by Lori Adams
Forbidden is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A FLIRT eBook Original
Copyright © 2014 by Lori Adams
Excerpt from Switched by Cassie Mae copyright © 2013 by Cassie Mae
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States by FLIRT, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
FLIRT and the HOUSE colophon are trademarks of Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Switched by Cassie Mae. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
Cover Design: Caroline Teagle
Cover image: © peepo/Getty Images
eBook ISBN 978-0-345-54925-9
www.ReadFLIRT.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1: Things That Almost Never Happen
Chapter 2: Michael
Chapter 3: Dante
Chapter 4: The Heart of Haven Hurst
Chapter 5: And Then Again, Maybe Not
Chapter 6: Dante
Chapter 7: Ordering Off the Menu
Chapter 8: The Finite Capacity of My Reality
Chapter 9: Chary Thoughts and Root Beer Floats
Chapter 10: Michael
Chapter 11: Things I’m Not Supposed to Know
Chapter 12: Music, Zombies, and Things that Tingle
Chapter 13: Michael
Chapter 14: Star Light, Star Bright, First Star I Smack Tonight
Chapter 15: Michael
Chapter 16: The Hot-Blooded Boys of Summer
Chapter 17: My, What Big Eyes You Have
Chapter 18: Michael
Chapter 19: The Circle of Death
Chapter 20: Stupid in a Shot Glass with a Chaser of Hot Chocolate
Chapter 21: Michael
Chapter 22: Dante
Chapter 23: The Use of Fowl Language and Then One Giant Leap for Me
Chapter 24: Love and Other Fatal Diseases
Chapter 25: Rebel Without a Pause
Chapter 26: One Hot Dog, Heavy on the Miracle
Chapter 27: Surpassing the Outer Limits of Stupidity and Being Greatly Rewarded
Chapter 28: Dante
Chapter 29: Michael
Chapter 30: Double, Double, Toil and … Holy Crap!
Chapter 31: Down the Spiritual Rabbit Hole
Chapter 32: Surprise of the Seraphim
Chapter 33: I’ll Have an X, a Scapegoat, and a Secret Boyfriend for Dessert
Chapter 34: The Playground of Angels
Chapter 35: Thank You, Sir, May I Have Another
Chapter 36: Pretty Clothes, Misgivings, and Things that Want to Eat Me
Chapter 37: Land Mines and Lullabies Dead Ahead
Chapter 38: Principalities of the Air
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
Excerpt from Switched
Chapter 1
Things That Almost Never Happen
I always know I’m in trouble when I hear devilish laughter.
Could be my overactive imagination. Could be I’m losing my mind. Or it could be that I am being watched by some evil entity that finds me particularly amusing. Not that I’m superstitious or anything, but lately I have been hearing some pretty weird stuff. It’s become too frequent for my taste, like one of those never-ending playground chants that grate on your nerves.
So when this motorcycle cop pulls me over, I’m not surprised to hear deep, sadistic laughter pinballing around in my head. Possible translations? You’re screwed, Sophia. Steve is pressing charges and you’re headed to juvie. Or, on a lighter note, Time to see a good ear doctor, duh.
I fiddle with the long brown braid resting over my shoulder and wait for the cop. Please, please don’t give me a ticket!
It’s my first time being pulled over and I’m nervous as hell. Thankfully, Dad is a few miles ahead, pulling the U-Haul trailer that contains my meager seventeen years of existence. I’m glad he isn’t here because he hasn’t been himself lately. He would probably make things worse. Dad has withdrawn more than usual in the past two weeks. Well, really since the disastrous breakup with my ex-boyfriend, whom I now lovingly refer to as Psycho Steve. It was torture for Dad to see Psycho Steve’s anger left all over my face. Sometimes Dad acts like he was the one who got pummeled instead of me.
But I don’t blame him for shutting down, again. Mom died unexpectedly a few years ago and Dad is still an emotional wreck. We both are.
So it’s just Sundance, my golden retriever, and me in my red jeep Wrangler. The top is open and I know my hair is doing a strand-up comedy but the cool evening air was too comforting to avoid. It calms my nerves about moving to a new town. Being the daughter of a roaming pastor, I still haven’t gotten accustomed to relocating at the drop of a hat. Since Mom’s death, Dad has grown increasingly restless; we have moved four times in the last two years, everywhere from Monterey to Santa Barbara to San Diego. So basically, my college dreams of Stanford have not only been tossed by the roadside but run over, backed over, and pulverized by my car tires. I had just started my senior year at Los Angeles High when—out of nowhere—Dad announced that we were leaving. No warning. No discussion. Just pack and go, and four days later here I am on the side of the road somewhere in Connecticut.
I grab my phone and shoot a text to Dad, letting him know I’m temporarily delayed. He’ll think I had to pee. I know I wasn’t speeding so hopefully this won’t take long.
I sigh and rub my aching neck. The cop is taking forever so I search for him in the rearview mirror, but my eyes are drawn beyond him to a big apricot sun setting behind a distant ridge. My eyes lock in place like I am hypnotized, and a familiar tingle darts up my spine. I feel a strange heaviness settle on me, the same sensation I had when I realized that Mom was never coming back. Life went still then and my vision blurred, but I could hear things without sound. And now, I hear the customary colors of sunset bleeding orange, pink, and purple into a blank, unused sky. It ignites a vague warning as it hisses and simmers, like it’s reprimanding me for staring at its coveted beauty. I feel its heat burning through me, melting my irises and boiling the liquid in my body until my organs are soup and my bones clatter into a heap. I am outside of myself, floating in a sea of blue light.…
I snap my eyes shut and take a deep, staccato breath. God, Soph, get a freaking grip.
The burning is such a familiar sensation that I am tempted to believe it has happened to me before, in a previous life.
If I believed in all that reincarnation shit.
A shiver runs through me and I exhale the madness that has inundated me for two weeks. I’ve been nursing the same headache for the same two weeks and it flares up now. My fingers pad along the scar on my eyebrow, compliments of Psycho Steve. I may have been on the wrong end of his fist but that was nothing compared to the way I defended myself.
I did say I’m not the superstitious type. I don’t go for voodoo or ghostly mumbo jumbo but the way I stopped Steve—well, my world has tilted a smidge.
I didn’t tell Dad the details of my bizarre behavior the night Steve attacked me. I didn’t tell anyone. The only person I would have confided in was Mom, if she had been alive. Not to get it off my chest or to hear her explain the impossibility of what I think I did, but because, on some bizarre level, I know Mom would’ve understood exactly what I did and how it changed me forever.
>
The cop is approaching, and my attention shifts to more immediate concerns.
“Evenin’, Miss. I’ll try to make this quick. I can see you’re in a hurry.”
His voice is rich with a funny eastern accent, which under lighter circumstances I would find amusing. But it’s been a grueling four-day drive from Los Angeles to Connecticut; I’m exhausted.
The cop looks me dead in the eye as if anticipating some smartass rebuke. I consider the logistics of mounting an argument. I know I wasn’t speeding, but I promised myself no more trouble. I smile politely.
He asks for my license and registration. I lay them onto his outstretched hand, and widen the smile just a tad more.
He isn’t looking at me. His eyes are cataloging the contents of my backseat.
“Where you headed?”
“Haven Hurst,” I say brightly, adding a touch of hope to the smile.
“You don’t live there,” he states accusingly, like I’m lying, and my shoulders slump. He’s not the friendly type, and I feel unwanted.
And then I remember my out-of-state tags and license. “Oh, yeah. I mean, no. I’m just moving there. Now. Today.” I hope to end on a happy note. Epic fail.
“Miss St. James, you have a lot of expensive equipment back there.”
The backseat is a dumping ground for my camera junk. It’s an expensive hobby but Dad indulged me a year after Mom died. Anything to distract me from asking about the strange circumstances of her death.
Over the past year, my collection of cameras and lenses and filters and tripods has multiplied like rabbits. The cop and I eyeball each other. I didn’t like his suspicious tone, and the unfairness is building inside me.… I didn’t do anything wrong!
“Well, it’s mine!” I blurt out. “What, you think I stole it or something?” Holy crap, here I go. Big, fat, stupid mouth. Everybody knows when you claim you didn’t do something people think you did do it. It’s just these damned nerves. I’m always keyed-up when we move.
The cop rips a ticket from his pad and flips it over, scribbling on the back. “Tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna take this to the newspaper office in Haven Hurst. The Gazette. Give it to Miss Minnie. She’ll take care of everything. I’ll know if you don’t.” He gives me a warning look that feels all too parental. I’m bewildered. I stare at him and then read the ticket.
Minnie, meet your new photographer. ~Tom
I don’t get it.
And then I do.
He turns to leave, and I yell, “Hey, wait a minute! You can’t do that!” I hold him there hoping he’ll explain but he doesn’t, so I sputter something unintelligible before snapping, “Well, what’d you stop me for anyway?”
“Buckle up your dog. He’s a passenger like anyone else.” He walks away, and I look at Sundance who has been sitting up and watching with his big red tongue hanging out. He is happy to be included, but I roll my eyes and jerk the seatbelt across his chest.
“What kind of obtuse podunk outfit is this anyway? Supersized, narcissistic Rent-a-Cop!” I sit back and realize the cop has returned to my window. Aw crap. My face reddens and I want to crawl under the jeep. He says he forgot to return my license and registration and then hands them over.
“Thank you,” I mumble, too embarrassed to look up.
“No problem. Oh, and Miss? This podunk Rent-a-Cop is Sheriff White and I’ll expect you to remember that in the future. Welcome to Haven Hurst.”
He stalks away and I melt into the seat completely humiliated. I wait for the sadistic laughter, but instead I hear static from the sheriff’s radio and then the dispatch. His motorcycle roars to life. On impulse I twist around, hoping to throw out an apology, but his siren is blaring and he zooms away.
I slump, taking a moment to reflect on things. I wanted our move to Connecticut to be a fresh start. I wanted Dad to find peace and new friends. I wanted to slip unnoticed into a new life and finish my senior year in relative silence. I wanted to put Psycho Steve and the incident behind me and to forget the nagging questions about Mom’s mysterious death. I need this. Dad and I need this. We are like strangers abandoned on the same deserted island since Mom died in that psyche ward.
And what do I do? I insult the sheriff of our new town and give Dad a label; that new West Coast pastor with the rude daughter.
How much worse can it get?
Sundance flattens his ears and growls deep in his throat, and I have my answer. A creepy feeling raises the hair on my arms. The road is dark and empty but I sense we are not alone.
I scan the forest lining the remote country road. It has become a thick black wall under a gray moon. My pulse jumps and ignites the scar on my eyebrow. It throbs like somebody’s knocking. Sundance whimpers, and that’s enough for me. I start the engine and peel out.
A few miles later the road dips, and I come upon the reason for Sheriff White’s hasty exit. An accident. There is a semitruck jackknifed across the opposite ditch, its grill munching on a small white car. The truck driver, a burly guy with a confused expression, is standing aside talking to a cop.
A voice in my head says She’s okay, and I immediately look at the lady in nurse scrubs sitting on the ground. The voice is calm and all too familiar. It’s Mom, and it’s the other strange thing I’ve been hearing lately. The first time I heard my dead mom’s voice was the night Psycho Steve attacked me. It was Mom yelling, Grab the knife, Sophia!
I hear her pretty often, usually when I am about to do something exceptionally lame. So it’s odd that I should hear her now.
I stop the jeep next to red emergency flares. There are two patrol cars and the sheriff but no ambulance. Two cops and Sheriff White remain with the truck driver who is shaking his head, upset. The other cop is crouched beside the nurse. He is writing on a clipboard, and she is holding a towel against her forehead.
Between the nurse and the crumpled car is a blond guy in blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He is standing stock still with his arms crossed over his chest. There is something peculiar about him. Almost like he’s not quite—
Sundance barks, and I nearly jump out of my jean shorts. I shush him but he is persistent because there is a black dog peering from the white car’s window. It starts yapping and Sundance argues back. He wiggles free and bolts out the window! I am mortified! I shouldn’t have stopped! I can’t afford to upset Sheriff White again.
I scramble out of the jeep, race by the blond guy, and catch Sundance at the car. The dogs settle down and sniff their hellos through the open window. The nurse smiles ruefully.
“It’s all right,” she says. “He’s friendly. And probably scared.”
I post an apologetic smile and pet her dog, some terrier mix. He’s trembling. She wants to know if he’s hurt, so I check and report that he seems fine. She sighs and turns back to the cop. I look at the blond guy in jeans.
He’s tall, 6’3 or 4, and muscular like a body builder. Probably eighteen or so. He seems disjointed from the others like a curious bystander. With no other vehicles around, I think he’s probably the nurse’s son.
He didn’t acknowledge Sundance barreling onto the scene or even glance in my direction. He seems emotionless, concentrating on the nurse. I wonder if he’s in shock. I know that deep sense of fear when someone you love is in pain, so I start to walk over and say something reassuring.
That’s when it hits: a painful explosion in my chest like I had dynamite for dinner and it’s just now digesting. I catch my breath and clutch my heart. I imagine a mushroom cloud wafting up my torso and then reversing and imploding back on itself to form an intense knot. After an agonizing moment, the knot settles under my breastbone and drums like a second heartbeat. Each beat stings and reverberates up my throat. The only thing more disturbing than this bizarre pain and second heartbeat is seeing the blond guy react like it’s happening to him, too.
He snaps to attention and his back goes ramrod straight. His head is now turning slowly, methodically, and he is looking at me as though I’m
one of the Seven Wonders of the World. His eyes are wide, aquamarine prisms that stare with such invasiveness I almost feel violated.
Holy Mother of Gandhi! I’ve never seen or felt anyone so passively powerful. And then I notice that his chest is heaving like mine and his face is full of curiosity. He cocks his head as if expecting me to speak, so I try.
“Um, hey, are you okay?”
The nurse looks right through him and answers, “I think I’ll be fine, dear, but could you grab my purse from the car? I should call my husband.”
My eyes swing from the guy, down to her, and back up to him. She hasn’t acknowledged him, and he remains frozen with an expression of utter astonishment. My knees feel weak but his eyes are full and strong and hold me up with their intensity. Noises recede and the second heartbeat snuggles deeper inside my chest as if staking claim to me. I am not alone inside myself but feel occupied and missing the freedom I knew just moments ago. The sensation makes me tremble, and the guy’s face softens with awareness. His concern for me is palpable, like a hand caressing my cheek.
I am stunned by his fragile beauty; the chiseled planes of his cheeks, the aquiline nose, the curve of his lips, and the peace and gentleness he radiates. When his mouth opens to speak, I hold my breath in a long, suspenseful moment … and then … something in the distance draws my attention.
Through the darkness of the forest comes a guy about fifteen or so with disheveled brown hair. He is thin and lanky, wearing a grungy black T-shirt and distressed jeans. He is traipsing through the brush and should be causing a racket, but I don’t hear a thing. As he approaches, I notice a cruel red scar along his jaw and another across his throat. His dark eyes search the scene and land on the nurse.