Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (4 page)

Next to me, Nala’s scoff is audible.

“He always was an attention whore.”

For the first time since we got here, her face is unhappy. Before I can ask, I glance over her shoulder and make eye contact with the same stranger from last night—and he’s got his camera pointed at my face. Again.

Irritation comes first, quickly replaced by a sticky and consuming fear. I don’t believe in coincidence. Which means…

“Nala, we need to go.”

“Are you still feeling sick?”

I grip her arm. “No. Remember the guy I told you about from the parking lot last night, the one who took my picture?”

Her eyes veer away from the show mesmerizing the rest of the crowd, and connect with mine. “Yeah, why?”

“He’s here. And he’s taking more pictures of me.”

The lumberjack with the camera continues making his way toward us, close enough I can see his camera’s actually a phone with a lens attached. He’s just as big as I remember, and no less menacing in the light with his wide shoulders, long legs, hair pulled into a bun at the back of his head, a slight scruff shadowing his jaw, and muscles that say “heavy lifting” instead of “golf game.”

Nala must notice his size too, because her voice is strange when she speaks. “That’s the guy?” I nod. “You’ve never seen him before?”

“Not until last night.”

He stops, looking down at his phone before hitting something and repositioning, snapping another series. It’s obvious he knows we’re looking at him, yet he hasn’t turned away. Instead, he seems to be taking advantage of the angle. Weird.

“I’ve got this.” Nala steps forward and I grab her wrist.

“You certainly do not.” My voice is prim and I hate it. Nala shrugs out of my grip, but not before giving a small smile. “Relax, Red.” Her strides are purposeful as she heads in the cameraman’s direction. She’s shorter than my 5’5” by almost two inches—though she’s stronger by a lot, her days of paddleboarding, swimming, surfing and heaven-knows-what else giving her a muscle tone my trainer at home would admire.

Still, Paul Bunion behind the lens has muscles, too—and what looks to be over a foot in height on her—so I follow, wondering if two is really going to prove safer than one.

“Hey, Creeper, quit stalking my roommate.”

I pause a minute, startled. I was thinking she might introduce herself, ask him what he is doing in a roundabout way. Her direct approach seems abrasive—confrontational. Combative.

Said Creeper, however, appears un-phased, his phone and lens still pointed at me.

Nala snaps her fingers in front of his phone, blocking his photo and finally breaking his focus; he glances at her. “Yes?”

His voice is just as it was last night, smooth, low, direct. There’s barely any inflection, but his face is distorted enough to show his irritation.

“Stop stalking my roommate,” Nala reiterates. And then she puts her fist in his stomach.

Chapter 6

Brooks

I should have been prepared for the hit. Nala has always been feisty—which is part of the reason I never minded her close friendship with Ashton, even when Nala was making bad decisions and walking a destructive line.

She stands down to no one. This made her reckless in the past, and that recklessness has had consequences no one should have to endure, but it’s also made her strong. Nala bends, but she doesn’t break. I’ve always wished my sister could learn from her.

Had I been paying attention, I would have seen Nala’s approach, and the danger she posed. But I wasn’t paying attention to her; I was caught up in the Stepford Wife next to her. I’ve only looked at some of the photos between shots; I can’t seem to stop taking them. Every angle I see her in, it’s there—that
something else
.

She’s been trained to look and act one way—she naturally falls back into the poised, curious listener. What she actually feels and thinks, who she is… that’s another story. I want to be the one to tell it.

First, I have to get my breath back. Nala might be pint sized, but she knows how to punch. She should; I’m the one who taught her when she and Ashton were eight, and a boy at school was harassing them.

Able to breathe a little more after a few moments bent over, I stand. “Nala,” I say in greeting.

“Creeper.”

Stepford is staring openly now, her eyes wide and confused. The mask is completely removed for just a second. Because I can, I snap another photo. Nala’s hand slams into my stomach again. This time I flex, prepared for it.

“Knock it off.”

“You first,” she bites out.

“May I help you?” Stepford interrupts Nala and me, her voice clear and unaffected. Her posture is perfect, her face carefully questioning. If I didn’t have photographic evidence that she was more, I would say she was exactly like what my first impression of her told me last night: a lifeless cutout.

But I do have evidence—from today, and last night. The minute she spit out her cake and admitted to her mother she failed a simple rebellion, as if she couldn’t stomach the lack of admission any more than she could the stale cake… that was the moment I saw something else.
Something more
.

I drew last night. Ten sketches, some only a few sets of lines, some detailed portraits. None of them good enough to become something else, but I can feel the door opening. I’ve looked at her picture a dozen times today, wondering if it would be enough to break through the door. My mind has been clouded, uncertain—not as blocked as it was the days before, but not as open as it was after the brief meeting with her last night… until I saw her across the cement bowl.

A muse is annoying because it means I’m dependent. It’s also necessary. I depend on this girl. I don’t know her, but I need her. Angry as the thought makes me, the prospect of working, of feeling, of creating, is too enticing to turn my back on her out of spite. Or fear.

“I want your face.”

“Jesus, Brooks, do I need to call the police?”

I ignore Nala and stay focused on Stepford.

Her smile is small, but it’s real. So is her amusement. “I’m not sure if that’s a reason to be flattered, but I am.” She holds out her hand, showing that purebred breeding. “Jordana Richards.”

Jordana
. Said in that creamy voice that hints toward husky… fuck.

Click. Click
.

She puts her hand left hand up to cover the lens so my screen is black. Her fingers tremble slightly and give away the nerves her face doesn’t show. “And your name is?”

“Brooklyn Novak.” My hand dwarfs hers when I take it, her narrow fingers perfectly manicured in a color as weak and ugly as the one she was wearing last night—like pale flesh.

“Your skin needs color and warmth.”

Her smile disappears quickly, her mask of polite indifference going back into place.

Nala whistles low and annoying through her teeth. “Want me to punch him again? Or you could—make it two checkmarks off your list for the day.”

There’s a flare of amusement in Jordana’s eyes until they meet mine again. “It was nice to meet you, Brooklyn.” Her tone says it was anything but. “I’ll head back and finish the show, give you and Nala time to catch up.” She nods at Nala, but before she leaves, she looks at me one more time. “I’m not interested in having my picture taken again.” Ah, the malleable kitten has claws. Good for her.

She pivots, and I’ll give it to her, she looks like she knows exactly where she’s going. She doesn’t rush, doesn’t ever turn around and look over her shoulder. People are crowding everywhere now, but she seems to be untouched and unbothered as she goes. I watch her the entire time until the bodies between us are too many and she disappears.

“You’re a real piece of work.”

I shrug off Nala’s words. “Who is she?”

“My roommate.”

“I got that from you right before you assaulted me. What do you know about her?”

“Her name’s Jordana Richards—she goes by Jordan. She’s from L.A.—old money and lots of manners.”

I wait. “That’s it? You live with her and you don’t know more than her name and where she’s from?”

“Says Mr. Talkative. I seem to recall seeing you three weeks ago when we put Ashton into the hospital. Your last words were ‘I’ll call you.’ I’m still waiting.”

Instead of responding, I slide through the photos on my phone. There are dozens. In each of them, Jordana Richards stares at me, breathing life into my mind, my soul, my art, without even knowing it.

“Brooks.”

Goddammit.

“What do you want me to say, Nala? Ashton did what Ashton does best—she tried, it got hard, she left. My mom let her. She’s in La Jolla,” I finish. Nala gets it. End of conversation, because if Ashton is in La Jolla—she’s in the mansion my mother bought after fleecing the last guy dumb enough to marry her without a pre-nup. And she’s making her choice.

Whenever Ashton fails at something—mostly her treatment and getting healthy—she strays away from me and Nala, the people who push her to get better, and she runs to Mom, the woman who’s too insecure and self-absorbed to be anything but happy her daughter needs her.

“Can you do me a favor?” Nala’s voice isn’t sarcastic or feisty anymore. I wish it were because denying her would be easier.

“If you’re going to ask me to leave your roommate alone, don’t waste your time.”

“Jordan can take care of herself.”

My brow raises. “How would you know? Ten seconds ago you hardly knew her.”

“Like I’m going to gossip about my roommate with you.”

“Well, I don’t feel like doing any favors.” I turn to leave, barely containing my smile when I hear her cuss under her breath. “Fine. But only one thing.” I don’t turn around. I stay still giving the “I’m waiting” signal with my hands.

“She’s unhappy—not in an emo-I’m-depressed-about-life kind of way. More like she’s always being shoved in the corner to look pretty, and she wants to be more. Last night she took the first step.”

Checkmate
. I knew it.

“I need another favor,” I say, looking over my shoulder.

“I’m not giving you squat until you promise me something.”

“Fine. What?”

Nala cocks her head at my tone, but I don’t care. “Don’t shut me out,” she says before I can snap at her to answer. “Be you, be quiet, be artistic and cranky, be creepy even, but don’t shut me out again. I need to know when something happens, Brooklyn.” And then she adds “I love her, too.”

I want to ask her why, ask her what difference she thinks it’s going to make, but I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I nod. “Fine.”

She doesn’t move; for a second, I’m reminded of the girl who was as close to me as my own sister growing up—closer in some ways. I can’t quite ignore the stab of guilt I feel for shutting her out as much as I have in the past months.

“What do you need now?” she asks, and I’m grateful to move on to a different subject.

“Your roommate.”

Her eyes roll and she turns away. “I’m not a pimp, Brooks. Get your own girl.”

“My house. Tonight, seven. Malcolm’s only in town for a few more weeks before he starts touring again. We’re all hanging out.”

I’m just desperate enough to dangle the carrot in front of her that she’s never been able to resist: family. We’re family—Nala, Hunter, Mal, and me. Four broken souls who leaned on each other, until two of those souls fell in love and fucked it up.

It’s been a few years since she and Malcolm had their day in the sun that ended in heartache and explosions. He took off, she recovered as much as she could and then she took off. Now that she’s back, I want her to stay. Regardless of ignoring her, Nala’s in my heart. Having her back… well, it makes things, as messed up as they are, feel a little better.

Nala nods. “Fine. Don’t tell Malcolm I was here.”

“Don’t forget your roommate.”

She flips me off behind her head while she walks away. My eyes stay on her, waiting until she’s disappeared before dropping back to the photo on my screen.

Chapter 7

Jordan

“So, Brooklyn was your creepy midnight photographer.”

Nala strolls up next to me, having found me easily enough since I walked only a little ways away and stopped to watch the rest of the show. It wasn’t about leaving the place, so much as leaving the guy—
Brooklyn
. His prying eye behind the lens, and then his statement about my skin needing color… it was a lot like living in my mother’s house. Always someone watching, dissecting, and analyzing my movements, a criticism on how I could be better.

“It was more like nine o’clock photographer.”

“He’s not a bad guy, despite the creepy display back there. He didn’t mean to offend you,” she says.

I look over at her. She’s also watching the skateboarders, but her eyes flick to me. “I wasn’t offended.”

“Sure you were. You were still polite about it, because that’s who you are. No stomach punches coming from someone with your manners.”

“Have you already forgotten my outburst at dinner not even twenty-four hours ago?”

“Meh, one time. And flipping a plate in someone’s lap is way different than hitting them.”

“Maybe I should add that to my list.” She smiles now, and my lips curve in response. “Why
did you
punch him in the stomach?”

“Because it felt good.” I don’t doubt her answer is at least partially true.

“It seems like you’ve known each other a long time.”

This takes her a second longer to process, no easy quip sliding off her tongue. “We grew up together. More like I was in his life because his sister and I were best friends. Ashton is my age. Brooklyn is two and a half years older.”

Were.
I don’t ask, because that word tells me whatever happened, it hurt Nala. I don’t know about that kind of hurt, but seeing it on her face, I’m not sorry to be ignorant this time.

“Anyway,” she continues. “He and I were essentially family. He’s also a best friend of Malcolm and Hunter. We kind of all became like family for a while. Until Mal and Hunter left, and it became just Brooklyn and I.” She pauses. “And Ashton.”

“I’ve been there.”

“Oh yeah?”