All For Nothing

by Laurie Treacy

  Chapter Three

  A black Dodge Charger rolls alongside me. Not knowing anyone who drives something that hot, I squint, trying to see who is inside. The tinted windows prevent identification.

  The passenger window slides down. “Excuse me, I’ve been trying to get your attention.”

  The streetlight behind me spotlights the driver’s young face. Hair cut with conical sides—the color dark as obsidian glass and glossy as raven’s wings—sports blue highlights. He does emo proud. He sports multiple piercings on his eyebrow, nose, chin and lip, and his ears have just the right size gages. Eyes the color of deep green moss peer into mine, while his mouth curves into a crooked grin.

  My immediate reaction says dangerous, but my trusted instinct isn’t firing off any warnings. “Yeah?”

  “Can you tell me where Starburst Drive is?” Even his deep voice is sexy.

  “Sure.” I give him directions.

  “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.” He takes off.

  Okay, that guy is radical.

  My cell phone bleeps. I read Dad’s text. Mom has a dinner meeting and a bunch of his “water globe” friends have stopped by.

  Great.

  Good thing he handed me a twenty earlier. Guess I’ll head out of the development and grab something at Nothing But Java.

  “Hey.”

  Startled, I practically launch out of my clothing.

  Sexy Charger guy is back.

  “Yeah?”

  “I meant to tell you those tips are wicked.” He winks.

  I hate cheesy flirting.

  “Is there a coffee shop close by? My friend, Phil, isn’t home, and I’m starving.”

  “Philip Morrison?” He’s tight with Remy now.

  He nods. “We grew up together. I’m back in town visiting for the holiday.”

  “I know him. He goes to my school. He has hockey practice on Tuesday nights.”

  “Thanks.” He leans forward, waiting on something.

  “Oh! There’s Nothing But Java down…” I glance around. “Know what? I’m headed there. Want me to show you?”

  A huge grin lights up his already gorgeous face. He pushes the passenger door open.

  As I climb in, I can hear Mom and Remy. Getting into cars with strangers?

  “I’m Quinn Novak. Nice to meet you.”

  We shake hands.

  I note the assortment of scars across his fingers and the top of his hand. He isn’t perfect after all. “Hi. I’m Amy.” I don’t give a last name.

  “Ooh, a singular-named girl, like Madonna, or Sia.”

  I clip my seat belt, inhaling the new leather smell. “Yep.”

  He chuckles, veering onto the main road.

  I direct him to the establishment. and a few minutes later, he pulls into a spot out front. Since it’s almost closing time, the place is empty.

  Quinn opens both the car and the shop’s entrance door.

  As I enter, I spot his reflection on the glass while he checks out my butt. I’m glad I wore my new jeans. At the counter, I order mac and cheese, and a hot chocolate. He gets the coffee of the day and a sandwich. We grab a table in the corner. Quinn sets the tray down and takes off his leather jacket. I merely unbutton mine.

  He notices and simply smiles. “How long have you lived in Meadowbrook?”

  I pull open the tab of my cup and sip. Warm chocolate glides down, instantly thawing me. “About seven years. Right after it was built.”

  “I lived with my mom over by Vansen Homestead. Phil lived next door to me. My mom got sick and we moved away, so she could get treatment.”

  Shoveling gooey pasta into my mouth, I nod and chew. Quinn has this total Ian Somerhalder thing going on. The stubble-covered chin and space above his top lip make him look casual. When he lobs a mischievous grin my way, his sweetheart-shaped face morphs into that of a player.

  “Do you always analyze your meal companions?” He chuckles and leans back. The material of his t-shirt tightens, showcasing a muscular build that suits his body perfectly. I bet there’s nothing overdone about him.

  I place my spoon beside the empty bowl and wipe my mouth. “I don’t know you. Of course, I’m going to look at you. Didn’t you check me out, too?”

  “Touché.” He shifts, grinning, and takes a drink.

  There are two other people at different tables eating and checking their phones. A light bulb goes off in my mind. There’s no one in the wi-fi lounge.

  Quinn’s phone dings.

  “Hey, I’m gonna head to the restroom.” I grab my cup and slip out of the booth.

  He nods, answering his cell. “Hey, Phil.”

  I pass a bored worker at the counter and head around to the back lounge area. The restrooms are to the right, but to the left, there’s a high-top counter with two community laptops on it, both open and on. Two sofas sit against the back window.

  Bypassing the sign-up sheet, I pull out the swing stool, sit down, and open a browser. I go to a trusted coven website and type “maverick” into the search field.

  A new page opens, a message blinks alerting me the page is unavailable. I go to another website, followed by another and another.

  The results are exactly the same. It’s as though the word doesn’t exist.

  “Geez.” Where did Remy get his info?

  “You’re not using the right website.” Quinn tosses his jacket onto the other stool.

  As I calm my galloping heart rate down, he nudges my hands away from the keys and begins typing like a pro.

  How did both his hands get so marked up? Before I can glimpse at the address, a page opens loaded with links. Everything I need to know about mavericks.

  A detailed definition, studies, news accounts, blog posts, even a forum are listed.

  I’m mesmerized. “Are you a—”

  He leans down alongside me and whispers, “Practically anyone in this area is, right?” The scent of musk and patchouli mixes with his pumpkin spice breath.

  Up until a few weeks ago, I hadn’t a clue about anything.

  “Be careful. You never know who’s watching, or has access.” He nods toward the security camera propped up in the corner and takes the phone jutting out of my left front jacket pocket. Fingertips fly across the small keypad. “The young in our community are misinformed. I’ve driven across this country. I’ve seen a lot. Spoken to many.” Slipping my phone back into place, he deletes the history on the laptop before clicking out of the browser and shutting the system down. Gripping the sides of my stool, he swings the seat around so I’m facing him.

  Mr. Casual is gone, replaced by someone else. Anger flares in once twinkling green eyes. Determination stiffens his jaw. “The adults treat us like we’re idiots. We’re not entitled to be in the know.”

  Without realizing it, I’m nodding. Understanding floods me, along with a sense of calm.

  “All I know is I’m sick of the lies, the cover-ups, and the secrets. Are you? It’s time for change. No more being the victim.”

  There’s that word again.

  He stands inches from me. I can count his eyelashes and the flecks of darker pigment in his irises.

  “What kind of a warlock are you?” I slide my fingers into my jacket pockets, so I can resist the temptation to touch him. What are the chances of my running into someone who’s going through what I’m going through? “I need to go. Can I drop you off?” He avoids answering. That’s okay. Somehow. I feel the heat of his restless magic projecting off him like invisible steam pockets.

  “There’s a brownie calling my name. I’m staying. Thanks.”

  Quinn stands and stares into my eyes as if he can send me a telepathic message. Or, can he read minds? I wonder what his element is. His lip ring catches the light.

  “It was nice meeting you, Quinn.” I scoot off the stool and grab my cup, needing to do something besides look at him.

  “Ditto. I think we’ll be seeing each other again. I’m sticking around.” With a n
aughty wink, he grabs his jacket, and shrugs into it as he leaves.

  The girl behind the counter stops wiping down the glass case to watch him.

  I buy my dessert and sit back down to get started on the treat. The shop is closing in fifteen minutes.

  I take my phone out. Quinn has entered a web address in my notes app. Heeding his and Remy’s words, I decide to wait until tomorrow morning’s study hall to do any searching.

  A flash of bright light across my face rattles me. I stir from my thoughts and search the area.

  The headlights on the Charger turn on as Quinn pulls out of the spot. The brakes screech as he gives it extra gas and exits into Route 9 traffic.

  Where did that light come from if he just turned the car on? Did he take a picture of me? Why? And. why did he drive in the opposite direction of Meadowbrook Estates?

  Things just took an interesting turn.

  Entry into diary app

  It took a complete stranger and a delectable double-fudge brownie to clear my eyes and open my mind.

  The young in our community are misinformed. It’s time for change. No more being the victim.

  Quinn’s words and attitude still resonate. Maybe, I’m looking at things the wrong way. Instead of wanting to be normal, I have to embrace who and what I am.

  Who am I? What am I?

  An inexperienced witch. Maybe, a maverick.

  A victim—like my dad and the others.

  Yes, but my situation is different from theirs, too. I can’t let that word define me. Not anymore. If it’s answers I want, I will have to get them myself. It is time for a change in me.

  I suspect a certain green-eyed someone will play a part.