The Maxwell Series Boxed Set: Books 1-3

by Alexander, S. B.

I was deep in thought when Dad’s rough knuckles scraped across my cheek. “Hey, Sweet Pea, everything okay?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You’re crying. Were you thinking about…” He had a hard time saying Mom’s name or even Julie’s. He always stopped midsentence or changed the subject. While it irritated me more now than in the beginning, I still didn’t push. I didn’t like when I was forced to talk about my feelings.

  “Sorry, I…yeah, I was thinking of Mom.” I hadn’t realized I was crying.

  “Don’t be sorry. I know it’s still hard.” He turned into the school lot. “Now, let me see what the problem is with your car. Then we can go meet with the principal.”

  We still had an hour before school. We both got out of his restored 1964 Chevy Impala. According to Dad, they just didn’t make cars the way they used to.

  I agreed with him. I’d taken the Impala out one night and got into a fender bender. Okay, it was more than a minor accident. I hadn’t been paying attention to the road. I plowed into the back of the car ahead of me that had been stopped at a red light in downtown LA. The Impala didn’t have a scratch on it. The other car wasn’t so lucky. After that night, he decided to make sure I drove a relic—the beat-up Mustang he was sitting in now, trying to turn over the engine, which was still making the click, click sound.

  I was leaning against my car when a black Ford 150 pickup pulled in, slowly maneuvering into a spot three car lengths from us. I was surprised to see anyone here. We were in the parking lot near the baseball field. It was somewhat of a hike to the school.

  Dad lumbered out of the Mustang, circled around, and popped the hood. My eyes were still fixed on the black truck. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t tell who the driver was, although it did look like the one I saw last night. The more I stared, waiting for the occupants to emerge, the more my heart began to beat erratically. The truck sat there with its engine running under the morning sun, looking all mysterious. I shouldn’t be paranoid. Dad was here. I couldn’t help it though. Since the people responsible for killing my family were still at large, I was always on edge.

  Keeping my eye on the truck, I dug out my phone. Casually, I snapped a picture of it. I was being a little nuts—just a tiny bit. I examined the picture, then glanced up at the truck again. Well, if the driver were following us, it wouldn’t be hard to describe the vehicle to the cops. Five red hearts were painted on the passenger door just above the handle.

  Tearing my gaze away, I bent down, leaning on the Mustang. “Dad, how goes it?”

  “It looks like the cable to the battery came loose.”

  “How?” I straightened as warning bells jangled in my mind. My pulse sped up and the sky above me seemed to grow dark. I was about to have one of my panic attacks.

  Dad grabbed my shoulders, lightly but firmly. “Lacey, breathe. The cables came loose. That’s all. It happens.”

  My vision blurred. It had to be the stress of a new school, new home, and new friends.

  “Remember your exercises,” Dad reminded me.

  Dr. Meyers had told me, “Breathing is important. Inhale, hold it for five seconds, then let it out slowly. Do that as much as you have to.” But that exercise had only worked once, when I caught the attack early. I was going to pass out cold, or worse, wake up somewhere strange with no memory, like the time Dad found me walking into the ocean behind our house in California in the dead of night.

  Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath through my nose. Then I counted to five very slowly and expelled all the air through my mouth. As I did, the pounding in my chest slowed, easing the tension. I waited another two seconds before I opened my eyes. When I did, Kade popped into view, looming next to my dad.

  Oh crap! He was inches from me. Sweat beaded on my forehead—so much for staying calm.

  His honey-brown hair was swept to one side of his forehead, the back of it curling on his neck. He hid his copper eyes behind dark sunglasses. It was probably a good thing. If I’d had one peek into his eyes, Dad would have to take me to the hospital for bottled oxygen.

  “Lacey, are you okay?” Dad asked, releasing his hold on me.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Kade asked in a husky voice.

  Dad didn’t answer as he kept his worried eyes on me. I nodded slightly to Dad, letting him know I was okay. Well, as far as the panic attack, but not all right with Kade so close now.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I had an asthma attack. I forgot my inhaler.”

  Dad gave me a puzzled look and walked to the front of the car.

  “You sure?” Kade asked in a voice that made me squeeze my thighs together.

  Yeah, I’m screwed. I’d never reacted to Brad this way. “Is that your truck?” I asked.

  “Yep. Why are you taking pictures of it?” He cocked his head to one side, his shades still hiding his eyes.

  Busted.

  “Do you know this boy?” Dad asked as he closed the hood of my car, the sound making me flinch.

  “Um…not really.”

  Kade grinned. “How’s that hand this morning, Lacey?” The way Kade said my name sent warmth cascading downward.

  “How’s the eye, Kade?” The question rolled off my tongue with ease.

  “Lacey, did you hit this boy? Is that what happened to your hand?” Dad glanced at me, then Kade. “Young man, what did you do to cause my daughter to punch you?” Dad asked as he stalked up to Kade, who held out his hands in front of him.

  “Dad, he didn’t do anything. He was just being a smartass. He didn’t touch me.” I would’ve loved for Kade to run his hands all over my body. Still, I couldn’t let Dad use his own fists on Kade. After all, I was the one who lost the screw in my head, unleashing my wrath on him. Kade’s eyebrows rose slightly above his sunglasses.

  Swiveling my way, Dad said tersely, “What did we talk about, Sweet Pea?”

  I cringed at my pet name. I was going to kill Dad.

  Kade smirked at me before he said to Dad, “It was just a misunderstanding, sir. I promise I didn’t lay a hand on her.”

  “That’s a good thing, son.” Dad walked over to his Impala and ducked his head inside.

  Relief washed through me. My actions at my last school gave Dad reason to pause before lashing out at Kade. “Did you lose your brother again, or are you following me?”

  Kade’s head snapped back around to me. “I park in this lot for school.”

  “So, you must be an overachiever to be here so early then.” My tone was sarcastic—it had to be with this guy. He was hitting nerves that I didn’t know I had.

  “Lacey, manners.” Dad glared at me as he wiped his hand on a towel he’d gotten from his car.

  I left my manners at the gravesite many months ago.

  “So where’s that thing you had last night? It wasn’t a bat. What was it now?” Kade asked.

  I clenched my jaw, glowering at him. I didn’t know if he was looking at me through those dark shades. Still, I wanted to rip off his Raybans and sucker punch him again. “We need to go, Dad.” My father couldn’t know about the gun. He would kill me.

  Kade shoved his hands in his jean pockets and strode over to Dad. “By the way, sir, I’m Kade Maxwell. I met your daughter last night. She’s got a wicked curveball.”

  Oh, my God. He was watching me? A shiver crept up my spine. Why was I surprised? We usually had a lot of people observing from the stands. Most of them were girls watching Tyler, although we hadn’t had any spectators last night.

  “You mean a wicked hook,” Dad said matter-of-factly.

  “Da-a-ad.” I couldn’t believe my father had just said that. Okay, I needed to break up the love fest, or at the very least get Kade to leave before he said anything about the gun. “Did you fix my car, Dad?”

  “I’m James Robinson, by the w
ay. Nice to meet you, son. You go to school here, I take it?”

  “Yes, sir. I love your Impala. Did you restore it? Let me guess, 1964, six-point-seven liter engine.”

  “Correct. You like old cars, Kade?”

  “I do, sir. My dad has a 1965 Shelby GT350 Street. One of the first Mustangs made.”

  Dad’s brows shot up. “I would love to check it out sometime.”

  “Anytime, sir.”

  I had no idea what model Mustang I was driving, or I should say not driving. The one I was resting my butt against was a piece-o-crap. Still, these two were gushing like two girls talking about shoes. I didn’t know if I should be happy about it or not. If they were talking cars, at least they weren’t talking about a certain gun I shouldn’t have had in my car.

  “I need to go. I have a meeting to get to. If there’s anything I can do to help, Mr. Robinson, please let me know,” Kade said, glancing my way.

  “Sure thing, son.”

  Kade held out his hand. “Great to meet you, sir.”

  Dad shook his hand. “Next time my daughter hits you, please call me.”

  Horrified, I stalked over to Dad as Kade walked past me. Our shoulders brushed and an electrical charge zapped me. I cast him what I hoped was a snarky glare over my shoulder, but he didn’t even turn around.

  “Nice boy,” Dad said as he fished the keys to my car out of the front pocket of his faded jeans.

  I harrumphed and crossed my arms over my chest. “Really, Dad. You want him to call you if I sucker punch him again. He deserved it.”

  “Everyone deserves to get punched—because that’s what you’ve been doing since the funeral. I told you already, you need to learn restraint.”

  I dropped my head, looking at my black flats. I hated that he was right.

  “When is your appointment with Dr. Davis?”

  Since we’d moved, we had to find another psychiatrist. Dr. Meyers had recommended Dr. Larry Davis, who had an office in Lancaster, which was the next town over. Good thing—I wasn’t all that tickled about being seen walking into a psychiatrist’s office. This was a small town. I didn’t want to have my name on the lips of everyone who lived here as they talked about how crazy the new girl was.

  Blowing out a breath, I lifted my head. “At the end of the week.”

  Dad folded his bulk into my car and started the engine. It turned over like the well-oiled machine it was. He gave it more gas, and the engine purred. “Let’s let it run for a few minutes. Actually, why don’t we take it around to the front of the school? I’ll follow you over there,” Dad suggested. He jumped into the Impala, and I got into my car.

  It only took two minutes to pull into the visitor parking at the front entrance of the two-story brick building. Grabbing my book bag, I slid out of the car and threw my keys into my purse. I didn’t think students were allowed to park here, but I was new, after all. I walked up to stand at the flagpole and waited for Dad. He’d parked two spaces over from me. What was taking him so long? I was about to go over to his car when he jumped out, flattening his lips and biting on the bottom one.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing, Lacey,” he said, sauntering up to me.

  “Are you sure? I know you don’t like to tell me things because of my…” Geez, I didn’t know what I had anymore. I was beginning to believe I was nuts. Maybe something other than PTSD festered inside me. Whatever it was, I had to get it under control. After yesterday and this morning, I really did need help. I prayed my new psychiatrist would help me like Dr. Meyers had.

  “You worry about school and baseball. After all, that’s why we’re here, right? Your future and to get a fresh start.” I didn’t like the sadness in his voice. He made it sound like it was my fault we moved three thousand miles away.

  “Dad, we both agreed to this.” Tears threatened. The last thing I wanted to do was be the cause of my father’s unhappiness.

  He threw his arm over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sweet Pea. The club is just a little out-of-control right now.”

  “Why did you even buy another club?”

  “We’ll discuss it later.”

  Cars were slowly filling the parking lot in the distance. As we made our way into the school, Dad and I talked about my classes and what was expected of me. I had to hunker down and make sure my grades were top-notch—otherwise ASU wasn’t even going to consider me for a baseball scholarship. The problem was I still had to take a few junior classes that I hadn’t had a chance to catch up on since we were moving, not to mention my senior subjects, too. I had a tough year ahead of me.

  We were on our way to meet with the principal and guidance counselor to see if they would allow me to test out of trig and calculus. I’d always been good in math, and I needed those two subjects to graduate. I’d been teaching myself both all summer. If I passed, I would have more free time for all my other subjects and baseball.

  Dad opened one side of the double glass doors of the main entrance. The building stretched out on both sides. I wasn’t sure how many students attended. I knew from registering that the senior class alone had two hundred kids.

  As soon as I entered, I bumped into a girl with bluish-black hair, wearing skinny black jeans, a yellow V-neck sweater that hugged her curves, and black patent leather flats.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She scrunched her perfectly manicured eyebrows at me, adjusting her backpack on her shoulder.

  “Cat got your tongue?” I asked.

  She stood frozen in the hall, sizing me up as if I was some idiot that dared to bump into her.

  Dad had gotten stuck holding the door open for a few other students that trudged in behind us.

  “You’re the new girl. The one that’s here to play baseball,” she said.

  Ooookay. How did she know that?

  “Hi, I’m Becca. Becca Young.” She extended her hand.

  I checked on Dad, who hadn’t moved, then turned back to Becca.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t bite. I’m one of the few girls in this school that doesn’t.” Her pink lips stretched into a smile.

  “Hi, I’m Lacey Robinson.”

  We shook hands. Hers were colder than mine.

  “How did you know who I was?” I asked.

  “I didn’t. I took a wild guess, since you’re wearing an LA Dodgers T-shirt. And who comes to the first day of school with their father, anyway?” She tossed a handful of hair over her shoulder.

  I loved the Dodgers and had several T-shirts with their logo. “Nice guess.” God. I hoped she wasn’t going to be like the girls at my last school, berating me for my appearance.

  Dad finally abandoned his post as temporary doorman.

  “This is my dad, James Robinson. Dad, Becca.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Dad said. “So, Becca, can you point us toward the principal’s office?”

  “Sure. I’ll walk with you.” Becca’s shoes clicked on the tile floor as we headed to see the principal.

  “I’m so glad girls are trying out for baseball again,” Becca said.

  Dad and I exchanged a perplexed look.

  “Oh, you don’t know,” she said. “We haven’t had a girl play since Mandy Shear was killed two years ago.”

  I stopped in my tracks, Dad and Becca walking ahead. She was killed? How? I had just freaked out over my battery cables coming loose. Don’t freak. Breathe.

  Dad turned, holding out his arm. “What happened?” he asked, waiting for me to join them.

  “Hey, Becca,” a boy’s voice came from behind us.

  “Yo, Scott. How goes it, dude?” she yelled over her shoulder.

  The exchange between her and the boy allowed me to take a few deep breaths.

  “We should keep walking. The halls wi
ll be crowded soon. And we’re not allowed to talk about Mandy’s death on school grounds,” she said in a hushed tone.

  “Why?” I asked, even though she’d just said the topic was all but closed. Dad placed his hand lightly on my arm.

  She glanced up at the wooden sign above the frosted-paned door. “Here’s your stop.” She waved me off. “I’ll see you around. You’re a senior, right?” she asked, backing away.

  “I am,” I said.

  “Then I’m sure we’ll have a class or two together.” She bounced on her feet and sauntered over to Scott, a short blond wearing black-rimmed glasses.

  “Why do you think the topic of Mandy is off limits on school property?” I asked Dad as we stood in the admin office. A counter separated the room into halves. Behind the chest-high glass counter stood a metal desk. Three windows separated by thin pieces of wood were built into the gray walls that overlooked a small grassy area outside with decorative trees.

  “It’s probably still a sensitive subject. You should know that, Lacey.” Dad sauntered up to the counter.

  Even though Dad was right, I couldn’t help my curiosity or my trepidation.

  The red-haired lady behind the counter was busy with paperwork.

  Dad cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said in the softest voice. It wasn’t even seven thirty in the morning and this lady looked as if she had worked an entire day already. Black circles marred the area under her blue eyes, and her pale skin had a sheen to it as though she had been sweating. “I’ve been working non-stop, getting things in order. I just hate the first day.” Her eyes met Dad’s, and I swear all stress left her face.

  Dad flashed his winning smile, and the woman looked like she had one of those moments that I had when I laid eyes on Kade. Sure, my dad was ruggedly handsome. He had brown wavy hair like me. His green eyes usually sparkled when he was happy. These days, though, I hadn’t seen any glimmer in them. He always kept a five-o-clock shadow on his face like he had now. My mom had loved him with “that scruffy look,” as I called it.