As I race up to High Street, I turn right and ease on the brake as I pull up next to the curb in front of a shop on the corner of Sutton and park my bike.
Standing and gazing through the old wooden French doors with chipped red paint, I see everything looks the same as it was yesterday when I came here. Cobwebs block my view, but I can make out the broken-down counter of the old café, the stools with cracked vinyl, the empty, dusty shelves, and a chair overturned on the floor with random bits of debris scattered around.
Stepping to the left of the door, I peer through the display window, its shelves also coated with a thick layer of dust.
I would take those shelves out. Potential customers want to see the inside of a store before they enter, so yeah . . . take out the shelves, so they can see what kind of place it is.
I chew my bottom lip, the excitement sending off a wave of butterflies in my stomach.
I’d also paint the outside brick a cream color, like a pastry, and then I’d paint the doors turquoise, my favorite color. It would make it bright, like summer. Inviting, happy, quaint . . .
Perfect for a summer business.
I’d also add a few tables with umbrellas out front, a menu with not only pastries and baked goods, but also an assortment of refreshers and maybe some ice cream.
And I’d leave the doors open all day, so the neighborhood can smell the breads and sweets all the way down the street.
“Hey,” I hear someone call to me.
I turn my head and see a guy come around from behind me. He’s wearing jeans, a white T-shirt with writing on it, and he’s young, probably about my age, but I’ve never seen him at my school.
“What’s your name?” he asks, and I spot a group of guys standing down the sidewalk from where he came, talking and laughing.
I turn away, looking back at the old bakery. The For Lease sign in the window has a phone number with it. I’m not trying to be rude to him, but he doesn’t get personal information about me simply because he thinks he’s cute. Especially if I don’t know him.
“You go to Falls High, right?”
I ignore him again, turning for my bike to go home.
But my cap is plucked off my head. I whip around, seeing him hold it high and away from me, grinning.
He waves the hat back and forth. “What do I have to do to get you to talk to me?”
“Asshole,” I say. “There. I talked. Now give me the hat back.”
But he just laughs.
I dart out my hand, trying to snatch it back. “Give it to me!”
That hat hasn’t left my possession in four years. If I’m not wearing it, I’m carrying it on my backpack. Lucas will come home someday, and he’ll want it back. My stomach starts to churn, thinking about how I can’t lose it.
“It’s kind of old and ratty, isn’t it?” the guy, whose name I don’t care to find out, comments. “I can take you to a Cubs game and get you a new one.”
I shoot forward again, grabbing for the hat, but I just miss it as he pulls it away.
“You still didn’t tell me your name,” he chides, smiling like he just loves this little game of his.
I bare my teeth, breathing hard. Moving forward, I slam my palm into his chest, pushing him backward and making him stumble. Taking my chance, I reach out and grab the hat out of his hand.
He shakes with laughter and grins at me as I squeeze the cap in my fist.
But then his face falls and his eyes focus over my head. “Can I help you?” he asks, an annoyed tone to his voice.
A shadow falls over me, and I feel someone at my back. Twisting my head, I see Jared, my oldest brother, hovering over me and looking at Asswipe like he’s just dying for the kid to give him a reason.
“Oh, no,” I hear someone say. I look behind the guy and see another kid heading up to us. He swings an arm around the shoulder of the guy talking to us and pulls him back. “I’m sorry, Jared. He’s new in town.” He pulls the guy back until they both turn around and head away, the scared one mumbling something in the new kid’s ear.
And then they’re gone.
I sigh and twist around, facing Jared. “I handled it,” I tell him. “You’re really embarrassing sometimes.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “The sister of the head of JT Racing driving a bicycle is embarrassing.”
I growl under my breath and pull the hat down on my head again. I’m not having this conversation. Jared, Madoc, and Jax had just been waiting for me to turn sixteen, get my license, and pick out a car. They couldn’t wait to work on it, make modifications, whatever . . .
They’re still frothing at the mouth for me to change my mind.
“Do you want a ride home?” he asks. “I was heading there, anyway.”
I glance at his pickup, parked at the curb, with his eight-year-old son, James, and Madoc’s daughter, A.J., sitting in the backseat.
But I turn away. “I’m cool. Heading for the biker bar first,” I say nonchalantly, climbing on my bike. “Maybe do some cocaine. Have unprotected sex.”
“Wait!” he calls.
He heads for his truck, still idling. “This was sent to our house accidentally.” He reaches through the passenger side window and pulls out a yellow package.
Stepping up, he tosses me the bubble mailer, and I catch it, instantly feeling something solid inside. Turning it over, I see that it’s addressed to me, but the top left-hand corner is empty.
“There’s no return address.” I glance up, holding out the package to him. “You don’t want to check it for anthrax first?”