Say You'll Remember Me, Page 4

  “You okay?” a guy asks.

  I open my eyes and focus on the ground. My eyes are red, I know they are. I can feel the puffiness of my skin. I take a deep breath, look up to explain I’m okay, and freeze.

  Holy hell. It’s the boy from Whack-A-Mole. He’s so much more breathtaking this close, and I have no idea how that’s possible.

  “Are those guys bothering you?” he asks.

  My forehead furrows. Yes, they are, but telling him the truth and inviting him into my problems seems wrong.

  “Since you’re so talkative, I’ll start the conversation,” he says. “If you want to get rid of those guys then stand here and talk to me, and I’ll stand here and talk to you. You can smile like you know me because it’s tough to make me smile, and it will seem fake. Then I can try to win you a stuffed animal. Won’t be a snake, but it will do. Those losers will catch on we’re friends. Eventually, they’ll keep walking, and then they’ll return to their loser frat house where they’ll play with themselves for the rest of the night because they don’t know how to properly talk to a girl.”

  I blink because all thought processes have taken a mini break. Either that or I’m having a stroke.

  “Just a smile. Maybe a few mumbled words. Tell me anything. Doesn’t have to be poetic. Just your lips moving in my direction without your current blank expression.”

  I blink again, many times, as the sights, sounds and smells of the midway blast back as if someone had pushed the play button on my life. I flash the perfectly practiced public smile I’ve used too many other times in my life.

  “I don’t know how to get them to leave me alone.” I pause, then the bitterness leaks out as well as a grim grin. “At least not without a baseball and a well-placed throw. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to continue their genetics.”

  The right side of his mouth tips up, and my eyes narrow on him. “I thought you didn’t smile easily.”

  “I have a twisted sense of humor, and I didn’t think a girl like you could make me laugh. You’ve done it twice now. That’s a record for the past year.”

  I bristle, still on the dangerous edge of anger. “A girl like me?”

  “Yeah, one that’s out of my league. Listen, if you want to get out of this situation without it escalating, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll take a step back, and you can do whatever you need. I’m all about helping, but I’m not looking to get into a fight. Your call on how this goes down, but if it’s violence, you’re on your own.”

  He says he doesn’t want to partake in violence, but there’s an essence about him that says he could drop anyone at any time and do it without breaking a sweat.

  He’s looking at me, I’m looking at him, and the flutter in my chest returns. “Thank you for the offer, but I can take care of myself.”

  Sure can. Just need that ball, a good throw, and then my mother will be seriously ticked off. I’m tired of people like those guys, and I’m also tired of pretending to be perfect. I rub my eyes at the exhaustion caused by the combination of both.

  “Don’t doubt you can,” he says, “but you really think they’re going to back off if you give them a reaction? And if you keep walking, do you think they’re going to leave you alone? They aren’t some third grade bully who’ll run when you sock him in the nose, and ignoring them isn’t working either. Guys like them get high off your anger, get off on your fear. Trust me on this one. I’ve spent almost a year in the presence of some real assholes.”

  “Why are you helping me?”

  He lifts one shoulder like he doesn’t know the answer or doesn’t care he has an answer, yet he answers anyway, “I have a younger sister. You met her earlier.”

  It’s not an explanation, but it is, and he inclines his head to the game. I move to stand in front of it, and as I go to retrieve money from my pocket, he shakes his head, and pulls out his wallet. “It’s on me.”

  The anger that had been boiling in me retreats because him paying for this game feels old-school James Dean. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, but don’t expect much from me. Odds are I’m going to lose.”

  The urge is to perform a sweep of the area to see where my tormentors have settled. Predators like that don’t give up easily on their prey.

  “They’re off to our right,” he says as if reading my mind. “Next to the popcorn stand, but don’t look at them. Don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they have power over you.”

  “They don’t have power over me.”

  “Good.” He lays five dollars on the table. The carnie takes a long look at him and then a long look at me as if we’re a defunct science experiment, and eventually places three balls on the ledge.

  The two of us are different. Complete sliding scale different. The only thing we have in common, as far as I can tell, is that he appears about my age and that we are both wearing shoes. My sandals to his scuffed combat boots. His sagging jeans with rips and white T-shirt to my ironed khaki shorts and fitted blue top. My diamond earrings and gold bracelet with a heart charm to his black belt that has metal studs and silver chain that hangs from his belt loop to his wallet.

  By looks, I should have more in common with the loser college boys, but it’s this guy I’m comfortable with. “What’s your name?”

  He throws the ball, and he’s right, he sucks at it. While he has unbelievable power, his aim’s completely off. The ball hits the back curtain with a loud thud, then drops to the floor. “Drix.”

  “Drix?” I repeat to make sure I heard him correctly.

  “Drix. It’s short for Hendrix. Like Jimi Hendrix.”

  “That’s cool.” Because it is.

  I wait for him to ask for my name, but he doesn’t. Instead he says, “Are you here alone?”

  He throws the second ball, and this time he hits the top of the three bottles, sending that one to the ground.

  “No. My parents are here. I’m supposed to meet them at the convention center. What about you? What happened to the people you were with? Or are you here alone now?”

  “Yes, but no.” Drix pulls his arm back, releases the ball and when the ball hits the bottom bottles, my heart lifts with the idea that he won, but only one of the bottles goes flying. The other stays completely untouched.

  He turns in my direction, but his gaze roams over my shoulder, then flickers to the left. Drix then glances behind him, and when he returns his attention to me he raises his eyebrows. “They appear to be gone.”

  That’s awesome news, but I’m still stuck on his answer of “yes, but no.” Honestly, I’m stuck on him. He’s a million questions without a single answer, and he makes me incredibly curious. “My parents weren’t thrilled about me hanging out alone at the midway, but I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal. It’s just Whack-A-Mole, you know?”

  “And a ball toss.”

  “And a ball toss. None of it should have been complicated.”

  “Shouldn’t have been.”

  “Elle!” Part of me is relieved to see Andrew craning his neck over the crowd. Another part of me is majorly disappointed. There aren’t many times in my life I’m left alone. Not many times I’m able to explore new places and people without someone hovering and not many opportunities when I would meet someone like Drix.

  “Elle,” Andrew calls again. I wave at him, hoping it will buy me a few seconds, and he waves back in a way that tells me he needs me to walk in his direction. That works well for me.

  “Is that a friend of yours?” Drix asks.

  “Yes, but no.” I borrow his answer because it’s apropos. Andrew’s a few years older. More friend of our family than a personal friend of mine, and I don’t like the idea of explaining that my parents think I need a babysitter.

  Drix’s mouth twitches at my words, and my lips also edge upward. “I just made you smile a third time. Is this a Guinness Book of
World Records thing?”

  “I liked your answer.”

  “I’m just creative like that.”

  This time, there’s a short chuckle, and I like that sound almost more than I like him smiling. I kick at a rock before gathering my courage to meet his eyes again. “Thank you for helping me out.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I’m waiting, and I don’t have much time. He needs to ask my name. He needs to ask for my number. I’ll give him both—in a nanosecond. “I’ve got to go.”

  “It was nice to meet you,” he says with all the smooth edginess that can only belong to a gentle rebel. It’s like his voice was created to slay unsuspecting hearts.

  Adrenaline courses through my veins because if I do this and he rejects me, I might as well tattoo a big fat L to my forehead and die of humiliation. “I’ll give you my number if you want or you can give me yours...if you’d like. If you’d like to talk again or...hang. My name’s Elle, by the way.”

  Drix rubs the back of his head like what I said made him uncomfortable, and I seriously want to crawl behind the game and die. I’m being rejected.

  “Look.” He hesitates, and my entire body flashes sickeningly vomit hot. “I meant what I said earlier. You’re out of my league. Way out of my league. And it would be easy for you to think I’m a good guy because I stepped in.”

  And because he paid money to let a little kid win, but hey...who’s keeping score?

  Me. I’m keeping score.

  “I just got home from being gone for a year, and I’m only interested in making friends. Besides, I don’t want you to think I stepped in because I wanted your number. I ask for your number, and it’ll come off that I’m saving the day to get something out of it. That’s not why I did it. I stepped in because not all guys are assholes.”

  His voice just doesn’t melt hearts, his words do, too, and this guy doesn’t want my number. As far as rejections go, it could have gone worse.

  “Let’s go, Elle.” Andrew cups both of his hands to his mouth. The sand must be narrowing down in the hourglass.

  “Well...” Find something graceful. “Thanks for stepping in when you did...both times.”

  Drix inclines his head, and his dark eyes soften in such a way that I may as well become a puddle on the ground. “Anytime.”

  Why doesn’t the world have a million guys like this? That should be one of my father’s political agendas—create more gentlemen.

  Drix turns away from me and walks toward the midway. I stay rooted to the spot because I don’t want this moment to end. Some people live their whole lives for the past few minutes I just had, and I want to savor it a little longer.

  This time, though, he glances over his shoulder to look at me. I smile. He smiles. That would make it number four. Guess I’m just talented like that, and then with a sigh, I leave.

  Hendrix

  “Let me make sure I have this correct.” Cynthia leans forward, places her elbows on the table and has this starry-eyed take-me-to-bed expression that’s going to get me into trouble. So far, my brother isn’t nibbling the bait, but I don’t have much luck left. Axle hooking up with someone involved in my future won’t do me any favors.

  “You’ve taken on custody of not only Hendrix, but your younger sister, as well?”

  Axle is in the folding chair next to me, and he draws his long legs in as she edges farther in his direction. Cynthia introduced herself as my “handler” when we arrived ten minutes ago for the press conference. She’s in a pink dress top, black pants and suit coat, and she’s good-looking. Not as beautiful as Elle, though. Not as charismatic either.

  My lips slightly edge up at remembering the fire in her eyes when she described her idea of taking out those guys with a baseball. I almost stepped back because I wanted to see her do it.

  Have to admit, the girl put the fear of God into me. She had the most intimidating blue eyes. Eyes that made my heart pound, eyes that made me feel like she saw past my skin and into every crack, crevice and shadow. Eyes that made me feel alive. Eyes that also made me want to hide.

  Girls like that are one in a billion. Shots with girls like that are even rarer. Another tally mark in the column of things I lost.

  Cynthia laughs too loudly, and my brother and I share a side-eye-what-the-hell because Axle’s comment about feeling too young to be a dad wasn’t funny.

  For the fifth time since I put on the white button-down shirt, black dress pants and tie, I pull at the collar. Between the humidity and the pressure at my neck, I feel like I’m choking. The convention center is air-conditioned, but there’s also a thousand people worth of body heat.

  We’re sitting at a table near center stage. When Axle and I first got here, a group of kids were tap-dancing. They’ve left, so have their parents, and now reporters with cameras are preparing for the press conference. Time feels like it’s speeding up while my thoughts are slowing down.

  “Yes,” Axle says to bring the conversation back around. “To taking on Holiday and Drix.”

  “You’re so giving.” Cynthia twirls her black hair around her finger. She’s about Axle’s age, and I don’t know if it should bother me how inexperienced she acts for her job. Flirting with the older brother of the person you’re in charge of should be at the top of the Don’t Do playbook. “Not many people would give up so much of their life for their family.”

  I can’t argue with that, but I’d still like her to leave us alone.

  “How does your girlfriend feel about all this?”

  Axle’s chair squeaks when he scoots back. “I’m single.”

  “I didn’t know. Sorry.” Cynthia appears anything but sorry as she scribbles a few notes. “I know you said your father is out of the picture. How about Hendrix’s mother?”

  “They both gave custody to me,” Axle says.

  “I’m aware, but are they both out of the picture?”

  “Legally,” Axle answers, and I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He and I haven’t talked about my mom or our dad yet. I haven’t heard from Mom since my first month in juvie. Odds are she’s drinking away her problems. That’s where she was before I moved in with her, and where she was while I lived with her. Can’t imagine that’s changed. For Dad—Axle, Holiday and I have never been more than playmates for when he was alone and bored.

  “Legally?” Raised eyebrow on her part.

  “They won’t be problems.”

  Satisfied with the answer, she moves on. “Do you want to run through what you’re going to say again, Hendrix?”

  I didn’t want to go through it the first time. “No.”

  Cynthia’s cell vibrates. She checks the message then lands her narrowed gaze on me. “You say exactly what’s on that sheet. Feel free to read from it onstage. No one expects you to have it memorized. We will open it up to the press, and I have two reporters who have agreed to ask my questions. I have a few prepared answers typed up for you. Memorize those so you can rattle them off. Those I don’t want you to read from the paper.”

  Axle frowns. “That happens? People are okay with you prepping the media?”

  She waves his question away. “It’s not something we do often, but we do want to seem transparent with this program. With Hendrix only being seventeen, we have two reporters who agreed to take it easy on him and ask simple questions. Oh, and, Axle, make sure you give me Hendrix’s cell number.”

  “I don’t have a cell,” I say.

  “I know.” A bat of her eyelashes at Axle. “The moment you get it, Axle, I need that number. I have to be able to reach Hendrix to give him plans. But, of course, I’ll use your cell in the meantime. And, Hendrix?”

  Axle’s phone pings, and a dark shadow crosses his face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask in a low tone. Cynthia’s close enough to hear, but she’s not included in this conversation.

/>   Axle slides his cell to me. The text is from Dominic: Holiday’s boyfriend showed.

  Fantastic. Last I checked, the ass wasn’t invited. “Go.”

  “Drix,” Axle starts, but I shake my head.

  “Go. I’m good.” My sister is more important than being grilled by my handler.

  There’s a pout to Cynthia’s mouth, and she gives sad eyes when she tells my brother goodbye. Cynthia watches him leave, and when she turns back to me, she giggles over some joke no one told. It all seems forced, and it places me on edge. I drum my fingers on the table.

  “You know Marcus would have been a better fit for your poster child. He was the real leader.” I don’t know why I say it other than it’s the truth. Marcus was my best friend through this past year’s entire ordeal.

  Cynthia regards me with interest, as if she’s shocked I might have something intelligent to add to any conversation. “The position of spokesperson came down to you and Marcus, but the governor and his team believed you would be the better fit.”

  “He was the real leader.”

  “You became one, as well.”

  “I only became one because he pushed me to be better.”

  She flips her cell phone in her hand as she weighs our conversation. “The home life you have returned to is more stable than his. We believe that means you have a better shot of being successful in your return to society. It doesn’t mean Marcus won’t be successful, but it will be a tougher road.”

  “Should you be telling me this?” I ask, if only to annoy her like she annoys me. “Doesn’t that break confidentiality?”

  “I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  True story. Marcus and I became tight, and the program’s aware of this, even commenting on it several times. Thinking of him causes a sense of uneasiness, as if I’m unbalanced. I haven’t heard from him yet. Yeah, it hasn’t been long, but after talking to someone day in and day out for a year, I miss him.