The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys #1)(68)

At the arcade, I spent hours watching tourists plunk quarters in machines or play Skee-Ball for shitty plastic prizes. In a sea of noise, the Pac-Man game seemed the loudest. Over and over, the ghosts trapped Pac-Man and then came the down-the-drain sound effect of his demise.

I have to get the fuck out of here.

So I took the bus to Evelyn’s large white, two-story house. It loomed ghostly and quiet in the night. As usual, I texted her I was there, and she let me in, guiding me through the house’s clean, warm space; smiling family photos hung on every wall.

Her bedroom walls were covered in collages of lips, eyes, and clothes cut out from magazines, and sketches of outfits that I guessed she had done. I didn’t give a shit about fashion, but I recognized talent when I saw it.

“You smell like popcorn,” Evelyn said, fussing over me.

“Hazard of the job.”

“Ha! You’re cute.” She ran her fingers through my hair.

“Is that necessary?”

“I’m trying to recreate that look you had in the first video. When you took your beanie off and ran your hands through your hair. If I had a dollar for every commenter who told me that maneuver set their panties on fire…” She tapped a nail to her chin. “Come to think of it, I do get paid when that happens.”

“Yeah, about that,” I said, “do I get a cut, or did I go from giving my shit away for free on the internet to giving it away to you?”

“I told you, we’ll work all that out later.”

“You said you had demands for helping me.”

“I do. In due time.”

She looped a bone horn necklace with a leather string around my neck.

“Is this necessary too?”

“It goes with the leather man-bracelets you wear on your wrists,” she said. “Draws attention to your forearms. Very hot. The necklace will do the same for your chest and neck.”

She moved in front of me, bending over to scrutinize me, her hands in my hair again. I was afforded a view of her breasts pushing out of her top. She caught me looking and a slow smile spread over her lips.

“You’re looking at me.” Her hands slipped down my chest, palms flat. “Do you like what you see?”

“Evelyn, stop…” I caught hold of her wrists and took them off of me.

“What’s wrong? I don’t see you with Amber anymore. Or any girl for that matter.” She smiled and moved in closer, her knee resting on the chair between my legs. “Nothing wrong with having a little fun.”

I stood up gently and pushed her away. “Is this what you meant by your demand? The cost for your help?”

Her dark eyes widened, the heat in them turning cold. “What do you take me for, some kind of prostitute? You think I’d trade sex for a favor?”

“No,” I said, flustered. “No, of course not. I’m sorry. But what the hell are you doing?”

“What I’m doing is helping you get your music out there.”

“You know what I mean.” My phone chimed a text. “Fuck. Just…hold on.”

I moved to the other side of the room. The text was from Shiloh.

I just heard. Violet’s at UCSC Medical. Head injury. They won’t tell me more.

Every molecule in my body turned to stone. It felt as if the floor had dropped out, sucking my heart down with it.

My fingers trembled as I typed. On my way.

Evelyn pouted. “What’s wrong?”

Frantically, I threw on my jacket, chucked my guitar into its case, and shouldered the strap. “I gotta go.”

“Now? We haven’t shot the video. What happened?”

“Violet. Something… I don’t know. I gotta go,” I said again and raced out, my pulse thundering. Evelyn called after me, but I barely heard her.

There were few buses at this hour, and I couldn’t afford to wait one fucking second. My phone said the UCSC Medical Center was one and a half miles away. A thirty-minute walk.

The words head injury kept flashing in my head like ambulance sirens, then I began to run.





Chapter Sixteen





One day earlier…



They had arrived.

My hands trembled slightly as I took four envelopes from the rest of the mail. My eyes scanned the return addresses: Baylor, Georgetown, UCSF, and UC Santa Cruz. Acceptance or rejection letters.

My heart was pounding as I took the mail into the kitchen. It had been several days since the bonfire at the Shack and Miller hadn’t contacted me once. Miller’s words chased my every waking hour and followed me into my sleep.

Maybe we’re impossible.

We’re done here.

Maybe we were done before we’d started. The enormity of it stole my breath whenever I thought of it. So, I didn’t. When my thoughts went to Miller—which was every other minute—I shut them down. Closed my heart. I had been right all along. Every time Miller and I touched or kissed, we blew apart. Like magnets, drawn together at one polarity, thrusting away at the other.

And maybe his feelings for Amber went deeper than I suspected. Why else wouldn’t he have at least called me to tell me what he was thinking?

I could have asked Shiloh but I didn’t want a relationship like that ‘telephone’ game, where everything comes second hand. But uncertainty was maddening. I’d been a fool to break the promises I’d made to myself and now the heartache was too much. I had to outrun it, out-study it, out-prepare it so that when the next phase of my life began—contained in one of the four envelopes on my kitchen counter—I’d be ready for it. Stronger.