Lullabye (Rockstar #6)

by Anne Mercier

  I shake my head, trying not to smile. The itch to look back to see if Penelope’s come out of her house is stronger than my urge to run Kyle over with my bicycle for messing with me. I don’t do either.

  “You talk to her,” I say.

  Herb rides onto the sidewalk and jumps off the curb. He lands on his front tire, bouncing twice before setting the rear wheel down and pedaling in circles around me. “Why? You’re the one who wants to kiss her.”

  “I don’t wanna kiss her,” I say. The sound of the moving truck’s doors opening and closing tips my curiosity.

  Are they leaving? Is she leaving? Did she forget her gum in the U-Haul?

  “Whatever you say,” Kyle jokes.

  I stay back while my friends race down the road, kicking off our last long ride before the sun sets and the streetlights come on, ending summer vacation. It’s been a good one—exploring the woods, building jumps, and swimming in the ocean. Herb, Kyle, and I drove our mothers crazy and gave our street neighborhood a run for its money. We spent every day together, wreaking havoc and causing a ruckus. I’m not ready for it to end, but I want to know more about the girl who showed up out of nowhere.

  But I’d rather hide curiosity than deal with crap from my buddies. I press on my neon orange bike pedals, rotating the greasy silver chain, spinning the treaded tires, and push myself forward. Right away my heartbeat quickens, gearing up for the rush I get from using muscles that are beyond tired from riding as fast as I do. The right side of my mouth curves before the left, and the warm wind stings my eyes.

  This is where I belong.

  Before I get too far, I give in to curiosity and look over my shoulder. Penelope steps out of the house onto the porch in front of a stack of five or six boxes. Instead of picking one up, the girl with Chucks the same color as the sunglasses on her face actually waves at me.

  I ride faster.

  Girls are weird, even pretty ones who can blow the coolest bubbles I’ve ever seen.

  * * *

  After exhausting every ounce of daylight, I start my ride home. Guided by the yellow-orange hue from the streetlamps, I pedal slowly down my street alone. The night’s warm, salt-scented and thick, but the burn from the sun is gone. A cat runs across the street in front of me. Someone’s sprinklers turn on, misting my face as I roll by. I can hear Jeopardy! playing from a television.

  I move my bike impossibly slower as I approach my house, stretching out my last few minutes of freedom. The moving truck next door is gone, swapped with a silver Chrysler. I don’t see any more boxes on the porch, and there’s a wooden plaque above their door that reads The Finnels’.

  Penelope Finnel.

  Pushing my bicycle up the driveway, the security light above the garage powers on, lighting up my entire yard and some of the one next door. At the same time, Penelope’s dad walks outside, letting the screen door accidentally slam closed behind him.

  He sees me and says, “I’ll have to fix that.”

  “Yeah,” I answer, unsure of what else to say. I lean my bike beside my house.

  My new neighbor rests against his porch post. He has to be over six feet tall with dark brown hair and thick eyebrows that make him look scary. Even from here, lit by the security light only, I can see dark veins in his hands and the massive amounts of fur on his arms. Unlike his wife, he’s lean. Like his daughter, his skin has been touched by the sun.

  “It probably needs a bolt,” he grunts. “Like everything else in this damn house.”

  I think about this for a second and decide to help. “I’m sure my dad has a bolt you can borrow.”

  Pen’s dad looks over at me. His heavy eyebrows come together, like he’s squinting. “That’s a bright light, boy.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  “I bet it shines right into my room.”

  I look up at his house. Before tonight, every window was dark. Now they all glow, and even though the curtains are closed, I see a few shadows pass by. I wonder which room is hers.

  I hope it’s the one across from mine.

  “I can’t have that light shining in my room, boy,” Pen’s dad says in a deep voice. “Some of us have to be up early.”

  “It only turns on when people walk past it,” I answer. I stick my nervous-sweating hands into my pockets.

  “What about animals?” he asks.

  “We don’t have any animals, sir,” I reply.

  Mr. Finnel laughs loudly, booming amusement into the sticky night air. “I mean raccoons, kid. Cats, stray dogs, possums … Will cats, stray dogs, or possums turn on the light?”

  “Umm…” I start, uncertain if animals will trigger the light. I don’t want to lie, but I don’t want to talk to him anymore either.

  Then the screen door opens and slams shut again, and standing beside the light Nazi is Penelope. Her hair is up now, and from what I can tell, she’s not chewing gum anymore. Her knees are dirty, and her shoes are untied. The Discman isn’t on her hip, but her green sunglasses are still on her face, even though it’s nighttime.

  Suddenly, Mr. Finnel’s voice scares me out of my own head. “What are you looking at, boy?”

  Definitely over six feet tall, the daughter Nazi isn’t leaning against the porch post anymore. He’s standing in front of his daughter, blocking my view of her.

  I straighten my spine and speak too loudly, too quickly. “Nothing!”

  He laughs at me again, but his eyebrows are more serious than ever. From behind her father’s arm, Penelope peeks out. I can’t stop looking at her.

  Mr. Finnel’s laughter stops. “See something you like, boy? Do you think I’m cute?”

  “Wha … what … no,” I stutter. My heart stops. The guy hates me.

  Finally, she speaks, soft-spoken and small. “Don’t embarrass me, Dad. You’re so embarrassing.”

  The heart Nazi puts his arm over his daughter’s shoulders and guides her down the steps to the walkway leading to the Chrysler.

  “The boy next door is weird, Pen. Don’t talk to him,” he warns her with amusement in his voice. “He offered me bolts.”

  She slaps his arm playfully. “Stop. Let’s go get the pizza.”

  Once they reach the car, Mr. Finnel politely unlocks and opens the car door for the girl who wears sunglasses at night. I’m standing in the center of my front yard, staring like an idiot. My hands are still in my pockets, and my heart’s found its beat again. I should go inside, but I can’t get my feet to move.

  Then Pen waves at me.

  I smile.

  The grin Nazi shuts the car door and faces me. His chest almost seems to inflate, and his eyebrows grow angrier. But behind all his boldness, there’s a smile he’s trying not to show.

  “I’m watching you, boy.”

  * * *

  Once I’ve taken a quick shower, I sit at the dinner table with wet hair and shove my mouth full of spaghetti. My sister sits beside me with tiny braids littering her head and lips stained pink from the Blow Pop she had before dinner. Risa’s eyes are red, and her smile is lazy. Our parents, who sit across from us, question the skunk smell that oozed from her room earlier.

  Risa Decker is this town’s very own freak—slash—free spirit. With Kool-Aid colored curls and a nose she pierced herself with a sewing needle, my older sister only wears clothes she finds at thrift stores and once tied herself to the tree in the front yard when the city wanted to trim its branches.

  She’s tried to convince me on multiple occasions that she’s Janis Joplin reincarnated, with a flare of Muddy Waters.

  Which is weird, because Risa was born before he died. I asked Mom.

  Risa is five years older than me, but I’m pretty sure I’m smarter.

  “It was incense,” she vows. Risa starts to laugh, but covers it up by coughing.

  I roll my eyes and take a bite of garlic bread.

  My dad, a small and gentle man, points his fork at his only girl. His glasses sit high on his nose. “It better have been.”

  Mom, sm
aller and gentler, nods. “You can be open with us, Risa.”

  My older sister looks at me and winks. “I know, Ma.”

  I drink my glass of milk in one gulp.

  My dad spins sauce-covered noodles around the fork he was just pointing toward my sibling. “You’re Dillon’s role model. He’s entering a tough age, so the last thing he needs is his sister corrupting him.”

  Before our father can go off on one of his lectures, Risa brings up the girl I haven’t been able to get off my mind.

  “Did you see a new family moved in next door? I think their daughter is your age, D.”

  I nod and swallow hard. “Yeah, I saw.”

  Mom lights up. “I thought I saw a moving truck parked out front.”

  “That’s right.” Dad, having eaten his last bite, sits back in his chair. “I heard the house was purchased.”

  “Yep,” my sister continues. “Rumor is, it’s the new football coach at the high school. They moved here from Utah or some shit.”

  Mom drops her utensil. “Language.”

  “Anyway,” Risa goes on, “you should ask her if she wants to ride bikes with you to school tomorrow, Dillon. She’s pretty. Maybe she’ll be your girlfriend.”

  Dad shakes his head, all wannabe-puffy chested and red in the cheeks. He’s soft, unlike the bushy-browed man next door.

  “He’s too young to be dating. Don’t you agree, Dawn?”

  Mom nods. “Totally agree.”

  Pushing my empty plate forward, I shove my chair back. The idea of dating was gross to me this morning, but now it kind of makes me mad that my parents think they can tell me what to do. Plus, my sister needs to mind her own business.

  “I ride bikes to school with Kyle and Herb. The girl’s not pretty. And Mr. Finnel said your security light is too bright, and he’s worried possums will set it off,” I say, walking away from the table.

  I’m at the stairs before my dad, Timothy, the dentist, calls out like he does every night, “Make sure you brush your teeth, Son. You don’t want the tooth bugs to bite.”

  Blindsided (The Fighter series #1)

  ©2015 TC Matson

  Chapter 1

  Paige

  Sometimes I wonder why the hell I stay at this job. Table four has me running all over the place knowing damn well they won’t tip me much, and table three is a very prude woman who rolls her eyes every time I stop to check in on her. I guess she thinks because she’s in a business suit with her hair up in too tight a bun, I should be intimidated. She clearly thinks she’s of some high-ranking importance to me. She’s wrong. She’s just another customer. Someone I serve but don’t care to ever see again. Smile and be polite though…unfortunately, this is my job.

  It’s almost time to go. I can’t wait to get the heck out of here although the restaurant has been moderately lively today, which is great for my pockets. Blain is going to take me out to eat for my twenty-fourth birthday since we didn’t get to celebrate it yesterday. He worked his normal eight-to-five shift at the animal hospital and I had to pull doubles. So by the time I got home, I was wiped out.

  The rumble of Blain’s sleek black Camaro catches everyone’s attention as he pulls up alongside the curb, parking directly in front of the large window of the restaurant. It’s his usual spot when he picks me up. He does it on purpose. It’s the macho, catch any unsuspecting single woman’s attention, hidden egotistical conceited personality of his.

  “Sheesh,” Holly exhales. “I can’t ever get sick of seeing him.” She drops her elbow to the counter, resting her head on her fist, staring at him.

  “Oh, I can,” I quip.

  She rolls her eyes and pushes off the counter crossing her arms. “I just can’t understand why you two haven’t done anything. You’re probably the don’t kiss and tell type. If I had a chance with him, I’d hang that shit on a billboard.”

  I’ve worked with Holly for a year or so, and believe me when I tell you I’ve had this conversation with her way too many times. Regardless of what I say, she never believes me. I stop wrapping the silverware abruptly and look up to her, narrowing my eyes. “Picture yourself sleeping with your brother. His hands rubbing all over you. His tongue in your mouth. Do you scream his name when he—”

  “Disgusting!” she squeals laughing.

  “Well, Blain is like my brother.”

  She scrunches up her nose and shakes her head. “Point taken. Maybe one day I’ll be able to find out about him myself.” She wags her eyebrows.

  The thought makes me laugh. She’s nowhere close to being Blain’s type. Not that he has a particular type—he’s liable to screw just about anything—but I’m quite sure the gothic, extra curvy girl is not what he’s looking for. “Maybe.” I shrug knowing damn well he would never be interested in her.

  “Speaking of hotties, did you see the one at table twelve today? I could barely serve him. His hotness took my body over.” She over-dramatically rolls her eyes running her hands down the curve of her hips.

  Nothing comes to mind—nothing that would make me have a thought-induced orgasm like she just had. I shake my head and grab for the last silverware I have to wrap.

  “I hope he comes back soon. Omigod, he was surrounded by good looks and no women. Do you know what that means?” Holly grabs my shoulders, staring me down with her soft brown eyes that are wide with aspiration. “I have a chance!”

  “Well,” I giggle, “let me know the next time he comes in and I’ll make sure I tell him you’re wet and waiting.” I wink, untying my apron and tossing it in the corner under the counter as I make my way toward the exit. There’s no looking back today. The heck with today!

  I smile at Blain as I slide into the leather seat that’s cold as hell from the air conditioning blasting on it. “Hey. How was your day?” I ask putting on my seatbelt.

  He smirks then slams his precious “baby” in gear, forcing me back into the seat. He chuckles as I roll my eyes. He’s such a show off.

  “Good,” he finally answers at the red light mere feet from the spot his tires squealed away. “Had a dog that was hit by a car come in today and got to see Dr. Aisner do an amputation of its leg. It was phenomenal!”

  I wince at his answer. How can he be so damn excited about bloody gore? I hate hearing about poor animals that come into the hospital hurt, not to mention the disgusting details I have to endure when it happens. Just as humans need doctors, animals need vets. But I’m a waitress and a bartender—I don’t do blood.

  He pats my knee laughing. “Don’t worry, Paigey. He’s going to be ok. I promise. He’s just short a leg.”

  “Blain!” I shriek straight through his laugh. “That’s not funny. The poor dog could have died and now he has to figure out a way to deal without a leg.”

  His brown shaggy hair shakes from side to side in disbelief. “It’s a wonder you’re not a vegetarian.”

  “What’s that supposed to—”

  His tires screech, shoving me into the leather as the light turns green. Apparently, it’s his politest way of telling me to shut up.

  I know it’s his job to save them but it kills me to hear about hurt animals. Some come in starved, their ribs and spine visible, and some even worse off having to be euthanized. It’s pitiful. If I could rescue them all I would, but I don’t have time to fly through the night and be their super hero. Blain says with the passion I have for animals, I should’ve become a veterinarian, but blood…nope. Yuck! That is total fainting material there!

  Blood has made me queasy since I was a little girl and saw the little neighbor boy fall off his bike and rip open his knee. Blood gushed from it and poured onto the concrete underneath him. Ok, maybe it was just a little scratch, but he cried like it ripped his leg apart. It was really nasty, and I cried with him.

  * * *

  Dinner was good with little to no graphic details of his job, thank God. He took me to Barges, the best steakhouse this side of the Mississippi, hands down. My belated birthday steak with a baked potato was a
mazing. The décor makes you feel right at home with brick walls and autographed pictures of various celebrities who have enjoyed items off the menu. The coolest part of the place is the old, light blue VW Bug that looks like it’s smashing through the brick wall. They even have extra bricks on the floor to give it some added intent. The place is so cool.

  Now we’re back home, stuffed to the gills, and have settled into the living room. He’s sprawled out on the couch and I’m curled up on the love seat watching the highlights on ESPN, wishing I could change the channel. Back in high school, Blain was a fullback and had scouts from all over the place begging him to join their college teams. I know in my heart he could have gone pro, but his love for animals outweighed his passion for football. He decided not to pursue it, becoming a veterinarian assistant instead. As I brought up my curiosity throughout the years, he’s assured me he made the right decision. He says concussions, cramps, torn ACLs, and vigorous dieting regimens don’t appeal to him. I have to agree.

  Let me clear one thing up for you—we only live together, nothing more. We’ve lived together since we graduated high school five years ago. It’s worked out so far. I like having a man in the house, although some of the girls he likes to bring around stir my interest of living single. I wish a woman would come into his life and settle him down. He’s a great guy and needs a great girl. But, whatever…I’ll just have to sit back and wait…impatiently.

  Although we live together, he stays in the basement. I know that sounds crazy when I say it, but it’s very nice. It has everything the top floor has except a kitchen. It even includes a front door; however, he’s become accustomed to barging in mine. I enjoy the fact we have two separate living areas. I don’t have to share my space other than the kitchen, and he can decorate his part with all his manly crap never interfering with my more feminine features.

  The most annoying chirp a phone can make interrupts my thoughts. Blain sits up and grabs it off the table. Almost instantly his lips curl as he looks up apologetically. “I’ve got company coming.”