“Sisters to the end,” Carly swears as we race down the narrow road.
Cougar Creek High looms like a three-story Transylvanian castle, without the charm of soaring turrets and swooping bats. Okay, it doesn’t look anything like Dracula’s home, but I still feel myself sinking into Carly’s vinyl seat. There should be lightning cracking around it or something. Instead, another sticky Southern morning teases my flatironed hair as we walk through the packed parking lot.
“You look awesome, Jule,” Carly whispers.
I can do this. Casual smile. Eyes level. I repeat the phrases Carly drilled into me during our ten-minute drive. The epitome of BFF, cheerleader, and life coach, all rolled into one peppy teenage girl. Would she be the same way if she knew exactly what my mom was screaming when they’d knocked her unconscious with some sedative shot into her arm? My stomach clenches and I hide the gag behind a cleansing breath. I can do this. Eyes level.
“Carly! Jule!” Lindsey waves from her perch on a picnic table where her boyfriend, Hunter, leans against the grey wood slats. I groan inside but keep the serene expression as Carly changes direction toward them. I follow.
“Hey,” Hunter says and searches my face. He was class president last year and a member of the debate team. Not one to ignore a situation and never at a loss for words. “Jule, sorry about your mom. You doing okay?”
Lindsey adds a fairly genuine sad smile of support.
“Thanks.” I give them a quick squeeze of a grin. “I’m all right.” Awkward, so awkward. I’d better get used to it.
“Well, you look great,” Lindsey says, eyeing my short skirt and strappy halter. “Crappy way to lose weight, but… well, you look good.” For Lindsey, that is support.
I mumble “thanks” again and we join the migration toward the building. The homeroom tone will ring any minute. And I definitely don’t want to be late, walking in for everyone to stone me with their stares.
“Shit, look at that.” Hunter stops short, his wide gaze tracking a motorcycle gliding into the parking lot. “A Kawasaki ZX10R.”
Lindsey rolls her eyes and smiles indulgently. “You’re such a bike psycho.” Her glance flits to me and her cheeks redden, but she doesn’t retract her psycho reference. That would make it worse. The bike slices around a beat-up hatchback and parks. The guy is wearing shorts and a black T-shirt that stretches across broad shoulders. Even before he pulls off the black helmet with the Carolina Blizzards logo custom-painted on the side, I know. Just by his height and the look of his muscled arms, I know.
While Hunter drools over the bike, Lindsey’s eyes grow wide. “Holy Hell’s Angel,” Lindsey breathes softly. “Who’s the new guy?”
Carly snorts. “I don’t know his name, but he’s a jerk. My mom sold his folks their house. His dad is a coach for the Carolina Blizzards. He played for Boston.”
“Really?” Hunter nearly pants. “I think I’ll introduce myself.” He breaks off from our little group.
“Maybe I will, too.” Lindsey fluffs her blonde hair and trots to keep up.
“Come on.” I pull Carly toward the doors of the school. Even the critical stares of a hallway full of kids are better than running into those hostile, dissecting eyes. I’d actually dreamt of them last night, set in an epically hot but totally enraged face. In the nightmare I ran, but everywhere I turned his glowing eyes appeared only inches from me. He reached for my throat and—
A shriek cuts through the mid-level murmur of happy reunions around us. A blur of black rushes past. “Lucas!”
2
“Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.”
~Walker Evans
Everyone still outside turns at the sound of gothdressed, nose-pierced, wrist-bandaged Taylin Banes as she races straight toward…him. She flings herself past Hunter and Lindsey and full-force into the chest of the gorgeous, rude ass. And what is even more surprising is that, instead of pushing her away or even frowning, the ass smiles. Really smiles. His whole face transforms, relaxes. He grins down at her as he cradles, yes, actually cradles, her in his arms. Taylin, one of the toughest, most messed-up girls in the school, clings to this guy. Her shoulders shake like she is sobbing.
I glance at Carly to see if she’s witnessing this bizarre scene. Carly’s mouth hangs open. “Well, shit,” she says simply. “Think they know each other?”
The tone rings. “Gotta go,” I say and turn. Carly will fill me in on what else happens, and Lindsey will give an up close and personal description.
I find a seat at the back of Mrs. Rozinski’s homeroom and study my schedule. Calculus will wait until next semester. My only hard class for the fall is chemistry and it’s first, good to get it over with. Then English lit., PE, French, and drama. My exhale hisses through my teeth.
Drama. I am always in drama, that or chorus. Mom always encouraged me to perform. Said it was in my blood, and to repress it would be harmful. That was before, back when things were relatively normal. A dad who worked too many hours, but still managed to check in on me in bed each night. A mom who kept herself busy tracing our family tree, giving voice lessons, and performing in the community theater.
But now–now Mom begs me never to sing again. Especially not in public. And, of course, I promised her. It was the only thing that calmed her down the last visit. It’s been two weeks and I haven’t gone again. Guilt balls up in my stomach as I trace the word “drama” with my gaze.
The last tone sounds, and a figure slides into the seat across the aisle from me. The light scent of soap and leather drifts over and I swallow hard, not moving my eyes from the paper. I blink as they begin to sting.
“Miss Welsh?”
My head shoots up. Mrs. Rozinski looks at me expectantly. “Just say ‘here.’”
“Uh, here.” I try to glance back down, but the large Adidas shoe in the aisle has moved closer. My gaze flits up automatically, a natural response to someone crowding my space.
His blue-black eyes lock with mine, stealing my breath and my will to pull away. Dark brows sit low as he watches me, studies me with such intensity it’s as if he wants to latch onto me and never let go. I feel helpless to turn away, but don’t care. Is this how people feel when I sing?
Part of me appreciates the sharp, ruggedly symmetrical features under the shag of dark hair. My heart pounds, battering against my chest.
“Mr. Whitmore.”
He finally breaks eye contact, and I can inhale. “Here.”
I snap my gaze back to my paper.
“These are your locker numbers and your combinations.” Mrs. Rozinski passes out the papers. “They have been assigned alphabetically.” Shit! Welsh and Whitmore. Can my life get any more screwed up? “Store your gear and head to your first class.”
I pretend to look for something at the bottom of my bag, giving Lucas Whitmore plenty of time to leave before me, but he hangs back. Waiting? I finally stand and yank my pack onto my shoulder. He’s up at the same time, as if he’s my shadow. I feel his eyes on my back, his presence crowding me. I frown. Even if he has heard about my mom, he doesn’t have to stare me down like I’m some freak show. I almost turn around to confront him, but my cheeks burn red, so I just stride coolly to my locker. Of course he follows. We are neighbors at school as well as at home. This year is sooo going to suck.
My backpack slides off my shoulder and I flip the black dial on the locker. 30-16-26. I yank up on the metal lever, but it doesn’t give. Frowning, I check the locker number. Yep, I have the right skinny metal door. I spin the dial several full rotations before trying the three-number combination again. No go. Shit. I huff loudly and frown at the hateful circle of numbers, fighting the urge to kick the door.
“Let me try,” a smooth voice says from beside me. “I have a way with locks.” God, no! Of course he is witnessing my failure. I breathe deep through my nose and turn. There he stands. Dark, blue-black eyes so deep I feel almost sucked toward them, like they are black holes in the universe.
His scowl from the other day has changed into a skewed grin that makes his already perfect features absolutely gorgeous. He carefully works the slip of paper with the combination out of my stiff fingers. He bends his head, soft dark waves of hair falling almost to his chin. I can smell the leather from the jacket flung over one broad shoulder and a light masculine scent. Is that soap? Maybe just deodorant. Whatever it is, it smells…good. I fill my lungs and try to focus. But it’s hard with him right there, the two of us tucked into our little space.
The sound of the lock sliding and the metallic twang of the door popping open make me jump back a little. A flush creeps up my neck. He hands me the paper. “There, no problem. The tumbler was just a little stuck.”
“How…?”
“Like I said, I’ve got a knack for opening things.”
“You’re like a locksmith or safecracker or something?” God, is safecracker even a real term?
His grin broadens. “Yeah, something like that.” He holds out his hand. I just stare at it for two long seconds. “I’m Luke.”
I grasp it lightly and shake once. “Hey, Luke.” I ignore the warm pull of the contact and draw back.
“Sorry about yesterday.”
I’m not sure what I should say.
“You surprised me,” he continues.
“I surprised you?”
“Your voice.” His smile fades and a crease pinches his eyebrows briefly. “It caught me off-guard.”
My voice. Really? “Yeah, it surprises people,” I say, “but they don’t usually look like they’re going to reach down my throat and rip my voicebox out.”
I watch him swallow, and he inhales as if the visual might be too much for him. I raise one eyebrow. He doesn’t look like the type who shies away from graphic violence.
He swipes back the hair from his forehead and huffs. A smile comes out slowly. “Yeah, I’m not good with surprises. My parents haven’t thrown me a surprise birthday party since the castastrophe when I turned five.” He shivers dramatically as if recalling the horror.
I grin as I look sideways at him. Gorgeous and a sense of humor.
“No sneaking up on Luke Whitmore. Got it,” I say and stack my books in my locker.
“Maybe we should start over,” he suggests, and I glance at him. He has his hand extended. I exhale loudly but turn toward him, leaning back into the thin hole of my open locker.
I grasp his hand harder this time. It is warm, strong. Very unlike my own thin fingers. His grip feels solid, steadying. “Welcome to Summit, the peak of good living,” I quote the official town motto. “I’m Jule Welsh.”
“Not Julietta?”
“Only to my parents.” He releases my hand and I quickly lower it.
“And you’re not Lucas?”
“You witnessed that?” He smiles with a half-embarrassed look.
“Half the school did.”
He ignores my questioning look. “Just Luke.”
The tone for first period sounds, cutting off any chance I have to ask for an explanation. A rush of kids surges through the hall. I grab my chemistry notebook. “Thanks for the help.” I tip my head toward my locker.
“Sure.” He turns with me after he hangs up his jacket. “Do you know where room 2343 is?”
I stare at him for another long second while my still-stunned brain processes the number. “Umm…yeah. I’m headed there. Chemistry?”
He nods and walks with me through the throng. I study him peripherally. Something is different, missing. Not that he is lacking in any way with that tall, cut bod, but he looks different. The impression I got yesterday was much darker, sinister. “Your tats.” I point to his bare arms. “Where are they?”
“My tats? Tattoos?” he questions, but I don’t see confusion in his frown.
“Yeah, the ones that wrapped around your arms. Were they, like, fake?”
He stares straight ahead. “I had some grease on my arms from working with my motorcycle. I don’t have tattoos.”
“But they were dragons or something.”
He continues to look out over the throng and shrugs. “Nope.” He flexes a bicep, which balls up in a glorious tan hill of masculine strength. Several girls stop mid-sentence, eyes wide, tongues nearly rolling out of their gloss-framed mouths. He doesn’t even glance at them.
“Hey, Jule!” Madison’s blonde, sleek hair lies flat around her face. What I wouldn’t give for hair that stays flat in this sweltering fishbowl of humidity. Her eyebrow rises when she notices Luke next to me, but she keeps her smile on me. “I grabbed an audition schedule for you.” She shoves the paper in my hands.
“Hmmm… Thanks.” I step-ladder my gaze down the long list of roles without actually reading any of it. “What’s the play?” I am always in the play; at least, I have been in the past.
“You’re not going to believe this!” Madison rolls to the balls of her feet. “Ms. Bishop chose Phantom!” She thumps the top of the sheet that spells it out. “Can you believe it?”
My heart aches, literally aches. Can a relatively healthy seventeen-year-old have a heart attack? “Of the Opera?” My mouth remains open and I feel my heart thump to get out.
She rolls her eyes. “Is there any other Phantom? Of course, Phantom of the Opera. You know she only picked it because she knows you can carry the female role. With your voice, we’ll make it all the way to State again!”
“I don’t know, Madison.” I indicate the chemistry room door for Luke, but he stands next to us as if he is part of this discussion. I face Madison. “I was thinking of sitting this one out. I have a lot going on.” I shrug. Of course she’d have heard about Mom. Who hasn’t? “You know. And I need to concentrate on my grades to get into Boston University’s School of Theatre.”
“God, Jule! We neeeeed you.” Madison grabs my arm. “And BU will die to have you after you pull this off. You can skip the spring musical, but we need you for this competition.”
I look down at the Band-Aids on my foot, half-covered by my strappy flats. “I’ll think about it.” Geez, I promised I wouldn’t sing. And playing the lead role in a musical would require singing. The part of Christine would be fantastic, full of drama, and I practically know all the songs already. Mom would have been so excited for me. Would have.
Madison’s eyes move to Luke. “Who are you?” Coming from someone else, that probably would have been rude. But Madison has a dizzying ability to say whatever she wants with such open and friendly body language that people don’t care.
“Luke.” His casual voice holds a smile. So Madison can charm the scowling, invisible-tats guy, too. “I’m new.”
“See ya later,” I call to whichever one of them is listening and step into the fluorescently lit chemistry lab. Black, tacky-topped tables with stools run in two long columns up the room. At the back sits Taylin, her coal-blackened eyes widening with her grin. She must have spotted Luke, because the expression certainly isn’t for me. I slide onto a stool toward the front. Luke stops beside me and my heart takes off again, pounding as I glance up.
“Your…Taylin is back there.” I thumb toward her.
“Yeah,” he says, and I see him nod. “She’s my cousin.”
“Cousin? You must have a close family.”
“We haven’t seen each other for a long time. She’s a bit… darker than I remember her.”
I laugh quietly at his reference to Taylin’s goth wardrobe–all black. “See ya.” He walks past.
Kiara slides onto the empty stool next to me. “Hey, Jule. Seat taken?”
“It’s all yours.”
“Sorry.” She grins and glances over her shoulder.
“What?”
“I thought for sure Mr. Hot Bod would sit with you. I saw you two walking in the hall, and he was giving off definite territorial signals.”
“Signals? No.” I shake my head. “I was just showing him where the room was.”
“Whatever.” She flips her dark cascade of tiny, tightly beaded braids over
one shoulder. “He’s sitting with dark, angsty Taylin, but staring at you. Did you see those bandages on her wrist? Word has it she tried to off herself a week ago. They say she’s some sort of witch.”
I barely pay attention to Kiara. The last thing I’m interested in is gossip. It could just as easily be about me.
“Her birthday is on Halloween; creepy, huh?”
Goosebumps rise on my arms as the air conditioning, swooping down from the vent, wars with the heat flushing through me. I feel eyes locked on me, Luke’s gaze like a heat lamp touching my back.
“Luke and Taylin are cousins,” I mumble and open to the page Mr. Perkins wrote on the board.
“Kissing cousins? It’s legal if they are at least third cousins out.”
“Gross, Kiara.”
She shrugs and taps her pencil on the page. “I’m just saying, he’s sizzlin’. If he was my cousin, I’d kiss him.”
I shake my head and Mr. Perkins starts to review the scientific method, cutting off any more discussion. Sizzling? I let out a long breath and rub my arms. Definitely.
So, if my life is hell and Luke Whitmore is sizzling, does that make him Lucifer? I drop my pencil and bend to pick it up, casually glancing under my arm toward him. His dark eyes follow me down as he scoops up his own #2. I jerk up and face forward, a shiver running from the roots of my hair to the tips of my ice-blue toes. Definitely devil material.
* * *
“Let me see your schedule,” I demand when Luke shows up in my PE class. First chem, then English, now PE? “Are you a stalker?”
“Never been convicted.” He gives me that casual grin, but I resist the urge to smile back. I haven’t been able to concentrate through the last two classes, not with his stares and deep voice. And now he’s going to witness my inept, non-existent athletic ability.
“You’re not taking third-year French.”
“Je parle déjà Français couramment.”
I purse my lips tight. So, he doesn’t need third-year French. Even his accent rolls off his tongue like an authentic Frenchman.
“And no drama?”
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