Cars pass by, birds fly overhead, a dude on a skateboard rolls past, but no memories come. I turn south, facing the freeway and the overpass that leads to El Pollo Loco. Both the mall and Wendy’s are behind me now, which means I must have been walking south. Was I trying to meet back up with Vic at the restaurant he wanted to eat at?
That’s when two realizations hit me. First, I’m not a picky eater. I doubt I would’ve insisted on eating at Wendy’s. Second, if I was walking south toward El Pollo Loco to find Vic or even toward home, wouldn’t the car have hit my right leg?
I look down at the boot on my left leg. I turn around, facing north. Did I get turned around in the dust storm? Or maybe I was looking for cover. And where did my phone go?
I get back in my car, all hope of a colossal breakthrough gone. I swing around the mall before heading home, wondering if I should contact Detective Ferguson and tell him I think it was a Jaguar that hit me. The idea of telling Ferguson makes me second-guess my memory, though. My brain isn’t reliable these days, and I’m desperate for memories, desperate enough to be making them up.
I let out a frustrated breath of air, wondering if that’s exactly what I’m doing.
Buick GMC, Honda, Toyota: I pass a bunch of dealerships along the Auto Park Drive lined with palms, but no Land Rover Jaguar.
I’ve turned onto the main boulevard and started for home when a sign catches my eye, a black sign with white letters in all caps: ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.
Black with white letters in all caps. ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP.
I’ve seen it before and I can hardly peel my eyes from it now. I focus back on the road in time to see red taillights, the car in front of me at a standstill. I slam on my brakes, stopping inches behind the bumper. Adrenaline tears down my limbs, screeching to a halt along with my car.
Idiot. Not him; me. The line of backed-up cars starts moving, but I pull off the road anyway, right into Acklen Motor Group.
I spot a BMW, a Ferrari, a Lamborghini, and a Maserati. This is no typical used-car lot. I park and get out, leaving my crutch behind as I search for a Jaguar. Can this be coincidence? Each car has a promotional frame around the plate, a black frame with white letters that reads ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP. My gaze is cemented to one of the frames as my heart makes its presence known.
Hammering. Pounding.
Tires squeal. My heart hurtles into my throat. I leap into action, bolt to get out of the way, but too late.
“Can I help you?”
I jolt, the voice breaking me from the memory. I curse.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” I lie to the salesman, some skinny dude in a buttoned-up shirt.
“Can I get you a drink? We have complimentary water bottles in the fridge.”
“No, thanks,” I say as a bead of sweat gathers on my forehead.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” he asks.
His sleeves are rolled up, but he still looks like he could keel over from heat exhaustion in this 112-degree flat heat. Suit pants and a tie. I’m in way over my head here. This is a luxury used-car lot and I’m seventeen, showing up here in shorts and a T-shirt.
“Do you have any Jaguars?”
Sure enough, his gaze drops down the length of my pathetic outfit all the way to my feet, his brows climbing a notch as he takes in the blue Nike flip-flop on one foot and the boot on the other. “Right this way. I’m Ron, by the way.”
I follow him, shaking the hand he offers in greeting.
“We have an XK-Series convertible, and I think we have an older S-Type. Of course there’s a newer F-Type coupe in the showroom.”
Ron shows me a couple of cars, pouring on his salesman charm despite my apparent lack of age and funds. Listening to Ron pitch away on these cars is a waste of both of our time.
“Do you keep a record of the cars you sell and who owns them?”
The question slipped out without thought, and Ron obviously doesn’t know what to make of it. “Uh, yeah, we do. For tax purposes and stuff.”
It’s suddenly awkward, and no wonder.
“Thanks for your help, Ron,” I say, ready to split. “I might be back, you know, with my dad. I’ve always wanted one of these.”
Why am I lying? I shouldn’t even be here.
Ron offers his business card and steps back inside. I start toward my car, taking one last look at the license plate frames. ACKLEN MOTOR GROUP. Even if it was a Jaguar that hit me, it could have been purchased anywhere. Maybe Vic and I drove around this side of the mall that night. This sign could look familiar for any number of reasons. The best I can do is tell Detective Ferguson I think the car was a Jaguar, even though it’s not much.
The door behind me swings open again and Ron makes his way out. Another customer has arrived: a lady in heels and the type of pricey sunglasses that suggest she’ll have no trouble buying a car here. Ron’s lucky day.
“I hear you’re in the market for a Jag.”
I spin around at the voice, my gaze coming level with a set of blue eyes. Lightest blue I’ve ever seen. This salesman is a lot taller than Ron, almost as tall as me. And built. He wears no tie, though, and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, the sleeves rolled up.
“Uh, yeah,” I stammer.
“You ever been in one?”
I hesitate because the answer is no, and the real reason I’m interested in Jaguars isn’t something I’ll divulge. Luckily, he extends a hand and pretends he didn’t ask.
“I own the place,” he says with a firm handshake. Owns the place. Great, now I’m really going to get a sales pitch. “Ron told me you’re looking at Jaguars. Thought I’d come out and introduce myself.”
“Thanks,” I say, wishing I had hightailed it out of here as soon as Ron gave me his card.
“And your name is?” he asks.
“Cody.”
“Cody,” he says expectantly, like he’s waiting for a last name.
Why do I not want to tell him?
“Rush,” I finally add, telling myself off for being mistrustful. That’s what you get when your dad is a fed and you hear too many stories.
“Welcome, Cody Rush,” he says with a smile I can’t decipher. “Have we met before?”
His question catches me off guard. “Uh, no. I don’t think so.”
He nods, the corners of his lips retaining a grin, his eyes studious. How would I know if we’ve met before? Maybe Vic and I did come here. “Are you sure? You look familiar.”
“Nope,” I say with a fake confidence that seems to satisfy him at last.
He waves it off. “My mistake. I must be thinking of someone else. We get a lot of guys like you here.”
“Like me?”
“Yeah,” he says with an appraising nod. “Good-looking guys like you. Ladies at your heels. World at your fingertips. How about we get you a nice set of wheels under your fingertips as well?”
“I was just stopping by,” I cut in and shift toward my car. “I’d have to bring my dad back if I even dreamed of owning one.”
“Yeah, I know how it goes,” he says. “Once you have Jags on your mind, they’re hard to forget.”
My head snaps up, my full attention drawn to his blue eyes as his words ring too true for comfort.
“Thanks,” I say with finality and a parting handshake, realizing he never introduced himself. “What was your name?”
One corner of his lips turns up into a crooked grin, and I realize how intense this guy is, his eyes never straying from mine. Just as I finish that thought, his icy blue gaze trails down to the boot on my leg and his lips spread into a full grin. “Damian.”
I push the unlock button, breaking away at last. “Thanks, Damian.”
CHAPTER 15
Julianna
Getting to Cody’s house on foot in 116 degrees is not ideal, but I have little choice. Vic disappeared in Rusty after school, even after I told him I needed the car, and I wasn’t about to ask Dad for a ride. I don’t need him getting suspic
ious about who I’m tutoring.
Luckily, the Valley Metro took me halfway. Now I approach what I think must be his neighborhood. Hopefully, his AC works a lot better than ours. I hum a song from choir as I reread the address, realizing there’s more to Cody’s text than I initially saw. He left a gate code—a gate code?
I look up, doing a double take when I spot it, the mother of all community gates, intricate wrought iron between stone fences and a sign that reads CHADWICK ESTATES.
I double-check—triple-check—Cody’s text, hoping I got turned around somehow. I figured he was rich, but this is a whole different level of richness. I wait for cars to clear out before dashing across the street.
My fingers hesitate over the keypad before punching in the five-digit code. I jerk back when the gate responds. It glides open, revealing a fancy road made of brick pavers—not your typical asphalt—and it leads the eye straight to a roundabout complete with water fountain, palms, and planted flowers.
My feet start down the road. I take everything in with a sort of reverent awe. Any neighborhood in Arizona that can keep this much grass alive and so green deserves respect. Trees shade my walk down the path, offering a blessed relief from the beating sun. Flowers in vibrant shades of yellow, red, and purple line either side of the road. A car passes by, a shiny SUV with an engine so quiet I didn’t hear it coming.
Weaving through the streets, I navigate my way until I reach the house that matches the address on Cody’s text, a two-story brick house—no, a mansion—with a fountain and a circular drive that put the community entrance to shame.
It hits me, like it took me clear up until this moment to fully grasp where I am: Agent Rush’s house. Cody is intimidating enough, his cocky smile reminding me too much of his dad. He’s rich, popular, and almost too pretty, and he won’t leave me alone. I hate to admit it, but something about him gets to me every time he’s near, and if I were smart, I would be nowhere near his house now.
Cody had to go and be all nice to me yesterday, though, agreeing to have me tutor him after I’d been so rude. I start up the sidewalk, trying to calm my breathing. I knock on the door and then freak out, wondering if I should bolt back the way I came or hide in the bushes. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
I spin around and dash down three of the stairs before the door swings open. I jolt, whirling back around. My face flushes with a different kind of heat when I see Cody standing there, a funny little smirk on his lips.
His grin breaks into a dimpled smile. “Leaving already?”
Dimples are definitely dangerous.
“Yes,” I say, “I mean no.”
He laughs. “I was starting to think you’d ditched out again.”
He had to bring that up. “Sorry I’m late.” I point back in the direction I came. “If this isn’t a good time, I can leave.”
“No, come on in,” he says and stands aside, gesturing me inside.
“Okay,” I say, hesitating before braving the remaining distance. I slip in past him and scoot off to the side, casting a quick look around. His entryway is ten times the size of my bedroom. And ten times cooler. “Should I take my shoes off?”
“Whatever’s most comfortable,” he says and shuts the door. “Up to you.”
I doubt anything will make me comfortable here. I keep my ears alert for any other male voices, praying that Cody’s dad is still at work. I slip my flip-flops off and follow Cody. When my feet hit the carpet—the superplush kind you can sink your toes into—I think maybe I was wrong. I could get used to this.
“You want something to drink?”
I want to say no, but my throat is so dry. I’m not sure which is better: making eye contact to assert my confidence or avoiding it altogether. Looking into his eyes has proven deadly in the past, especially that night at the mall, so I settle for glancing around impassively. “Water’s great. Thanks.”
He heads to the kitchen. This place is huge, with classy lighting fixtures and crown moldings to boot. All of the furniture looks heavy, made of solid wood. Fans spin overhead without a sound. Not a single pile can be found anywhere on the counter. It feels clean and, yes, even comfortable. It feels like someone cares.
Cody returns with two water bottles and grabs his backpack from a recliner. “Have a seat.”
I freeze when I realize this is where we’re studying—the living room. Cody pops a squat on the floor at the end of a coffee table that’s probably more expensive than our car. This all looks too cozy, like friends kicking back to do more hanging out than studying.
Better get this over with. I sit. “Okay, what do you need help with?”
I look at Cody from across the long coffee table, finding that funny smirk on his face again. He shifts around the table, coming closer, and rests his back against the sofa, his left leg extended to keep his booted foot straight. “It’s a lot more comfortable if you lean up against the couch,” he says with a suggestive glance at the spot of carpet beside him, like I’m going to heed his beckoning and happily scoot closer.
He’s got something else coming at him. “Oh, no, I’m just fine right here. What do you need help with?” I repeat with a quick glance over my shoulder toward the garage door, praying his dad won’t walk in any second.
“Art,” Cody says.
“Art?” I repeat. He mentioned needing help with art before, but I thought he was joking.
“Yeah,” he replies and pulls a piece of paper from his backpack.
Who needs help with art? And for fifteen bucks an hour?
His head shakes as he scans the paper. “It’s our first project. Some ‘One-point Perspective Collage.’” He reads off the instructions. “‘Create a one-point drawing on cardboard using geometric shapes, checking for a balanced composition. Then pick a color scheme and create an aesthetically pleasing, three-dimensional—’” He tosses the paper on the coffee table without finishing. “Sounds like Chinese.”
A chuckle escapes my lips before I can stop it. “That’s what I say about math.”
“Math?” he asks. “That I can understand, but this? Sure, I can be dense, but this doesn’t make a lick of sense. About the only word in there I understand is geometric.”
I laugh, although I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s his self-deprecating way of blaming himself for not understanding instead of calling the assignment stupid. “Pick a shape,” I say and sip from my water bottle.
He thinks for a second. “Square.”
I pull out my notebook and find a blank page, sliding marginally closer for him to see. I draw a horizontal line to represent the viewer’s eye level and explain the basics of drawing a three-dimensional object. He nods as I explain, taking the liberty of scooting closer as he does. I shift back an inch in response and finish a sketch of a room drawn in one-point perspective.
“Wow,” he says, eyes on my drawing. “You drew that.”
I glance at my rough sketch—and I mean rough—and can’t help smiling. Everyone in my family is artistic, even Vic. Even Lucas doodles little anime characters from time to time. No one has ever stared at something I’ve made quite like Cody is now, and it reminds me of how impressed he was of the cupcakes I frosted at The Chocolate Shoppe.
“That’s crazy,” he says, rubbing the thick stubble along his chin. “Like you’re looking right into a room.”
“And here I just thought you had a thing for cupcakes,” I say.
His brows pull together as he looks at me. “Cupcakes?”
“Yeah. I thought you were just trying to schmooze a free one off of me at The Chocolate Shoppe.”
Recognition still hasn’t crossed his face, and I realize with a stab of humiliation that he doesn’t remember. Duh, Julianna. Obviously that night meant more to me than it did to him.
“Oh, right,” he says and smiles, but I know better.
I sit upright and scoot back to my spot at the end of the coffee table.
Cody props himself up on one hand as he leans closer to me than we’ve been since t
hat night in the photo booth. A clean, strong scent tempts my senses, like aftershave and manly soap. Even as I dare a glance at him, I know it’s a bad idea.
His sandy-colored hair is a little crazy, like he just rolled out of bed, and a healthy layer of scruff covers his sharp jawline. He’s so different from the clean-shaven guy I met at the mall. Still, Cody is agonizingly handsome whether he’s trying or not. And there’s something else. He seemed so carefree at the mall. Yet there’s something in his green eyes now, laden with doubt and perhaps a few secrets of his own, that makes him all that much harder to disregard. Like a guy who hasn’t always had the easy way in life after all.
Which almost makes me want to ask him what happened to his leg.
A playful grin curves Cody’s lips as he looks into my eyes. “About that night—”
“Listen”—I cut him off before his flirtatious ways turn me into a puddle of mush at his feet—“for the record, that whole photo booth . . . incident . . . didn’t mean anything, okay?”
He sits up, leaning forward to pull a wallet from his back pocket. He fishes something out and slaps it down on the coffee table.
“Oh, yeah?” he challenges. “What about that?”
I glance down at the pictures—the photo-booth pictures. His index finger taps the third picture, the one of him practically kissing my neck. The nerve! I feel a wave of heat rising up my neck and into my cheeks. Wait, he keeps this in his wallet?
“Pulling out that dimple-loaded smile of yours and doing . . .” I fish for a term to describe what he’s doing in that picture. Smelling my hair? Kissing my ear? It’s too intimate, too personal to articulate. “. . . doing . . . that . . . might win over every other girl who comes your way, but it doesn’t work for me.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks again and leans in dangerously close, his tone doubtful. His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips. “What does do it for you, Julianna?”
The sound of my name on his lips sinks right to my core, rich and tempting. Like chocolate. He is such a player. I wonder if slapping him would make me feel any better. Isn’t the admiration of three fourths of the Highland High School female student body enough for him? Why is he toying with me?
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