Neverlost (Melodies and Memories) Read online

  Neverlost

  By Kodilynn Calhoun

  A Melodies and Memories Novel

  Running from the past, from the dark memories she keeps locked away deep inside herself, 19-year-old Teagan Blakely is making it. Sure, she’s broke and working two dead-end jobs just to make ends meet, but she’s finally on her own and despite the pain she’s suffered, she’s still here. For Teagan, that’s good enough. All she has to do is paste on a cheery smile every morning and serve coffee to the people who stand in line, day in and day out. Simple enough?

  But who says the smile she wears has to be fake?

  Aspiring musician Elias St. James happens upon the coffeeshop quite by accident, but the moment he lays eyes upon the beautiful yet haunted girl taking orders, his mind freezes up and his tongue goes numb. There’s something about Teagan, something deeper than the sadness and pain he sees in her rainy-day eyes, that reaches out and strums the chords of his soul and from that day on, Elias makes it his duty to make her smile, to bring back the sunshine in her eyes—and in her heart.

  Making her smile is one thing, but getting such a girl to fall in love with him? That’s a different story…

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2014 Kodilynn Calhoun

  Cover Art Designed by Kodilynn Calhoun

  Lyrics to Baker’s Dozen Copyright 2013-2014 Dakota Carey and used with permission.

  Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. The names, places, characters, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  To the ones who told me to step outside my comfort zone, to try something a little bit different, a little more edgy for a change. To be true to myself. This one’s for you.

  And to my brother, whose lyrics inspired the beginning sparks of this book. Thank you. Keep being amazing.

  Neverlost

  One

  Elias

  Rain slaps against the windshield furiously, coming down almost too fast for my windshield wipers to keep up with. They whoosh across the glass—thwick, slish, thwick, slish—in tune to the beat playing out in my head, nameless yet welcome nonetheless. I don’t really think there’s a time when there’s not music of some sort making its way across my mind and honestly? I’m glad. I think the silence would be a little bit creepy.

  I pull up next to the Cambridge dormitories where my friend Jake Hammond stands, shoulders hunched and head ducked against the storm as the wind jerks and tugs at his coat. I pop the locks as he strides towards my truck. He swings the door open and climbs inside, soaking the upholstery.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of using an umbrella?” I joke and he shoots me the coldest death glare his exhausted, coffee-deprived self can muster. Jake’s always been kind of a dickhat, but in the mornings before he gets his first cup of coffee? Watch out.

  I drive in silence. This is a ritual by now. Wake up early, swing by the dorms and pick Jake up, head over to our usual coffee digs, which is a little drive through knock-off Starbucks. Once Jake gets some caffeine in him, he’ll come out of his sleep-coma. I know better than to make small talk until then, so coffee it is.

  But of course, this morning has to be difficult.

  “God, you have to be shitting me!” Jake snarls, slapping his hands down on the dashboard like a little kid who’s just been told he can’t get a Happy Meal. The road the coffee shop is on is completely flooded over, the street drains unable to keep up with how fast it’s coming down out there. Someone in a big red Ford truck tried to make it across the lake of water, only to get stuck in the middle of the street. Jake makes a sound like a wounded moose and I have to laugh, which earns me another glower.

  “Chill, bro. I know of a place,” I tell him, putting the truck into reverse and turning back onto the main road, water spraying up from my tires. I’d overheard a few chicks in class talking about this little bakery slash café; they said their pastries were to die for and if we’re being honest, I love me some donuts. Takes a little bit of looking, but I find the place, pull into the parking lot, and turn the truck off.

  Jake looks at me, slack-jawed. “You’re kidding. Right?” The little place—called Infiniti’s—is decked out in pink and purple neon with swirling decorations on the windows that are probably supposed to resemble frosting. Well it’s a bit girly, but between you and me, I’ve never been that macho. Jake, on the other hand… This is probably a blow to his oversized ego. Ah well, there’s always a price to pay for caffeine.

  I raise a brow at him and shrug, then jump out of the truck and sprint through the rain to the front doors. A cheery chime of bells announces my arrival and upon entering, the heavenly scent of rich coffee and the decadent smell of cinnamon buns hit me and it’s like a nose orgasm. My stomach growls loudly, demanding to be fed, and I grin. Hot damn—jackpot.

  The bells chime again and Jake shoves past me to get in line with a grunt. See what I mean? Not a morning person.

  I let my gaze wind up the small line of people, to the barista taking orders. Decked out in a blue apron, with her cocoa-dark hair pulled up in a simple twist, she’s beautiful—like a ray of sunshine peering through the storm clouds outside, or the Greek goddess Persephone coming up from the bowels of the Underworld to greet the spring—but when she looks at me, our eyes meet and the weight of her gaze slams into me hard enough to hurt. Blue eyes like rain, so deep and dark and soulful, and inside, I can see the pain sliced into her soul like scars.

  On the outside she’s smiling, but look past that smile, that perfect porcelain mask, and you can see her loneliness. How can a girl so beautiful look so utterly alone in the world? She stares at me for what seems like forever and it’s like she’s reached out and touched the thread of my soul. Then she looks away and the spell is broken, but I’m left standing there, my head spinning damn near off my shoulders.

  Hell.

  The line moves slowly, the seconds ticking by like dripping molasses. Jake orders a tall coffee, straight black with a double shot of espresso, and pays with a handful of wadded cash from his pocket. My heart’s begun its rapid descent through my chest as I step up to the counter, to face the girl with her rainy-day eyes, and I’m afraid of saying something stupid, but I don’t need to worry because my mind’s gone blank. Words evade me. She’s a perfect stranger—I don’t even know her name so how can someone like this have such a pull over me?

  I don’t realize I’m just standing there, staring at her like a dolt, until Jake elbows me hard enough to knock me into the counter and I glance between him and the barista, my face warming up.

  She offers an amused hint of a smile. “Can I help you?”

  “Sorry, yeah. I need…” A quick glance at the menu tells me nothing, the pink text on the black chalkboard illegible to my numbed mind. “Can I get a tall frappe and a half-dozen of your best donuts?”

  “What flavors?”

  “Err…” My heart is skipping beats at random, words—lyrics to a song I suddenly need to write—swim through my mind and I’m grasping to remember them. “I don’t know, what are your favorites?” She blinks and looks at me like she can’t believe I just asked that, like her opinion doesn’t usually matter, and I plunder on. “Surprise me?”

  She turns around to fill a small pastry box with donuts off the racks, still warm and dripping with icing. Jake grabs his coffee off the counter and strolls over to the door, grumpy, probably because we’ve been here so long, but my focus is back on the girl. She slides the box and the frappe across the counter and I hand her the money.
She punches in some numbers and the cash register clangs, the door slides out.

  She smiles, but once again it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Have a good one.”

  Before I can think about what I’m doing, I touch the back of her hand and take a glance at her nametag. “Thanks for everything, Teagan. Have an awesome day.” Then I quickly walk away before I can stumble over more words, the cup of coffee ice cold in my grip, but— “Wait!”—and I realize I’ve left the box of donuts on the counter. Shit. “Sorry,” I say around a laugh, tuck the box under my arm, and usher Jake out the door.

  He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to—I’m already mentally climbing all over myself for acting like a complete spazz. Sure she’s beautiful, but she’s just another girl. Just…damn. I climb into the truck and set the donuts on the center console and stick my frappe in one of the cup holders. Rainwater drips down my face and I swipe it away with the back of my hoodie sleeve.

  “Really?” is all Jake says, but now that my heart’s caught up with my head, I’m grinning like mad. Jake groans and fists his hand, punching me on the shoulder hard enough to smart. “Come on, let’s go. We’re gonna be late for class and unlike you, I actually care about my grades.”

  I glance down at the clock. He’s right. “Shit.” I kick the truck into gear and take off, but not before I reach for a donut. It’s sticky and warm and melts in my mouth, blueberries and cream with vanilla icing and just like that, my mind is back on the girl named Teagan with her soulful blue eyes and her almost-there smile.

  I know where I’m going tomorrow morning.

  Two

  Teagan

  I watch as the pretty boy and his beartrap of a friend dart off into the rain-soaked parking lot, the bells on the doors chiming their goodbyes, and for a moment all I can do is stand there. He thanked me. Thanked me. For what? For coffee and donuts—for doing my job? A minimum wage, dead-end job that I usually hate? Even though it’s stupid, my body goes all tingly and warm as a smile plays at the corners of my lips.

  He was sweet. A little spacey, but…sweet. Too bad guys like him are few and far between.

  Then the next person in line slams her hand down on the counter, making me jump as she taps perfectly manicured fingernails across the Formica and snaps, “I don’t have all day,” and just like that, my good mood goes sour like milk left out overnight. I force a cheerful, fake smile and apologize—I have to be this nicey-nice chick to the customers because the customer’s always right—but as she struts off, I flip her the bird under the counter.

  Bitch.

  I wish I could look forward to the end of my endless shift, but the minute I clock out, I have classes that I didn’t have time to study for, classes that I’m praying like hell I don’t fail. After that, a five hour shift at the library because college isn’t cheap and I’ve long since left behind the security of home, but being poor is worth it to be away from him.

  Even though I hate working such social jobs—mainly because I don’t care much for people or their shitty attitudes—they pay the bills and besides, if I’m working, my thoughts aren’t off on a rampage, so that’s a plus. So day after day, I box myself into the “happy corner” of my mind and do my job with a smile, even if it’s a big, fat lie.

  Kind of like my life.

  The day is long and emotionally draining and by the time evening rolls along to paint everything dark and wet and gloomy, my feet hurt and I have a headache and I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep. I grab a convenience store soda and go home to my apartment. It’s a tiny cracker-box and isn’t much to look at. I’ve only lived here a few months now and it’s not quite home, but it’s a place to live and it’s mine, so I consider that good enough.

  My key gets stuck in the lock and only comes loose after I jiggle the handle for like five minutes. The door opens into the kitchen-living room combo and I breathe in the soft, slightly musty scent of the old building. Home sweet home. I double lock it behind me, throw my bag down on the tattered plaid couch, and kick off my shoes. My feet just about cry in relief.

  Digging through the cupboards and my mostly empty fridge, I settle on stale Rice Krispies and an overripe banana, chopping up the fruit and layering it in a big bowl. The cereal crackles and pops when I pour milk over the top and I sit down on the edge of the kitchen chair and take a bite. Not great, but better than being hungry, right? Because going to bed hungry is one of the worst feelings in the world.

  The clock ticks loudly, passing the seconds as I take a bite, chew, swallow, and let my mind loose of its leash. It wanders back to the coffeeshop boy. He’d been pretty, if not a bit preppy, with dusty blond hair dampened by the rain and chocolate brown eyes, but the thing I remember the most? He had beautiful hands—pianist’s hands, long elegant fingers that wrapped around the Infiniti’s cup like it was a long-lost lover.

  His fingers and his slightly goofy smile.

  He’ll probably never come back in—and the thought makes my heart twinge. I’m not sure why I’m suddenly sad. I shouldn’t be. He’s not my type anyway. Or rather, I’m not his.

  I’m not anyone’s type.

  As I take my second to last bite, there’s a loud thump from the upstairs apartment. A muffled scream, followed by low laughter, and the thudding continues in a steady, rhythmic beat, like they’re having violent make-up sex on an old bed and just like that, I snap. My stomach bottoms out and the Rice Krispies turn sharp like knives in my throat and I can barely choke them down, my mind flinging open the doors to my memories, doors that I wish I could lock up and never release.

  I press my eyes shut, trying to conjure happy thoughts—fluffy kittens and babies and the smell of roses and the soft lapping waves of the ocean—please, don’t do this to me, but my mind veers to that dark corner where Little Me huddles under a blanket, crying silently because she doesn’t dare utter a sound.

  The scent of his cologne, sharp and spicy. The scratch of his whiskery cheek across sensitive skin. The bang-bang of the old bed frame slamming into the pastel pink wall. The sounds of his moans and piggish grunts, my shallow breaths coming fast and scared as his weight pins me down, the scream building in my throat as he—

  No. No. No. I shake my head furiously, trying in vain to shake the memories from embedding themselves deeper in my mind. Swallowing hard, I dump the rest of my cereal in the sink and dart to the bathroom. Shutting myself in, I crank the faucet to hot, turn on the shower, let the sound of rushing water and the damp cling of steam soothe me, calm me, even as my fingers itch to grab my salvation and make another tiny slice.

  It’s in the drawer. Beckoning me, the gleam of sharpened metal. So close.

  My heart is thundering like a freight train in my chest, my eyes squeezed shut hard enough to hurt, my fingernails biting crescents into the soft skin of my palms. It would be so easy to press the edge of the razor against my flesh, press down hard enough to make another little line, to watch the blood bead crimson and drip down my legs as that all-too-familiar wave of relief slips over me.

  No.

  I stand up and undress quickly, tossing my clothes aside, and step into the too-hot shower. I scrub my skin until it’s red and raw and sore, but the rhythm in which I do it calms me, lets loose some of the energy clutching at my chest and I breathe slowly once again. Standing under the spray, I can’t tell water from the tears and I’m left feeling empty and aching and cold.

  Still, it slows my heart, slows my rapid breaths, calms the itch in my fingers and I know that for right now, I’m going to be okay.

  I dry off, then shimmy into panties and wrap up in my favorite robe—threadbare and brilliant blue, it’s one I’ve had practically forever, a security blanket of sorts. I rake a comb through my tangled curls and then tie my hair out of my face and retreat to the sanctity of my bedroom.

  A tattered composition notebook lies open on my nightstand, handwritten with pain and blood and tears, lyrics to my life. My fingers brush across the pages before I reach for the powder b
lue acoustic guitar leaning against the wall.

  Propped up in bed with the guitar cradled against my side, my fingers find the frets and pluck out a couple of chords, letting the soft strum of music wash over me, let my mind and body settle and relax with each stroke of my fingers. Music has always been my sanctum, my escape from reality, and as the lyrics build up inside of me, I sing the words that yearn to be set free with my voice.

  I’m somewhere where nobody cares / I’m somewhere where no one will find me / Everlost / I’m everlost…

  To my surprise, the next morning the coffeeshop boy is there, standing in line with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his designer jeans, his angry bear of a friend sulking nearby, and the minute he sees me, the minute our eyes meet, he flashes a knee-melting, one-hundred-watt smile that arcs across the room and sends a jolt of electricity straight through to my bones.

  After I hand Beartrap his straight black cup of joe, Prettyboy leans against the counter, his palms flat across the glossy top as he looks over the menu, but his gaze keeps flitting back to me and my heart, the fickle thing that it is, begins to sound a rapid beat in my chest. Stop that.

  But his smile…

  “Thanks. For the donuts yesterday, I mean.”

  “I’m just doing my job. Can I help you with anything today?”

  “Ah, nah.” He shrugs both his shoulders and glances over to Beartrap, who is gulping his coffee despite the way it’s probably scalding his throat all the way down. “I think…I’ll take a baker’s dozen of your blueberry cream cheese pastries and a tall caramel frappe.” He nods, then purses his lips like he wants to say something else, but even though I wait, he doesn’t speak again.