We Don't Talk Anymore (The Don't Duet Book 1)

by Julie Johnson

  “You don’t need to know.”

  I arch a brow. “Then I guess I don’t need to talk to you.”

  At my flippant tone, the big guy takes a step forward, bringing his shoulder parallel with his partner’s — and his full bulk into view.

  My heartbeat kicks up a notch. At six-foot-three, I’m not a shrimp by any measure; I don’t often feel intimidated. But this guy could turn me into mincemeat with one squeeze.

  “Look,” the skinny, shifty-eyed one says. “All you need to know is, we’re… associates of your brother. We need to talk to him about some business.”

  “What sort of business?”

  Not the legitimate kind, I’m guessing.

  He ignores my question to ask one of his own. “Have you seen him lately?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “He’s lying,” the giant grunts, cracking his knuckles with a sickening pop. His hands are big as holiday hams.

  My grip is so tight around the strap of my equipment bag, I’m sure my own knuckles have gone white. I try to relax, but with my fight-or-flight instincts screaming to head for the hills, zen is somewhat out of reach.

  Shifty-Eyes steps forward. “You lying to us, kid?”

  “No.”

  “Then just tell us where you think your brother is. Or…” He pauses to glance at the living mountain beside him. “My partner here is real good at making people talk about things they don’t want to. Maybe you’d rather deal with him?”

  I swallow hard. “Look, the truth is, Jaxon comes and goes as he pleases. Always has. Since he got out of Cedar-Junction two months ago, he’s only been home a handful of times — either to grab spare clothes from his room or because he knows his P.O. is coming by.”

  “Any idea when that’ll happen again?”

  “No. We don’t exactly keep in touch.”

  “He’s your brother,” Shifty-Eyes says doubtfully. “You must know something.”

  I shrug. “Last time Jax came home, he swiped all my parents’ emergency cash in the middle of the night and left without so much as a note. He might be my brother, but he isn’t exactly my favorite person in the world. So the way I see it? The less he comes around, the better.”

  It’s not a lie — not really. At least, not the part about Jax getting out of jail two months ago. Or cleaning out the cookie jar of cash off the counter. Or only showing up for the benefit of his parole officer.

  He’s broken my parents’ hearts so many times, I’m running out of glue to fix them. Being the best second-born in the world can’t make up for the damage inflicted by the son who came first.

  “If he comes around again, we need to know about it,” Shifty-Eyes says. “Immediately.”

  “Mhm. What is it you want from my brother?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Be more worried about what’ll happen to you if we don’t track him down.”

  My teeth grind together. “If you have problems with Jax, that’s fine. But leave me and my family out of it. We have nothing to do with this—“

  Before I can finish, I find the equipment bag ripped from my hands and myself in a chokehold — courtesy of the giant. For such a big guy, he moves fast. I didn’t even see him coming in time to dodge.

  So much for all those agility drills Coach is always forcing on us.

  My muscles strain against his hold, but it might as well be titanium. His arm tightens around my neck, compressing my windpipe until I can’t breathe. I have no choice but to submit — a limp puppet in the arms of a sadistic master.

  He peels my right arm away from my side as his partner lowers the tailgate with gleeful snigger. I don’t fully understand what’s happening until they lay my hand flat against the metal edge of the truck bed, in the space where the tailgate snaps shut.

  Horror dawns all too quickly.

  “Maybe you need a reminder of what you have to lose here,” the giant growls in my ear. “One slam, your baseball career is over. Is that what you want?”

  I stare at my hand — my pitching hand — poised on the edge of ruin. If they snap the tailgate closed, every bone will be crushed in an instant. Pulverized beyond repair.

  Goodbye baseball.

  Goodbye scouts.

  Goodbye scholarship.

  Goodbye future.

  “Please,” I croak through a half-closed throat, desperation plain in my voice. “Please, don’t—”

  “We don’t want to, kid. But we need you to understand how important this is.” Shifty-Eyes comes closer, my equipment bag clutched in his hands. Held immobile, I can only watch as he reaches into the side pocket, pulls out my phone, and dials a number. A second later, his own pocket begins to ring.

  “Now you have my number. Name’s Rico. You’ll get in touch if Jax comes by again. Right?”

  I attempt to nod, but it’s damn-near impossible in a chokehold. His grip is unrelenting. My breaths are so shallow, I’m barely getting any air at all.

  Setting my bag and phone on the truck-bed, Rico turns back to me. My mind is still reeling, but I try to focus long enough to catalogue some of his features. The compact build, a few inches shy of six feet. The pockmark scar just below his left eye. The dark hair, buzzed short against his skull. The tattoo on his neck — a king’s crown, its blue-black ink a startling contrast to his tan skin.

  I flinch as he pats my cheek. He smirks, clearly enjoying himself. “There’s a good boy.” His eyes flicker to his partner. “Let him go, Barboza.”

  The giant drops me without hesitation. Gasping for much-needed air, I collapse forward like a rag doll. My uncooperative limbs refuse to catch me in time. My bare knees and palms jolt against the rough pavement, leaving a considerable chunk of skin behind. Pain sears through me as blood wells to the surface. I’m so grateful all my bones are intact, I barely register it.

  By the time I manage to catch my breath and clamber back to my feet, the men are gone. Except for a brood of hungry ducklings quacking for dinner in the pond beside the parking lot, I’m totally alone in the quiet. I blink rapidly, trying to get ahold of myself. Trying to slow my thudding pulse. Trying to forget the paralyzing terror that’s defined the past few minutes.

  Moving very slowly, I shut the tailgate, climb into the cab, and start the engine. I drive home in total silence, stopping at every red light, never pushing the gas above the speed limit. All the while pretending not to notice how my bleeding hands tremble against the leather steering wheel.

  “You missed dinner.”

  I stop halfway down the hall, then backtrack toward the living room. “Ma, I didn’t even see you. What are you doing sitting in the dark?”

  “Qué tonto eres. Waiting for you. What else? Now, sit and spend a little time with your mother. I won’t be here forever, you know.”

  Rolling my eyes, I ease into the rickety armchair across from hers. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

  “Dramatic would be me yelling about you getting blood on the living room furniture.” She pauses carefully. “What happened to your knees?”

  I sigh. My mother’s brown eyes may be soft in appearance but they are sharp in focus. They miss no small detail. “I tripped in the parking lot after practice.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.” She crosses her arms over her chest — the classic maternal interrogation pose. “You’ve never been clumsy.”

  “First time for everything, I guess. I wasn’t paying attention. My bag strap tangled around my legs. Before I knew it, I was on my ass in front of the entire team. Everyone laughed.” I rub the back of my neck sheepishly. “I’m just happy the scouts weren’t there to see it.”

  My mother watches me for a long moment, weighing my words in silence. Finally, she tilts her head to the side and says, quite softly, “Mijo, don’t lie to me.”

  I push to my feet. “It’s no big deal, Ma, honestly. I didn’t even realize I was bleeding until you pointed it out. Let me go clean up.” I drop a quick kiss on her cheek, pretending not to see the skeptical purse of her
lips. I swear, the woman is a human lie detector.

  “When you’re done cleaning up from your fall…” She lets the word dangle for a beat. “There’s dinner on the stove. I made asopao.”

  My stomach rumbles, suddenly ravenous. I haven’t eaten all day. “You know that’s my favorite. Thanks, Ma.”

  “If you must know, I made it for Josephine. She was in quite a state this morning. No thanks to you.”

  I stop in my tracks.

  What, exactly, did Jo say to my mother?

  Glancing back, I find Ma watching me with an unreadable expression. For a moment, I wonder if Jo told her about last night — Ryan, Sienna, the whole enchilada. If so, I’m about to get a proper ass-whooping.

  “What do you mean?” I ask carefully.

  “What do I mean?” Ma scoffs. “She was so hungover she could barely drag herself out of bed!”

  A wave of relief sweeps through me. I’d happily take a grounding for underage drinking to avoid discussing the many complexities of my relationship with Jo. “And that’s somehow my fault?”

  “Of course it is! Josephine is a good girl. She wouldn’t be out all night at a party if you hadn’t dragged her there.”

  “You always take her side. You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Always is an overstatement. I only take her side when I know she found herself in trouble because of you. Which, I must say, has been happening for as long as you two have been friends.”

  “So I’m a bad kid. A bad influence. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying that girl would do just about anything to make you happy. You know that. You’ve known it since you were small.” She pauses. “You could ask her for the moon, she’d do her best to pull it down from the heavens for you. Don’t take that kind of devotion for granted. That’s all.”

  “I don’t take it — her — for granted. But I never asked for her devotion. I never asked for anything from her.”

  She shakes her head. “Mijo. For such a smart boy you can be incredibly short-sighted.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m going to shower.”

  Gritting my teeth, I force myself to walk out of the living room before I say something I can’t take back. Or worse — before the real reason for my bloody knees and battered heart spills out in a torrent.

  Chapter Nine

  JOSEPHINE

  I can’t sleep.

  My thoughts roar too loudly to ignore, clanging around inside my head like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. For hours, I toss and turn in my bed, agonizing over my fight with Archer. Wondering if he’s staring up at his own ceiling right now, going over it a million times inside his head.

  Wondering if he even cares at all.

  It’s late — past midnight — when I’m forced to concede that no matter how long I lie here, I’ll never be able to quiet my mind enough to sleep. Shoving back the thick duvet, I slip out of bed. I don’t bother turning on any lights as I slide my feet into flip flops. Moving into the hallway, I make sure to grab my favorite hoodie off its hook by the door.

  My lips twist in amusement at the words printed across the front in all-caps. GREEN MONSTAH — an homage to Fenway Park’s most notorious feature. I pilfered the ridiculous garment from the box of old clothes Flora sorted together for donation last summer. A reject from Archer’s closet. I figured nobody would notice if it suddenly appeared in mine.

  When I tug the sweatshirt on over my pajama set, it falls past the hem of my shorts, midway down my bare thighs. It doesn’t smell like Archer anymore, but the feeling of my arms inside his sleeves somehow makes me feel closer to him.

  This time of night, Cormorant House is dark and totally silent. With my parents in Zambia and the Reyeses sleeping soundly a whole acre away, I am completely alone in the drafty mansion. The floorboards creak beneath my feet as I move along the hallway, down the grand staircase, across the vaulted atrium.

  When I slip silently out the side door onto the stone terrace, I shiver as the crisp night air wraps me in its dark embrace. I’m glad I grabbed the sweatshirt. It may be almost June, but Massachusetts has not yet yielded fully to summer heat.

  The manicured lawn is lit by moonlight as I make my way down the sloping gravel path. The sound of lapping waves grows louder with each step. I round a bend and the stone boathouse comes into view, silhouetted against a backdrop of ocean. Beside it, the dock juts out into the inky waters of the cove. Cupid is a mere shadow at the far end, bobbing against her lines, her mast swaying slightly with each swell.

  The boathouse is my favorite spot on the property. An architectural feat, half its foundation is embedded in the rocky shore while the other half hangs out over the water. The arched entryway is just high enough to drive a small boat beneath. My father’s 29-foot Hinkley fits perfectly at the interior slip, sheltered from the elements in his absence.

  The boathouse was built back in the 1800s, along with the rest of the estate. Not much about it has changed in all the years since. Except for a few necessary modern upgrades — lights to illuminate the dock, some electrical outlets — it looks like a relic straight out of some Newport high society period piece. No furniture, no running water. No heat or air conditioning. Just stone walls and exposed wood beams.

  And the rafters, of course.

  Archer and I discovered the lofted space by accident, ages ago. Accessible via a rickety ladder bolted to the back wall, it’s used mainly for storage — a set of Cupid’s extra sails, seat cushions for the Hinckley, spare engine parts, a few cans of paint. Between the boxes of tools and various equipment, there’s just enough space for two people to sit, legs dangling over the edge, and watch the sun set slowly over the cove, turning blue shallows to an orange-pink masterpiece.

  It’s become our secret spot. A hidden clubhouse of sorts. As we got older, on the rare occasions my parents were home or visiting relatives required my full attention, we’d leave messages for each other there, staying in touch even when we couldn’t hang out in person. As the years passed by, small items found their way up into the rafters, an eclectic accumulation of items stolen from the main house.

  An old camping lantern to light the dark. A wool blanket for cold nights. A stack of books. A set of perfectly good pillows my parents put out to the curb approximately six minutes after purchase, convinced they didn’t match their new sofa.

  I step into the stone boathouse, moving almost on autopilot. It’s pitch black inside, but my feet know the way. Past the Hinkley, floating in its slip. Along the interior wall. Grope until I find the ladder rungs.

  Up.

  Up.

  Up.

  One foot after another.

  At the top, I heave myself through the gap and scamper into the loft on all fours. I don’t bother getting to my feet — the sloped roof is quite low in this section. Hands extended in front of me, I crawl my way toward the front of the rafters, where I know the lantern waits.

  All around me, boxes of boat supplies are shadowy outlines in the darkness. If you stare at them long enough, your eyes start to trick you into thinking they look a bit like someone standing there, watching you. They don’t freak me out anymore. I’ve spent so many nights up here, I know every square inch of the place. The precise location of each humanlike coatrack and imposter mop handle. Which is probably why it’s such a goddamned shock when I move forward and my palm lands not on wood flooring, but something soft.

  Squishy.

  Alive.

  The monster grunts as my hand slams into it. I scream and reel backward, but there’s nowhere to go. My back bumps into a crate, sending loose tools rattling in all directions. My heart, suddenly pounding twice its normal speed, is lodged so firmly inside my throat, I can’t even scream.

  Panicked, I try to stand. To run. To get away from this horrid creature, at any cost. Instead, as I find my feet, my head bonks against something harder than a rock. I think it might be a skull.

  The monster lets out another painful grun
t as we collide. I’m not sure how it happens — I can’t see a freaking thing — but one of us trips over something and we both go down, our limbs tangled together like wisteria vines. I end up on top, the full brunt of my body landing hard enough to knock the wind out of my own lungs. Probably his as well, given the way he wheezes.

  When I try to wriggle away, two arms wrap around my body like bands of iron, pinning me in place. Instantly, I’m rendered immobile. Pressed so close against him, I can feel every angry exhale of his chest, every furious pant against my lips. His features are still in shadow, impossible to make out clearly.

  “What the hell!” the monster growls beneath me, sounding pissed as hell… and, it must be said, remarkably familiar.

  “Archer?” I gasp.

  “No, it’s the fucking boogeyman,” he snaps sarcastically. “Who the hell did you think it was?”

  “Not you, obviously! What are you doing up here, lurking in the dark like an axe murderer?”

  “I wasn’t lurking, I was sleeping! Or I was, until a crazy person barreled into me like a bull in a china shop.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  Relieved I’m not about to be chopped into itty-bitty pieces, I relax against him. My pulse drops back to normal speeds. My breathing slows. But as my panic fades, something else arises in its place: acute awareness — of Archer’s hard body beneath mine, of the scant inches separating our faces in the dark, of how good it feels to be in his arms.

  I should pull away. Create some space between us. But I don’t. And Archer doesn’t push me off, either. For a long moment, we simply lay there in the darkness, legs intertwined, breaths mingling.

  Perhaps it’s because we’re here, in our spot… perhaps it’s because we can’t see one another properly… perhaps it’s simply because it’s the middle of the night, and the rest of the world is asleep… but for whatever reason, in this moment, it’s as though we’ve pressed pause on our fight. Set our anger aside in a momentary truce.

  A temporary ceasefire.