Pulled Back (Twin Flames Series) Read online

  “Not cool, man. Not cool.” I say bending down and grab the bow he made for me last year. Since neither one of us can legally buy weapons until next year, we have resorted to making them. Well, he made them. I just use them — poorly.

  “I spotted a rafter of turkeys just over the hill,” Hawk says, gesturing over his shoulder. “There’s one that looks slow enough for even you to hit.” He punches me lightly on the arm and it almost knocks me over.

  “Ha, ha,” I mumble, slinging the bow over my shoulder.

  Hawk's blond head disappears into the woods, barely making a sound as I bumble behind him, trying to keep up. Hawk is a natural born hunter. His tracking instincts are like nothing I've ever seen. The look he gets in his eyes when he's hunting... is downright scary sometimes. It's almost like the hunt takes over his brain. Guess it's better to hunt with him than to be the subject of his tracking skills.

  Hawk runs up the hill in front of us with such speed and stealth it makes my head spin. I do my best to follow close behind, but my lungs begin to struggle as I crest the hill, forcing me to steal a puff off my inhaler. A sound which earns a 'shh' from Hawk.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “Trying to stay alive here.”

  “Yeah, well, do it quieter.” He points through a break in the trees.

  Just as he predicted, the turkeys are there, milling around in the field, unaware that their days are numbered. The turkeys bob their heads back and forth, plucking at the over-grown hay field. The morning fog covers all but the tops of their heads, but I know Hawk can see every detail on their feathered bodies. My heart starts to race in my chest. Hunting turkeys is highly illegal now that they are endangered, which, of course, is the only reason why Hawk wants to hunt them.

  Hawk lets out a small sigh, clearly getting off from the rush of the hunt. He raises his bow and signals for me to do the same. When I try to pull the string back, the muscles in my arm scream. I curse at myself. Just last week I pulled this back with no problem, but now…

  Hawk looks over his shoulder at me. “You okay?” He whispers.

  I release the string and drop the arrow to the ground. “I've been better.”

  His face grows dark. He hates it when I get sick. He always has. Even in kindergarten, he'd follow me around on the playground making sure I didn't run or over exert myself. And he'd gladly beat up any kid who tried to tease me. I honestly don't think I could have made it this long without him.

  Hawk turns his attention back to the turkeys and fires a single shot. Even without looking, I know he’s hit his target. Hawk never misses.

  “Sit.” Hawk orders after he's released his string, and I do, grateful for the tree stump a few feet away. “Rest. I’ll be right back,” he tells me. I feel like such a pansy getting winded after climbing up one stupid hill, but the way my body feels right now, resting is all I can do.

  The mist feels like sandpaper against my lungs, wearing them down. I take a few more puffs off my inhaler to quell the pain. I do my best to focus my breathing into slow, steady inhalations. That’s the only thing that makes the pain subside. Eventually, my lungs begin to expand just enough to allow me to take a few small, shallow breaths.

  Hawk emerges from the field a few minutes later carrying the biggest turkey I’ve ever seen. The neck of the bird is wrapped securely in his hands. Placing it on the ground beside me, he yanks the arrowhead out and wipes the blood from its tip onto the ground without even flinching.

  “Too bad we can’t eat the damn thing,” he says, before tossing the bird out into the woods for some lucky scavenger to snatch. Bringing the bird home would get both of our asses cooked.

  Turkey’s have only been on the endangered list a year or so. After we lost the last bald eagle to pollution five years ago, the Government started cracking down hard on hunting turkeys, our new National Bird. The turkey. So proud to be an American.

  Hawk plops down beside me and runs his hands through his sun-bleached hair. Something he does when he's nervous. “Dumbo off your chest yet?”

  I nod. I’ve told him before that having an asthma attack is like having an elephant sit on your lungs while you are still trying to breathe – through a straw.

  “I feel like crap today,” I confess.

  “You look like it, too.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  Hawk leans back against an oak tree and begins to clean the blood out from under his nails with the arrow head he carved out of stone. “You can't go and die on me, you know. It's our senior year.”

  I give him a weak smile. “Right. My bad.”

  “Seriously, man. You okay?”

  I'm not really sure how to answer him. I want to give him the traditional 'I'm fine,' but he knows I'm not. Maybe I am finally reaching the point the docs told me should have come years ago? With pollution as bad as it is, treatments for asthma have grown less and less effective. It really was some kind of scientific miracle that I was still alive.

  “I don't know.” It's the best I have.

  Hawk snaps his head up, listening to something.

  “Well, you might bite it before school even starts,” Hawk says. “Your mom's home.”

  He's right. Mom's ride just pulled into the driveway.

  I curse under my breath. "She's early. Quick, hide the bows,” I say, yanking mine off my shoulder and tucking it behind the tree next to me.

  Hiding the bows is probably not necessary since no one comes into our backyard but us, but it's better to be safe than in jail.

  When we're satisfied with our hiding job, we head inside. Mom has planted herself in the living room, where it looks like she just collapsed onto the couch. Her scrubs (that she’d ironed meticulously this morning) now hang wrinkled against her slumped shoulders.

  “Long day?” I ask, smiling down at her.

  “Don’t ask,” she says. One of her dark gray dreadlocks has fallen out of her elastic band, but she doesn't seem to care. She looks beyond tired. I feel bad that she's still working at her age. She could have retired last year, but with my medical bills, she had to stay on. Once I'm out of school, I'm gonna make her quit. I'll find a job and take over my own bills. She's cared for me far longer than a mother should have to.

  “Good morning, Ms. Garret.” Hawk says, walking in from the kitchen.

  “It's night for me,” Mom says, rubbing her red eyes. “Lord, these twelve-hour shifts are killing me.”

  “Go to bed, I’ll wake you for dinner,” I say, trying to yank her off of the couch and force her to bed.

  “Can't. I’ve gotta get you registered for school today.” She bats my arm away and pulls herself up off our beat-up couch.

  “Ma, I can register myself for school. I am a senior now.” Underclassmen had to have a parent register them, but not seniors. We were considered old enough to handle this ridiculous privilege on our own.

  She shakes her head no. “I don't want you walking that far by yourself. The smog count is supposed to climb later today.” Her voice is tired, but still has that tone of authority in it. I won't sway her. Not on my own.

  Without me having to say a word, Hawk knows just what to do.

  “I’ll go with him,” Hawk says. “You know I won't let anything happen to him.” He gives her his best shit-eating grin. I actually see Mom falling for it. And why wouldn't she? She's a sucker when it comes to Hawk. Everyone is.

  Although, when we first started hanging out as kids, Ma couldn't get over the color of his eyes. It freaked her out. Eventually, though, his charm won her over. Hawk’s a slick one.

  Ma's relenting sigh tells me we've won. “Bring your e-thingy and your inhaler.”

  “They are called e-portals, Ma, and I've already got both on me,” I say, looping my arm through hers. The contrast of her black skin next to my overtly pale skin always surprises me a bit. I know that I'm adopted, but I guess I just forget sometimes. Maybe that's because to me, she's always just been Mom.

  In our puny kitchen, she gives each of us a quick peck on the head
before she labors up the narrow stairs. She leans against the wood paneling as she climbs, proof of how tired she is. I hate that she works so hard.

  When she's out of earshot, Hawk gives me a cautious look.

  “You sure you're up for this?”

  “So long as you don't mind carrying me on the way back,” I say, smiling; only half-kidding.

  “You got it,” he says, giving me a light punch on the arm before we start walking towards the school.

  Chapter 2

  Jada

  Walking, like mornings, suck. I’ve been schlepping down this road for a good half-hour and the school is just now coming into view. Ten minutes, my ass. There is no way I'm gonna pull this trip off twice a day. Not without some serious complaining and a huge cup of coffee.

  Irritated, and now gross and sweaty, I make my way up the steps to the brick school. The mortar is cracking and the windows need paint. The place is probably full of mold, too.

  I rip off the elastic that is holding my hair back. The thick strands have managed to mat themselves together at the nape of my neck. My fingers comb through the mess in a feeble attempt to tame the sweaty knots. God, I hate summer. And winter. And most of spring.

  When I finally manage to find the office in this joint, there is already a line that wraps the length of the hall. Lovely. Looking down the line, I roll my eyes. Most of the kids are underclassman. They're all glued tight to their doting parents. All the parental love in the air makes me want to hurl.

  Sighing, I plop down on the floor to wait. Fishing out my refurbished e-portal (that I saved up every penny I ever made to get) and select 'radio'. A graphic of an old-school i-pod flashes on my screen. I still don't understand how people used to survive just using i-pods. They were worthless. You couldn't even scan your groceries with them! Back in my dad's day, you had to pay for things, like food, with real money. Gross. I can’t even imagine handling a piece of paper that hundreds of other people had touched. That's probably why we went digital. For awhile there, people were dropping like flies. It was staph infection, from what the teachers tell us. Germs got too strong for us. I can't help but think maybe it was better for the planet that so many died. As it is, we are running out of everything: oil, wood, coffee beans. The world is going to shit. As was the rest of my day, it seems.

  Focusing back onto my e-portal, an oval screen pops up notifying me that there is 'a weather emergency.' Clicking on the 'more info' tab, the screen fills with the face of a grim looking reporter next to a man in a green EnviroTech lab coat and that clichéd, slicked back hair. He looks like the poster-boy for science.

  “This threat is very real,” the talking-lab-coat is saying. “Storm systems moving across the Pacific Ocean are currently carrying some of the toxic chemicals released in last week's nuclear power plant meltdown in North Korea. The storms will likely produce not only compromised breathable air, but potentially high levels of acid rain as well. The EPA is urging everyone to find adequate shelter in the next few days. Adequate shelter meaning: an indoor space with no open windows and oxygen tanks for the elderly and those with breathing issues. We're also urging people to stay tuned to their local news as we track this system for further recommendations.”

  The warnings continue to rage on the tiny screen as the people in front of me start moving forward, forcing me to get off my butt and move. I had kind of contented myself at being able to stay out of the sun for the rest of the day but now it looks like I'll be kicked out before lunch. Figures.

  At least this means I'll be able to get home before the mid-day sun hits. Not having AC is the pits. So is not having any damn food, my stomach grumbles. For a moment, I allow myself to daydream about how excellent a nice, cold slice of cheesecake would feel sliding down my throat right about now. Thick, rich and full of yummy fatty goodness. I can almost remember the last time I had it. Almost.

  Tobias

  Hawk walks deliberately slow to school with me in a comfortable silence. He pretends to soak up the sun but he's really dragging his feet just so I won't have to exert myself. He's always been able to tell when I was hurt or not feeling great.

  For example, when we were ten, I was in the hospital for one of my many lung infections and it was pretty hit or miss. I actually slipped into a coma. Docs wanted to pull the plug on me but Hawk convinced them all that I'd be waking up the next day (which I did). He said he could sense it. He told everyone he knew I'd wake up because I told him I would. Of course, I don't remember any of that, but he swears I spoke to him while I was under. We're connected in some freaky way. It's more than just your average best friend stuff, at least according to him.

  To an outsider, we do make for an unlikely pair. Hawk is the model beef cake, and I'm, well – not. I think most people just assume Hawk hangs out with me because we're neighbors or because he feels sorry for me. But, it's more than that. We're friends.

  Hawk could be really popular if he wanted to be. But he doesn't. He ignores them all. The girls especially. Drives them nuts. Every year, a gaggle of them try to bring him over to the dark side and every time he turns them down flat. When they ask him why he won't date them, he just smiles and says he's waiting for 'the one.' He's not kidding either. He really is convinced there is a girl, one specific girl, waiting for him out there. He thinks she is all alone and longing for him to find her. So, basically – he's nuts.

  As we approach the school doors, Hawk looks at me. A small grin creeps across his face. He's planning something. I can see his brain spinning.

  “After we register, let's get breakfast. On me. Gram's birthday e-card got deposited in my account early.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “I'm rich.”

  His smile is infectious. I can't help but laugh. “Too bad it may be more like lunch time before we get out of here,” I sigh. The registration line is always long. Not because the school is big or anything; there’s only like a few hundred kids, but they never staff this day properly. No budget, they claim. I think it’s more that no one wants to do it.

  Hawk drapes his arm around my shoulders and shakes his head at me.

  “Let me take care of our registration and grab our forms while you get us a table,” he says. “Aunt Trudy is scanning in the office today. She’ll let me cut the line then you and I can get some real grub.”

  My lungs could use a bit of a break after that walk. Yet, something is nagging at me to stay here.

  Before I can protest, however, Hawk rips my registration card out of my hand and starts running past those standing in line. I'd never catch up now, and he knows it. Slouching my shoulders, I kick at the ground and head for the restaurant – as instructed.

  Jada

  The office lady's nails click on the glass counter a few feet in front of me. Her patience is obviously wearing thin waiting for me to come over to her. So, nice girl that I am, I take my sweet-ass time getting to her. She doesn't scare me with her big hair and too white teeth. It's not my fault they have an archaic registration process that she's forced to operate on one of the last days of summer. No way am I going to let her take out her frustrations with the system on me. I'm just as much of a victim of it as she is. Ever so slowly, I pull out my registration card from my bag. I'm about to hand it to her when, from out of nowhere, this guy just waltzes past me and takes my spot. The spot I’d been waiting over an hour for.

  Oh, hell, no!

  “Hey! No cutting, jerk.”

  The fiend turns to look at me. He's a big guy. Not bad on the eyes: yummy, dirty-blond hair that begs to be played with and rock-hard pecks pressing against his too tight shirt. Gorgeous. But still…it doesn't give him the right to be an ass.

  Blond beauty looks me up and down, amused. I can see him take in my attire: torn black leggings, black tank, combat boots and dark eye liner. I harden myself against his prejudice. Judgmental prick. I straighten my shoulders giving my scrawny frame another full inch and give him my best 'don't mess with me' glare. The clothes may be a ruse but he doesn't need to know that. I f
igure he's about to write me off as just another punk kid, when his expression shifts to intrigue. It's a look I don't get often. It's a look that says, you think you're hiding... but I see you.

  I do my best to ignore his perfect cool-blue eyes, but they stare at me with such intensity that it's hard to pull away. I actually have to blink my way out of his arrogant charm.

  “Are you deaf?” I ask, with more venom than I mean. “I said, no cutting.”

  “Don't forget the 'jerk' part.” A sly grin spreads across his perfect little lips.

  “My apologies. Jerk.”

  His smile doesn't even flinch, it just gets wider. He's pleased with my reply and that ticks me off. I don't want him to like me. I want him to move the hell out of my way.

  He leans against the counter and looks at Nail Lady. “Well, I’ve been called worse. Haven’t I, Aunt Trudy?”

  Aunt Trudy?

  “And, not just by me,” his aunt replies, with no shred of humor.

  Now I feel like the ass, and I'm not even sure why.

  Undeterred, he stretches out his hand to me. “I’m Hawk.”

  “Hawk?” I blink. “Like the bird?” No way this guy's name is Hawk. He's yanking my chain.

  “Blame her sister, not me,” he says, tilting his head at his aunt who just shrugs her shoulders at me.

  His hand is still outstretched, waiting for mine.

  Relenting, I take it. His hand almost swallows mine whole. I'm surprised by how cool it is. The shock of his touch zings through me, landing like a punch to the gut. Warning bells go off in my head.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I mumble, yanking my hand away as though stung. Instinctively, I fold my hands behind my back. “It’s just -- I’ve been waiting a long time.”

  “No, I get it. Please, after you.” He gestures for me to go ahead of him as though he's doing me a favor. I step in front of him. As I do, I swear I can feel his eyes on my backside. To test my paranoia, I glance over my shoulder and sure enough – there he is, gawking away at my lower half. The look on his face is like he's claiming it as his own. Sorry, buddy. This chick's not for sale. Ever.