daughter, A.J., sitting in the backseat.

  But I turn away. “I’m cool. Heading for the biker bar first,” I say nonchalantly, climbing on my bike. “Maybe do some cocaine. Have unprotected sex.”

  “Wait!” he calls.

  He heads for his truck, still idling. “This was sent to our house accidentally.” He reaches through the passenger side window and pulls out a yellow package.

  Stepping up, he tosses me the bubble mailer, and I catch it, instantly feeling something solid inside. Turning it over, I see that it’s addressed to me, but the top left-hand corner is empty.

  “There’s no return address.” I glance up, holding out the package to him. “You don’t want to check it for anthrax first?”

  He rolls his eyes at me and walks for the driver’s side of his car, Seether’s “Remedy” blasting from inside.

  But I can see a hint of a smile under his scowl. “I’ll see you tonight,” he says. And then he jerks his eyes over to the sidewalk where the group of guys is loitering. “And you!” He points to the jerk that was hassling me. “There’s two more of me in this town. Don’t forget it!”

  The guy instantly tenses and turns away, trying to act like Jared’s not talking to him. I laugh to myself and stuff the package in my backpack.

  Sometimes I hate how my brothers hover. And sometimes I love it.

  • • •

  After getting home and parking my bike in the garage, I head straight for the kitchen.

  My dad is probably still in the city, and my mom is usually out running errands night and day now. Since Madoc is running for mayor, she’d enlisted herself as his event coordinator and is constantly meeting with venues, caterers, musicians . . .

  This is the time of day I like best. No one is home, there’s no pressure, and, for a little while, I’m relaxed.

  Dropping my backpack on the kitchen counter, I grab a Fresca out of the refrigerator and jog upstairs to my bedroom. I want to get in the pool before someone shows up to distract me.

  Slipping on my white bikini and grabbing a towel from the bathroom, I grab my backpack off the counter downstairs along with my drinks and carry everything through the doors leading onto the back patio.

  The rush of the waterfall spilling over rocks as it cascades down into the pool immediately relaxes me, and a smile pulls at my lips. When my parents moved us back to Shelburne Falls from Chicago and decided to put in a pool, the waterfall was one of the things on my wish list. It reminded me of the trip to Yosemite our family took when I was eleven. Nearly everyone opted to stay at camp and swim or fish, but Jax, Lucas, and I hiked the Mist Trail, past two waterfalls.

  I can still feel the cool spray hitting my arms and legs as we hiked the steps. I can still hear the thunder of the water and feel the force of it rushing past us. And the smell . . .

  Evergreens, water, and earth. Like sunrise in a cave.

  My dad knew how much I loved the trip and had the waterfall put in, even though I only mentioned it once. He does so much to try to make me happy. And even though we still keep an apartment in Chicago, since my parents have to be there so much and it’s easier than living out of a suitcase in a hotel room, I’ve rarely been back since moving here before freshman year. I’m not a city person.

  Taking another sip of soda, I set my stuff down on one of the patio tables, feeling the late afternoon sun warm my shoulders. I dig in my backpack for my iPad, but then pause on the envelope Jared gave me.

  I’d nearly forgotten. Pulling it out, I survey the front of the package again, seeing that it’s addressed to me, but it was sent to Jared and Tate’s. That’s weird. I’d never used their address. And there’s no return address, but the postmark reads Toronto. I eye it curiously. I don’t know anyone in Canada.

  As soon as I tear away the top of the package and peek inside, I’m hurrying to reach in and pull out the book the envelope contains.

  A used book.

  It’s a hardcover with a tattered paper cover, the edges slightly torn and curling. Peeking back inside the envelope, I see that there’s nothing else. No note. No business card. Nothing.

  Setting the envelope down in confusion, I’m wondering who would send me an old book.

  In search of clues, I fan the pages so that the scent of aged paper wafts into my nostrils. The book is in decent shape, but the edges of the pages are slightly tattered, and the spine is broken in.

  Closing the book, I read the front cover. Next to Never. There’s no author. That’s strange.

  Turning the book over, I scan the back cover, reading the synopsis.

  And quickly stop, rolling my eyes. I toss the book back down onto the table.

  Romance. While I’m intrigued by who would send me a random book, I don’t care to waste my time.

  Instead I walk to the edge of the pool, step in, slowly descending up to my calves, and then my thighs and waist. Pushing off, I dive beneath the surface, completely submerging myself as the cool rush of water soothes my body and caresses my scalp. I pop up through the surface, pushing my hair back, and then return to the edge of the pool, reaching up to grab the envelope again.

  Toronto.

  Pasha’s in Toronto, I guess. But I’m not close with her, and I don’t get the impression sappy chick novels are her thing. And I don’t know anyone else there, so . . .

  In fact, the only other person I know that lives outside of this state is Lucas. I highly doubt, though, he’d send me a romance novel. Especially when he hasn’t kept in touch.

  Tossing the envelope down, I reach up and grab my iPad, tapping my finger on the search bar and watching the cursor start blinking. My hands shake for a moment as I hesitate, but then I just start tapping away.

  Lucas Evan Morrow.

  The blue circle starts spinning, and my heart flips in my chest as my stomach starts to cave. I don’t want to see search results, and the other part of me just wants them to pop up really quickly to get this over with.

  I
still have time. I can turn off the iPad right now, because the only thing better than knowing is wondering, right? I’m a curious girl, but what if I don’t like what I find? I’d gone all this time without Googling him. I’m happier that way. What if he’s gotten married? Is serious with someone? Has he turned into a jerk with male-pattern baldness and a beer belly? He’s almost thirty now, so what’s the point of obsessing—

  And then . . . a flutter hits my belly as image after image starts to load onto the screen.

  Oh, God.

  I lick my lips, all of my questions fading away as I’m suddenly lost.

  There he is.

  There are images upon images. Him at meetings, grand openings, parties . . . some of them are official—Lucas shaking hands with other businessmen and foreign sheiks—and then, in some, it doesn’t look like he even knows he’s being photographed. Head bent down and that look of stern concentration in his brow that I remember so well.

  He’s beautiful. A sudden sob lodges in my throat but I catch it just in time.

  I’ve missed him. I didn’t realize how much until now, except now I understand why I’ve refrained from looking him up. It hurts too much.

  I grew up with him, talked to him and saw him regularly, and, in all this time, he hasn’t written or called or come home. He forgot about all of us, just like I’d told him he would.

  No. I don’t want to see his life that I’m not a part of.

  But as I gaze into his eyes, like the blue of the Pacific ten minutes after sundown, I also realize it’s something else, too. As my heart pounds, tears that I hold back stinging my eyes and every muscle in my chest tightening at the sight of him, I realize as I look at his gorgeous face that it’s more than missing him.

  It’s longing.

  His clothes have changed. He is almost always in a suit in nearly every picture, looking taller and older, with his tie tightened, and a flexed jaw like he’s in a constant state of preparing for a confrontation.

  Where’s the guy with greasy hands who helped my brothers in the garage and taught me how to play in the dirt?

  “Hey.”

  I pop my head up, hearing a call behind me. Hawke comes through the doors from the kitchen, and I turn the iPad over, hiding the screen.

  He throws a towel onto a lounge chair and walks up to the pool, pulling his shirt up and over his head.

  “Turn around,” he warns.

  I roll my eyes and do what he asks, knowing why. Behind me, I hear the shuffle of clothes as he strips off his shorts and shoes, getting naked, and pulls on swimming trunks, no doubt. Hawke is my nephew but we’re not related by blood. A fact he uses to test the lines in our family. We would never hook up, but he likes to remind me that we can if we want to. You know . . . “for practice.”

  As soon as I hear the splash of water, I turn around and see his dark form gliding under the water toward me. He pops up, flipping back his hair, longer on the top, shaved on the sides, and his lip and eyebrow rings glimmer in the sunlight.

  “Hi,” I say. “You weren’t at school today.”

  “Had some stuff to do.”

  He floats backward, and I can tell I’m not going to get any more information. Hawke skips school rarely, but lately, it’s getting more frequent.

  But although I’m curious, I’m not really worried, either. He keeps his grades up and doesn’t seem to be getting into trouble. Hawke knows how to take care of himself. I just hope his mom doesn’t find out. She pushes education. A lot.

  Growing up, it wasn’t “if we go to college,” it was “when we go to college.”

  “Are you off-roading tonight?”

  He stands back up, shaking his head as he walks toward me. “No, but I can if you want to come with me,” he teases. “I’ll let you drive.”

  “I don’t know how to drive.”

  He stalks closer, a playful look in his eyes. “It’s time you learned.” He puts his hands on the edge of the pool at my sides. “Enough fucking around. If you can’t practice on me, who can you practice on?”

  I nearly laugh. “You mean practice with you?”

  He shrugs. “Either or.” And then he grabs my iPad from behind me, flipping it over. “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing,” I burst out, suddenly on alert as I dart out to grab it.

  But his eyebrows shoot up when he no doubt sees what’s still on the screen. His eyes fix on me, and a drop of water falls from his hair down the side of his face.

  “Still?” he inquires.

  My shoulders tense, my guard going up, and I snatch the iPad back, turning it off again.

  “They would never let it happen,” he states.

  His words loom around me like a cage, and I don’t need him to clarify. I know what he’s talking about.

  My wonderment with Lucas at eight had turned into a crush by the time I was fourteen. And now, at seventeen, it still sits there, this small, constant flame in the back of my heart. Despite the distance, the loss of contact, him being twenty-nine years old and a full-grown man . . .

  Oh, Jesus. Hawke is right.

  Madoc might come to terms with it, as well as Tate and Juliet. But Jared, Jax, and my father?

  They only see in black and white.

  I force down the tightness in my throat and put the iPad away, turning around to Hawke.

  “So . . . ,” I broach, changing the subject. “This ‘stuff’ you’re doing . . . is it illegal?”

  He hoods his eyes. “That’s insulting.”

  “But still . . . is it illegal?”

  He splashes some water on me. “Forget it. I’m not telling you shit.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because one look from my dad and you crack.”

  I laugh and splash him back. That’s probably true.

  “What are you reading?” he inquires, reaching over me. I see him take the hardcover book off the table.

  “Be careful!” I wince. “Your hands are wet.”

  “‘What if you met your soul mate too late?’” He reads the back cover. “‘Would you let them go or would you hurt the ones you loved and risk everything to be together?’” He stops, wrinkling his eyebrows to look down at me with mischief in his eyes. “Lucas is only like thirty. It’s not too late.”

  “Shut up,” I bite out, trying to grab for the book.

  But he holds it up, pushing my hands away as he continues to read.

  “‘On a cold winter night, Jase sees a young girl in an empty parking lot, and he doesn’t know what to do first: get her name or get her into his bed.’” Hawke busts out laughing, shaking as he turns his eyes back on me. “What the hell is this crap?”

  “Just . . .” I snatch the book and throw it back up on the table. “Stop being an asshole for five seconds. It’s none of your business.”

  “Women are totally into porn. I knew it.”

  His gloating smirk is pissing me off. “It’s not porn,” I tell him. “I don’t think it is, anyway. Someone sent it to me in the mail.”

  “You don’t know who?”

  “No.” I shake my head and lean back against the edge of the pool. “And there was no note, either.”

  “Mysterious,” he mumbles and then looks over at me again, waggling his eyebrows. “Are you going to read it? See if he gets her into his bed?”

  This is why he’s my least favorite relative. He’s constantly trying to bait me.

  But he’s also the one I’m closest to. Hawke always thinks of himself last, and I admire that about him.

  “You do know what happens when you get into a man’s bed, right?” he asks.

  “More than what happens when a girl gets into your bed, I hear.”

  He chuckles. “Don’t test me, Quinn. Remember that we’re not actually related.”

  I look over at him again, se
eing his cocky smile, while his hands dance back and forth underneath the water.

  “Oh, and what are you going to do?” I retort. “Convulse on top of me for fifteen seconds and then fall asleep?”

  He lunges for me, and I squeal as he wraps his arms around me and picks me up off my feet.

  “No!” I scream, but my stomach flips, and I’m laughing anyway.

  He tosses me a couple feet, and then I’m free-falling.

  My laugh follows me under the water.

  Yep, definitely my least favorite relative.

  Chapter 2

  With a few hours left until Dylan’s race after I’ve showered and dressed, I figure I can kill some time, trying out the new strawberry tart recipe I found online yesterday. My parents will be home late and probably hungry.

  “Dude,” I hear as I open the door. “Have you started reading this?”

  I pop my head up to see Dylan lying on my bed with the hardcover I got in the mail today.

  I laugh to myself. “No. Romance isn’t my thing.”

  “Not your thing? Who doesn’t like love stories?”

  I toss my towel down and gaze over at her. She’s so different than me. Snarky, fun-loving, up for anything . . .

  “If you want to read it, go ahead.”

  There’s silence as I stand at my dresser and dig in my makeup bag, starting to pick out what I need.

  “Happiness is a direction, not a place.”

  What?

  I spin around. “What did you say?”

  She raises her eyes. “You told me I could read it.”

  Yeah, not out loud. But that line . . . I know that line.

  “That’s a sentence in the book?” I go over to her to take a look.

  Sure enough, it’s the first sentence. Weird. That same quote is inscribed on a gold compass my mom gave me when I was twelve.

  A compass I gave Lucas the last time I saw him, in exchange for his hat. I thought it would ensure he’d come back to return it. It hasn’t.

  And I don’t think it’s mere coincidence that a mysterious book from a mysterious sender containing a quote I’m familiar with has found me.