Pocketful of You : Book Three Read online

  Churning through small chunks of information at a time was the best way of not sending myself into catatonic mode. I had a block in my brain, one that grew taller and stronger whenever my anxiety set in.

  Therefore, I tried to remain as calm as possible and keep my wits about me. It was the only way I could piece the puzzle together. It was my only chance of getting out of here alive.

  In the midst of my inner turmoil and plotting, I decided that Sketch had survived the shooting. He was alive somewhere, recovering from what that monster did to him. I forced myself to believe that Sketch was safe and that notion gave me comfort. I refused to think about the alternative because a world without him in it was a world I wanted no part of…. which brought me to my next set of jumbled thoughts to make sense of.

  The boy in my dreams had been real all along.

  Jacob Toretto was the boy behind the door.

  Jacob Toretto was Sketch.

  The T-shaped scar on his hip must stand for Toretto.

  That meant Sketch wasn't a Capaldi.

  He wasn't Chris's twin.

  And I was there the night they had given him that scar – the night my father burned a defenseless child!

  Which meant that I hadn't just loved Sketch since I was five years old. I'd loved him my whole life.

  There was no denying it – not when my father had as good as confirmed it to me that night. The boy was Sketch. My dreams had always been about Sketch. That's why he shared the same dreams – memories.

  We were reliving our past.

  The Capaldis locked Sketch away until he was five, kept him hidden, and treated him like a dog.

  In my dreams – memories – Mama called him a Toretto. The enemy.

  No, she called him the enemy's son, my mind corrected.

  Was it some sort of sick revenge? Or a way to torture their enemy? If so, why did Mr. Capaldi go along with it?

  Where the hell had Sketch come from in the first place? And why lie about his true identity? Why keep him at all? Why lock him away on a ship and torture him into forgetting every part of who he was? Why tell the world he was a Capaldi?

  Chris figured it out.

  That much I was sure of.

  He knew all about Jacob Toretto, it was written in his journal, and I'd bet my last dollar that was why my father had him killed.

  Was he going to tell Sketch about his true identity?

  Was he going to tell me?

  Oh god, I had so many unanswered questions and no way of finding the answers.

  Unless Presley understood my pathetic hints back at the motel and managed to unearth the journal. Even if I didn’t make it out of this alive, something I wasn't holding out much hope for, Pres just might manage to find a way to save himself and Sketch…

  Somewhere deep down inside, I knew I had lost a critical part of my sanity. My reality had turned into one of horror and I was floating away.

  Numb to the bone, I continued in the darkness, ignoring the blood trickling down my face and the pain in my limbs, as I stumbled through the brambles and rose bushes. Chris was dead back there and the only feeling I could conjure up was that I should be, too. Something was coming for me and I couldn’t escape it. Fuck!

  Leaving his body alone wasn’t something I was proud of, but I'd made him a promise. In the midst of my departure from reality, I knew only one thing. I had to keep his journal safe. It was important to him. His final wish. I would make that happen, no matter what.

  Dazed and confused, I forced my legs to push me forward, weaving through the shrubbery and trees until I reached it.

  Collapsing in a heap at the base of the old treehouse, I placed my hands in the dirt and remained completely motionless.

  Wake up, I mentally willed. Wake up, Romi.

  That horrible sensation of knowing that I was already awake sank my poor, deflated heart and caused my stomach to lose its battle with my upchuck reflex.

  Vomiting violently, I heaved and gasped for air, still willing myself to wake up from my nightmare of a life. When that didn’t happen, I thought about the only thing that could anchor me.

  Sketch.

  "Protect my brother…"

  A pained sob tore from my throat and I dug my fingers into the dirt, not caring when my fingernails cracked and bled. It didn’t matter to me anymore. None of it did. All I knew was that I had to bury this journal.

  "Keep it safe," he'd asked. "Protect my brother."

  And I would.

  I would protect Sketch Capaldi if it killed me.

  "Help me!" the woman in the room closest to mine cried out for the millionth time, dragging me from my memories. "Please, god! I have a family. Please…. don't rape me! Oh, Jesus, I don’t want to die –"

  "Shut up!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, unable to listen to another second of her wailing. "Nobody's coming for you." Tucking my knees into my chest, I covered my ears with my hands and rocked back and forth on the grimy floor. "No one's coming for any of us."

  I certainly wasn’t getting out of here the same girl I used to be… if I even made it out at all.

  With my head on my knees, I forced my mind to check out, allowing my thoughts to sweep me away. To take me back to the sweet, misunderstood boy next door. The one my father said was danger. The one I loved with every ounce of my breaking heart.

  Freshly cut grass, peppermint, and soap. His signature scent. It was all around me now, swallowing me up...

  He had to live.

  If nothing else, Sketch Capaldi had to make it out of this.

  He deserved nothing less.

  4

  Sketch

  Fuck knows where I was anymore and, surprisingly, I didn’t care.

  I had no pain.

  No fear of rejection.

  No hole in my heart that couldn’t be healed.

  No grief to poison my mind.

  I had no worries at all.

  All I had was all I had ever wanted.

  The girl next door.

  "Why me?" Romi asked, fingers curving around my jaw as we lay on the bed of my truck, with the tailgate down, and a blanket draped over our bodies.

  "Hmm?" With my arms folded behind my head, I tilted my chin down to look at her. "You say something, Ro?"

  "I asked why me," she whispered, rolling onto her back to look up at the stars. "Why do you love me, Sketch?"

  I thought about her question for a long time, taking note of the melancholy in her voice, before speaking. "Because you're my best friend. How could I not love you?"

  "Oh."

  Shit.

  'Oh' was not good.

  "Best friend." Setting her hands on her belly, she churned the words around quietly. "Okay…"

  "And because you're Romi and I'm Sketch and that's what we do," I added honestly. "We love each other. We've got each other's backs. Since forever and for always." It was a heavily loaded question for a sixteen-year-old to answer – one I was fairly sure I'd screwed up. "Why would you ask me that?"

  "I heard some of the girls talking in the bathroom at lunch today. I know they're gunning to be your date for homecoming."

  "So?" I countered. "If I had a dollar for every time I watched some asshole drool over you, I'd be a rich guy."

  "So, they're determined to steal you away from me!" she snapped, sounding annoyed. "One of the seniors called me frigid. And apparently, she's more than willing to give you what I don't."

  "Which is…"

  "Duh, sex, Sketch," Romi huffed, scrunching her nose up in disgust. "And apparently she has a far more exotic, not to mention tested and approved, menu for the new star fullback of the varsity team to taste from."

  "Well, it sucks to be her, because I only eat from my girlfriend's menu," I shot back, rolling my eyes.

  "Yeah, cool, I guess." She sighed heavily. "I just don’t get it."

  "What don’t you get, Ro?"

  "I'm nothing special."

  "Bullshit. You're fucking gorgeous."

  "I didn’t
say I was ugly," she quipped. "I said I'm nothing special. Not when you really think about it."

  "You are to me."

  "Sketch, get real. I'm being serious here –"

  "So am I." Unfolding my arms from behind my head, I twisted onto my side and stared down at her. "I love you for a lot of reasons, Ro."

  "Name three reasons that don’t include the phrases 'you're my best friend', or 'we grew up together', or 'that's what we're supposed to do'," she huffed, putting on my voice. "Oh wait, that's right, you can't. Because all I am is the cute girl next door, but you'll grow out of me. Yep. You'll see. One day, you're gonna wake up and realize –"

  "Oh, shut up, you big dork," I growled before smacking my lips against hers. "Yes, I love you because of all the things you don’t want me to list, but that's just the tip of the iceberg on my list of reasons." Tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear, I stroked her nose with mine. "I love you because you are the best part of my day." Smiling, I pressed a kiss to the curve of her jaw. "I love you because you are sweet, and funny, and smoking hot –" I paused to flick my tongue over her fluttering pulse, "I love you because you make me feel wanted and safe, and…not alone. I'm always alone, Ro. 'Least that's how I feel. But you? You make the loneliness go away."

  A shaky breath escaped her parted lips. "Sketch –"

  "I love you because you saw me when I needed someone to, and because you keep seeing me," I quickly continued, needing to reassure my girl. "I love you because I can't see straight when I'm not with you, and I see even less when I am. Most people get growing pains when they grow up, but I get Romi-pains."

  A small laugh escaped her. "Romi-pains?"

  "Hell yeah," I laughed back. "Because I'm racing to keep up with you."

  "Sketch…"

  "Now, I know I ain't good with words, but I can promise that I ain't never growing out of you."

  "No?"

  I shook my head. "I'm growing with you."

  A smile ghosted her lips. "Keep it coming, fullback."

  I grinned down at her. "You don’t wanna hear this, but you are my first, last, best, and only friend." I pressed a kiss to her glossy lips. "You also happen to be my first, last, best, and only lover." Grinning, I tapped her nose with my finger. "Because you, Romi Dillon, are my only everything."

  She beamed up at me. "Since forever?"

  I nodded. "And for always."

  She snaked a hand up to cup my stubbly cheek. "You're getting all hairy here." A wide grin spread across her pretty face as she trailed her fingers up and down my jaw line. "Turning into a real good man, Sketch Capaldi." She waggled her brows playfully. "My man."

  "Fuck, Ro," I groaned, feeling too damn much for this girl. "You shine." I kissed her again, deeper this time. "You're so damn pretty, it hurts."

  Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Shut the heck up and keep on kissing me –"

  "It's true." Tipping her chin up, I looked deep into her brown, whiskey-colored eyes. "I take one look at your face, and I'm seeing everything. My entire life mapped out. I'm seeing memories. Memories your face is in. Memories and moments that built me into what I am now. You're important to me. More than you know. This face right here is the only face that matters to me." Grinning wolfishly, I pecked her lips with mine. "See? You shine, baby."

  "Say we're forever, Sketch," she begged in a wistful tone. "Promise me that you'll never leave me, and in sixty years' time, you'll drag my wrinkly ole butt down to the creek to star-gaze with you."

  I winked. "It's a date."

  5

  Presley

  Loving a member of the Capaldi family basically constituted as a death sentence.

  I knew this and normally had the awareness, not to mention the intellectual quotient to avoid such disastrous situations. However, my inability to keep my dick in my pants had catapulted me into a life or death situation.

  What. A. Pickle.

  Chord Overstreet's Screw Paris took what had to be its fiftieth spin on the decks – aka: Sketch's car stereo – and I honest to god couldn’t take another second of the broody, angst-ridden, angry breakup music. The boy was a sunken ship. Countless rounds of Prince's Nothing Compares 2 U accompanied by Post Malone's I Fall Apart put proof to that particular pudding. Oh, and let's not forget Kings of Leon's heart-breaking rendition of Dancing On My Own that had me crying a damn river, right along with ole J.T. himself. Every song on every playlist on Sketch's iPod was clearly directed towards Romi and it was making me snot-blubberingly stabby. The only reprieve I had from depress-fest was when The Weekend's Or Nah came on, and well, let's just say that one made me a little queasy.

  Finally settling on the one song Sketch had that I could relate to – Theory of a Deadman's Hate My Life, thank you very much – and jacked up on caffeine and adrenalin, I drained the contents of my triple, venti, half-sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato and tossed the empty Starbucks cup onto the passenger seat. If whatever remnants left inside of the cup drizzled out on Sketch's upholstery, then so be it, dammit! I was a man on the edge with a mission to complete. Trash disposal etiquette was not high up on my list of priorities right now. Finding and potentially retaining a semi-retired hitman was.

  Sweet mother of Madonna. What has my life come to?

  Snatching my phone up with jittery fingers, I took a quick glance at the last message my cousin Hayden had sent me.

  Try 13th Street, The Hill, Boulder, CO.

  You might find him there.

  Oh, and be careful, baby cousin.

  He's a little…rough around the edges. xx

  "Be careful," I grumbled to myself mockingly, as I slid my cell back in my pocket. "Hmm. Not exactly the pep talk I was hoping for, Hady."

  Pulling up outside the red-bricked, two-story house on thirteenth street that my cousin had listed in her text, I killed the engine and sent a little reminder up to heaven. "Now you just remember that I'm doing this for you, Christopher. This is your brother that I'm attempting to save, so just…don’t let me die, 'kay?"

  Drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, I battled with my nerves, all the while willing myself to climb out of the dang truck and get this show on the road.

  Finally, I managed to mentally coax myself into unbuckling my belt and climbing out of the truck, only to be struck dumb at the sight of, quite possibly, the most beautiful man I'd ever seen in real life. "Well, hello Thirteenth Street," I mused quietly to myself, reveling in the sight before me as a man, who had to be in the region of 6'4 or 6'5, jump-roped on a front lawn – shirtless and adorned in tatts, may I add – while a bunch of little kids cheered him on. "And hello, daddy," I purred, cleaning my glasses with my shirt to get a better look at this perfect specimen.

  "Again, Daddy, again!" one of the children, a little girl of no more than two or three, squealed in delight. She had raven black hair that matched the hottie with the jump rope, and was bouncing up and down like his own personal cheerleader.

  "Yeah, do it again, Uncle Noah!" the older blond, curly-haired girl chuckled. "You don't want Gramps to beat your record. He did 65 jumps yesterday," she boasted proudly. Puffing out her chest, she added, "Without stopping."

  "Your grandfather ain't got nothing' on me, Abs," Mr. Hottie laughed, revealing a perfect white smile, and sweet mother of mercy, for the first time in my life, I truly understood what women meant when they talked about their ovaries exploding. "And don't worry, Erin, I could do this all day," he added, winking at who I presumed was his toddler daughter.

  Yeah, me too, I thought to myself moments before I was slammed against the side of Sketch's truck, my airways constricted to the point of suffocation.

  With my back pressed to the metal of the truck, I came face to face with…well, hot damn.

  "I did it." Breathing restricted, I wheezed, "I actually found you."

  "Actually, I found you," Lucky Casarazzi corrected, head tilting to one-side, as he studied me with razor-sharp, pale-blue eyes. "And because you've caught me on a good day, I'm g
onna be generous and give you five seconds to explain who you are and why you're watching my daughter." He spoke so calmly that it terrified me more than harsh words ever could. "After that, well, let's just say I'll make my own assumptions and handle you in accordance to those."

  6

  Presley

  Unsure whether I felt immense relief or sheer terror, I just stared up at the beautiful man threatening to take my life. I had no doubt he could – or would. How many lives had these very hands snuffed out?

  His blue eyes darkened. "Let's go, little man. You're on the clock."

  "Holy shit," I choked out, and of course, what came out of my mouth next had to be the dumbest dang thing you could say to a murderous killer. "You really do look like Charlie Hunnam!"

  "That's four seconds, kid," he mused, tightening his hold on my throat. "Tick, tock."

  "You're Lucky Casarazzi, right?"

  "Three."

  "You have a sister –"

  "Two."

  "Well, funny thing is, I have a cousin and she just so happens to be –"

  "One –"

  "Hayden sent me! I'm her cousin, which makes me your cousin – well, in law…ish? No? Not feeling it? Okay then. Dear Jesus, don’t kill me!" I strangled out, hands flailing dramatically. "I'm too young to die! I wanna live, dammit. Please, man, I have oats to sow and medical miracles to perform."

  He raised a brow. "You're a doctor?"

  "Psychiatrist," I wheezed. "In-training." Coughing, I added, "Uh, you know, once I get my high school diploma and get into college – which, FYI, is a given considering I have a 4.5 GPA and, until the last month or so, perfect attendance."

  "You're a strange one, aren’t you?" he mused, loosening his hold on my throat enough for me to breathe, but not escape. "You and Hayden must be related."

  "Our mamas are sisters." Dragging in several deep breaths, I grinned and offered him a limp wave. "Which makes me your sister's strange and yet endearingly lovable, baby cousin." A nervous chuckle escaped me. "Ha-ha-ha…please don’t hurt me."