Losing Romeo (3 page)

“There’s not a whole lot to do,” the girl said like she could read her mind. “But we manage. I’m Leanne. If you need to get out or whatever, a bunch of us hang out at this place called Weekends on Jackson Street, even on the weekdays. You should come by and check it out.”

“I might. If I can dig up a ride somehow. I guess the estate is a ways out of town.”

Leanne grabbed one of the jewelry cards and scribbled a number on the back. “Call me and I’ll come get you.”

Rosaline cautiously took the card, waiting for a snarky smile or snide remark. Usually girls she didn’t know were catty to her, so she couldn’t help but be suspicious. Then again, wasn’t there something about small towns and friendly people? “Thanks. I’m Rosaline, by the way.”

“Hello, Leanne,” Dafne said, nearing the booth. She asked about Leanne’s mom, and then they said goodbye and headed back to the truck.

As Dafne accelerated out of what passed for a town around here, Rosaline slumped in her seat, wondering just how odd her cursed neighbors were going to be.

Chapter Three

Frustrated by his useless aching leg, Bryson scooted himself away from the Honda CRF450R motorcycle he was working on. It was a sick kind of torture he put himself through, working on a bike he could no longer ride. He couldn’t even put enough weight on his left leg to kick-start the damn thing. The few times he’d gotten Uncle Winslow to start it for him, he found that simply shifting gears sent a sharp pain shooting through his knee. As a result, he’d ended up on his ass, the bike suffering yet another wreck. Which meant more repairs, which, in a way, was good because it kept him busy.

Someday the bike would be where it needed to be, whether he could ride it or not.

He rubbed his leg, then grabbed his cane and pushed himself to his feet. It was time to feed the horses anyway. Then he’d go inside and spend another boring night watching a movie. Or playing a videogame. It didn’t really matter. It’d all just blur together until tomorrow came, and then he’d do it all over again.

If it weren’t for Uncle Winslow, he’d leave this place. Leave Lowell and all the bad memories behind. But he owed his uncle, more than he could ever repay. A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed past it. That was the other thing about all the quiet time. It gave him too much time to think about the past. About all his regrets.

As if the cane, scars, and constantly missing someone weren’t enough.

***

Bryson had just finished feeding the horses when Dafne pulled her Dodge Ram up to her house. She got out and lifted a large suitcase out of the bed of her truck. Someone else was with her—blond and female was all he could make out at this distance. The girl heaved another suitcase over the tailgate, struggling with the giant thing as she headed toward the house—gravel and wheeled suitcases don’t exactly mix. He’d never make it there in time to help, and he’d be more in the way than helpful anyway. Feeding the horses had already taken him forever, something he used to do in no time.

Whoever it is must be planning on staying a while.

Of course girls haul half their belongings everywhere they go.

Not Dafne, though. Uncle Winslow went on and on about how she was a no-nonsense woman who knew the meaning of the word
minimalist.
Learning the family business was
so
fun. Sitting in meetings and making calls about trucks was something he could do, though, lame leg and all. So he’d learn it and probably spend the rest of his life working for his uncle, confined to the estate.

He gripped his cane and trudged toward the four-story, lit-up house that sometimes felt more like a life-sentence than a home.

***

“That’s practically a castle,” Rosaline said, peering out the window at the house up the hill. It was seriously huge, pale brick with a gray roof, at least three windows with balconies, and a sprawling manicured lawn with bushes against the house.

“Of course, this place isn’t bad either.” She ran a hand along the granite countertop as she stared out the large kitchen window. Dafne’s house was made from the same pale brick but had only one story with three large bedrooms, all with adjoining bathrooms.

The sun was setting, and Rosaline caught sight of a dark figure walking toward the house. “So the Mercers…?” She spun toward Dafne. “What kind of people are they?”

Dafne frowned at whatever she was hearing on her cell phone, then scribbled something on a notepad. “They’re good people.”

“So just two of them? In that huge house?”

Dafne perched herself on one of the barstools lined up along the kitchen counter. “Winslow Mercer owns Mercer Trucking. He’s away on business right now, but I’ll introduce you when he gets back into town.”

Winslow? What kind of name is Winslow? Snobby for a trucker, that’s for sure.

“Bryson is his nephew,” Dafne said. “I don’t see him much, and I don’t think you will either. You’re not here to hang out in a ‘castle’ as you put it. You’ll be allowed to go to the study to do your schoolwork while I work in the office, and once that’s done, I’ll have you help me with paperwork and my to-do list, which just got longer.”

Dafne scrolled through her contacts, and Rosaline lusted after the cell, her fingers itching to have her own phone back. She was
dying
to make a call to Clara. And then maybe Romeo. Just to hear his voice. To explain how sad she was that she wouldn’t be seeing him for…an undisclosed amount of time. Her stomach dropped. Maybe never.

“Do you have a computer I can use?” Email or IM would have to do for now.

“No internet, no calls,” Dafne said, pointing the pen in her hand at Rosaline. “Those are your father’s orders. And my computer has been protected by some of the best tech guys in the biz, so don’t even bother.”

Rosaline sighed.
If the castle had a tower for prisoners, that’s probably where she’d stash me. No phone and no internet? What am I supposed to do?

“Go unpack. Tomorrow you get caught up on your schooling.” Dafne returned her attention to her phone. “I expect your room to stay immaculate and for you to clean whatever messes you make. I’ve got to work long hours, and I expect the entire house clean, even if I’m the one who left the mess. That’ll be your first set of chores.”

“So I’m your maid now?”

Dafne gave her a tight smile. “I’ve always wanted one of those. It’ll save me so much time.”

Rosaline retreated to her new room and kicked the door closed. “Maid.
Phft.
She’s seriously delusional if she thinks I’m scrubbing toilets.”

***

The movie credits were rolling up the screen when Bryson’s phone rang.

Uncle Winslow didn’t bother with small talk, simply launched into a rant about a “huge mess.”

“What kind of idiot schedules a truck filled with ice cream to stop in Arizona overnight?” Winslow asked.

Bryson covered a yawn with his hand. “Won’t it be fine overnight?”

“Not since he overheated the engine and blew the radiator. Dafne’s getting a driver down there to transfer the product, but since that leaves us a truck short, I need you to fix tomorrow’s schedule. Tell the offices I won’t stand for any more late shipments, no excuses.”

“Is someone visiting Dafne? It looked like—”

“Her niece is moving in. Guess the girl got into some trouble and her parents shipped her out here hoping Dafne could shape her up. I hope it won’t interfere with work—I’d be lost without her help.”

The blonde was some kind of troubled girl? “What did she do?”

“I don’t know. It’s none of my business, and it’s none of yours, so don’t ask Dafne about it. She’s got plenty to do without us butting into her personal life. Now can you take care of the schedule or not?”

Everything was always life or death with Business Winslow, and he was so rarely anything but the business version these days. “I’ll take care of it,” Bryson said.

“Good.” The line cut out for a second. “That’s Dafne on the other line.” Without a goodbye, Winslow was gone.

Bryson moved to his computer and linked into the Mercer Trucking System to update the schedule. As nice as Dafne was, it was surprising she had a troubled niece. Well, the girl better stay away from him. He’d had enough of trouble girls—enough of trouble in general—to last a lifetime.

Chapter Four

Rosaline never thought she’d miss school. But as she sat alone in the study, reading her textbooks, she missed being able to whisper comments to Clara and Sophie. She even missed Sophie asking for the answers. School had always come pretty easy for her, and she’d always gotten good grades. And still, here she was sequestered in the Ozarks, the threat of military school hanging over her head.

No doubt Mom was praying to Saint Dominic Savio, Patron of Juvenile Delinquents, right now. In fact, she’d probably called all the aunts and grandmothers together to pray with her. Mom might not be Italian, but she was Catholic through and through. It was the only saving grace between her and the Capulets.

All the dates flooding the pages of Rosaline’s history book started to blur together. She dropped her head on the book and groaned. If she were still in California, school would’ve ended thirty minutes ago. “I can’t take it anymore.”

The sound of footsteps jerked her back upright, and Dafne appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Mercer is coming in earlier than expected and wants me to pick him up so we can conduct a meeting on the ride home.”

Rosaline stood to gather her books. “Thank goodness, I’m
dying
for a break.”

“You will stay here. In the study, doing your schoolwork. I’m taking Winslow’s Range Rover, but don’t get any ideas.” Dafne lifted her keys. “I’m taking the keys to my truck with me.”

“No worries. All my criminal friends taught me to hotwire anyway—just for emergencies, of course. Like if I’m dying of boredom, which I totally am.”

Dafne’s mouth dropped open, her eyes practically bulging out of her head.

Rosaline flopped back in the chair. “That was a joke. I don’t know how to hotwire, and even if I did, it’s not like I have anywhere to go.”

Dafne sighed and tugged on the bottom of her suit coat. Rosaline noticed that she’d actually put on lipstick, too. A color that pretty much matched her lips, but still. Since they’d had a fight this morning about her taking the time to flat iron her hair—for some crazy reason Aunt Dafne thought she could get ready in fifteen minutes—even lipstick seemed like a major step.

“You look nice.” Rosaline propped her cheek on her fist. “You get all dressed up for your boss?”

“I try to look nice every day,” Dafne said, her words clipped.

Jeez. It was supposed to be a compliment.

“I expect a report on your history chapter when I get back.” Dafne readjusted her purse, then spun around and left the office. Her heeled shoes echoed against the tile floor, getting quieter and quieter, followed by the sound of a closing door.

Rosaline moved to the window and peeked through the blinds. She watched Dafne pull the sleek black Range Rover out of the garage and drive away. The ticking of the large clock over the stone fireplace echoed through the room, broadcasting the slow torture that was this day.

She released the blinds and blew out her breath. She glanced at her textbook—yeah, more studying was so not happening. Pacing was a much better way to kill time. So she strode back and forth past the tall bookshelves lining the wall of the study for a couple minutes, the plush carpeting swallowing the sound of her footsteps.

Another glance outside to make sure the coast was clear, and then she decided it was time to find a computer. There wasn’t one in this room, but surely there was one somewhere in the house. They’d passed a large living room, dining room, and kitchen on the way in—none of which had a computer she’d seen.

Desperate times call for drastic measures, so she crept up the large staircase, trying to hurry without making a sound. When she got to the next floor, she peeked through door after door. Most of the rooms looked like untouched ones you’d see in a catalogue, perfectly put together but not lived in. Even weirder, one had perfume and a jewelry box on the top of a dresser and women’s clothing hanging in the closet.

No women live here, yet this looks like one does.
It was more intimate than a guest room, too, with a couple of worn novels on the nightstand.

No computer, though.

Rosaline eased the door closed and turned to the last room in the hallway. She knocked, even though she knew no one else was home, and then opened the door. The walls were covered with pictures of motorcycles, the king-size bed had definitely been slept in recently, and grease-covered parts were scattered on the dresser. The room smelled like a mechanic shop with a mix of outdoors and a hint of a clean, crisp scent.

And, miracle of all miracles, there was a desk with a computer.

“Jackpot.” Rosaline sat in the chair and opened the laptop. It came to life, the screen glowing. The background had an image of a guy on a motorcycle, and tiny icons lined the left side—including the blessed icon that would take her to the Internet.

As she clicked to open the browser, a picture on the desk caught her eye. A kid with dark hair stood next to a pretty brunette woman. The woman looked quite a bit like him, but too young to be his mom. Maybe an older sister.

Rosaline tried to remember if Dafne had said how old the nephew was. From the picture, she guessed twelve or thirteen.

She returned her attention to the computer, signed on, and prayed Clara would be online.
ClaraFitz:
OMG!!! Where have u BEEN?!

Rosaline_Capulet:
Parents took away my phone & shipped me to freakin Arkansas. Had to sneak away just to use the computer. Basically I’m on total lockdown.

When Clara asked the inevitable question—why?—Rosaline typed that she’d gotten in trouble at the party and she’d fill her in on the exact details later when she could talk to her over the phone. Mostly because Clara was like the conscience of the group, always keeping all of them on the straight and narrow. Rosaline loved her for that, even though she sometimes heard too many “I told you so”s. Defending herself to her best friend wouldn’t be easy, but there was no way she was doing it over the computer.

ClaraFitz:
Seriously, no phone? Are you DYING?

Rosaline_Capulet:
Totally dying! There’s nothing but trees here. So have you seen or talked to Romeo? I never got to tell him goodbye or explain what happened at the party.

The cursor blinked as Rosaline held her breath, waiting for the answer.

ClaraFitz:
Look, Roz, don’t flip, but Sophie said she saw him at the party & that it looked like he and Juliet were pretty cuddly.

A cold knot formed in Rosaline’s stomach.

Rosaline_Capulet:
Juliet? She was supposed to be with Paris the whole night.

ClaraFitz:
Soph said she was with Paris, but then Romeo showed up & started talking to her & they snuck off together & Romeo totally had his arms around her. I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, but I thought you should know. Look, he’s a jerk! Worse than a jerk! He’s all those words I don’t say. But if I did say them, I’d use ALL OF THEM on him.

Rosaline remembered hanging out on the boardwalk, when Romeo’s arms had been around her. Holding her close. Her heart squeezed and tears stung her eyes. How had she let herself do something so stupid? For a boy who’d apparently run off with her cousin while she’d been dragged to a police station.

ClaraFitz:
Roz? I’m so sorry. Are you okay?

Rosaline just stared at the screen, clenching her jaw to try to stop herself from having a total meltdown.

ClaraFitz:
He didn’t deserve you anyway.

“What the hell?” a male voice boomed.

Rosaline shot out of the chair, spinning to face whoever had yelled.

A guy with a backward baseball cap stood across from her. A scar cut through his left eyebrow and trailed down his cheek.

He tossed the cane in his hand aside and yanked off his baseball cap. Long dark hair fell over his face, mostly obscuring the scar. He was much older than twelve or thirteen, and the expression on his face was deadly.

Rosaline gulped. “Sorry, I just needed the Internet for a—”

“And instead of using
your
computer, you decided to break into my room?”

“I didn’t break in. The door was open.”

“It wasn’t open.”

“Okay, so it was closed and I opened it,” she said with a shrug and a repentant half-smile/half grimace. “See, I’m kinda banned from the Internet right now.” Her gaze moved back to his face and the tip of the scar peeking out from underneath his hair. The way he was standing, all his weight on one side, made her think the cane he’d tossed aside was more than a fashion accessory.

“Get out.” He took a large step forward, favoring his left leg. “Get. Out. Now!”

Heart pounding, she nodded and moved toward the door. She hesitated in the hallway and turned back to him. “Could you not tell my aunt about this? If I get into trouble, she’ll have me shipped off to a military—”

The door slammed in her face.

“School.” She glared at the door, tempted to kick it and yell at the guy. “Jeez, what an ass.”

Before she made an even bigger mess of the situation, she decided to go downstairs. She’d expected the Mercers to be strange, but that guy was so mean! And what the hell had happened to him?

By the time she made it back to the study, her thoughts had returned to what Clara had told her. Romeo had gone off with Juliet. On the very same night he’d convinced Rosaline to take a pill that screwed up her whole life.
Ouch.

She put a hand on her chest, trying to push away the ache forming over her heart.

Anger mixed in with her other emotions, sending heat through her veins. She flipped open her notebook to the heart she’d drawn around her and Romeo’s names. Romeo and Rosaline—it had such a nice ring to it. Romeo and Juliet didn’t even go together.

Over the heart she drew a big X, so deep it ripped through the flimsy cardboard cover. The pain in her chest went from achy to stabby. The last few days she’d told herself that her friends would miss her—that Romeo would miss her. But he’d forgotten about her before she’d even left.

How long would it be until her friends did the same?

***

Bryson sat on his bed and kicked off his shoes. He probably shouldn’t have yelled at her like that, but she’d been staring at his face, a combination of fear and pity. It was the same look everyone gave him, and he couldn’t stand it.

Still, he should’ve been nicer. Maybe even introduced himself, being they’d inevitably cross paths now that she was living with Dafne.

Did she say military school? I can’t imagine her being
that
much trouble. She actually looked kind of sweet.
Long blond hair, dark eyebrows, and big brown eyes that had gotten even bigger when he’d lost his temper. She was the prettiest girl he’d seen in a long time, even if she was nosy. Not that it mattered. He’d never have a chance with a girl like that. Not anymore.

She’s probably stuck up anyway.

He crossed the room to his desk, curious as to what had been so important she felt the need to stroll on into his room and use his computer. An exotic floral scent hung in the air—her perfume, no doubt, and he practically groaned at the smell of it. He’d forgotten how amazing girls smelled.

He took another deep breath, then almost wished he hadn’t. It made him long for things he’d never have again.

Her conversation was still up on the screen. He knew he should exit out of it.

But she hadn’t cared about his privacy. Why should he care about hers?