Next to Never
Page 6

“Be careful!” I wince. “Your hands are wet.”
“‘What if you met your soul mate too late?’” He reads the back cover. “‘Would you let them go or would you hurt the ones you loved and risk everything to be together?’” He stops, wrinkling his eyebrows to look down at me with mischief in his eyes. “Lucas is only like thirty. It’s not too late.”
“Shut up,” I bite out, trying to grab for the book.
But he holds it up, pushing my hands away as he continues to read.
“‘On a cold winter night, Jase sees a young girl in an empty parking lot, and he doesn’t know what to do first: get her name or get her into his bed.’” Hawke busts out laughing, shaking as he turns his eyes back on me. “What the hell is this crap?”
“Just . . .” I snatch the book and throw it back up on the table. “Stop being an asshole for five seconds. It’s none of your business.”
“Women are totally into porn. I knew it.”
His gloating smirk is pissing me off. “It’s not porn,” I tell him. “I don’t think it is, anyway. Someone sent it to me in the mail.”
“You don’t know who?”
“No.” I shake my head and lean back against the edge of the pool. “And there was no note, either.”
“Mysterious,” he mumbles and then looks over at me again, waggling his eyebrows. “Are you going to read it? See if he gets her into his bed?”
This is why he’s my least favorite relative. He’s constantly trying to bait me.
But he’s also the one I’m closest to. Hawke always thinks of himself last, and I admire that about him.
“You do know what happens when you get into a man’s bed, right?” he asks.
“More than what happens when a girl gets into your bed, I hear.”
He chuckles. “Don’t test me, Quinn. Remember that we’re not actually related.”
I look over at him again, seeing his cocky smile, while his hands dance back and forth underneath the water.
“Oh, and what are you going to do?” I retort. “Convulse on top of me for fifteen seconds and then fall asleep?”
He lunges for me, and I squeal as he wraps his arms around me and picks me up off my feet.
“No!” I scream, but my stomach flips, and I’m laughing anyway.
He tosses me a couple feet, and then I’m free-falling.
My laugh follows me under the water.
Yep, definitely my least favorite relative.
Chapter 2
With a few hours left until Dylan’s race after I’ve showered and dressed, I figure I can kill some time, trying out the new strawberry tart recipe I found online yesterday. My parents will be home late and probably hungry.
“Dude,” I hear as I open the door. “Have you started reading this?”
I pop my head up to see Dylan lying on my bed with the hardcover I got in the mail today.
I laugh to myself. “No. Romance isn’t my thing.”
“Not your thing? Who doesn’t like love stories?”
I toss my towel down and gaze over at her. She’s so different than me. Snarky, fun-loving, up for anything . . .
“If you want to read it, go ahead.”
There’s silence as I stand at my dresser and dig in my makeup bag, starting to pick out what I need.
“Happiness is a direction, not a place.”
What?
I spin around. “What did you say?”
She raises her eyes. “You told me I could read it.”
Yeah, not out loud. But that line . . . I know that line.
“That’s a sentence in the book?” I go over to her to take a look.
Sure enough, it’s the first sentence. Weird. That same quote is inscribed on a gold compass my mom gave me when I was twelve.
A compass I gave Lucas the last time I saw him, in exchange for his hat. I thought it would ensure he’d come back to return it. It hasn’t.
And I don’t think it’s mere coincidence that a mysterious book from a mysterious sender containing a quote I’m familiar with has found me.
“Do you want me to read more?” Dylan asks.
No, not really. But I can’t help but feel a little curious now.
I shrug and walk to my dresser again. “Just a little more, sure.”
• • •
Jase . . .
Happiness is a direction, not a place. Or so they said.
I fucking hated that saying. Like I wouldn’t be happier anywhere else but here right now.
I ran my fingers through my short blond hair, smoothing away the mess the wind had made, and skirted around a couple at a high round table as I made my way to my father’s nook in the back. It was dark, secluded, and quiet, but it allowed him an excellent view of the action. And my father liked to see everything.
“The one thing I can count on about you”—he smiled like he’d swallowed something bad—“is that you can’t be counted on.”
“Where you’re concerned?” I replied lazily as I unbuttoned my jacket and slid into the semicircle booth without looking at him. “Of course not.”
I dumped my keys on the table and gestured to the waitress who made eye contact. She knew what I drank. I was here every Friday night at six o’clock sharp for the weekly rundown with my father.
“You’re right, Jase,” he agreed. “I expect too much from you apparently.”
His dry tone reeked of disappointment, but I didn’t give a shit. At twenty-six I was already disillusioned enough to feel sorry for my own infant kid. What kind of family did I bring him into?