Daring Hearts: Fearless Fourteen Boxed Set

by Box Set

  For the first time during class, I dropped my pencil onto the sketch pad, unable to tear my thoughts from the morning long enough to draw a single stroke.

  My hand ached from the night before. I’d drawn myself into a semi-coma.

  I’d drawn a house. Every detail was clear down to the doormat in front of the red entrance door.

  And the name on the mailbox, I’d never get out of my head.

  Saint and Fasta James, painted onto the box along with strokes of paint that made it stand apart from everything around it.

  It was the stupidest thing I’d ever seen.

  I sighed loudly, conjuring the attention of Alma, the girl who silently sat next to me. She scribbled something on the side of her notebook and then turned it so I could read.

  He likes you.

  I called her bluff with an upturned pout.

  Protecting you. So sweet.

  It was not sweet. It was completely annoying and rude and out of line. Yeah, that was it. It was out of line.

  I sighed again and then rolled my eyes at myself.

  This was ridiculous.

  All he did was repeat what I’d said—much better and much louder.

  And much more attractively.

  “No.” I’d said out loud. Other than Alma, no one heard me. People either paid too much attention to me in the form of hatred or not enough.

  If I was on fire, I doubted they would spit on me.

  Maybe spit gas.

  I chanced a look at Alma who’d cocked her eyebrow in a ‘why are you arguing with the air’ motion.

  * * *

  Later on, pushing my standard khaki lunch tray across the metal poles, I knew he was behind me. My hand twitched and I laughed, imagining one of my drawing spasms to come on, making me carve his likeness into my mashed potatoes with my finger.

  “It’s not funny. This food is disgusting. And I’ve had just about every kind of cafeteria food there is.”

  Must he smell so good while he’s talking to me about the blobs on my tray? It’s unnatural. And the least he could do was wear sunglasses. I swore those green eyes—they stared at me from behind my closed lids when I slept. Those eyes could cause wars.

  “It’s the only meat-type-food I get. Let me enjoy my mystery meat in peace, please.”

  He huffed out acknowledgement. “Silly me. I was going to try to sit by you today. I guess you’re shoving me away once again?”

  He’d made a fatal mistake. If he’d told me he was leaving me alone, I’d be able to not speak, giving him all the answer he needed. Instead, he’d asked and my heart churned against telling him no.

  Like the notion was simply an impossibility.

  “Okay.”

  He pointed to himself and looked around.

  I paid for my lunch and then dared to look at him. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m not that big of a—wench.”

  He paid for his own lunch and then the person’s behind him.

  It was true, he was on a quest to fulfill his namesake.

  “Good thing. I don’t save wenches from trouble. Only damsels.”

  Someone should’ve written that down. I’d probably never be called a damsel again in my life.

  “You’re barking up the wrong—girl. I’m no princess needing a knight.”

  “Maybe you’re the secret kind of princess, the kind that wears her dresses at night where no one can see. You seem like one of those Scottish princesses—fierce and loyal. They don’t need anyone’s help.”

  I stopped in my tracks, hearing him mutter those words.

  And got a back full of mashed potatoes.

  With gravy.

  “I’m so sorry. You stopped so fast…”

  “Here.” I shoved my tray at him and attempted to get out of the cafeteria without everyone seeing what had happened—except halfway through Amy noticed.

  And then she told her boyfriend Blunt.

  Yes, his name was Blunt.

  As I pushed my way through the double doors of the cafeteria before my lungs collapsed from holding my breath, I heard the beginnings of cackling and caustic jeers.

  Even the saint couldn’t stop the influx.

  * * *

  Not even bothering to check out of school, I’d grabbed my backpack from my locker and rushed straight home. My foster parents wouldn’t blink at my missed school, but they would be concerned about the whys of the situation.

  “What happened?” I volleyed the question in favor of getting the still warm mashed potatoes off my back.

  There was some gravy/crack action too, but it would never be spoken of again.

  Moira busted into my room while my shirt was being carefully removed and gasped.

  “Those—unkind—imps.” That was about as close as my foster parents got to actually cussing. It was like fairy cussing—or hippie cussing.

  “No. It wasn’t them. The boy behind me—well, actually I stopped—we were walking to the same table—it wasn’t his fault—the imps didn’t do it.”

  She huffed out a breath of relief and then did a double take while I pulled on another shirt, the same one I’d worn the day before. She had no concept of privacy. Our bodies are all the same, nothing to be ashamed of, open love and all that stuff.

  Told you—hippies.

  “Wait, you and the boy were walking to the same table?”

  I knew I couldn’t get away with it.

  “Yes. Saint James.”

  “Saint James? That’s a boy’s name?”

  “Yes.”

  Maybe I could distract her with this boy long enough for no one to realize I’d skipped out on school.

  “Do you want to tell me anything? You’re being careful, aren’t you?”

  “It was the cafeteria, not a drive-in. Anyway, he’s too…”

  She sat on my bed and I groaned. Sitting on my bed meant she wasn’t leaving until she got more information.

  “He’s too what?”

  A knock on the door interrupted our conversation. With my change of clothes on, I followed her down the stairs with every intention of going into the studio to write. But when Moira made a tangent to open the door, I screamed. “Don’t open it. It’s him!”

  That’s when Saint James smiled and waved.

  Because we couldn’t have curtains over the little window in the door like regular people. No, we had to be open and letting the sunshine’s love in.

  And the gaze of boys we do not want to see.

  Okay, I kind of wanted to see him without mashed potatoes.

  Her face looked back and forth between Saint and me—I’d never seen the woman blush like that—and I’d interrupted some heavy make outs—trust me.

  “He’s gorgeous!”

  Saint’s eyes ticked to Moira. He’d heard her.

  Now she’d done it.

  Stomping over to the door, I wretched it open. There was no point in prolonging the torture. His face was a little too pleased for me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “They asked someone to bring you your purse. They said they were going to call and see if you’re coming back or not.”

  The phone rang as his sentence ended. Moira ran to answer it.

  “Who asked you to bring me my purse?”

  He smiled and stepped in the threshold. The boy was infuriating.

  “I don’t know names yet. Rail-thin woman with very misplaced lipstick.”

  They called her the Lipstick Dipstick.

  “That’s Mrs. Orion.”

  “Okay, well, you’re welcome.”

  He left the house. I couldn’t find the words to ask him to stay. That’s what I really wanted. I wanted him to stay more than I’d ever wanted anything.

  Saint

  No matter how nice I was, the girl named Fasta just wouldn’t give me the time of day. She’d never been like that—so damned stubborn.

  The thing was—I needed her to talk to me. I needed to get to know her better.

  I had less than three weeks
to get her to fall in love with me.

  It was torture to chase her life after life.

  I went back to school with a chip on my shoulder. I wasn’t used to this. I was used to walking into a school, even as the new guy, and making friends immediately with no second thought.

  I especially wasn’t used to seeing her and having her not feel something for me right away, even if it was only simple attraction. At least attraction was a building block.

  She was making me work for it.

  And as much as it aggravated me, it also fueled me on.

  Night by night, the thought of her overwhelmed me. I strained to curve them to other things, but they insisted on a one way street right to Fasta. The first time I’d fallen in love with her, was in one look. That was all it had taken on my part and hers—one look.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I said to Dad on my way out.

  “Sounds good. A man needs to take a walk sometimes.”

  Maybe that’s what his moving all the time was about—just taking a walk.

  Except this walk was a stalker journey. I might as well just admit it to myself.

  Halfway there, across the street, I saw her. And she was headed in my direction. Maybe this would be easier than I thought.

  “Saint?”

  “Yeah. Hey.”

  My name had always been Saint. Hers had changed with her, but to hear it on her tongue was honey.

  She jogged across the street. I was alarmed at first, but there were very few cars on the road. There was nothing to worry about. “I was trying to find you.”

  School had been over for hours and as I checked the time in the distance, the impending sunset let me know it was near.

  “You were?”

  That was a change of pace—her looking for me.

  “I just wanted to apologize for earlier. I was told that maybe I was a little harsh and ungrateful. I appreciate you bringing my purse. I really do. I’m—I’m not good with friends.”

  “You’ve always been a loner.”

  She retracted her stance. “How did you know that?”

  “I know a lot of things about you.”

  My eyes bulged at my outburst. Apparently, I was going to go full speed ahead in this life.

  “Like what?”

  “The drawing. The incessant need for it. The pictures that come to you without discretion or warning.”

  She covered her mouth with her hand. “You know me.”

  It wasn’t a question, more like an accusation.

  “I know a lot about you, Fasta.”

  “We need to talk.”

  The last thing I wanted to do was dump all the information about us on her in one night. I’d done that once. It was a good way to drive her away. In that life she’d been a gypsy and as soon as I told her about us, her rebellious spirit jumped on a passing bandwagon and left me.

  That life I hadn’t found her before our eighteenth birthday.

  She’d lived until she was ninety-three that time. And I’d loved her all ninety-three years in silence.

  I was at her funeral.

  I’d never made that mistake again.

  “Can I see the drawings?”

  It was just a hunch, but her art usually revolved around our bond, even if she didn’t know it.

  “What drawings?”

  Coy—it was cute. She was wearing jeans again and an oversized t-shirt. While my old-fashioned soul appreciated the modesty, I wanted to have my hands around her curved waist. I knew it by heart. I knew every inch of her by heart.

  “There’s some drawings you have questions about, right? I have the answers.”

  “It takes bullies and mashed potatoes to get you to come clean? I thought I was insane.”

  I pulled her against me, there on the street in front of everyone passing by. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I should’ve just been straightforward. I’ll reveal what I can—at a pace. I don’t want to rush you.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow is Saturday. You have plans?”

  “My only plan was to try to see you.”

  “I sleep late.”

  “You always have. Ten?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can—can I walk you home?”

  “Walk me home? I was just going to get some hot chocolate at the coffee shop. You can join me and then we can walk home.”

  I chuckled at that little fact. Just when I thought my soulmate was a completely different person from the last time I pursued her, she shows me that way down deep, she was still the same girl.

  She was still my girl.

  With my palm on her lower back, we lazily walked to the coffee shop that served the basics of every small town place along with a few surprises, including what they called a new recipe: salted caramel hot chocolate.

  “Oh, that sounds so yummy. I’m getting one. You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you?”

  I stalled, glaring at her. I couldn’t imagine what I looked like to her. I swore she’d uttered those words to me in every lifetime. But for once, she’d taken me off guard with it.

  Fasta never ceased to amaze and surprise me.

  I blinked as two hands waved in front of my face. “Hello! Anyone at home?”

  “Yes. Sorry. You said something interesting. I’ll have the same as the lady.” I allowed my age to show.

  The man behind the counter yelled out the order while I paid.

  “You don’t have to pay. I’ve got money.”

  “What good is a man with money in his pocket if he can’t spend it on a beautiful girl?”

  She giggled. “Depends on how much he has in his wallet.”

  “Let’s find a place to sit. I want to hear all about you.”

  This Fasta was smarter and more cunning than before. She’d always been an intelligent woman, but the girl in front of me knew more about life than she was letting on.

  And her head was full of secrets.

  Little did she know, I was the chain that linked us to them all.

  It was more proof that this was the last life we would share together before we were finally able to rest in peace. Her intelligence and talent were at their peaks. She’d never been more beautiful and I couldn’t see a single thing I would change. This was it—no more chasing my love.

  She shifted uncomfortable at my question in the booth near the back that she’d chosen. From this vantage point, I could see how blue her eyes had become, how her hair was the perfect color of a sandy beach—every part of her had been perfected through the centuries.

  “There’s not much to tell. I go to school and attempt to stay out of the limelight. I go home and draw and read.” Her voice trailed off. She did more, but was unwilling to trust me yet. I didn’t blame her one bit. Those spineless want-to-be-thugs at her school had robbed her of that.

  “Of course there’s more. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  This particular question always soured my gut. Once in a while, I would get to Fasta during a period in her life where she was growing into a woman and more than once she had a boyfriend or was dating someone. Though it spurred all the vile side effects of jealousy, I knew deep down that there was no one on this earth that would quell her needs or earn her love the way that I could.

  It was simply the way we were designed.

  “No.”

  I had to know more.

  “You’re not dating anyone?”

  “No.”

  I sat back, crossing my arms over my chest, satisfied.

  “Don’t look so smug about it. It’s not like you really thought I was going to answer yes. I mean, look at me. I don’t exactly exude ‘datability’. That’s not even a word.”

  “You most certainly do. I simply wanted to know if I had to be aware of any competition.”

  The blush lit up her face and ears just like it always did. She blushed at the simplest of nuances, which made my job fun.

  A call of my name from the waitress diverted my attention from her. With a huff, I got up and went to retrie
ve our drinks. I sat back down after placing hers in front of her. Her blush had faded a little and I sighed in disappointment. She drank hers for a few minutes before beginning to tap her fingers.

  I knew the gesture well.

  She needed to get it out.

  Fasta had always been proficient in some kind of art. It couldn’t be helped and until I arrived, she’d told me that it took over her life like a disease.

  “Do we need to drink these while we walk to your house?”

  Her eyebrows scrunched. “Why?”

  “You’re getting antsy. Need to draw?”

  She didn’t answer, just got up and began leaving the place. I thought she might be angry until she looked over her shoulder and waved me along.

  I chuckled to myself. One wave from Fasta and I had always been a goner.

  I would always be a goner.

  Not that I had ever fallen out of love with her—I hadn’t. But each new life I fell a little bit further and it was pure bliss.

  Fasta

  He knew something.

  Hell, maybe he knew everything.

  It was a hunch that stirred in me from the second I saw him on the street. Emotions and cravings swirled in my gut.

  He made me nervous and protected at the same time.

  I didn’t know what to do with Saint James.

  Except for kiss him. It was as though my body swayed toward him naturally, like it was magnetized.

  This was insane.

  “What are you thinking?” He asked, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. He was referring to my blush which hadn’t really seceded completely since he showed up.

  “Maybe I’ll tell you after you explain some things tomorrow.”

  “That sounds fair.”

  When we hit the trail, the one I used for my bike stalking, he slipped his hand into mine. At first I froze. That was actually the only time, other than Blake Easton in the second grade, that a boy had held my hand.

  “Is this okay, sweetheart?”

  Hand holding and sweetheart? I felt like I was being punked or pranked. It would be just my luck.

  “Why are you doing this? You don’t even know me.”

  He stopped cold and took my other hand and stepped forward, pressing his chest to mine.