Vertical Lines (The Vert Series Book 1) (8 page)

There are no photos, no mementos, nothing to identify this as Brooklyn’s house. Except for the workstation.

It’s meticulously organized, a long wooden table standing almost to my chest and spanning nearly half the length of the wall. An industrial-looking slatted metal board hangs on the wall behind the desk. A closer study shows nails pushed between the slats. Straightedges, rulers, and any number of different-looking tools hang from those nails. Magnets stick to the solid slats, but no photos or bits of paper hang from them.

On the desk’s surface are boxes of pencils and chalk; circular jars hold pens of varying colors, sizes, and tips. My eyes continue to roam, stopping when they hit the iMac.

If I was a junky, I would be jonesing right now.

With a twenty-seven inch screen, it’s an all-in-one. I glance at the model number and nearly whimper.
New
. Dear lord, it’s the newest make, with over five-thousand pixel count and apps galore.

My palms are a little damp; my heart rate speeds up a little bit, and my breath starts coming in short pants. For some women, it’s shoes. Others, handbags. My own mother softens more for a well-made handbag than she does for her own children.

It’s not the sight of Italian leather shoes, or the feel of a supple leather bag that brings goose bumps to my skin. It’s a machine like the one in front of me.

Intricate. Intelligent. Innovative.

The possibilities with technology are endless. The ability to create, to give back—to see the world through an actual lens from thousands of miles away… unreal.

I resist—barely—running my fingers over the keys or smart mouse, instead taking a sip of my beer. Carbonation burns my throat and nose, making my eyes water slightly. I back away from the computer and study the rest of the desk, noting the stack of sketch pads in the corner.

Curiosity wars with propriety. I want to sit on the old roller stool at Brooklyn’s desk and flip through each book, skimming over the lines and colors. After last night, his talent intrigues me, and so does his process.

In a blueprint, an app, a code, even a recipe, the process is just as important as the outcome. How was something created? Can it be replicated, made better, streamlined? What was the original intention?

I think about my choices—what did I intend when pandering to my parents? Did I really think going across the country would save me from the ever-watchful eye of my mother? Her reach is long and far. The intent wasn’t to branch out… it was to run away.

When Brooklyn comes out of the bathroom, I’m sitting on his couch, watching the world outside. “You seemed more private than this.”

He raises his brow and sits in the chair next to the couch. His hair is damp and pulled back from his face with a rubber band, exposing those chiseled cheekbones, strong jaw, and midnight eyes.

“You seemed more plastic than this,” he finally counters.

I can’t help my amusement. “Another statement that should offend me.”

He doesn’t smile, but the intensity in his face fades a little. “Does it?”

I shake my head. “No. Interests me, maybe. Usually, when people want something from someone, like you’ve said you want from me, they work hard to be overly complimentary.”

He stands now, and I crane my neck to look up at him. “Red, if I want something from you, I’ll ask. And then I’ll do my best to take it, no matter what. But I won’t lie to you.” He softens the words by holding out his hand. “Why don’t we go for a walk? I’ll buy you some dinner and answer your questions. Then you can tell me about this list you’ve started.”

Chapter 14

Brooks

The boardwalk is crowded, but compared to the weekend crowds, it’s tame. Jordan seems to make note of everything and everyone. We don’t talk much while we wander, but I get the sense it’s more because she’s holding back. Silence is something she’s learned—it isn’t natural. There’s energy bleeding through her, nerves and something else; I can see her taming.

We grab tacos at a local shop that’s seen better days. The outside is dingy, faded orange-and-blue paint; the inside is scarred laminate. I see Jordan’s eyes widen slightly when we enter, and because everyone else is most likely getting their takeout from a place that doesn’t look like it breaks every health code around, there is no line.

“Do you know what you want?” I ask her.

Her swallow is audible. “I’m not sure I know where to begin.” She looks at me. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

“I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

Her laugh is honest—amused, and a little ironic. “If I was, I wouldn’t be anymore.”

Twenty minutes later, I have two Styrofoam takeout bins with carne asada burritos smothered in sauce, and rice and beans on the side. We sit outside at a round plastic table with an umbrella, directly across from the boardwalk.

“Am I going to get food poisoning?”

“I hope not, because that means I will, too.”

Her smile is small. I flip open my carton and cut into my burrito, shoveling in two bites before Jordan finishes using her knife to cut a small piece. Manners in full force, she sets her knife aside, placing her unused hand in her lap with her napkin before nipping the small portion of food from her fork.

“Poison?”

She shakes her head. “Cardboard,” she says after setting her utensil down and wiping her mouth. I fork up another large bite of my own burrito. She’s right; it is a little like cardboard, smothered in not-quite-right salsa.

“Have you always wanted to be an artist?” she asks before her next bite.

“I’ve always been an artist. Selling what I create doesn’t change that—it just makes it possible to eat.”

She sips more water. “Did you go to school and study?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Afraid my technique isn’t good enough to do you justice, Red?”

She smiles now, a real one. It’s fun and amused and everything that makes me see pockets of who she really is. “I think your portfolio proves you’re more than capable of
doing someone justice
. But you don’t replicate people,” she says. I pause in the act of scooping up more food to look at her.

“No?” She shakes her head. “Then what?”

“I don’t know yet—but it’s more than just sketching someone’s face and slapping some color on it. You make people feel,” she says, and my heart goes from thumping to knocking at my ribs.

This girl.
This. Girl
.

“Who are you, Red? Because you’re damn sure not the girl I thought you were a couple of days ago when I first saw you.”

She raises her water glass in a single salute. “Here’s to hoping that’s true.”

“Is that what the list is for?”

She drinks her water and looks down at the table. “How do you know about the list?”

“Nala mentioned something a couple times in passing yesterday—about how you could add or check things off. Is that what you’re doing?” I lean forward, weight on my forearms while I get closer to her. “Checking items off of a list like every other college girl who’s finally set free from her parents?”

“It’s not a bucket list, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then what?”

She looks at me, and a hint of color stains her cheeks. Embarrassment settles over her, but I don’t budge and neither does she. “Sometimes, we need a reminder that life is easier than we think. I need the reminder,” she amends. “So I made a list.”

“What does it say?”

“Why does it matter?”

Because I need you.
“I told you I wanted your face, Red. And I do. But it’s not just about your face—it’s more. I can’t explain it, but trust me when I say spending time with you, even if it’s to go over a checklist, is pretty goddamn appealing to me right now.”

It takes her ten seconds to respond—I stare at her the entire time. Finally, she pulls out her phone and taps some things. When she sets it on the table, her hand shakes a little. There’s a neatly typed list on the screen. I glance at it. “It reminds me to go to the beach, to relax, to do more than study, to breathe when I feel like I’m suffocating. And it tells me to try something new, to take chances now instead of waiting for the perfect time.”

I stare at the list—more of a mantra, really—and then back at her. “Well, Red, I’d say we both need the same thing right now. What do you say? Want to take a chance with me?”

She glances at the list—contemplating—and then me. “I think I might. What do we do first?”

We walk along the boardwalk—away from my house still—no destination in mind, just wandering. With each step we take, each question she answers, I feel my mind open, cracks of light breaking through.

“Why elementary education?”

“Because it allows me to give back to the people in society who need it most.” Her answer is fast—much faster than any other she’s given today. Before I can call her on it, she blows out a breath. “That’s a lie. I’m sorry—I don’t know why I do that—and why I can’t stop.”

“Good training,” I tell her. When I see that hit home, I stop, placing my hand on her shoulder so she will, too. “You know what got me the other night in the parking lot? Why I had to take your picture?”

“Preppy girl in a five-hundred-dollar dress throws up convenience-store cupcake. You could get a lot of hits on YouTube for something like that.”

I don’t smile—stepping closer, I look down at her, waiting for her to really see what I’m saying. “It wasn’t the cake—or the throw up. It was what you said afterward. You gave your mother credit when it was obvious you wanted that small piece of rebellion to work. Even all alone, you couldn’t lie. And I’d bet money you were taught to lie—or at least stretch the truth—from day one.”

Color leaves her cheeks and she takes a step back, looking down. “I lie more than you know. I’ve only recently learned it doesn’t actually change anything—it just makes it so we have to live up to those lies.” Looking up, she gives a small smile. “We should get back—I have an early class again tomorrow.”

I nod, turning with her. She’s quiet on the way back—an internal war raging inside of her. I don’t offer comfort, nor do I ask her to explain what she meant. But I memorize her features—the heavy mouth serious, the conflicted eyes, her hands clenched tight enough to keep herself together.

She’s not a liar—but she doesn’t believe in herself. I think of Ashton and my chest tightens. I could never save her—never make her see how beautiful she really is—how smart. Maybe I can do that for Jordan. Not save her—she doesn’t appear to need saving, just support. Maybe I can give her this gift—a small rebellion to show her she isn’t wrong, she isn’t a wallflower, and she isn’t empty.

Something—anything—to keep another girl from disappearing inside of herself.

Chapter 15

Jordan

I don’t expect the first time I see Mason to be in my Calculus II class—and good news for me, he didn’t appear to want to run into me
ever
.

I’m already seated in the second row near the center when he walks in, as carelessly beautiful as ever, with his flawlessly-tanned skin, lean frame, and casual clothing that screams money. We share few similarities—I’m our father; he’s our mother. Where his frame is lean and muscled—like it has been since birth—without proper nutrition and exercise, mine is bony and unflattering. His hair is burnt blonde, his brown eyes like milk chocolate, offering his skin the ability to tan. My hair is redder than not, my skin smattered with the freckles my father’s Irish mother passed down.

We make eye contact and he pauses for a split second, enough that one of the other Ken dolls he came in with bumps into him. He jerks, then pulls himself together, taking a half-hearted swing at the guy. He motions for his friends to keep walking, and then he heads my way.

“Hey,
sis
.”

“Hello, Mason.”

He eases his hip down on my desk, which makes me feel a little trapped. In the seventh grade, Lani Borden cornered me in the girls’ locker room after PE, thrusting her huge
C
boobs in my face and threatening to end me if I told anyone about her dad. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I didn’t say that. I nodded like a good girl and let her intimidate me, because that’s what my mother taught me to do. When she walked away, I pulled out my phone and gathered as much information on her father as I could. I dug deeply enough to find that he was under a mountain of legal charges—mostly having to do with embezzlement—and my father’s firm was the one analyzing his financials and readying for litigation.

Lani got a packet in her locker the next day, no note or threat, because I’d also been taught by Mother that less was more. Lani never bothered me again—and her
C
boobs found their way into a different gym class.

So, knowing what I do, I don’t lean back, despite my body’s urge to get some space. Folding my hands in my lap, I smile up at my brother and wait.

“That was some move you pulled the other night.” A girl says his name and he nods his head in her direction, winking like every good playboy has ever done. “Mom and Dad—they were livid.” His posture and his words say one thing—just two acquaintances sharing some news. His smile, though—it says he’s more than happy to be giving me news like this.

I learned long ago not to take his bait. “You don’t say.”

“I’m surprised you’re still here.”

“This is where I go to school, remember? You got accepted here—big scholarship and all, how could I refuse to follow you in your quest to greatness?”

Mason’s smile goes from smug to mean. “Dad said something about making you go home—maybe attend Loyola. They feel like they made a mistake even trusting you to come here.”

Direct hit. I know it’s the truth because as vicious as Mason tries to be, like poor Lani Borden, he’s not smart. So this information—it’s not a lie concocted to scare me. It’s the truth, and he gets to deliver it as his final blow.

I tighten my fingers until they are white, but I don’t let myself react other than that. I didn’t want to be here… but even
here
is better than back in L.A., close to home. At least here, there are two glorious hours and traffic between me and my parents. If I had to go to Loyola…