Classic (Adrenaline Series Book 1)

by Xavier Neal

  Classic

  Vintage Series Book 1

  By Xavier Neal

  © Xavier Neal 2015

  Published by Entertwine Publishing

  Cover by Entertwine Publishing

  Cover Model Griffin Kodors

  Photographer Jennifer Shelby

  All Rights Reserved

  Amazon Edition, License Note

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  All character, places, and descriptions come from the imagination of the author. All are fictional and any resemblance to real life persons or places is purely coincidental.

  Dedication:

  To The Universe. Thank you for bringing me here.

  Merrick

  One minute I’m laying in bed listening to the sound of my own broken heart beat and the next there’s a steady banging at my bedroom door. The pounding increases in increments until I hold the pillow over my face tighter in an attempt to drown out the exaggerated pleas from my cousin on the other side.

  Think this'll work? I can just smother myself out of existence, right? Can you suffocate yourself to death with your own pillow? I'm willing to test this theory for both of us.

  “Merrick!” He continues to yell.

  That's just fucking fantastic. Keep screaming and wake up the other McCoy brothers who are either trying to sleep next to the ass they brought home last night or enjoy the perks of it not leaving in the middle of night, also known as morning sex. At least with them occupied I'm free to peacefully wallow in my own self-hatred.

  “Merrick!”

  Well almost.

  “Merrick! I’m coming in! You better have on boxers!”

  With the warning laid out, I peak from underneath my pillow to see Ben McCoy, push my bedroom door open, meeting resistance courtesy of my laundry sprawled across the floor. He fights his way past the guards, shuts the door behind him, and leans against it.

  “It's dark as fuck in here, cuz.” He tips his head the direction of my window I covered with black curtains earlier this week.

  Don't call me melodramatic. You don't know how much it fucking hurt when she broke up with me. Not even sure I should call it breaking up. She left me for dead.

  “I like the lighting,” I reply not bothering to remove the pillow from my face.

  “The whole goth thing doesn't suit you,” Ben smugly remarks. “You're too pretty.”

  I slightly smirk.

  “Seriously, what gives? You've been mopey as shit since like fucking Tuesday. You even missed the races last night. How the fuck am I supposed to be someone's co-pilot where there's no pilot?”

  My muffled voice declares, “Fly solo.”

  “And crash my dick into the wrong ocean? No-huh. Nope.” There's a brief pause before he returns to bitching, “If your dick isn't getting sucked neither's mine. And I miss my cock getting sucked Merrick. I really do.”

  Normal people wake up to conversations about sports or the fucking weather. I wake up to my best friend complaining he didn't get laid and how it's my fault.

  Ripping the pillow off my head I gripe, “What? Do you want me to suck it for you?”

  “You do have a pretty mouth...”

  I fling my pillow across the room at him. Effortlessly Ben catches it one handed and tucks it underneath his armpit. Tilting his head at me, he smirks the infamous grin that makes everyone think we're twins instead of cousins.

  Out of the McCoys around, we definitely look the most alike. Only major difference between us looks wise? He's blonde. Pretty boy naturally sun bleached surfer boy fucking blonde. I'm brunette, like a McCoy should be. Other than that, we share the same toned bodies, 6 foot height, crystal clear blue eyes, and spread those thighs smiles. Personality on the other hand...well we're basically night and day. Clearly, he's a hopeless horn dog with an itch that's never done being scratched and I'm...well at the moment hopelessly fucked.

  “So, what the fuck's wrong with you anyway? Triple D can't seem to be bothered with your latest tantrum and Madden believes taking your ass to breakfast this morning will snap you out of it. Apparently nachos are the cure for a depressed brother.”

  I do like nachos.

  “I feel like Van Gogh.”

  Ben looks painfully confused. “Who?”

  “Vincent Van Gogh, the artist. All I see are swirls of blacks and blues.” I shut my eyes. “Instead of beauty, it's death. Deep, dark circles sucking in my life. Sucking in...my soul.”

  “Don't do that,” Ben scolds. “Don't talk to me like you talk when you tag shit--”

  “Paint.”

  “With a can,” he huffs. “Don't talk to me like that. Talk to me like a normal fucking person. Skip the fucking metaphors and get to the part where you tell me why you're hiding like a bitch.”

  “I'm not hiding like a bitch.”

  “Kinda feels that way.”

  Don't agree with him. He's an idiot. You'll see.

  “Is this about that chick that rejected you?”

  “She didn't reject me.” I roll onto my stomach and put a pillow back over my face.

  Rejection would be putting that fucking mildly. She ripped out my fucking heart, tore it to shreds, poured gasoline on it, and lit a match while she fucking cackled. Ugh. Fuck. I do sound like a bitch.

  “She's not the first chick to just wanna jump in the sheets to fuck the one and only Merrick McCoy and she won't be the last.”

  I want her to be the last. I'm tired of just being fucked for my name.

  “What's the big deal? You got your dick wet. Be pleased.”

  He really is this fucking simple. All the time.

  I yank the pillow to the side and sigh, “Is it so wrong to fucking want more?”

  “More than what?”

  “Than fucking an endless line of women because they've seen what I can do behind the wheel of a car? Because they've seen the amount of cash I can bring in? Because...because....” Another sigh leaves me. “Because I'm nothing but a legend that everyone wants to touch.”

  “Are you fucking with me right now?” Ben flips the light switch. “You're fucking 23! You've got more women to bang you than Hef did in his prime and enough money to buy whatever scheme it is that tickles your nut sack for the week. Be happy.”

  Should I be happy?

  “You know what you need?”

  “A new best friend.”

  “Why? What'd J Money do?” I let out a light chuckle. “You need a night at Olympus.”

  “You mean, you need a night there.”

  “I missed it last night, so of course that's what I fucking mean. Now, you get whatever this Ethan Alvin Moe―”

  “Edgar Allan Poe,” I quietly correct him.

  “―bullshit is out of your system today, and I'll make sure to pick your ass up on time tonight.”

  On a groan I say, “You're a terrible fucking driver.”

  “And yet it was my name the crowd was chanting last night.”

  “Because I wasn't there.”

  “Details.” Ben waves a hand at me. “Tonight. Got it?”

  I don't agree, but give up disagreeing.

  Isn't there a saying about arguing with an idiot? Something about making you dumber in the process?

  “I'm heading downstairs to the shop. I'd expect Madden in here any minute now,” he warns trying to open the door. “And for the love of God, could you pick up some of this shit off the floor? It's not welcoming.”
r />   Shutting my eyes I sneer, “It's not supposed to be.”

  “Yeah...yeah...” His voice starts to fade, now sounding like he's on the other side of the door. “Shit Knoxie. I'm goin' down right now. You're as bad as the flashin' red and blues, I fucking swear.” There's a small pause before he gripes. “Ou!”

  With a small smirk I let out another deep breath.

  There has to be fucking more to life, right? I'm not crazy for wanting something different, am I? It's not like I'm looking to invent something to take the world by storm or climb to the top of this corporate America ladder, where what waits at the top is more hollow than what was at the bottom. No. I just want something a little more meaningful. A little more worthwhile. A little more timeless. Something...classic.

  Jovi

  Have you ever stared at a picture so long that you swear you start to see something else entirely? That's how cubism always makes me feel. Like I'm supposed to see one thing and see another. Hell, if we're being honest, which I hope we always are, that's how I see my life. One annoyingly squared portrait put together to create the image of something the entire world sees. I keep hoping if I stare at it long enough it'll be something different. Maybe a unicorn? What? At least they're magical.

  “I know Nicholas,” Nadie, my nanny, says storming through the kitchen, plopping the grocery sacks on the counter.

  Okay, so she's not really my nanny any more. I mean I'm 21. I don't really need a nanny any more, but fill in mom sounds fucking weird, right? When my mom died, my father hired Nadie to help raise me as he threw himself even harder into his work in some bizarre attempt to avenge my mother's death. Nadie drove me to school, made dinner, helped wash clothes, and kept our house orderly. Our lives orderly. In other words, she became my replacement mom. After the first couple of years, it felt natural. Like she had always been there. She was mom's best friend, my Godmother, so it's not like she was a stranger or hadn't already been around in my life before. She was just more actively involved. Nadie shares the same gorgeous light brown color skin my mother did and that I do, the same bright brown eyes, but has the curly hair that my mom did, that I didn't inherit. I got wavy. She could easily pass for my mom's sister most days, which is kind of perfect since Mom was an only child. In some ways, it's like holding on to a still breathing sliver of my mom.

  “I know Nicholas,” she repeats my dad's name twice, which only means one thing.

  He's nagging. Annoyingly. Is there any way to nag without annoying the other person?

  Before I can even look up again she repeats loudly, “I KNOW NICHOLAS!” Nadie leans both arms on the kitchen island next to the bags she just placed down. “No. Of course there's nothing to worry about. I've told you that. Multiple times. Yes, you're overreacting. Right. I'm putting away groceries and Jo' just finished her homework. She's ready to go right now.”

  I make a gag motion to show my disagreement about the lie she just told.

  Mature. I know. Next I'm gonna blow a raspberry.

  “I promise Nick. She’s not sitting at the table making goofy faces at me.”

  I so am.

  “She’s UPSTAIRS RIGHT NOW changing for our little outing,” she sternly says at me. “I promise she will have the perfect dress for that charity event. Yes. Yes. The works. No need to worry. Have I ever let you down?”

  No. In fact, he's let her down. Pretty sure, Nadie's in love with him. She has been for years. Problem? My dad's so busy policing the entire fucking city like an overpaid bully, he barely has time to pay attention to anything else in the world. I don't hate him for the lack of time we spend together. I don't even hate him for the trouble he still has looking at me occasionally because I'm a spitting image of my mom. Nope. Hate him for making me a fucking leper.

  Rolling my brown eyes, I glance down at the sweats I prefer to wear.

  Keeps dad's lectures about tempting rapists to a minimum. He's not very rational.

  “Got it. We'll see you for a late dinner.” With her final words she hangs up and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Sometimes your father is exhausting.”

  “That's a sometimes thing?”

  As soon as I see Nadie smile I slyly question, “You sure I have to change?”

  “Yes. You look frumpy.”

  “Frumpy or funny?”

  “That's not better Jo'.”

  It's really not. I missed the mark with that one huh?

  “Now go. Meet me back down here. 10 minutes tops.” The order doesn't leave room for argument.

  Shutting my text book, I surrender silently, heading out of the kitchen for the stairs. Half way up them, my phone starts vibrating indicating I have a text message.

  It used to sing a rap song until my dad started demanding to know who it was every time it went off. 'None of your business' doesn't hold up well when your father can pull up your phone records and the entire background of the person you're trying to become friends with, without blinking. No mystery why no one wants to hang around me. Forget date me.

  Hayli: Olympus tonight. You're coming.

  Is everyone's best friend so demanding? I shouldn't complain. My overbearing father doesn't scare her. She's really the only friend I've got. I definitely prefer pushy to lonely.

  Hayli: I've got pull.

  Does your best friend read your mind before you can ask the question?

  Hayli: Wear something short. Tight. Heels.

  Mockingly I say to my phone, “Anything else master?”

  My phone vibrates again while I'm still staring at it.

  Hayli: Lose the attitude.

  Damn it. I swear she has this thing bugged sometimes.

  Taking the path right at the top of the stairs, I head for my bedroom, and change into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. In the process of it all I debate back and forth with myself with Hayli's demand.

  Clubs? Not really my thing. However something tells me that after hours of shopping for a dress to wear to the event with my dad tomorrow night and the pre stress of being around him and basically the who's who in law enforcement from around the state, a night out might soothe the caged lioness inside of me.

  Arriving at the bottom of the stairs, just as Nadie looks up with a frustrated look from her phone, I offer a sympathetic smile. With a shake of her head she declares, “I'm gonna kill him. I swear...”

  Yup. I'm going out tonight. It's best for everyone's safety. Yours included. Trust me.

  Merrick

  Madden stares at me from across the booth in my favorite hole in the wall diner, The Box.

  Best fucking nachos in the world. Don't order the Special. Never sure what's in it, but definitely sure it's not always dead.

  “Did you bring me here to stare into my eyes and whisper sweet nothings or did you wanna talk?” I joke grabbing a French Fry off his plate.

  Fries. Get those too.

  His large palm runs across his buzzed head, blue eyes full of my least two favorite things. Torment and judgment.

  Madden's a great big brother where it counts. Fuck. He's definitely the best out of the bunch, but at 33 he smiles about as often as a soldier in the middle of a war zone. I'm sure he has his reasons, but keeps them to himself. He keeps a lot to himself.

  “Rosalyn?”

  Just her name causes my face to wince in pain. Sprawling out in the booth with both my arms stretched out across the space behind me, I let my head roll to the side. Immediately my eyes divert to the people passing by on their errand runs.

  “She was just a chick, Merrick. Just like any other chick.”

  “She was more than that.” I snap turning my head at him. “She was beautiful―”

  Madden shakes his hand side to side.

  If you saw her, you'd be on my side. I'm tellin' ya.

  “She was sexy―”

  His hand repeats the action.

  “She was―”

  “A slut,” he interrupts the beginning of what was going to be an epic speech. After taking a bite of fry he continues, “She
was nothing more than another bitch dying to say she slept with one of the McCoy brothers. Let it go, Merrick. Pick your nuts up off the ground and move on. That shit wasn't love little bro'.”

  “You ever been in love Madden?” the question slows down his chewing, his large jaw almost frozen in place.

  I figure in a few years this is what I'll grow into with a little less of the edge to my look. While Ben and I practically look like twins, Madden and I look like we were without a doubt cut from the same cloth, except I'm smaller in height and build. Our eyes give us away to most people. They say they are almost identical. Same crisp clear color except mine don't contain nearly as much ongoing turmoil as his do. You know, if I was the oldest of 5 who I basically raised, my eyes would probably look like that too. Madden has this permanent look like at any minute he would tear you limb from limb in a rapid rampage. Scary as fuck is putting it mildly. The jagged scar along his jawbone line doesn't help.