See No Evil (Brotherhood Trilogy #1)
Jordan Ford
For Anna Cruise
One of my favorite authors and a truly inspiring person.
Thanks for being such an amazing friend and having so much input in my life.
You are a legend, a wonderful storyteller…and a kindred spirit.
xx
#1:
Never Look Back
Christiana
“If you’ll follow me.” Headmaster Williams leads us down the wide concrete path. He has a cheesy smile. Wide, square teeth framed by thin lips. His voice is high and posh, which suits his superior strut. He’s British and sounds like a BBC presenter. “We’re particularly proud of what I’m about to show you. Eton Prep has a long legacy of great hockey players. The Eton Wolves are the current state champions. Do you play hockey, Chris?”
All I can give him is a deadpan stare.
Rybeck slaps me on the shoulder and lets out a hearty laugh. “You’ll have to excuse my son. He’s a little nervous about starting a new school mid-semester.”
Ugh. I hate the way he’s talking, pretending to be my loving father when the truth is I only met him a few nights ago. He looks nothing like my dad, but I guess I look nothing like me either, so it’s easy enough to buy into this farce.
Headmaster Williams smiles at me. “Don’t you worry about that. Our boys are expected to show the utmost respect to everyone they meet. I’m sure it won’t take you long to find your place here at Eton.”
Yeah, right.
Square peg in a round hole doesn’t even come close. I’m so far from fitting in it’s a joke.
A Florida beach babe in an uptight Wisconsin boarding school?
Gimme a break. This is the worst idea in the world.
I go to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and am reminded it’s no longer there. Agent McNeal (who I’m supposed to call Mom) gives me a sharp look behind Headmaster Williams’ back. I stop fingering the short strands at the nape of my neck and try to think like a guy. I’m tempted to scratch my “balls” but figure that won’t fly. Mother Dearest can be an uptight hard ass. It took me less than a day to figure out that both sarcasm and snark are thoroughly lost on her.
Maybe they should be lost on me too.
Shoving my hands into my jacket pockets, I hunch my shoulders and shuffle down the pathway after the trio. The weight of my choices is heavy. Now that I’m actually in it, heading down these rapids towards a fatal waterfall, I can’t help questioning myself yet again.
Everything I was.
Everything I’m being forced to become.
Did I make the right decision?
People say to follow your heart, but what if your head actually knows better?
And how do you differentiate?
Three nights ago, was it my head or my heart that had me climbing out my bedroom window and running for the police station?
I shiver against the cool wind, grateful when Rybeck ushers me out of the Icelandic breeze. Give me Miami heat any day. Stepping off the plane into Wisconsin’s late October wind was like stepping into one of those big chiller freezers they have in restaurants.
Stamping my feet, I hunch my shoulders and look down the ramp at the hockey rink.
Great, ice! Just what I need.
The first thing that hits me is the smell—dank and wet. Then I pick up on the noises—blades cutting through ice, a swish, a slap, a grunt, a thump.
My nose wrinkles as I follow the proud headmaster down the concrete ramp to stand against the thick Plexiglass. Players are flying over the ice, crashing into each other, scuffling over a tiny, black puck that I can barely keep up with. A whistle blows and the coach yells something.
I can’t take it all in.
Headmaster Williams is talking again, trying to sell the school to my “parents” even though I’m already enrolled. In a few short minutes I’ll be walking back to the dorm room assigned to me. I’ll hug them goodbye, pretending like I love them, and then they’ll leave me alone…with all these boys.
Headmaster Williams leads us up the stands so we can look down on the practice, but I stay where I am for a moment, unable to take my eyes off the players. Two of them speed towards me, chasing the slippery little puck. One guy catches it with his long stick, tapping back and forth, controlling its path until he’s slammed by another guy. I flinch and step back from the glass as his helmet smacks into it. He’s still wrestling for the puck, fighting his opponent until he loses the battle. Smacking his gloved fist into the glass, he glances up and his eyes connect with mine.
For a second I can’t look away. I’m mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze, the blue-green shade of his eyes and the way they quickly study me. He has a strong face—Roman nose, chiseled chin, slightly olive skin. His dark eyebrows ripple as if he’s trying to work me out…as if he can see through my lame disguise.
I step away, bumping into Rybeck’s arm. He pats my back, acting like the loving father, playing it with such finesse and charm.