Ever Lost: Lost Boys of Neverly Prep: Academy Romance

by L. E. Bross

  “That’s what I want to know,” growly says behind me, reminding me I’m standing in a room with three strangers.

  I can feel the heat radiating from his bare skin and get a whiff of soap and something else. Something entirely guy. I grit my teeth and step away from him, feeling it easier to breathe as soon as I get a little distance.

  It’s then that I notice how jaw-dropping the kitchen is.

  In the center is an island bigger than most rooms I’ve crashed in for the last year. Everything is bright, bathed in light from floor-to-ceiling windows where a small table sits. White cabinets, marble countertops, gleaming chrome fixtures and stainless appliances.

  It’s something out of a fucking magazine.

  Well, except for the three shirtless boys.

  My gaze bounces from one to the other and I press my back against the unyielding marble countertop until Peter walks into the room, unaware of the tension.

  “Boys, this is Ever Darlington. She’ll be living with us until graduation.”

  “The fuck?” Growly boy turns a glare onto me.

  “Your mother and I set up a scholarship for an at-risk student and I got word yesterday that the agency had found someone. It’s what Wendi would have wanted.”

  Heats climbs my neck. I had no idea Peter would spin my being here like this. Hell, I didn’t know there was anyone else here to spin a tale to. Three gazes laser in on me, one cautious, one curious, and one filled with open animosity.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell us about it?” blondie asks, his half full spoon forgotten.

  “With everything that happened, I honestly forgot. Until they reminded me. I expect you all to help her acclimate. Introduce her to your people at school. Make her feel part of the family.”

  Blondie looks to the dark-haired boy who is now shooting daggers at me over the top of a coffee cup. I never even saw him move and yet he’s only a couple feet away from me again.

  I wrap my fingers around the edge of the counter. I really wish he’d put on a shirt. All that chest is way too distracting. I’m female enough to appreciate it, but not stupid enough to think he’s anything but trouble. I know his type. Been around it all my life in the foster system, I just can’t figure out why a rich kid like him would have anything to be mad about.

  “You really think bringing in a stranger is what we need right now?”

  Peter doesn’t answer, instead moving to the cabinet to reach for a mug. The dark-haired boy sips his coffee and doesn’t move out of the way, barely even glancing at his father. Peter sighs and shakes his head, but moves to get a glass of juice instead. The smirk playing on dark-haired boy’s lips makes me wonder if this happens often.

  I watch the dynamics with interest, leaning back against the island and crossing my arms over my chest. I’m in yesterday’s wrinkled clothes still, and can feel the way the boys look me over. I fight not to curl in on myself under their scrutiny. I’m a mess and I know it. The vents at Panchard weren’t exactly clean, and hours in a holding cell with a couple of overly affectionate drunk prostitutes make me smell questionable.

  But I didn’t know there were other people in the house. Peter never mentioned a thing about them.

  Blondie stares unabashedly and my chin notches higher. His gaze flickers to Mr. Growly who then looks me over and curls his lips up in a sneer. I don’t need words to know they’ve found me lacking. There is a silent communication going on between the boys until the blond boy puts his spoon down and sits back.

  “I’m X, by the way,” he says. “That’s Baz.” Glasses guy gives me a half wave. “And the asshole to your right is Riot.”

  Asshole is a pretty fair description so far.

  “X?” I tilt my head and the guy grins.

  He’s got this easygoing, carefree thing going on, but I can see the way he’s assessing every move I make. There’s more to him than he lets on.

  “Xavier. Only Pete here calls me that. Everyone else just calls me X.”

  Pete? I glance over at Mr. Panchard but he’s digging through his briefcase now, barely acknowledging the boys in the room. They ignore him, too. It all seems...normal for them. Peter said their mother would have wanted this, me being here, meaning she isn’t here anymore, but there are touches that show a female presence; flowers, pretty linens, curtains around the windows.

  This is getting weirder by the second.

  “I have to go to the office, but Ever…” Peter moves next to me and slaps something on the island. “You’ll start school Monday and there are uniforms at Neverly so I’ll have my assistant get that straightened around, but you’ll need clothes, toiletries, all that. Just get whatever you need. I’ll have my driver come back to the house and he’ll be at your disposal.”

  I look at his black card and swallow. Holy fuck. This guy has to be certifiably crazy to leave it with some girl he barely knows. I could take it and run. I probably should. I’ll bet I could bribe the social services bitch with it, they don’t make shit for money. My neck prickles. Riot’s glare has gone even darker.

  “Just like that, huh? We get no say in this?” Riot says.

  Peter shrugs. “It’s my house. You don’t have to like it but don’t screw it up, Riot. It’s what your mother wanted.”

  “You obviously had no idea what she wanted,” he bites out, stepping up into Peter’s space and for the first time, I see emotion on Peter’s face. It’s not anger like I expect. He deflates under a wash of guilt. I stare wide-eyed until I hear a chair scrape across the floor.

  “Fuck,” X mutters, moving to Riot’s side. He clamps a hand down on his shoulder and nudges him back a step. X is a little beefier than Riot, and it’s that extra muscle holding the furious boy in place while Peter leaves the room with his head hanging low.

  “He’s hurting, man,” Baz says in a low voice. “You know that.”

  I keep quiet, taking in the tense exchange.

  “We all are.”

  Riot shrugs X’s hand off and storms from the room.

  “Well, that went fucking well.” X drives his fingers through his hair and when he pulls them back, tufts stick out in all directions. Unwillingly, my gaze drops to his chest. Tan and ridged with dips and curves, he’s perfection. And broken. They all are. I see it now and hate the way it calls to me. My scar is on the outside, theirs are invisible but there nonetheless.

  X clears his throat and my gaze flies to his face.

  A knowing look shines from hazel eyes, making the gold flecks look like tiny fireflies dancing in them. Heat rushes to my face. With a mumbled something, I hurry from the room, laughter chasing me as I take the stairs two at a time to escape my embarrassment.

  At the door to my room I stop and try to catch my breath. What the hell was that? I don’t blush; I don't fucking run away.

  Something moves in the shadows further down the hall and I swing my head around.

  Air lodges in my throat.

  Riot.

  I wait for him to say something, but he remains half hidden in shadows, waiting. Watching. The quiet spreads into uncomfortable territory. My hand trembles as I turn the knob and then I hear it.

  “Leave.”

  One word.

  Spoken so savagely that goosebumps erupt on my arms. I dart inside and slam the door shut, then fall back against it. My fingers fumble for the lock and I twist it before exhaling. Peter didn’t give me any details last night and I have a feeling I know why. He had to know that his boys would react that way. The animosity between all of them isn’t new.

  Everything he’s throwing at me makes me wary. He offered me luxuries, and I feel bought off, even though I haven’t done anything yet.

  This room. A fucking black card. A fancy school with uniforms.

  I move to the bed and throw myself across the mattress, running my fingers over the satiny comforter I curled up in last night. This bed is like sleeping on a cloud. Without a doubt the nicest one I’ve ever laid on. I roll over onto my back and look up at the ceiling. Eve
n that’s fancy with crown molding and a chandelier.

  Everything is light and bright, like the rest of the house.

  I look at the dirt caked under my nails and cringe.

  One of these things is not like the other.

  I shove myself off the bed, pull on my boots and lace them up. I keep reminding myself that this is for Belle, but she is still so far out of reach and I am so out of my element I can barely stand up. She and I have been together all her life, eleven fucking years, and every day that passes without her threatens to break me apart.

  Tears burn my eyes and I fight them back.

  I will do this because I have to find her.

  There is no other choice. Anything and everything is what I swore that day I found out she was gone.

  With a deep breath I walk into the attached bathroom to wash my hands. Black rings have smudged under my eyes, a combination of little sleep and old mascara. One side of my short black hair is flat, the other sticking out at an odd angle from my head. The blonde tips look yellow under the light. Household bleach isn’t perfect.

  Once my hands are clean, I drag my fingers through my hair, wetting the strands and pulling them into some semblance of order. A few swipes under my eyes removes the mascara, but the dark circles remain. My scar is even more prominent against the pale hue of my skin under the bright lights.

  It’ll never go away. The nurse at the free clinic said that only plastic surgery would fix it now. I waited too long to get it looked at, hoping that the butterfly bandages would suffice, but the gash from my eyebrow to lip got infected. I wish I had gone in sooner. Nate looked at the mark proudly, as a reminder that I belonged to him.

  Not anymore.

  I wet a towel and wash up as best I can, then use the brand new deodorant and toothbrush that are in a shell-shaped dish by the sink. There’s nothing I can do about my clothes, so I smooth my hand down over the front of my tank top and call it good. My stomach rumbles as a reminder that I haven't eaten since lunch yesterday and with a deep breath, I square my shoulders to face whatever’s waiting for me outside the door.

  Which turns out to be nothing. Or no one.

  Still, I creep down the hall as quietly as possible and take the stairs slowly, ears alert for any sound. Riot snuck up on me too many times this morning. It won’t happen again. At the bottom of the stairs, I pause and listen. Nothing but the distant hum of the air conditioning running. It raises the hair on my neck. A house this size should not be silent.

  I was too on edge this morning to see what was around me and last night Peter ushered me upstairs with only a cursory nod at his office on the first floor. Now, though, I take the time to really look around and holy shit. My boots thunk when I step off the carpeted stair and onto the dark hardwood. I spin in a slow circle, eyes widening with every new thing I take in. There’s a fucking statue in the foyer. Some kind of goddess or something, holding an upside down urn staring off into the distance.

  The ceiling in this room is two stories high and there’s a curved balcony overlooking halfway up that must be past my room, around the corner where I saw Riot lurking. I can almost imagine Belle standing up there asking, “Where for art thou, Romeo?” God, she’d love this house. Even though it’s filled with males, it feels like a beautiful palace fit for a princess.

  I make my way across the room, peeking into what looks to be a formal dining room. I can’t picture those boys and Peter sitting around having dinner together. Maybe they did when their mom was around. I wonder what happened to her. There aren’t any family pictures hanging on the walls, just expensive looking art. A museum. That’s what it reminds me of.

  Except for the kitchen. This room looks lived in. Loved. I open a tall cabinet next to the fridge, hoping to find something to snack on. There’s a box of granola bars and I snag one, letting the door swing closed. After I dig around in the fridge, I realize there are only sports drinks so I grab a blue one.

  When I turn back around, I freeze, the bottle halfway to my mouth.

  A short, wide-eyed woman in an apron stands there holding a handful of grass staring at me.

  “Hello?” she says, her gaze moving over me like she’s trying to decide if I’m robbing the place or supposed to be there. When she spies the granola bar, her shoulders relax. “And who might you be?”

  She has a very sweet voice and the vibe she’s throwing off feels motherly. But I thought their mother wasn’t around anymore?

  I open my mouth to tell her who I am when someone does it for me.

  “Ever Darlington,” a low voice spits out behind me and I swing around.

  Fucking hell, he did it again.

  Riot stands there, arms crossed over a now covered chest. Not that it’s any better. The dark t-shirt fits like a glove and low-slung jeans hang dangerously low on his hips. His hair is wet, and he’s got on a pair of sunglasses that hide the glare I know is aimed at me.

  “Apparently Pete is taking in strays now.”

  Heat crawls up my neck even as I duck my head to keep the scarred side away from both of them.

  The woman steps up and smacks Riot on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Manners.”

  He grunts and then without another word, walks away through another door on the far side of the room. There are too many damned doors in this house, that’s the problem.

  “Ever, I’m Hanna, the cook slash housekeeper. So sorry for my bad manners, I wasn’t expecting a beautiful young woman in the kitchen this time of the day.” She eyes me up and down and clucks her tongue. “Tiny little thing. Let me fix you something to eat, get some meat on those bones.”

  She moves to the counter and sets the grass down, then wipes her hands on her apron.

  “What can I get you? How about a turkey and cheese sandwich? Do you like wheat or rye? The boys hate rye but Peter loves it, so…” She shrugs and bustles around the kitchen, pulling out a plate and then some chips. “Mayo or mustard? Or both? X likes both but that boy would eat anything I put in front of him.”

  She shakes her head but the soft smile on her lips gives away how much she clearly adores him.

  “Sit, sit,” Hanna says, waving her hand at the stools tucked under the island as she prepares my food. I slide onto one and pick at a hangnail, unsure what to do because no one has made me a sandwich since I was seven and pretty much self-sufficient. When she’s done, the sandwich is a work of art, and she even put a pickle spear on the plate like a fancy deli would do. “If you’re still hungry after that, there’s some chocolate cake left, just let me know.”

  I eat my sandwich as Hanna chops up the grass, which are obviously herbs of some kind, and sprinkles them over a large piece of meat. Soon she has the whole thing wrapped in foil and she slides it in the oven. I finish the last of my chips and push off the stool. I’m not used to motherly adults who want to take care of me.

  “Thank you, that was delicious.” It really was. The mustard was grainy, the bread deliciously thick and fresh, and the turkey tasted like thanksgiving turkey and not bologna. I set the plate in the sink and awkwardly shuffle out of the room.

  “Ever?” she calls out and I turn. “There will be pot roast and mashed potatoes for dinner. I always fix up the plates and the boys eat whenever they come in. I’ll make you one, too.”

  Her warm smile brings tears to my eyes, but I don’t know why.

  “Thank you,” I say again, then retreat before she sees how much that interaction affected me. After this morning I wasn’t expecting to find kindness like that. Which only wraps the cloak of confusion that much tighter. I wander around the main floor, peeking into bathrooms and a guest room, then make my way back to the foyer. Off to the left is Peter’s office.

  I wonder if he’s in there.

  It would be nice to know what he wants me to do for him. At least then I’d have some kind of direction. I’m spinning aimlessly and it’s not something I’m used to doing.

  I knock but hear nothing. When I try to knob, it turns under my
fingers.

  “Hello?”

  I step into the dark room and immediately know I’m alone. The scent of cigars fills my lungs. Quickly, before Hanna catches me, I close the door and flip the light switch. This is definitely a man’s room, so unlike the rest of the house. Dark paneling covers all four walls and the ceiling, and built-in shelves hold thick, leather-bound books.

  An enormous desk takes up a good part of one side of the room, and behind it I see bottles lined up like at a bar. A stone fireplace dominates the far wall and two plush easy chairs sit in front of it. Above the mantle is a portrait of a light-haired woman. She’s sitting regally in a high-back chair, looking like a queen, but the artist caught the glimmer of mischief shining in her eyes.

  Something draws me closer and I see a small plaque under it that simply reads Wendi.

  This must be the missing mother.

  I’m dying to know what happened to her.

  After a few more seconds studying the image and looking for any resemblance to the boys, I move on. I’m not going to find answers from a picture. I wander back to the desk and notice a single folder on top with my name on it. I recognize it as the one Peter had at the police station. Might as well see what it says. I plop down in his chair and kick my boots up while opening it. Everything in it I already know, but my breath catches when I turn a page and see Belle. It hits me like a sucker punch to the gut and my feet slip off the desk, thudding to the floor so hard I feel it in my teeth. But I barely notice because I can’t take my eyes off her.

  My little sister.

  Beautiful blue eyes stare back at me and my hands shake. The picture was taken almost six months ago, right before we were separated.

  “Tink.”

  I whisper the nickname I gave her when she was three. It’s something that only the two of us share. Something that connects us no matter how far apart we are.

  I started calling her that after we watched Peter Pan while in state care. Before the first of many foster homes. Belle had spun around the room, oblivious to all the wrong in our world, saying she wanted to grow up and be a fairy.