Believe in Forever (Jett Series Book 3)

by Amy Sparling

  “You could do it here,” Keanna says. “Just use my computer.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. Just don’t put me in the video and I’ll be fine.”

  We agree to use her computer and have it facing a blank wall in her room so that my background will look nice and professional. While she sets it up, I scarf down three of her enchiladas and they’re amazing, but I know if I tell her that’ll just roll her eyes and say they could have been better.

  While I wait for the magazine’s social outreach coordinator—Brie Mason, according to my email—to call me on Skype, I try to remember our first phone call weeks ago. I’ve done plenty of interviews over the last couple of months and it’s hard to remember what belongs to what.

  Keanna’s eyes go wide when Bree’s Skype call starts ringing. She kisses me on the side of my head and gives me a quick hug. “Good luck!” she whispers just before I answer the call.

  Bree is a hipster woman in her late thirties, her hair buzzed on the sides and dyed bright green on top. She wears thick black frames and has an interesting and badass looking tattoo on her neck. She explains to me that they’re using a software that allows fans to call in and ask questions. Their video chat will be at the bottom of the screen, while hers will be up top. I’ll be the main event though, my face nice and huge on the live stream and the video they’ll keep on the site later on.

  “Any questions before we begin?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling like an asshole. “What magazine was this for again?”

  She laughs. “Motocross Girls”

  “Oh, right.” I give her what I hope is a charming smile. “That’s what I thought.”

  Inwardly, I cringe. Motocross Girls? Does this mean what I think it means?

  Yes, yes it does.

  Bree’s head is about two inches tall on Keanna’s computer monitor. “Okay guys, our first question comes from MxGurl14.”

  Another little square pops up at the bottom of the screen and a young girl appears. Her cheeks are flushed, probably from nerves, and when she talks, her voice is all shaky.

  “My questions is: Jett, do you think a girl could ever be a fast racer?”

  “Absolutely,” I say. “Girls can be just as badass on a dirt bike as a guy can be. I always tell people the key to being fast is to start as young as possible and work your butt off.”

  She grins and her pixelated cheeks turn red. “Cool. Thanks.”

  Bree introduces the next caller and this time it’s an older girl, probably around my age. “Hi Jett,” she says, waving flirtatiously at the screen. “I want to know, what do you look for in a girlfriend?”

  “Uh, well,” I say, looking toward Keanna’s bed where she’s no longer sitting since she left the room a few minutes ago. “I’m not currently looking for a girlfriend but when I was, I wanted someone sweet and kind. Someone I can trust.”

  “You could trust me, Jett,” she says, tilting her head.

  I don’t know what it is about girls and that weird head tilt. I guess they think it makes them look sexy, or possibly like an innocent baby deer or something. Instead, it just makes it look like they’re trying too hard.

  The next few questions are all basically the same thing. Why did I agree to this interview, again? Was I temporarily insane? Probably.

  Right after my internship went through, I got a little too excited about all the hype and attention I got. I would have agreed to anything.

  Bree comes back on after about twelve callers. “Okay, it’s time for some questions from our staff here at Motocross Girls.”

  Oh thank God, I think.

  Bree asks me some questions that are legit motocross inquiries, and I’m happy to answer them.

  Keanna stays away, probably to give me the privacy to work on this without distractions, but I miss her a lot. I’m also wondering if there’s any more enchiladas left, but I’m betting Park has cleared out the leftovers by now.

  “One final thing,” Bree says. She adjusts her glasses and then grins. “A little birdie told us that your seventeenth birthday is tomorrow. Is that right?”

  I chuckle. “Yep. That’s right. I’m the Christmas Eve baby.”

  “Well, we have a special call for you next.” She looks down at her keyboard and then a long window appears at the bottom of the screen. It’s a video feed of about three dozen teenage girls. “Some of your biggest racing fans are here to sing you happy birthday.”

  They all sing the Happy Birthday song. Keanna walks back in just when they’re finishing and she breaks into a smile.

  “Awesome,” I say, clapping. “That was really cool. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for being here with us tonight!” Bree says. She says a few more things and then the call is officially over.

  I look over at Keanna. “Well, that was fun and annoying.”

  She checks the time on her phone. “We still have four hours until midnight, when I want to give you your birthday present. Can you think of anything fun to do?”

  “Actually,” I say, swiveling in her desk chair until I’m facing her. “I have a great idea.”

  #

  I decide to take Keanna to Shady Creek Heights, an uppity rich person subdivision two towns over. It’s kind of a long drive, but I know it’ll be worth it. It’s Christmas Eve Eve after all, and everyone’s lights will be on. Just before we arrive at the famed subdivision, I pull into a Starbucks and we get massive hot chocolates.

  “So are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?” Keanna says, blowing into the little hole on top of her hot chocolate lid. “I can’t think of any place that’s actually open this late besides Walmart.”

  “We’re actually staying in the truck the whole time,” I say cryptically.

  Her lips move to the side of her mouth and then her eyes light up. “We’re driving around to see something?”

  I nod. She glances out the window and then gives me a knowing look. “Christmas lights.”

  “Yep.” I steer the truck back onto the main road and take the exit for Shady Creek Heights.

  This place has been on TV shows for its incredible Christmas lights display. The subdivision has about thirty mansions, all of which are owned by the super rich: athletes, doctors, and a few lesser famous celebrities and country singers. Every year, the neighborhood chooses a theme and all of the houses decorate according to it. I remember watching on one of those TV shows that participating in the holiday decorating is actually a rule in their homeowner’s association. So this place is a big attraction and I’m excited to show her. I haven’t been here since I was a kid.

  “Oh my God,” she says, putting her hand to her window.

  We’re only at the entrance of the neighborhood, but it’s already spectacular. The brick entrance that spans on both sides of the gated entryway has been covered in a solid sheet of multicolored lights. A sign has been placed near the road.

  Transiberian Orchestra Christmas! Tune in to channel FM 93.1 to listen!

  I turn the radio to the right station and it begins playing one of the Transiberian Orchestra’s amazing songs.

  The guard at the gated entrance waves us through, saying visitors are allowed thirty minutes to drive through and check out the lights.

  The tree-lined road is coved in lights that blink to the music. It is absolutely incredible. I barely remember to breathe as we take in house after house, each of them a beautiful mansion in their own right, but now they’ve been blanketed in LED lights that move to the music.

  Waves of blue lights create a frozen lake that blinking penguins skate across. A holograph Santa walks across the roof of a house, then jumps into the chimney, disappearing in a starburst of lights.

  Keanna’s jaw drops and so does mine. We become completely overtaken by the beauty and the masterpiece of this neighborhood’s Christmas display. Each house’s design flows into the next one, creating Santa Claus’ workshop, a gingerbread house, a candy cane lane, and a Christmas feast. T
he last house on the block has turned its roof and lawn into a three dimensional nativity scene, while still staying timed to the music.

  It is absolutely breathtaking.

  Half an hour later, we’ve idled through the whole neighborhood, and we make our way toward the exit. Dozens of cars are in front of and behind us, but I hadn’t really noticed them until now.

  “Wow.” Keanna lets out a breath. “I feel like my life will never be the same again, now that I’ve seen that.”

  I grab her hand and then take a sip of my hot chocolate. “That was a thousand times cooler than when I came here as a kid, and back then it was still awesome.”

  “I’m glad you took me,” she says. She unbuckles her seatbelt and slides over to the middle seat, leaning her head against my shoulder while we drive.

  Once we’re back in Lawson, I turn down a back road and we cruise around some more, looking at the random house lights we pass on the way.

  “So, we have thirty minutes until midnight,” she says, checking her phone for the time.

  “What’s so fancy about midnight?” I ask.

  “It’s your birthday, duh!”

  I chuckle. “I think you care more about my birthday than I do.”

  “Well, I’m supposed to. I’m your girlfriend.” She sticks out her tongue and I lean over to kiss her, almost missing a stop sign in the process. Luckily, we’re in the middle of nowhere so there’s no other cars around. “You look really hot tonight,” I whisper into her ear before driving forward. “You always look hot,” she says, giving me that seductive grin I love so much.

  “There’s a park up ahead,” I say. “We should pull over and make out in the backseat.”

  She gives me this look. “That’s something dumb teenagers do. We have bedrooms to use for making out.”

  I turn into the park anyway and choose a parking spot at the back. The lights are off and no one is here because it’s so late at night. “Well, we are teenagers so . . .”

  She leans over and slides her fingers into my hair. Her lips brush against mine. “So get in the back seat.”

  Chapter 23

  I pull my clothes back on in the surprisingly roomy backseat of Jett’s truck. My heart is pounding from another encounter with Jett and all of his special ways of making sure I feel loved. Jett sits up in the back seat, pulls his shirt over his head and then grins at me. His jeans are still unzipped, but at least they’re on now. This whole time I’d been a little afraid that a cop would show up or worse—someone with a video camera. But we didn’t take long, and no one so much as drove by. I guess Christmas Eve Eve isn’t that big of a late night travel day.

  My phone alarm goes off, alerting me that it’s now midnight. I slide across the bench seat and crawl into Jett’s lap. My head barely misses the roof of the truck, but I duck down to kiss him.

  “Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks,” he says, his fingers trailing down my chin. “I love you.”

  “I love you,” I say between kissing him. “We need to get to my house. I have a present for you.”

  “It can’t wait until tomorrow?” he asks.

  “It already is tomorrow,” I point out. “Besides, I’m dying to give it to you.”

  “As you wish,” Jett says. He opens the truck door and a cold burst of winter air fills the truck’s cab. We get back in the front seat and as soon as we pull into his driveway, I realize the flaw in my plan.

  His present is still on the third floor studio at home. Those stairs are creaky.

  But I absolutely have to give him his gift at midnight. It’s how I’ve been planning this whole thing. That way he’ll get it now, then go back to sleep, wake up in the morning on his actual birthday and he’ll have to wait a whole extra day to get his Christmas presents. It’ll give the allusion that he’s not getting gifts back to back, although he really is.

  I don’t know. Maybe it’s lame. But maybe I’m just a lame person who enjoys these kind of things.

  We sneak over to my house and I open the back door as quietly as possible. Although the Christmas tree’s lights are still on, leaving a whimsical glow all throughout the living room, my parents are asleep.

  I put my fingers to my lips and motion for Jett to follow me to the stairs. Going up to the second floor is easy because these stairs don’t creak, but once you go down the hallway and face the much thinner row of stairs that lead to the studio, it gets a little shady.

  “Be very quiet,” I whisper, pressing my finger to his lips.

  He pulls me into the darkened alcove at the base of the stairs and kisses me deeply, holding me tightly against his chest.

  I kiss him back, getting lost in his touch until my head goes all lightheaded and swirly. I gasp for breath and step backward. “How dare you,” I whisper, putting my hands on my hips.

  “Sorry,” he says, leaning in and kissing the crook of my neck. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  I swallow, and try to gain control of my mind once again.

  I step up on the first stair and then the second. If the wood creaks, I quickly shuffle to the other side. We walk slowly, Jett grabbing my ass on more than one occasion because it’s right in his face, and eventually we get to the top of the stairs.

  “I hope you like it,” I whisper, my hand on the door. Only now am I getting really nervous. Making this project had been fun and even exciting, but now that I’m about to give it to him, I’m suddenly wondering if maybe it’s not as great as I think.

  I let out a nervous breath and open the door. Once we’re inside, I close it behind us and then turn on the light.

  I’d chosen to leave the canvas open, with only a silver bow on top. But I used some scrapbook paper and designed a big gift tag that hangs from the bottom. It says: HAPPY BIRTHDAY JETT, LOVE KEANNA in lettering that’s big enough to read across the room.

  “Whoa.” Jett just stands here, his hand over his mouth.

  I bite my lip so hard it starts to sting. “I made it,” I say meekly, walking toward the canvas. I touch the side of it and watch him, judging for his reaction. “Do you like it?”

  His shocked expression twists into one of excitement. “This is incredible. You made it? How?”

  He walks forward and runs his hand down the shiny canvas. “Where did you get this picture?”

  “I took it on my phone,” I say, lifting my shoulders. This picture was taken in his quiet moment of personal reflection. He hadn’t known I’d captured it to last forever. “I thought it was a special picture so . . .” I motion toward the canvas.

  “This is the greatest thing ever,” he says, not taking his eyes off it. “This is so much better than those professional shots of me racing or flying over a jump. This one is like . . .” he shakes his head and looks over at me. “This one is special. Personal.”

  I grin. “Happy birthday, babe.”

  He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight. “Thank you.”

  #

  I wake up the next morning to the sound of Christmas carols being played through the house’s surround sound. I glance over at my phone and see that it’s only eight in the morning. Ahhh . . .

  But as tired as I am and as badly as I want to sleep in, I shuffle out of bed, yawn fifty thousand times, and head out into the kitchen. My new mom is grinning from ear to ear while she pours waffle mix into the waffle iron.

  “Merry Christmas,” she sing-songs as I pad into the room, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

  “Merry Christmas,” I say. I drop into one of the barstools on the other side of the kitchen island.

  Park walks in from the back door, a bottle of syrup in his hand. “Morning, kiddo,” he says, giving me a quick hug while he sets the syrup on the island. His jacket is freezing cold and it makes me shiver.

  “Becca wanted waffles and we were out of syrup. It’s a good thing some stores are actually open on Christmas day.” Park grins and reaches into his jacket pocket. “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

  He pulls out two scratch of
f lottery tickets and hands one to me and Becca.

  “Cool,” I say, taking the massive thing. It’s as big as my head and boasts that you can win up to twenty times. “Thank you.”

  “He gets me one for every holiday,” Becca explains. “That was sweet of you to get one for Keanna,” she tells him.

  Park winks at me and flips on the coffee pot. “She’s my girl now, too.”

  Warmth fills me and it’s not just from the hot air coming off the waffle iron. We scratch the lottery tickets and Becca wins twenty dollars and I win thirty-five. Not bad.

  After breakfast, we head into the den, where the presents seem to have multiplied since the last time I was in here.

  Although some of the gifts are for Becca’s parents and relatives and Jace and Bayleigh, and some are the gifts Park and I got for Becca, most of them are for us.

  Park and I open gift after gift, all of which make Becca smile and tear up when she sees our reactions.

  “Mom, you should not have gotten me so many things,” I say, looking up from a small box that contained a dozen gift cards to all my favorite fast food places. “This was way too much.”

  “Never!” she says, laughing. “I told you, I’m making up for eighteen years of gifts here.” She looks around, reaches for another package that’s wrapped in silver paper and shoves it in my hand. “So you’re gonna open them and like them, missy.”

  “Yes ma’am,” I say, tearing into the paper. It’s a new wireless mouse for my laptop, which is perfect since I recently dropped mine on the patio and it shattered. Becca truly thinks of everything.

  My new parents love the gifts I got them: home décor for Becca from her favorite boutique downtown, and new subscriptions to three of Park’s favorite motocross magazines.

  Becca sets up her camera on a tripod and gets a million family photos of our first Christmas together. Overall, it’s the most amazing Christmas morning I’ve ever hand, and that’s not because of the gifts involved. It’s because for once in my life, I’m spending it with family, laughing and joking, and enjoying the morning. Christmases with Dawn were usually spent with her at work, or sleeping late, or telling me that Santa must not have been impressed with my behavior that year.