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

by Julie Johnson

  He doesn’t appear.

  Headmaster Lawrence looks around in confusion. “ARCHER REYES!” he calls again, louder. As if Archer is simply hard of hearing.

  Whispers circulate through the crowd as the seconds pass by. The ceremony has ground to a halt, waiting for him to materialize. But he doesn’t.

  Where is he?

  Something is wrong. I can sense it. My mind spins a million directions, playing out unlikely scenarios to explain his absence. I want to fly from my seat and search for him. The need to know he’s okay is so strong, it squeezes the air from my lungs, until I’m struggling to breathe. I’m about two seconds away from a full panic attack.

  “It seems Mr. Reyes was unavoidably delayed,” Headmaster Lawrence announces. “So. Where were we… Ah, yes. Rebecca Rowland!”

  “Sienna Sullivan!”

  “Ryan Snyder!”

  “Eva Ulrich!”

  “Kenny Underwood!”

  Finally, after a million years…

  “Josephine Valentine!”

  When he calls my name, I walk up to the podium and accept my diploma with numb hands.

  “Congratulations, Miss Valentine.” He leans in to whisper something, muffling the microphone with his hand. “An interesting speech, earlier. Unexpected but refreshing. I admire your candor. And I hope you know… striking out on your own, outside the expectations of a family legacy, is something to be proud of. Never be ashamed of making your own way. No matter what your parents think.”

  “Thank you.” My throat is tight. “I appreciate it, Headmaster.”

  He nods, then glances down at his sheet to call the next names. Blessedly, we’re almost to the end.

  “Odette Wadell!”

  “Ophelia Wadell!”

  They both wink at me as they collect their diplomas.

  After the final name is called, Eva walks to the podium, grinning.

  “Hat’s off to the graduates!”

  Snatching the cap from her head, she tosses it straight up. A second later, a hundred more join it, filling the air with green and black squares.

  The crowd cheers. Their whistles and wolf howls are ear-shattering. In spite of everything, I find myself smiling just as wide as my fellow classmates. Soaking in the moment, before it slips away.

  High school is over.

  Welcome to real life.

  All around me, parents are hugging their children, wiping tears of pride and joy. I walk down the steps of the stage, searching the crowd for signs of Flora and Miguel. Hoping they, at the very least, can offer some sort of explanation for Archer’s absence.

  But they’re nowhere to be seen.

  The anxiety inside me, momentarily subdued by the hat toss, returns with a vengeance. It multiplies when Blair and Vincent step into my path.

  “Come, Josephine,” my mother says in a frigid voice. Her eyes are like knives. “We’re leaving now, before you can publicly humiliate us any further.”

  “But—”

  “Now. I’m not going to say it twice.” My father’s voice is shaking with anger. “And, for the record… you can consider yourself grounded.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ARCHER

  My right hand grips the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles turn white. My left holds my iPhone in a vise grip. Every few seconds, the truck’s GPA system drones orders at me, directing me toward the address Rico sent.

  “At the lights, turn left at Lexington Avenue.”

  The stoplight goes from green to yellow as I race toward it. I blast through the red without a thought, wincing as other cars swerve to avoid me with a racket of angry beeps. I’m usually the farthest thing from reckless behind the wheel. Today, I drive like a Formula 1 racer.

  There’s no other choice.

  I’m still wearing my prom clothes, the white button-down now a mess of wrinkles. There was no time to change before I hopped in my truck. No time to do anything except sprint to the cottage, calling out for my parents. Praying this was all some kind of sick joke.

  “Ma! Pa! Where are you?”

  My own voice echoed back at me, desperation in every syllable. Signs of struggle were apparent — a dining chair overturned, a floor rug askew, a water glass on its side. Cold fear gripped my heart as I raced to my bedroom and grabbed the aluminum bat from the floor.

  I glance at it now, sitting on my passenger seat beside the graduation gown I’ll probably never get a chance to wear.

  A boy with a baseball bat, against two gun-toting gang members.

  The odds are not in my favor.

  They never were. That doesn’t change a damn thing, though. My parents are held hostage in some dark basement. There’s no way I’m going to sit idly by while they’re in danger.

  I eye the dashboard clock.

  10:57

  I have three minutes to make a ten minute trip. My foot presses harder against the pedal, accelerating to twice the legal limit on this quiet residential street. The truck engine roars in response.

  50mph

  60mph

  70mph

  “At the stop sign, continue straight.”

  I glance around for other cars, then proceed to blow through the intersection without braking.

  10:58

  “In a quarter mile, merge onto Abbey Street.”

  Driving with my knees, I jab a finger against my iPhone screen and dial Jaxon. It rings three times before kicking over to his voicemail — just as it has the past three times I tried to reach him.

  The caller you are attempting to reach is not available. Please leave a message at the tone.

  When it beeps, I lift the phone to my mouth.

  “Jaxon, it’s Archer. I don’t know where you are or what the hell you did to piss Rico off… but you need to fix it. Now.” I swallow hard. “They have Ma and Pa. I’m going to try and negotiate, but I could really use some backup. So just—” I suck in a breath. “Just show up. For once in your fucking life, just be there when I need you.”

  I rattle off the address before I disconnect. My eyes snag on the clock.

  11:00

  I’m not going to make it in time.

  “Turn onto Cabot Street,” the GPS instructs. “Then, drive three-point-two miles.”

  I take the turn on two wheels, relieved I’m nearly there. Not that I have any actual plan of action beyond that. I’m running on pure nerve, my mind circling madly around itself, like a snake devouring its own tail.

  “Your destination is on the right in three miles.”

  My finger hovers over the screen. It would be so simple to dial for help. Three little numbers.

  9-1-1

  Rico’s text message said not to call the cops; that he’d kill my parents if I did. I have no reason to doubt him. Every experience I’ve had with the Latin Kings has proven them to be merciless. They will stop at nothing to get what they want.

  Nothing.

  Which is why I know that, even if I do as he says, Rico won’t think twice about killing us all. His endgame is the only thing he cares about.

  “After the next intersection, your destination is on the right,” the GPS intones in a robotic voice.

  11:02

  Before I can second guess myself, I close my eyes and dial. It connects almost instantly.

  “9-1-1, what is your emergency?”

  “There’s a hostage situation at 1318 Magnolia Street!” I yell into the speaker. “Please, send someone right away.”

  “Okay, sir, I need you to calm down and give me some details,” a soothing voice instructs. “You said there are hostages, can you tell me how many? And how many suspects?”

  “Two hostages. Two suspects.”

  “And are there any weapons involved?”

  “I think they have guns. I don’t know for sure. But they’re dangerous.” My grip tightens on the steering wheel. My eyes flicker back and forth between the road and the GPS. I don’t see the lights change as I fly into the intersection. “Please, hurr—”


  The word never makes it past my lips. A 16-wheeler slams into the passenger side of my truck, crunching it in like a fist around a soda can. The phone sails out of my hand as the world flips upside down. Time seems to slow, suspended endlessly in the moment before impact.

  There’s no way to brace against it.

  Gravity forces the truck back to earth, landing on its roof. Glass explodes all around me, raining down in razor-sharp droplets. Airbags burst out with a hiss of compact air. Metal screeches, showering sparks across the pavement as the momentum carries the truck across the intersection. It rolls three times before it finally slams to a stop against a telephone pole — upside down, tires spinning in the air.

  Hanging limply against my seatbelt, I gasp in excruciating pain. There’s so much of it, I can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from.

  Everywhere, all at once.

  It’s blinding.

  The pain in my chest is hard to breathe around — radiating down my arms, throbbing like a heartbeat. I try to move my limbs, but they don’t cooperate. I taste hot copper in my mouth and know it’s not a good sign.

  In the distance, sirens approach, growing louder and louder.

  Are they for me or my parents?

  I hope its the latter.

  The world outside the crunched cab of my truck is fading a bit more out of focus with each passing second. It’s all rather hazy; as though my head is stuck inside a ball of cotton. My thoughts are equally muddled.

  Time is a funny thing. More fickle than funny, actually — making promises and breaking them. Handing you hope for a future and then snatching it away.

  You always think you’ll get more minutes on the clock than you do. More play time on the field than you’re given. You see the stories of lives cut short on the nightly news… you read the sad headlines scrawled across the morning paper… and you think to yourself, That will never be me.

  How vastly unfair to learn you are not the exception, but the rule.

  Something warm and wet is dripping into my eyes, making it hard to see. It might be blood. I lack the energy to search for its source. I let my lids flutter closed, embracing the cold reality of my present.

  Because the present is all I have left.

  One hour in the past, I was holding the girl of my dreams in the circle of my arms.

  One hour in the future, I was meant to walk across the graduation state to collect my diploma.

  And now, instead…

  I’m dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  JOSEPHINE

  Where are you?

  Where are you?

  Where are you?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ARCHER

  Okay, so I lied.

  I’m not dead.

  I just feel like it.

  Blinking awake, I wince at the bright fluorescent light beaming directly into my retinas. Machines beep all around me as they monitor my vitals — a mechanical din that intensifies my headache tenfold. My right temple throbs, swollen to twice it’s normal size. I must’ve cut my head open.

  I try to lift my arm to feel the gash, but meet unexpected resistance. I glance down for the first time and feel my stomach turn to stone.

  A metal handcuff is fastened neatly around my left wrist.

  I’m manacled to my hospital bed.

  I barely have time to process that when I catch sight of my other arm. My pitching arm. It’s encased in a thick white cast.

  Fuck.

  The door swings open. A doctor steps into the room. She looks around nervously as two police officers follow her in, pushing her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose.

  “Archer, I’m Dr. Taggerty. I was the resident on call this morning when they brought you in. It’s a relief to see your eyes open.”

  “What’s going on?” I rasp. My voice comes out like sandpaper. “What happened?”

  “You were in an accident,” she tells me kindly. “Do you remember? Your truck flipped over several times at an intersection in Beverly.”

  “I remember that. I meant…” I inhale sharply as pain shoots through my chest. “What happened to my parents?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know. They weren’t brought in with you.” She glances at the policemen, brows raised. “I’m sure the gentlemen behind me will be able to offer more insight on that front.”

  One of the officers steps forward. He’s middle aged, with sandy brown hair and the beginnings of a beer belly. His light green eyes are cold as they glare into mine. “I’m Officer Belkin. That’s Minkoff.” He jerks his head toward his partner — a few years younger and a few pounds lighter, but wearing the same inhospitable expression. “Your parents are at the station for questioning. We were able to extract them from the house where they were being held without injury. They’re cooperating fully.”

  Relief floods me.

  They’re alive.

  “And my brother?”

  “We haven’t been able to track Jaxon down yet. But it’s only a matter of time.”

  “What about the men who were holding my parents? They’re members of the Latin Kings. They’ve been threatening us for months.”

  “Look, I’m afraid we can’t talk to you about any pertinent details of the case until we know the extent of your involvement, Reyes. Active investigation and all.”

  “My involvement?”

  Belkin nods. “If you’d like to answer some of our questions—”

  “No,” the doctor says flatly. “No questions until he’s had a full examination. I want to make sure we’re completely out of the woods. He has some internal bleeding we’re watching closely. And he’s still dazed from the general anesthesia.”

  “Fine.” Belkin sighs. “We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “Are the handcuffs really necessary?” Dr. Taggerty shoots me a look of sympathy. “He’s just a kid.”

  “He’s eighteen,” Minkoff says. “And he was caught in possession of enough fentanyl to OD every addict north of Boston.”

  “What?” The word explodes from my mouth. “That’s insane!”

  “So you deny the drugs were yours.”

  “Hell yes I deny it,” I growl.

  “Then how do you explain how they got into your truck?”

  My mind spins, seeking out any possible explanation. I can only come up with one.

  Jaxon.

  He must’ve stashed his supply in my truck when he came home the other day.

  God.

  Fucking.

  Dammit.

  My hand curls into a fist inside the handcuff. “Look. I don’t deal drugs. I’ve never even taken drugs. Whatever you found, it wasn’t mine.”

  “His bloodwork was clear,” Dr. Taggerty murmurs. “For what it’s worth.”

  The officers barely acknowledge her. They’re looking at me with that familiar expression. The one that says, You’re a Reyes. You’re trouble.

  I try to keep calm, but the anger brimming inside me is difficult to swallow. “I have no idea how the drugs got into my truck. I swear it. I—” I break off with a wheeze of pain. My cracked ribs ache so badly, my eyes gloss.

  Dr. Taggerty rushes to my side, putting her fingers to my jugular vein to check the pulse pounding there. “That’s enough. No more questions today, officers. As I told you before, you’ll have to come back if you want to question him.” She pauses. “And, if he’s really under arrest, I don’t think I need to remind you he’s entitled to a lawyer.”

  Belkin scowls. “Fine. We’ll come back tomorrow. But we’re reading him his rights before we go.”

  I close my eyes, trying to shut out the words.

  You have the right to remain silent.

  Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

  You have the right to an attorney.

  If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you…

  I don’t open my lids again until the officers are gone. When I do, I find Dr. Taggerty watching me. Her
eyes are full of sympathy.

  “You’ve had a rough go of it.”

  “I can’t lie, it’s not exactly how I pictured my graduation day going.” I scowl down at the clunky plaster cast on my right arm. “How bad is it?”

  “You have severe bruising over your entire body, three cracked ribs, plus some pretty persistent internal bleeding we need to keep an eye on for the next few days. If it doesn’t resolve on its own, you’ll need surgery.” She pauses to shine a light into my pupils, checking for reactivity. “This gash on your temple is pretty nasty. You’ve got sixteen stitches.”

  “Like Frankenstein? Perfect.”

  “You’ll have a scar, but it shouldn’t be too bad. Your hairline will hide most of it.” She lightly probes the wound, checking the bandage with deft fingers.

  “And my wrist?”

  She sighs. “A compound fracture. When you came in, the bone was protruding through your skin in a not-so-pretty way. We rushed you into surgery and set it for you. It will require some extensive physical therapy if you expect to regain your mobility.”

  “I’m a pitcher,” I say inaudibly.

  “What was that?”

  My eyes lift to hers. “I’m a pitcher. A baseball pitcher.”

  Her face pales. “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

  “I have a scholarship. If I can’t play… I can’t go to college.” I wish my voice wasn’t shaking. “Please. Just tell me. Will I be able to pitch again?”

  “I will send in the orthopedic surgeon to discuss your prognosis in depth tomorrow. But I won’t lie — injuries like this don’t always heal perfectly. There’s are pins in your body, where before there was only bone. Even with physical therapy, you may never regain the exact level of control or throwing power you had before.”

  I turn my head away. I don’t want her to see the tears filling my eyes.

  “Archer.” Her hand lands on mine, squeezing warmly below the cold metal cuff. “You are young and healthy. There’s no reason to assume the worst. And even if your baseball career is over… your life isn’t. After the accident you had, you’re lucky to be breathing.”