Finding Forever (5 page)

“Three minutes!” Simone shouted, the crowd responding with a chorus of “woots” as they toasted their cups. Taylor went in to slap Simone a high five, but she missed. Sloppily.

“Happy b-day, T!” Simone stuck her arms straight out, gripping an imaginary steering wheel of the Range Rover Taylor looked forward to cruising once she got her license. “Drive time, baby!”

Another up-tempo remix delivered the soundtrack of Taylor's mating movie. Taylor felt the first hand rest firmly above her right hipbone, sending a shiver across her lower back that exploded downward into her thighs as he gripped tighter. Then came the other hand from behind, firmly connecting to her left hip. Taylor didn't flinch. Instead, she rolled with the music as Pretty Boy's strange but warm hands guided her body.

Side to side. Front to back. Up and down. Taylor hadn't felt male hands on her like this since she and Evan had sort of hooked up right before he left for rehab. This boy was Trouble. And she loved it.

Midnight came in a blur as the party people—except for Pretty Boy, whose hands were occupied on Taylor's waist—raised their cups and sang “Happy Birthday.”

“Welcome to sixteen,” Pretty Boy whispered, his scruff gently scraping her cheek. Taylor pressed her back tightly against his chest, the top of her head fitting perfectly beneath his chin.

His words came off his lips with a yogi-like calm.

Sixteen . . .

His voice could just
. . . lull . . . her . . . to . . . sleep.

The frenetic party suddenly went slo-mo. Taylor managed to turn around and face Pretty Boy. To brace for the face-plant she felt coming, she leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his upper chest, wrapping her arms around him.

Looking around his tricep, she saw a blurry vision of two men with guns drawn, bursting through the side yard gate.

The music abruptly stopped. A few girls shrieked. More than a few others dropped f- and s-bombs.

The crowd dispersed like a busted protester mob, scattering in all directions—back inside the house, hopping over the short fence, darting out the side gate and beelining it to their cars.

Taylor stood in shock beside the pool, clawing Pretty Boy's muscled back. She looked down into the deep end, her arms
feeling like barbells while she was unable to move anything except for her stiffening neck. When she managed to glance behind her, no one was there. The shouting men with the guns across the pool, she realized, were, in fact, coming after her.

“Hands up!”

The sound of rushing air forcing in and out of her lungs muted the shouting.

“Hands up!” the man ordered again. “Pour out your drinks and leave the property. Now!”

Taylor tried blinking away her blurry focus, but she could barely move her eyelids.

Her dance partner wrapped his arms tightly around her and whispered, “It's tiiiiime.”

And everything—including the glowing Milky Way matrix—faded to black.

Brooklyn laughed. “You're totally punking me.”

“I'm not—this is real.” The caller's voice cracked with desperation. “I really do need your help.”

“Okay, I believe you.” Brooklyn sighed. “But I'm just a blogger, not Google.”

No giggle. Not even a courtesy “ha-ha” from the chick.

Just. Awkward. Silence.

Unless she was in church, Brooklyn didn't readily embrace moments of empty ear space.

“Just kidding. You know, totally J-K. I don't specialize in—”

“I know exactly what you do,” the anonymous girl said. “I've been reading your blog, like, forever. I know that if anyone can help me, it's
you
.”

“That's very nice of you. But what kind of help are you talking about?”

“The kind where you help me find somebody.”

“Find who?”

“It's . . . I can't say. Not yet. Sorry, um . . .”

Brooklyn grunted. “Have you asked Siri? She's so much smarter with the upgrade.”

“I wish. This person—this
special
person—well, to be honest with you, she's basically gone missing.”

“Hey, it's a
she
!” Brooklyn said. “Actual info! Now we're making some progress. And you're lucky it's a girl, because I know far less about where boys like to hide out.”

“That's the thing—she's not hiding. She hasn't gone away on her own. She was taken.”

Brooklyn rolled her eyes in a way she was too polite to do face-to-face. “Do you know she was taken away or do you
just assume she was? Because one of the most basic rules of investigative journalism is to assume nothing, verify everything. There's a saying that when you assume anything all you do is make an
ass
out of
you
and
me
.”