Neverlost (Melodies and Memories) Read online

  I box up his order and hand him his drink. He sips on the straw and beams at me. “Delicious. I’ll see you around?” he asks, his head tipped to the side like a puppy with high hopes for a bone.

  “Seeing as I work here, yeah. You’ll see me.” Damn it, why are all my settings hardwired to bitch?

  But Prettyboy just grins and gives a little wave. “Later, Teagan,” and my name falls off his lips like honey, so sweet, and as he and Beartrap walk off, I watch them go. A smile toys at my lips. He has a nice ass and that stupid, simple reality somehow makes my day a little bit brighter.

  Three

  Elias

  It’s stupid-crazy the way that girl is stuck in my head, like a song lodged into the very corner of my mind, playing on wicked repeat until all you can really do is sing along. I don’t even know her—she’s just another girl—but she’s like a virus, worming underneath my skin and slipping into my veins, a shot of adrenaline and giddiness.

  She’s the kind of girl I can see myself with, ten years down the road. Marriage, kids, a puppy, a big house with a swing set—the whole nine yards. She’s the kind of girl I want to get to know so thoroughly that I can revel in the essence that is Teagan. See what I mean? Crazy. But it doesn’t stop me from going to see her day after day, come rain or shine.

  Jake doesn’t bother to hide his annoyance in the form of hunched shoulders, arms crossed over his chest, and an expression so grumpy I fear it might be etched onto his face permanently. “Seriously?” His voice is a growl as I pull into the parking lot to Infiniti’s and kill the engine. Like he’s irritated with my ever-present good mood.

  He just needs to get laid.

  “Yep,” I reply with a laugh.

  “Christ-all-fucking-mighty.”

  “Do you want coffee or not?” His only response is a grunt as he shoves the passenger side door open and stomps across the parking lot. “Thought so.” I can’t help it; between my morning visits with Teagan, the fact that I’m doing pretty well in school, and the beginnings of a new song starting to form, I’m pretty damn happy.

  I get glimpses of lyrics, flitting through my mind, and I write them down on sticky notes or napkins or whatever I can get my hands on as they come to me, before I lose the words and they’re left in the dark, never to see the light of day. I don’t have a tune yet, but the lyrics always come first, so I’m not worried—besides, this isn’t exactly a song I can share with Jake or play as a band. Not yet. It’s still too new, a fetus of beating words in the womb of my soul. For now, it’s mine and mine alone.

  The warmth of Infiniti’s is like a pink glow that surrounds me, pulsating with energy. Teagan lights up when she sees me, smiling that innocent yet impish smile that makes my heart do all sorts of funky beats, and just like always, I take my time ordering so I can talk to her, just so I can be around her for a few blissful minutes. Jake hurries me along with the warning of missing class, and I say my farewell but she’s heavy on my mind for the rest of the day and I find myself wondering what I’ll order the next time I go.

  Between me and Jake, we’ve got so many donuts that they’ll go stale before we can manage to eat them all, even with my sweet tooth. Would it be too stalker-ish of me to show up after school? Too weird to visit twice in one day? I could order a pie—Jake can’t say no to pies and hell, maybe it’d sweeten him up a bit. Sugar cream? Or maybe apple. The possibilities are endless.

  Class inches along at a turtle’s pace. Professor Heinrich gives another one of his famous lectures in his monotone librarian voice, but I’m only half listening. There’re a million and one things I want to share with Teagan, but I don’t want to come off as a creeper. I’m not even sure why I’m so drawn to her. There’s just something about her, like she speaks to the very essence of my soul.

  I decide to order that pie after all. I ditch Jake after school so I can go alone and maybe if I’m not being rushed along, my thoughts will behave and form coherent sentences. Maybe I’ll get lucky and be able to have a smooth conversation with her for once.

  But by the time I get to the bakery-slash-café, my stomach has decided to tie itself into the shape of a pretzel and I feel positively twitchy. I aim for calm and casual as I stride through the doors and up to the counter, but instead of seeing Teagan, a younger redhead with an outbreak of zits greets me with a cheery smile and I freeze in my tracks.

  “Hi there!” she says. “Anything special I can get you?”

  “Er, actually yeah. Is Teagan still working?”

  “Nope, sorry. You just missed her. Is there anything I can help you with instead?”

  My stomach sinks, dragging my hopes down with it. Well damn. Do I turn right back around and leave, walk out without buying anything? Would that be too obvious—and would it somehow get back to Teagan? Do I want to be obvious?

  The lady in line behind me gives me the evil eye and I feel foolish for just standing there like I’ve been struck dumb. Then I get an idea and turn back to the counter. “Actually, yeah. You guys do cakes, right? For special occasions and such?”

  “Yep! Sure thing. What are you looking for?” She slides a piece of paper and a pen across the counter towards me. I begin to fill it out, hesitating when I get to the custom script portion. This is probably crazy, but oh well.

  Steeling myself, I write down the line of the new song plaguing me until the words scrawled in black ink stare back up at me, taunting. Before I can change my mind or scribble them out, I hand Mary-The-Barista the pen and the order slip. She skims it and lifts a brow, but she’s smiling. “It’ll be a day or so. You could pick it up sometime tomorrow?”

  “Works for me. Thanks. Do I pay now, or…?” Offering an apologetic smile to the people lined up behind me, I slide my credit card. Mary hands me the receipt and I duck my head and hurry out of Infiniti’s, the bells on the door bidding me a fond farewell. I fold the receipt in half and stick it into the recesses of my pocket, pull my keys out of the other one, and get in the truck.

  I sit there, hands on the steering wheel, staring out the windshield at nothing in particular. What is wrong with you? She’s just a girl. You have never been this obsessed over a freaking girl before. But it’s strange—it’s like I’m at a concert, standing amidst hundreds upon hundreds of people, waiting to see this amazing artist, and when the artist keeps us waiting, the crowd reaches a peak, a fever pitch of screams and anticipation until they’re damn near rioting.

  That’s what my heart feels like right now, waging war against my ribcage, pounding hard in my chest. I press my eyes shut and rest my head on the steering wheel between my hands, the energy that came with getting to see Teagan slowly seeping out of me until I’m left tired.

  There’s a tapping at my window and I look up to see a woman staring at me through the glass. I roll down the window. At her side is a toddler dressed in pink with pigtails in her dark hair, totally adorable. Both of them wear second-hand clothes and the mother’s forehead is pinched in a frown. “Hey, are you alright?” she asks me, sounding genuinely concerned. About me—a perfect stranger in designer clothes, driving a truck worth probably more than her house—and my heart gives a pang.

  “Sorry. Yeah, I’m fine. I just have a lot on my mind,” I tell her. When she looks relieved, I smile. The world needs more people like this. “Thanks. Here, gimme a second,” I say and maneuver my wallet out of my pocket and I hand her a ten dollar bill. “Treat yourself to a coffee and get your little girl a donut or something.” She hesitates, like she wants to refuse, but I lean through the window and press it into her hand. “I mean it—thank you.”

  She beams and nods, then leads her daughter across the parking lot with a little more bounce in her step and satisfaction strums deep within me. I stick the keys in the ignition and start the engine. I can be patient. It’s not like Teagan will just disappear, right? I’ll come back tomorrow. With that settled, I grab a glazed raspberry donut out of the box sitting in the passenger seat, biting into the softness of the pastry, and I drive h
ome.

  My place, or my “hub” as I call it, is a two bedroom, two bath ranch on a basement with a connected garage. I share this great big house with only my dog, despite offering Jake a place to stay outside of the dorms, but he isn’t one to accept charity, so I guess it’s just me and Beefcake.

  He greets me as I unlock the front door, giving a deep woof and trailing a line of slobber down my jeans in his excitement. I bend down to greet him, rubbing my hands up and down his big body, his wagging tail slapping the remote control off the arm of the couch, where it skitters across the hardwood floor. Beefcake—or as I’ve always called him, Mr. Beefy—is the dog that I’ve had since I was fourteen, just an old black mutt we rescued from the pound, but he’s been my buddy for six years strong. I can’t imagine life without him now.

  I straighten up and toss my bag to the couch. “Hey, big guy. You want some dinner?” He dances across the kitchen floor, claws clicking, and I scoop him a few cups of dog food and pour the kibble into his oversized red bowl. His tail never ceasing its wag, he happily crunches away as I rummage through the freezer.

  I’m starving, so I microwave a plate of pizza rolls and crack open a root beer and we’re just sitting down to watch a bit of How I Met Your Mother when my phone vibrates across the end table. I decide to ignore it until the next commercial, but a moment later, there’s a heavy-handed knocking at my front door.

  Mr. Beefy leaps off the couch like a ninja and skitters across the wood flooring, barking in deep, booming bass woofs. He might be getting up there in age, but if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s protecting the house. I haul myself up off the couch and unlock the door, letting it swing open.

  Sure enough, Jake stands on the porch, looking at me with a bemused expression on his face. “You get my text?” he asks as Mr. Beefy goes from avid guard dog to wiggling mass of excitement as he greets his second favorite person in the whole world. Jake bends down to pay him some attention and I see the rarity of a real smile on his face, but pretend I don’t.

  “No, but I figured that was you. What’s up?”

  “I wanna jam. You wanna jam with?” He lifts a brow at me, expectant. Music is the one thing that can make Jake loosen up, make him hoot and holler and rock out, a grin on his face as the beat satisfies a deeper part of him, like he needs it in order to be able to breathe and I don’t doubt that that’s the truth. When I grin, Jake lets out a bark of laughter and, leaving the TV on for Beefcake—he really hates our music, the poor guy—we head down the steps to the basement.

  This is my favorite part of this place, having our own personal studio. Jake makes a beeline for his drum set, set up in the back and arranged just the way his slightly-OCD self likes it, and he perches on the leather swivel seat and kicks out a few bass notes with the double pedal, the sound reverberating through the basement. A moment later, he’s warming up, furiously drumming out a beat with his favorite Vic Firth sticks and I take my time fiddling with the amps just so I can relish in the magic that is purely Jake.

  “Sounds great,” I holler over the sound as I strum my first chord, which results in him smirking at me like he knows it. He’s never been modest when it comes to music, but that’s what dreams are for, right? He has big plans for us—me and him and our unnamed band—dreams of making it big, touring the states and sharing our music with the world, dreams that one day might become a reality but for now they’re just baby figments of our greatest desires. They need time to grow and I need time to get used to the idea. I love our band, I love our sound, but fame holds no pull over me. I’d be happy just playing local gigs and having a small, loyal fan base.

  But who knows. I’m a wait and see kind of guy, so I guess I’ll wait and see.

  Four

  Teagan

  My clock-radio blaring like a broken car alarm, I jerk awake with a jolt and sit up in bed, dragging the covers with me. I rub the sleep from my eyes then reach for the clock, planning to press the snooze but when I see how late it is, I’m jarred completely awake.

  “Shit, damn, fuck!” Throwing back the sheets, I stumble out of bed and search for a pair of clean jeans. I desperately need to go to the damn Laundromat, but I hate that place with a vengeance so I’ve been putting it off.

  Deciding that a small coffee stain on one shirt’s hem isn’t enough to deem it unwearable, I get dressed and hurry to the bathroom. I go through my morning routine in half the time it usually takes and I’m making good time—at least until I trip over the rug in front of the sink and slam my foot into the doorframe.

  “Damn it!” Pain flares, hot and bright, and when I stop hopping around the bathroom on one foot, I find one of my toenails bent backwards, starting to bleed. Just my luck. I slap a band-aid on it and stuff my feet into my work shoes anyway.

  By the time I actually get to work, I’m beyond irritated. I key in my passcode and clock in twenty minutes late, hoping my boss doesn’t notice because I don’t think I can take the verbal scolding today. Pressed against the side of my shoe, my toe throbs with every beat of my heart and I just want to curl up and cry. More so, I want to take a vacation day and wallow in self-pity, indulge in dark chocolate, and maybe read a book.

  Reality is, I need the money for rent, so the show must go on. I force my smile into place despite the ache in my cheeks at the effort and slip through the double doors and into the kitchen. My boss, Valerie, glances my way and even though we both know I’m late, neither of us says a word and its water under the bridge. I let out a deep breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and thank whatever god is looking down on me. Maybe I’ll make it through the day without exploding after all.

  “Hey, Teagan.” My co-worker Mary greets me with a bright smile. I nod a hello in return, expecting her to go on her merry little way, but instead she continues chattering like we’re friends or something when the truth is, we rarely work together and when we do get scheduled on the same shift, we don’t get along. Mostly because something about the cheerful girl rubs me the wrong way. Or maybe it’s because I tend to push everyone in my life away from me. Maybe both, but whatever.

  Then Mary shoots me an impish grin and says, “Some guy was asking for you yesterday,” and I’m all ears.

  “Oh?” I try for light, flippant even, but I’m not fooling anyone. The irritation from earlier subsides just a bit, replaced by this weird tingling in my chest.

  “Yeah. He seemed really flustered when I told him you’d already gone home. He ordered a cake.” She waggles her eyebrows and laughs, low. “I think someone has an admirer.”

  Despite the way her words make my pulse speed up, my heart doing jumping jacks after a double-shot of espresso, I shrug it off. Or try to. “Who in their right minds would admire me?” I scoff, but my insides are already turning all squirmy. It has to be my coffeeshop boy, just has to be. But what does that mean for me?

  I try to go about my day, but twenty minutes later I can’t stop thinking about it, so between the waves of customers, I go to the back and find his cake. His name is Elias… Eli. I like it. The cake’s a custom, chocolate with butter cream frosting and yellow roses and in blue gel script are the words, “I think I’ll take a baker’s dozen of your sweet love” and I can’t help but laugh out loud. “Probably for his girlfriend,” I tell her when I return to the front of the store.

  Mary rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say.”

  It doesn’t mean anything, but I find myself taking front register and throw myself into my job, cheery smile and all, hoping to catch a glimpse of that boy and his friend. When he doesn’t show up for his usual morning coffee—he hasn’t missed a day since the first time he came in here—my hopes fall like a sinking ship in the depths of an emotion-ridden ocean. I try not to let it bother me, but I was really hoping to see him. He’s my ray of sunshine every morning and today’s the day I could really use it.

  Damn it, what does it matter—he’s probably not even single, and even if he was? Really, Teagan? You? He’d have better luck sticking his dick
in a bear trap. A growl slips from my lips, sounding ragged and animalistic, because I know it’s true. I’m not date material. I’m a black hole, a void that swallows everything and everyone around me; that’s just how it is. I shouldn’t get my stupid hopes up, I’m only hurting myself. My hands ball into fists. Suck it up, cupcake.

  My insides twist with sudden anger, the emotion rolling like thunder inside the caverns of my soul, crushing me—anger at myself, anger for hoping it could be different—so much that I don’t realize I’m lost in my own black mind until the sound of my name snaps me back into the present.

  My head jerks up, a scowl rising on my lips as my gaze flicks up, only to see Prettyboy—Elias— looking down at me, his brows furrowed in concern. For me. “Teagan, are you okay?”

  I swallow and purse my lips. “I’m fine,” I say even as I stare into his eyes, eyes like warm milk chocolate, worried for a girl he doesn’t even know, a girl who doesn’t deserve his concern. And for many minutes, all I can do is look at him. He’s too handsome, too sweet, too everything, and I am nothing. I clear my throat. “You have a cake, right?” When he nods, I take the chance to flee to the back, to catch my breath. Get a grip, Teagan.

  I grab his cake and take it out to him, sliding it across the counter. He inspects it, a lopsided smile on his face. “It looks great. Better than great.” He meets my gaze for a moment before we both glance back down at the cake, to the words penned in brilliant blue gel. He chuckles. “They’re lyrics,” he admits.

  I look up at him, floored. What? “You wrote them?”

  His resulting grin is almost sheepish as he scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeaaaaah, I’m kind of a music nerd,” and my heart begins its rapid ascent into my throat, thundering so loud I fear I’ll miss his soft voice, his words I’m now clinging to. He’s a musician? Music is what gets me through the day; music is my heart and my soul and the blood coursing through my veins. What are the chances?