Page 9

Liam

I can buy that shit for you. Wake up, Lexy.

My stomach sours. I don’t want to chat anymore.

Alexis

I have to go. Dayton is picking me up in ten minutes and I’m meeting Lil’ Tay at the studio. The girl has potential, mark my words. She’s going places.

Taylor Peyton, a fourteen-year-old protégé at IBA, our ballet studio, has a sweet soul and is oh, so gifted. While I’m reaching the end of my ballet career, hers has just begun. And she’s taken to me like I’m her older sister.

Liam

Whatever. Dump the asshole, Lexy. You deserve better. If he makes you cry again, I swear I’ll hack his computer and delete his existence from the internet.

I snort. Liam would do it. Both he and Charles are overprotective. It drives me nuts, but I’m grateful I have them in my life.

My phone vibrates. This time, the sound earns a few sharp glares from nearby patrons.

Grimacing, I answer, “Dayton? You here yet?”

“Be there in two. Traffic’s insane, Lexy. It’s a shit show out here.” His voice is clipped.

I glance out the window, seeing nothing but a blanket of white coating the glass panes. A shiver moves through me. It’ll be so cold outside.

“Okay. Packing up now.”

“Hurry, okay? I can’t park long. I passed a cop headed this way. Don’t want any trouble.”

I frown. “What trouble? You’re picking me up, not fleeing a bank robbery.”

Silence fills the line.

“Dayton? You there?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, babe. Trying to merge. Anyway, hurry, hot stuff.”

He hangs up before I can respond. I stare at the phone, my stomach knotting.

Something is off. He doesn’t talk like he used to—not to me, anyway. He asked me for money a few months ago for an investment and it’s been hushed phone calls and all work and no play for him since then.

He wants to prove himself. His family is well-off but they have their sights on becoming a big name in finance.

Maybe things changed because he’s in college and I’m a senior in high school.

I sigh and look at my open laptop again. Dammit. I got nothing accomplished today.

Fuck it.

Closing my laptop, I suddenly remember a lesson I’d learned painfully two years ago.

“Back up. Back up. The USB’s your friend,” I mutter, opening my laptop again and shoving my new USB pen drive into the computer. My old one is full and after one disastrous accident involving my old laptop and a pitcher of iced tea, resulting in me losing an English essay and a science report, I’ve always backed everything up.

After the flash drive does its thing, I slip the laptop into my bag, my fingers brushing the dark leather volume nestled inside.

The journal!

Grinning, I pull out my most prized possession—a thick, hand-bound leather journal Grandma gave me a month ago. It’s special because of what I’m going to do with it.