We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  But I will miss this. Being a Wolf. Screaming my lungs out with my teammates on a dirt patch three nights a week, knowing we’re about to send our rivals home with wounded pride.

  I never feel quite myself during the off-season. Without baseball, I am utterly unexceptional. Just like any other guy on the street. For months on end, I walk around with restless hands, waiting for the day I’ll finally pick up my glove again. It’s as though I’ve pushed the mute button on the most vital part of me.

  I still haven’t quite wrapped my head around the fact that the next time I play, it’ll be in another stadium entirely. Another state. Another chapter. But for tonight… for one last night… I am still a Wolf. I push the future aside as I howl up at the full moon with the teammates who’ve become unlikely friends.

  At some point, someone discovers that The State Championship trophy — shaped like a massive chalice with ornate gold handles — makes for a perfect drinking goblet. Lee Park shoves it into my hands, filled to the brim with frothy beer.

  I laugh as I lift it to my lips, already regretting the headache I’m going to have in the morning but far too buzzed to argue.

  “REY-ES! REY-ES! REY-ES!”

  The entire team chants, their volume growing to a roaring crescendo as I begin to chug the contents. I don’t stop until the chalice is completely empty.

  “Hell yeah!” Chris pounds my back, grinning ear to ear. “That’s how it’s done!”

  “Yo! Reyes!” Andy calls, picking up a bat and giving it a few lopsided swings. “Let’s see if you can still strike me out when you’re blackout drunk.”

  “Hilton, I could strike you out blindfolded.”

  He tosses the bat at me. I dodge it, stumbling slightly. My reflexes are slower than usual, sloshing around beneath a layer of foam.

  “Ah yes. The great Archer Reyes.” Ryan Snyder scoffs sarcastically, shooting me a scathing look across the keg. Even in the dark, his double black eyes are apparent. “A hundred bucks says he crashes and burns before his first collegiate season. Any takers?”

  There’s a collective intake of air as silence falls over the rowdy group.

  Snyder isn’t done. His slurred voice booms into the night like a thunderclap. “Two hundred bucks says he never even makes it off the bench!” He smirks. “Archer Reyes is nothing but a flash in the pan.”

  In the suffocating quiet that follows, I set down the trophy with deliberate slowness. Screwing up my face in faux-confusion, I glance around the group, then back at Ryan’s twin black eyes.

  “Sorry… could someone translate what he just said?” I ask. “I don’t speak raccoon.”

  Chris snorts beer out his nose.

  Snyder takes two steps toward me, tossing his empty cup to the ground. His fists swing up into a fighting stance. “You want to go, asshole?”

  “Go?” My brows shoot upward. “Go where? The prom? I’m flattered. Thought you already had a date, but if you insist…”

  “Shut up!” Snyder hisses, still advancing on me with violence etched across his face.

  I don’t move an inch. My voice is bored. “I’ve punched you out twice now, Snyder. You keep coming back for more, people will start thinking you’ve got a crush on me.”

  “I said SHUT UP!”

  “And I said I don’t speak halfwit, raccoon-eyed rich boy. Keep up, will you?”

  Charging forward, Ryan really looks like he might kill me. Right now, I’m feeling reckless enough to let him try. Thankfully, Chris and Andy are less keen on bloodshed. They step forward to block his path, forcing him back with unyielding grips.

  “Let me go!” Ryan growls.

  “Would you two kiss and make up already?” Andy snaps, his muscles straining. “No girl is worth this.”

  My reply is instant. “Depends on the girl.”

  “Whatever. I’m over this,” Snyder mutters, finally backing off. In his first wise move maybe ever, he walks over to the dugout where Carl MacDonald is drinking, swearing under his breath the whole way.

  Chris looks at me and Andy. “Let it be known: I will miss you two goons, but I will not miss some of our teammates.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Andy says, raising his cup.

  By midnight, the keg is empty and we’re all completely wasted. The bleachers are scattered with unconscious bodies. Red cups litter the infield like confetti. Steve Abbott is using first base as a pillow. Jason Samborn is slumped against the batting cage, snoring like a freight train.

  Chris, Andy, and I are lying in the outfield, staring up at the stars. They swim around like fireflies before my eyes.

  “Guess I should call for extraction,” Chris says, fumbling for his phone to text the JV team — tonight’s designated drivers. “Gotta get everyone out of here before the sprinklers turn on at 2AM.”

  He stumbles off toward the bleachers to rouse the fallen soldiers.

  “I can’t believe it’s over,” Andy murmurs when it’s just the two of us.

  “Aren’t you trying out for the team at San Diego State?” I turn my head to look at him. “You’ll have a chance to play again.”

  “I’m not talking about baseball, man. I mean… this. High school.” He shakes his head. “Took my last final on Friday. Playoffs are over. Yearbook is signed. All that’s left is prom and graduation.”

  “Just graduation for me.”

  “You’re not going to prom?”

  “Nah.”

  “What the hell, man?”

  “No date.”

  “Dude, I barely have a date. I’m taking June Woods. The girl has zero personality. If she were a genre, she’d be hold music.”

  I snort. “She can’t be that bad.”

  “Trust me. She is.” He grimaces. “What about Valentine?”

  “What about her?”

  “I always assumed…”

  My tone flattens. “What?”

  “Don’t give me that death-stare! Jeez, you’re so touchy when it comes to her.”

  Gritting my teeth, I glance back at the stars. “Sorry.”

  Andy is silent for a long stretch, then clears his throat. “Look, it’s none of my business, man. I don’t know what went down between you and Snyder, or why he’d bother trying to start something with your girl when it’s clear to anyone with eyes that you two are star-crossed lovers or some shit like that. But I do know one thing. If you’re so crazy about her, you should tell her. Soon. Before everything changes. It might be your last chance.”

  I offer nothing in response. But as I stare up at the night sky, his words churn over and over inside my head, stirring up unwelcome emotions. Making me want things I can’t have.

  After a few minutes, the JV players begin to arrive, their headlights flashing brightly in the parking lot as they herd the uncooperative drunkards into their back seats. Andy and I start walking toward the parking lot. Our gaits are both a bit staggered.

  “It’s because I’m so crazy about her,” I say haltingly as we pass home plate.

  “What?”

  I look at him. “The reason I can’t risk telling her how I feel. It’s because I’m so crazy about her.”

  “Dude… that makes no fucking sense.”

  “Welcome to my life.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  JOSEPHINE

  There’s a giant hornet flying around inside my head. Burrowing between my ears with a relentless drone. Pushing me toward consciousness.

  Bzzzzzz.

  Bzzzzzz.

  Bzzzzzz.

  I sit up in bed, the dream fragmenting into fuzzy images of incandescent wings and yellow stripes. It takes a moment to register that the sound I’m hearing is not happening inside my head. It’s coming from the front door access panel, downstairs in the atrium. Someone is ringing the guest buzzer at the outer gate.

  What the hell?

  It’s the middle of the night — the world outside my windows is a grayscale painting, awash in strokes of ebony. The clock on my bedside table reads 1:35AM.

/>   Who would come here this late?

  My stomach turns to stone as memories of yesterday morning come rushing back. Those men, in the parking lot…

  Is it them?

  Are they here?

  Somehow, I doubt they’d bother ringing the bell.

  It took me ages to fall asleep, even with a state-of-the-art security system to alert me to any intruders. I’m actually surprised I managed to nod off at all. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw a pockmarked cheek and cold black eyes. I heard a voice, chill with malice.

  See you soon, sweetheart.

  My mental exhaustion must’ve finally outweighed my anxiety. I wore myself out with worry all afternoon, going back and forth over my options a million and a half times.

  Should I call my parents? Tell them what happened? Ask for help?

  I quickly tossed that idea to the curb. Blair and Vincent are a world away, dealing with their so-called packaging crisis. There’s nothing they can possibly do to make things better.

  Should I call the police? File a report? Give a written statement about the men who attacked me?

  Not without setting off a chain reaction of events out of my control. More than likely, the second I utter the name ‘Reyes,’ the officer in charge will haul Flora and Miguel into the station for questioning. Jaxon could wind up in trouble again. And as for Archer…

  He has far too much to lose, right now. His future, his dreams, are finally within his grasp. I refuse to be the one to drag him further into… whatever this is. Not after he’s worked so hard to distance himself from his older brother’s reputation.

  The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that what happened to me yesterday has something to do with how he’s been acting these past few weeks. Rico basically confirmed it with a single offhand comment.

  Your little baseball star boyfriend knows how to get in touch.

  It’s like someone’s finally handed me the missing pieces of a puzzle. I turn them over in my hands, trying to fit them into a picture that no longer makes any sense.

  My frustration is almost as strong as my fear. I may not understand exactly what’s happening here… but I know in my bones that Jaxon is the root of it. Any problem the Reyes family has ever endured is a direct result of his poor choices. And it surely cannot be a coincidence that Archer started pushing me away as soon as his brother was released from jail.

  His cold indifference, his cruel treatment, his sudden avoidance… I replay it all with fresh eyes, consumed by a desperate sort of hope. A fool’s hope, perhaps. But hope is a funny thing. It can ensnare all logic, can break apart the most convincing of lies.

  Maybe it was all an act.

  I cling to that possibility like a naive little girl, clutching her teddy bear to ward off the monsters under her bed. It’s pathetic how acutely I want to believe there’s an alternate explanation for the seismic shift in the boy I love.

  Bzzzzzzz.

  The gate rings again. I grab the large knife off my beside table — the one I took from the kitchen earlier, just in case — and make my way downstairs. The access panel glows in the dark, its buttons a faint row of illumination. I press one to enable the microphone and outside camera. The screen flickers to life, revealing a black Jeep Wrangler waiting at the gates.

  I’m so relieved it’s not a Ford Bronco, I nearly fall over.

  “H-hello?” I bark into the intercom, trying to sound assertive. “Who’s there?”

  The driver sticks his head out the window, pressing his nose practically against the lens. Despite the slight fishbowl effect of the camera, his face is vaguely familiar to me. I’m almost positive he’s one of the JV baseball players. Justin Something-Or-Other. A junior at Exeter.

  As for why he’s at my home at two in the morning, I have no earthly idea.

  “Oh, good, you’re here!” he bleats nervously. Beneath the rim of his baseball cap, his acne-peppered cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I’m the designated driver tonight. I’m supposed to drop off Reyes, but he won’t give me his address…” The boy darts a look at his passenger seat. “He just keeps telling me to take him here… to you...”

  I press a hand to my temple.

  Of course.

  “I’ll take him somewhere else if you want,” the boy says. “It’s just… he’s pretty insistent—”

  “Jo!” Archer shouts suddenly, his voice garbled. His head appears out the open roof of the Wrangler as he stands up in his seat. “It’s me, Jo…”

  He looks unsteady, swaying in the wind. Even through the camera, his eyes are visibly bloodshot.

  “I forgot the code,” he tells me, laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Can you buzz us in?”

  I bring my lips close to the two-way speaker. “Why should I help you, Archer? You’re a total jerk.”

  “I know. I know I am. But…” His hands press together in prayer. “Pleaseeeeee, JoJo. Let me innnnn.”

  His voice is slurred and full of static, but it still slides over me like a drug, triggering goosebumps across my skin. I hate myself for being so affected by him. I hate that, even when he’s treating me like crap, he owns every beat of my stupid heart.

  “Fine.” I sigh deeply. “Not that you deserve it.”

  Before I can second-guess myself, I jam my finger against the button, allowing the gates to swing wide.

  I stand on the front steps in my fuzzy slippers, shivering against the cold. My pajama set is painfully thin.

  Thankfully, I don’t have to wait long for the Wrangler to make its way up to the house. My eyes lock on the beam of its headlights arcing around the circular driveway. It stops at the bottom of the steps with a crunch of gravel.

  Stomach twisting with nerves, I descend to it slowly. I’m nearly there when the passenger door swings open. Archer practically falls out onto the pea stone. It seems, in the time it took to travel from the front gates, he’s slipped even further into the clutches of inebriation.

  “Fuck!” he exclaims as he falls.

  I react instinctually — darting forward to catch him before he can face-plant. I grunt as we collide, struggling to hold his not-insignificant weight upright. His arm slings heavily across my shoulders. His head lolls toward the crook of my neck.

  “Hi, Jo.”

  “Jesus, you’re heavy,” I rasp.

  “You’re heavy.”

  “Good comeback.”

  His whole body starts shaking with laughter. “I personally thought so.”

  “I’m glad you find this so amusing.” Despite my best intentions, my lips twist. I’ve never seen him this hammered before. “Come on, big boy. Let’s try to walk. That’s it. Nice and easy. Lift your feet.”

  Blessedly, Justin materializes at my side and takes half of Archer’s weight. Just in time, too — Archer is fading fast, his arms hanging limply at his sides, his eyelids fluttering closed.

  Together, we manage to get him up the steps, onto the terrace. I’m panting by the time we maneuver his prone body onto one of the chaise loungers in the nook that overlooks the side garden.

  My features twist into a scowl as I examine him. “How much did you drink?”

  “Half a keg,” Archer mumbles. “Give or take.”

  “Great.”

  “Is it okay that he sleeps here?” Justin asks, wringing his hands. “You won’t get in trouble with your parents or anything, right?”

  “They aren’t home.”

  “Oh.” His cheeks are red. He can’t quite meet my eyes. “I’m really sorry about this. You probably think I’m an idiot for bringing him here, but I didn’t know what else to do and—”

  “The only idiot here is Archer Reyes. Don’t worry about it.” My brows lift. “Let me guess — they all got blasted after the big win and made you JV guys their personal chauffeurs for the evening?”

  “I don’t mind, honestly! It was cool to hang out with him, even for a little while.” There’s hero worship in his
eyes as he stares at Archer — splayed out on the lounger in his grass-stained uniform, hair sticking six directions, mouth slack with sleep. “He’s an incredible player. I’ll miss watching him pitch. But I’m sure in a few years I’ll seen him again… probably on the big screen at Fenway.” His mouth tugs up at one corner. “And someday, when he’s really famous, I’ll be able to tell my kids about the night I drove Archer Reyes home, back in high school.”

  My heart gives a little pang. I press a hand to my chest, trying to subdue it. “Well. I appreciate you getting him here safely.”

  “It’s the least I could do. Really.” Justin’s expression grows sheepish as his gaze darts up to mine. “I didn’t know you two were dating.”

  “We aren’t.”

  “Really?” His brow furrows. “He talked about you the whole way home.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. “He did?”

  “Yeah. He was pretty worked up that you weren’t at the game, to be honest.” His lips flatten into a frown. “He said a State Championship title didn’t mean anything without you there to celebrate with. And that…”

  My heart is pounding. “And what?”

  “Oh. Um.” His cheeks flush even redder. “You know what? I probably shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not my business.”

  “But—”

  “I should get going.” He starts jogging down the steps. Halfway to the driveway, he turns back. His voice carries up to me. “Don’t be too mad at him, when he wakes up. You may not be his girlfriend, but the way he talks about you…” He shrugs again, avoiding my eyes. “Maybe you should be.”

  With that, he hurries down the rest of the steps, slides into the front seat, and speeds off. I watch his taillights disappear before I pivot around toward the idiot passed out on my terrace. His handsome face is slack with sleep — thick eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm.

  Moving with utmost care, I lower myself gingerly onto the edge of the lounger. My hipbone presses against his side. He’s warm as a wildfire, despite the chill in the air. I resist the urge to lean into him, to absorb his heat.