Siren's Song (2 page)

Carly huffs indignantly. “I don't care how gorgeous he is, nothing makes up for a crappy attitude.” She peeks out the curtain and then pulls it further open. “I don't see him.”

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I fight past the lump that has blocked my swallow, a reminder of just how thirsty I am. “Do you…” I tip my chin up. “He must know about my mom.”

Carly lets the curtain fall and sits next to me. “Doesn't matter, Jule. He's just another asshole.” I nod. Thank God I have Carly. She couldn't possibly be dangerous, no matter what Mom said.

“Jule, I gotta run. Told Dad I'd be home by now.”

I try to smile. Apparently it doesn't convince her, because she hugs me before grabbing her bag. “I'll pick you up in the morning. No worries, now. You'll look perfect.”

I mumble “thanks,” or something to that effect. As my bedroom door clicks behind Carly, I stare at the purple, blue, and silver print of a dragonfly my mom gave me, its shape very much like a birthmark that my mom and I both have. I don't need to read the words, I know them by heart. “Fragile in form, resilient in spirit.” I certainly don't feel resilient right now.

The menacing look from the new guy flashes through my mind. People are so judgmental and mean. I blink back the annoying tear, pushing it back inside with all the rest.

* * *

I step lightly into the dim kitchen. Not only is this going to be the second-worst day of my life, but it has to start at 5:45 in the morning. Dad slumps at the kitchen table, staring into a mug. As I near, I realize there is nothing in it. In fact, it looks clean.

“Dad?” Max Welsh, Ph.D., father and scientist for Gentec Research, a small biopharm company, doesn't usually sit staring blankly into an unused cup. Panic pinches my stomach muscles.
Shit! Not him, too. Maybe there's lead in the paint around here and we're all slowly turning into freaked-out zombies
. “Dad?” I say louder and draw the cup gingerly from his hand.

“Julietta?” He looks up, startled. “Why are you up so early?” He sounds tired, but…well, sane.

I blink and breathe. “School, Dad. The first day.”

His forehead relaxes and he runs a hand through his wild hair. His face looks scruffy. Has he even showered? “Oh, right.” He glances up at me. “Did you get a new bag, notebooks, that stuff?”

“Yep,” I say as cheerfully as I can and find the coffee crystals in the cupboard. “Patricia took me and Carly.”

“Richard didn't go, or Eric?”

“No, just Patricia and Carly.”

“Good.” He nods to the table. “I know it's… Well, your mother…she's calmer when I promise I won't let you near them.”

I shake my head and pinch my lips shut. Then I won't say something stupid like
Mom's crazy, Dad. Coach Ashe carried me home when I wrecked my bike, and Eric is hardly lethal
. Hell, they've both watched me grow up.

I worry at my bottom lip and stomp the comments down deep, to sit with the rest of the horror that is my life these days.

“She'll get better, Julietta.” He turns to me.

“I know, Dad.” I force a smile. I see the camera sitting at the back of the counter and sigh. I grab it and set it before Dad. “You'd better take it. Carly will be here any minute.”

“What?” He looks at the digital camera like it's some alien technology.

“The first day of school picture.” My mom has been taking them ever since preschool. “If we miss this year because she wasn't here, she'll go…” I was going to say nuts. Wrong, so wrong. I shake my head. “Just take it, Dad.”

He scrapes his chair back and picks up the camera. He flicks a finger toward me. “Aren't you supposed to hold up fingers or something to say which grade you're going into?”

“Yeah.” I slip off my sandals and lift my big toes in the air while holding out my splayed hands, fingers stretched into the universal sign of ten. A Band-Aid hides yesterday's cut.

Dad chuckles and snaps two pictures. Carly raps a song on the door, probably what was just blaring on the radio. “Bye, Dad.”

He smiles. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Though good luck avoids me just like the rest of my so-called friends did this past summer. Only Carly stuck by me.

“Ready to start the best year of your entire school experience?” Carly asks and sips at her travel mug.

I make a face. “Best year?”

“Seniors rule,” she tosses back with a pump of her arm toward the ceiling. I roll my eyes and follow her to her car.

“Buckle up,” she says out of habit. “I swear Mom knows if we don't click it before I turn the key.” She lifts a second travel mug to me and I smell the hot chocolate.

“God, you are good to me,” I say and sigh as I inhale the pure, dark bliss.

“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.”