Lost (Captive Heart #1) (2 page)

E
ven as a seven-year-old
, I know this isn’t normal.

It’s the middle of the summer and instead of hanging outside, riding my bike and enjoying the end of the warm months without school, I’m lacing up my tap shoes and packing my sheet music for piano lessons after dance class.

A shriek from outside my window has me walking towards the glass. And sure enough, there he is. Tucker Lynch, racing down the street on his bike, making tire tracks as he stops short and all but goes over the handle bars. It doesn’t matter that he barely got his stitches out a week ago after he accidentally dragged a fishing hook across his jaw.

He’s fearless. And cool. And will never notice me.

“Charlotte Ann, it is almost time to go. You better be packed and ready!” My mother calls from downstairs.

Of course I’m packed and ready. Because if I wasn’t, she’d come up here and yell. Tell me how foolish and awful I am. Complain that she got saddled with a child who can’t do anything right.

I should go down, but something keeps me here, peering out at the cute boy next door. Next week we’ll be in third grade, and I think maybe it will be the year that Tucker and his friends finally ask me to hang out with them. I’ve been planning and making lists all summer of how to act, what to do and how to talk to become popular. Because if I become popular, then Tucker will notice me.

“CHARLOTTE ANN! Now!”

I sigh, the dread of getting in the car with her and going to dance class knotting my belly up. I don’t even like tap anymore, although I’m the best in the class. I have to be, or I get punished. And I can’t say I don’t want to go anymore, because then I would get punished. I don’t even think there was a time where I actually wanted to do tap, or piano for that matter. But I do them because my mom says that I love them. That she only makes me go because she doesn’t want to see me quit something I love. I’m not sure why that would matter, since I don’t even like it.

“Hey kiddo, have fun!” My dad waves as I pass him in the living room, the Phillies game on full blast.

How come I can’t hang around and watch baseball or something instead of going to lessons I don’t want to learn about anyhow?

“Get in the car now, before we’re late!” My mom shoos me, her long brown curls tied up in a scarf to keep them off her neck in this heat. She’s in her typical spandex shorts and T-shirt, everything just a little too round. I didn’t know I had a fat mom until Melody and Alyssa teased me about it two weeks ago in dance class.

I hustle out to the car, dumping my bags and cases into the backseat.

“What are you, a mime?” A boy’s mocking voice had me whipping my head around.

Tucker. There he stood. Talking to me as he rested his scraped elbows on his handlebars.

“No, it’s my dance leotard.”

“Did you just say you were a tard!?” He cracks up laughing, my cheeks burning bright and hot.

Of course my mom chose that moment to interrupt us before I could launch a clever comeback at him. “Charlotte, let’s go! Hello Tucker, tell your mom I say hi and that we are on for dinner on Friday.”

“Will do, Mrs. M.” He didn’t say anything to me, just stares with an expression I can’t read.

But as my mom pulls out of the driveway, I can’t help but look back to see if maybe he’s watching us. And when I do, he is.

He holds two fingers up, saluting me with a peace sign. So I hold mine up, mimicking him as my heart thrums in my chest.

I
hadn’t been
afraid of Tucker until he held that gun square between my eyes and I felt the barrel weighing down on my skull. How easily he could have just pulled that tiny trigger, sent my memories and thoughts flying until they landed on the wall behind me.

I can’t die today, I haven’t even lived.

That’s what I had thought when he threatened to kill me. And it was one of the only logical things still running through my brain, like a stock ticker, as I sat in the back alley of some abandoned building, the fear and anxiety ratcheting through my veins causing me to shake uncontrollably.

And even though I couldn’t control my limbs, I tried to stay stock-still. Because before Tucker had disappeared into the decrepit house he’d parked my car next to, he’d promised that if I even unlocked the doors, I would pay.

The locks jump at that second, the mechanical knobs shooting up and causing me to scream and claw my nails into my forearms where I’d been gripping them.

Tucker folds himself into the driver’s seat, a little brown paper bag clutched in his fist. “Did I scare you?”

His smile is grotesque; the teeth that he exposes are stained and filled with grime. He’s finally taken his hood off, those wild brown curls are matted to his head and are the only thing I recognized about him now.

His once boyishly handsome face is now gaunt, his cheeks sunken in from what I suspect is malnutrition. His eyes are glassy and his coloring is pale, his lips chapped. And there are two prominent sores on either side of his mouth, puss and blood oozing from them. I don’t know what’s happened to the boy I once loved.

I stare out the window, not wanting to answer him or even believe that I’m here. I should have listened to my gut. The rustling of the paper bag has me turning just a second later, though.

“I know you probably have never done a single drug in your life … but I’m offering if you want to try. God, you wouldn’t know what good felt like if I stuck a needle in your arm myself, but I’m not saying I won’t try!”

Tucker has the gun between his knees on the seat, his hands busy rolling up his sleeves and tying a rubber looking string around his bicep. My eyes fall to the crook of his arm. It looks like a pincushion.

“Tucker …” I gasp involuntarily.

He looks up and must see how shocked I am. “Oh please. The rest of us didn’t have life served to us on a silver platter, Char. Get over it.”

I have to look away when he preps the needle and presumably shoots the drugs into his arm. But I know when he does it. Because he makes this sound, not a growl and not a moan. I can’t define it with anything but …
euphoria
. That is the sound he makes.

“I can’t believe you just did that.” I really shouldn’t talk, but I can’t help it.

“Oh shut the fuck up, Charlotte.”

I turn to face him again. “They’ll watch the security tapes soon. They might have seen them already. You should run while you still can.”

And despite my better judgment, I want him to escape. With all he’s done to me this morning, and I still want to protect Tucker. Just like I always have. Even if it means I end up hurting.

“And what the fuck do you think I’m doing?”

Tucker starts the car, throwing us into reverse and tunneling down the narrow alleyway. And that’s when I realize he’s running.

But he’s also taking me with him.

“No, Tucker. Let me out!” I start pulling on the door handle, which won’t give thanks to the locks. I could unlock it, try and jump out. But the way he’s speeding toward the interstate now, I’d probably break every bone in my body. Or die anyway.

“Can’t do that Char, not with everything you’ve seen.”

If he was sluggish and dazed before, he’s the exact opposite now. It’s like someone shot raw adrenaline into his system, which technically, I guess he did with the heroin.

He’s tapping his big hands incessantly on the steering wheel, his foot practically pressing the gas pedal all the way down to the floor. At least I can hope we might be pulled over, because he’s definitely going about thirty miles-per-hour over the speed limit.

“Where are you going, Tucker? They’re going to find you; they’ll watch the tapes sooner or later. Let’s pull over, let’s figure this out!”
Please God, somebody watch that security footage soon.

“Don’t fuck with me, Charlotte. And besides, it’s
we
. Where are
we
going? Don’t you remember telling me once that we were in this together. Fat fucking lie!”

Tucker cackles, the maniacal, sarcastic laugh hurting my ears.

“What the hell happened to you?” I whisper, mystified by this man sitting in front of me. So different from the vibrant boy I once knew.

He takes his chocolate brown eyes off the road, scorching me with a threatening, serious gaze. It’s the first time during this horrifying morning that I’ve actually seen a tiny glimpse of the old Tucker. “This is what it looks like when everyone and everything in your life abandons you.”

P
laying
on a broken bone is nothing new to me. Except right now, I can’t quite catch a football with my finger bent backwards.

“Just snap it back into place, Tucker. Jesus fucking Christ you’re so goddamn lazy!” My dad booms at me in his thick Texas accent. “Never mind that you couldn’t catch the ball, you ran the route wrong. Jesus!”

Ah, just the speech I was hoping to get from my father on Thanksgiving. We came outside to play a nice round of flag football with my uncles and cousins, and of course it’s progressed into a training session while everyone stands here pitying me. But never saying anything to stop it.

My Uncle Jeremy trots over to me, a sad smile almost turning down his mouth. “Hey, Tuck. Let me take a look.”

I guess my dad doesn’t need to come check on his kid, what with his pediatrician brother handling any emotional baggage. What a prick.

“Looks like it’s just popped out, but not broken. You think you can take it if I pop it back in?”

I nod, biting my tongue until I taste blood. But at least it will keep me from screaming or crying. My dad will only get madder if I show the pain. Uncle Jeremy takes my wrist in one hand, my finger in the other, and I brace for the jarring flash of agony.

And then there it is. Hot and searing and blinding. I want to collapse and writhe on the ground, but I lock my knees, pushing through my suffering. After a minute or two the torment winds down to a throbbing ache.

“Can we get back to the game now you pansies?” Dad is annoyed that I’ve taken even a second to address an injury.

Ever since he discovered I could run a route and read a play pretty well, coupled with my bigger-than-average hands and ability to vertical leap higher than any of the other nine-year-olds on my team, it’s been football. Day in and day out. For the last two years I’ve trained in the winter and spring, joining travel leagues and camps in the summer and busting my ass to win seasons in the fall. If I lose a game, I get punished. Or worse, all of his attention goes into figuring out why I lost.

“Rick, he needs to rest this. Let Tuck sit the rest of this one out.” Uncle Jeremy looks unsure if he should even be saying something, but at least there is one responsible adult on this field vouching for me.

Dad looks like he might shoot steam out of his ears at any moment. “Fine. But you better go inside and ice that. Tell your mother dinner better be ready soon.”

Dad’s other favorite pastime, besides living out his dreams through his kid, is treating his wife like she’s a servant.

I run out of our backyard without another word, just thankful that I’m able to escape for even an hour. And just to get even with him, I don’t go inside to ice my finger. Instead I head across the street, keen on cutting through the neighborhood and maybe ending up in the park a couple streets over.

I’m nearly through the Morsey’s lot when someone stops me. “What are you doing?”

I turn, already knowing who I’ll see when I do. Charlotte Morsey, sitting on the steps to her deck, a book in her lap. I pretend not to notice when my throat gets dry and my hands start to sweat at the sight of her. She’s just so pretty. Not that I’d ever admit it to my friends. Because Char is also a loser. She likes to read for fun and barely has any friends at school.

But she is really pretty. With her big brown eyes and fluffy brown hair that falls almost to her hips. And the way she always smiles at me. No one ever smiles at me the way Char does.

“Just going over to the playground.” I notice that I’m still holding my limp finger in my other hand.

“But it’s Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah well, my dad is an asshole if you didn’t notice.” She gasps when I swear. “Sorry for cursing.”

I don’t know why I apologize, but I suddenly feel bad for blurting out my new favorite word in front of her.

“That’s okay. You can come sit with me for a little if you want.”

I bring my eyes up from where they were concentrated on my scuffed shoes to look at her. She looks … peaceful. “You sure I won’t be like, distracting you?”

Char shakes her head, her big eyelashes blinking and fluttering against her cheeks. I’m mesmerized. “Not at all. I just finished a chapter anyway.”

Hesitantly I join her on the steps, planting my butt next to hers on the wooden planks. Our bodies are so close that I accidentally knock knees with her. “What are you reading?”

“Nancy Drew. I like mysteries.”

Hmm. I hadn’t read a book that wasn’t assigned by school in … well, forever. I barely read those books.

“So, what was your dad doing over there that made you want to leave?”

This was why I liked Char. She kind of always knew what I was thinking, and wasn’t afraid to be serious. My guy friends are okay, but all they want to do is goof off.

“We were playing flag football, and he made it all about me. What I was doing wrong, how I could improve. I hate football.”

Char peers over at me, angling her chin so she can look at my face. “I thought you loved football?”

“I used to. Back when it was fun. Now it just feels like a chore.”

She nods. “I get that.”

We sit silently for a few minutes. My thoughts about her eat at me until I can’t help the question that pops out. “Hey, how come you have like … no friends at school?”

Now it’s her turn to be self-conscious. “Well, I can’t really hang out for one. I’m always at dance lessons or piano or something. So I never really have playdates. And well … I just never feel like I’m normal enough to fit in with anyone.”

She shakes her head. “Never mind. You wouldn’t get it. You are like the coolest kid in school.”

My heart hurts for her. “I get it more than you think.”

“Yeah? Is that why you ignore me at school?”

I have the decency to look and feel like crap. “I … uh. I’m sorry about that. It’s kind of an asshole move.”

“Yeah. It’s definitely an asshole move.”

We both laugh at her curse. I bump her shoulder with mine and feel a tingling in my hand that has nothing to do with my sore finger. “Well, if you let me sit with you on your deck sometimes, I’ll talk to you at school.”

“Promise?” She sticks out her pinky, waiting for me to grasp it with mine.

“Promise.” I link my digit with hers.

Char smiles that smile that I think can only be for me. “Well, we’re in this together now.”