Eva Morgan's Blog

LOCKED is officially out in the world. :)
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When eighteen-year-old Irene Adler meets her new neighbor, the gorgeous, brilliant, and arrogant Sherlock Holmes, she never expects him to be the one to make her feel like life is worth living again. Ever since her sister's death, she's been addicted to risk-taking as a way to deal with her depression, and Sherlock quickly becomes the biggest risk she's ever taken. 

Locked is the story of a broken girl and the genius who gives her life back to her. It's the story of a witty asshole who's never known love, and the girl who shows him what love means. It's the story of an unexpected connection, two people who save each other, and the importance of seeing the goodness underneath. 

**Based on the Sherlock Holmes series by Arthur Conan Doyle.
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To celebrate the release day, I'm posting the full first chapter of LOCKED right here on the blog.
Don't forget - if you post a review of LOCKED on Amazon before April 10th, 2014, you'll be entered to win a free Kindle Fire!

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The shooter is by the door. Sherlock and I are against the wall. Too far for me to reach the shooter before he could fire. Too close for a shot to be anything but fatal.
I’m whispering. “Please, don’t. Please, please don’t.”
“I thought you said you didn’t care about him.” He’s so cold. The hand holding the gun is unwavering.
“I don’t. Listen to me. I don’t.” I’m crying now. I’m shaking apart, the tears dripping down my cheeks. “Please, don’t do this. Just—just…wait…”
“Irene,” Sherlock says quietly. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
I look at him. There’s no fear in his expression. Only acceptance. Only kindness. There’s so much kindness in him as he smiles at me. It burns apart the memory of every scowl, every smirk.
He’s beautiful.
“Hey,” I say to the shooter, through the tears. “It’s my birthday.”
“I know.” He cocks the gun. “And this is my present.”
I move just as the noise explodes out of thin air.
It’s so loud.
It shatters everything.



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~CHAPTER 1~
"You were supposed to be boring."

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The casserole is burning.


The casserole is burning and the last moving truck is putt-putting away down the road. The new neighbors are probably just beginning to open the tops of boxes, surveying the bathroom and deciding what colors to repaint the walls, and then the bell will ring and I’ll be there with my casserole because that’s the normal thing for a person to do when someone moves in next door.


Except it’s burning.


I rip open the oven, scorching my finger. The casserole’s not too bad. Just a few curls of smoke and a blackened top. I close my eyes. Five minutes later and flames might have engulfed the house. Might have burned me worse than the casserole. If only. Dead people don’t have to play normal with the new neighbors. Or get up in the morning.


I let it cool and then, through the kitchen window aimed directly at the kitchen window of the house across the road, I see someone too lithe to be old and too tall to be younger than me.


A boy.


A boy my age.


There are no bigger detectors of bullshit than eighteen-year-old boys, and whenever I open my mouth it’s nine hundred percent bullshit. Which is fine. Bullshit is better than the real me.


“Irene?” calls Mom from downstairs. Calls, not yells. To her, I’m still one raised voice away from broken glass. “Did you bring the casserole over yet?”


“Going now!” I shout back and then I’m out the door because the things I can’t face are both inside and outside the house. It doesn’t matter which comes first.


It’s a big house, lots of windows, lots of yard space. Towers over the tiny square thing belonging to Mom and I. That house had been empty for ten years. Old owner priced way above market value. Rich neighbors, then, but they’d only had one moving truck.


I ring the doorbell, pick off burnt flakes of cheese, and rehearse. Want me to show you around the neighborhood? You should come over for dinner some night. Hopefully they’ll say no to everything. Not enough people say no.


The door opens and my new neighbor is a vampire.


He’s nearly a foot taller than me. Unruly ink-black hair, and a face made of knife angles. If I were obnoxious, I might use the term shockingly attractive. Or terrifyingly handsome. Holy mother of balls would also be an option. His eyes are crystalized, glittering, and they get even more diamondlike when he sees the casserole.


“Yes,” he hisses.


I swallow. “I’m glad you like casserole so much…”


“What? No. No.” He waves at me distractedly and yells into the house, “Casserole, Mycroft! Not potato salad!”


There’s an echoed “damn” from the living room.


“Knew it the moment I saw the garden gnome,” says the vampire to the universe at large before directing his voice back to the living room. “That means I get the upstairs bedroom.”


“Um…sorry.” I always apologize to people when I have no idea what to say. Safest thing to do.


“Apology accepted.”


He has a British accent. The girls at Aspen High will lose their minds.


“Wait, no,” I say. “I mean, I wasn’t actually apologizing for anything.”


“I assumed you were apologizing in advance for boring me with the standard introductions, which I would actually prefer to get over with, so: I’m Sherlock Holmes, you’re someone whose last name is Adler, going by the surname on your mailbox. No, I don’t find it a particularly lovely neighborhood. No, you’re not invited inside for tea. Goodbye.”


And the door slams.


I check myself to see whether or not I’ve been hit by a truck, because that’s what it feels like. No truck. Nobody tasing me, either, which was my next guess. I shuffle the casserole to my left arm and buzz the doorbell two more times.


The vampire answers it again. No, not vampire. Sherlock. He’s pale like one, though. It makes his eyes even more alarming.


“We’re not big fans of Girl Scout cookies,” he says and tries to shut the door again, but I stick my foot in the way.


“What the hell is your problem?”


Sometimes my anger outpaces my anxiety and later I’ll regret it, but not yet.


The person with easily the weirdest name I’ve ever heard raises an eyebrow. “Did you really want the tea that badly?”


"No, it’s just—we made this for you. Take it.” If I return without the casserole, there will be questions. Mom needs to think I got along with the neighbor. Mom needs to think I get along with everyone. “And you could say thanks.”


“Thanks,” Sherlock says like he’s never heard of the word before and takes the casserole, sniffing it like he’s never heard of a casserole either.


“It’s not laced with arsenic or anything.”


“If it were, that would make you much more interesting than I believe you are.” His eyes flick up, and I might as well have just slid through an MRI machine.


I should be nice. Sherlock is reading very low on the social skills meter. Someone like him probably doesn’t get a lot of nice. “Okay. So…you’re my age, looks like. My first name is Irene, by the way. Not on the mailbox. You’re transferring to Aspen High, right?”


He does this pained twitch. “I’ll save both of us some time. I don’t do this.” He gestures.


“What, talking?”


“Not about things that don’t matter, no. We’re not going to be friends, I’m not going to come round your house after school to do homework, if you ask to borrow sugar I won’t give you any. Now goodbye.”


The door bounces off my foot again. At this rate I’ll need crutches. “Yeah, no, I don’t want your sugar. I just thought it would be nice, since we’re neighbors, to get to know each other a little. But obviously—”


“I already know as much about you as I’ll ever need to,” Sherlock cuts in.


I laugh. “You know my name.”


“And I know that you suffer from insomnia, likely a side effect of the fact that you’re clinically depressed, also likely a side effect of the fact that your elder sister died in a car crash nearly a year ago and you were in the right back seat. No—” He tilts his head to the side. “Left back seat.”


I hunt through my mind for the part that keeps my lungs working. My stomach wrenches and I will myself not to throw up, like I did when the car finally settled on its back and I unhooked himself from the seat belt and got a good look at—no, stop, don’t go there.


Sherlock’s face changes. Just a little.


“Nice trick. Been talking to my mom? Looked us up online?” The words fall from me like rocks. “You got one thing wrong. It’s not insomnia.”


“Damn.” His face ices over again. “In that case, what keeps you awake at night? I assume you’re not crying over your sister. You two didn’t get on. You were always the favorite. She must have resented that. People do. And you, let’s see…you were ashamed of—”


One moment, Sherlock is loosely holding the casserole. I move and then it’s slathered down his front, clumps of it splattering on the porch, the flakes of burnt cheese dotted across his collarbone. The dish clatters to the ground.


“Oh my God.” The pain is sliding farther and farther back, the scene in front of me getting crisper. “Oh God, I’m sorry—”


There’s surprise in his expression. An expression that’s been so flat that any hint of emotion stands out like white on black. There’s a tiny bit of hurt there too, almost unnoticeable. I want to yell well what did you expect, but instead I turn and run.


When I get back to the house, my heart is beating so fast it hurts. I scream into my elbow without making a sound.


“What were they like?” my mom calls from upstairs.


“Very…” I manage. “Nice.”



Dear new neighbor,


I wanted to say I’m very sorry for throwing the casserole at you. Except it probably was for the best, since it’s the first thing I’ve tried to cook in months and it might have been poisonous anyway, even without the arsenic



Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,


I am expressly sorry for dumping the casserole on your shirt. It was rude. Although it’s probably nicer to get a casserole thrown at you instead of your dead sister and I don’t know where you get off looking all sad like that afterwards



Dear vampire,


I should not have chucked a casserole at you. You probably prefer blood. I’ll remember that next time. Unless you’re an alien (also a possibility) in which case I’ll try to synthesize some space goo or whatever it is you eat because you’re obviously not human



Dear Sherlock,


I am so sorry for what I did. It was immature and I don’t know what came over me. I hope you can forgive me. Welcome to the neighborhood.


I crumple all but the last one, sticking it in my pocket. It’s one minute past midnight. Mom’s asleep by now. I’m good to go.


I take a different note out from under my binder. This one I didn't write.



ares,


someone’s breaking into my house every night. no idea who it is. they don’t take anything. they only stay for a couple minutes. I thought I was imagining it, but last night I saw their shadow. my dad sleeps through it and I don’t want to tell him because I had a run in with the police at a party last august and if he calls them and they recognize me, well, yeah. the person usually comes around 12:30. could you find out who it is? maybe take a picture? I’m worried it’s one of my friends playing a prank and I don’t want to call the cops on them. my address is 18 rottleby road. thanks!! you really are amazing.



18 Rottleby Road. A twenty-minute walk. I put on black pants, black shirt, a black beanie and by the time I’m outside in the night air, the chill just beginning to cut the leftover warmth from the sun, I’m awake.


I’m only awake at night.


I’m only awake when I’m distracted.


I walk quickly, circumventing the pools of light cast by streetlamps, but before long I’m thinking about the new neighbor and that ruins everything.


How the hell did he know?


Did he research my family before he moved in? He knew about the depression. He knew about everything.


So what does that make him? A stalker? A psychic?


Monday will be interesting. The guys will hate Sherlock, no doubt about it, if he talks to them the same way he talked to me. Will his looks—the Austrian-model cheekbones, the scary-beautiful eyes, the British accent, dear God—outweigh his weirdness? They won’t, not for long. I know my school. Sherlock will start alone, end alone, and be alone in the middle.


But I can’t pity him. Not after what he said.


If it had been Carol, she wouldn’t have thrown a casserole. She would have thrown a punch. But Carol’s dead and I’m awake, waking up more as I get closer to my destination, and I won’t think about Sherlock. I won’t think about anything except my night.


Then my phone rings.


How could I have forgot to put it on silent? It rings, it shrieks. A dog starts barking and a porch light switches on and if Mom realizes I’ve been sneaking out—


I dive behind a rosebush, scratching my cheek, and hiss “Hello?” into the screen blinking BLOCKED NUMBER at me.


“Hello, Irene Adler.” A slow, mysterious, British-accented drawl.


I peek over the rosebush. The street’s still late-night empty, but the dog won’t shut up. Why do people get dogs? “I’m a bit busy and it’s also midnight, so if whoever this is could call back later—”


“I’m afraid this is urgent, Irene.”


“Urgent?”


“An urgent apology.”


“What kind of apology is urgent past midnight?”


“The kind that not many people get,” comes the voice. “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I believe you met my younger brother today.”


I draw my knees up to my chest and touch my scratched cheek. Blood. Something else to explain to Mom in the morning. “Sort of. I mean, yeah.”


“And I understand you delivered to him a casserole in a very intimate manner.”


I wince. This Mycroft Holmes—seriously, what baby names book had their parents been using—isn’t really apologizing. He wants me to apologize. “I know. It was an accident…well, no, it wasn’t. I wrote an apology letter. I was going to bring it over tomorrow.”


He laughs. A laugh like a villain in a spy movie. “No, no, no. The casserole was one of the better reactions people have had to my brother. And it did look delicious. Such a waste. My palate is much more distinguished than that of Sherlock’s shirt.”


Crazy. They’re both crazy.


“What I’m trying to communicate to you, dear neighbor, is that you have no reason to apologize at all. Very much the opposite. I would like to apologize on my brother’s behalf. In fact I had him write an apology letter, which he will be bringing by tomorrow morning.”


“He doesn’t seem like the apology letter type.” The bush is poking me in the arm. At least the dog has stopped yapping.


“He’s not. Pray forgive him. He’s been cooped up in the car for two days and he’s gone quite mad. Which isn’t to say he’s not always quite mad, because he is. I do hope you’ll get used to it.”


“I wasn’t planning on spending enough time around him to get used to it.”


“But neighbors must be friends.” I can practically hear shark’s teeth on the other end.


“Right…sorry, but why are you calling me at midnight?”


“Just out of curiosity. My brother got the insomnia wrong.” There’s a brief silence. “I can hear that you’re outside. Your cat got out, perhaps?”


I hang up automatically. My heart’s beating in a way that I’m quickly associating with the Holmes family. The Holmes tachycardia. Scourge of hospitals everywhere.


Why is Sherlock’s brother dealing with this and not his parents?


I get up, plucking thorns from my palms, and quietly vow to myself that I will have as little as possible to do with Sherlock Holmes.


It’s twenty-three minutes past midnight when I reach 18 Rottleby Road. The building is one of those picket fence houses, the number huge next to the door to distinguish itself from its twins to either side of it. I pick my way across a dew-dusted lawn in need of a mow. There’s a wooden trellis on the back wall of the house, looped with dying tomato vines, and I’m light enough to climb it—I’ve lost weight since the accident. The roof is slanted, and I have to wedge myself behind the chimney to keep from slipping. Not a real chimney. Just for appearances. Appearances are so important.


They hide what you really are.


I don’t know how the Ares thing started. It just did. The locker in the science wing, the beat-up one that nobody uses, is where people leave the notes. The notes asking for help with their problems, their mysteries. And I’m the one who helps them. It helps me.


The sky is full of stars.


But then Sherlock darts back into my mind, Carol accompanying him—and Carol always brings the dull pain, so dull it dampens everything, blurs all the colors, puts me to sleep. The only way I can wake myself back up is risk. I edge out from behind the chimney, fighting gravity, wedging my heels against the roof tiles so I’m about to fall, but not quite.


Much better.


There’s a muted scratching sound from the other side of the roof and then I’m really awake. Of course. The burglar’s trying to get in through the skylight. I have to see who it is before they see me, but it’s dark, and the burglar who doesn’t take anything has also chosen to wear black.


I duck back behind the chimney. The burglar’s still on the other side of the roof. But getting closer. The scratching, louder. I hold my breath, savoring the fear and the thrill, the rough tiles beneath my palms. We could struggle. Fall off the roof. The intruder could have a gun. He could shoot me in the head.


The noises stop right on the other side of the chimney. Then there’s only the sound of someone else breathing in the night.


And a voice.


“Stargazing, then. Not insomnia. Rather cliché. Though doing it on someone else’s roof, that’s a bit less so.”


A deep, dark, accented voice.


“Sherlock?” I gasp.


“You remembered my name. I’m flattered. Most people need a minimum of three reminders before they bother storing relevant information.”


“It’s kind of a memorable name,” I whisper before catching myself. I glance over my shoulder. The silhouette is too tall to not be him. He’s on the roof with me. “What the hell are you doing here?”


“Following you,” comes the voice from behind the chimney. “I got the insomnia wrong. I’m never wrong. Had to find out what it really was. Mycroft thought secret boyfriend, but you’re obviously not seeing anyone. Two days since your last shower, at least. I thought stargazing. Typical teen cliché. Everyone thinks staring at the echoes of light from balls of gas makes them an intellectual.”


“You followed me?” I hiss into the darkness. “Because I told you I don’t have insomnia?”


“And to acknowledge that my intelligence occasionally gets the better of me and I may have been too…blunt.”


“What intelligence? You looked all that stuff up.” We’re speaking in whispers, back to back. I’m not sure which is weirder—this conversation, or the fact that we’re having it in the middle of the night, on someone else’s roof.


“As if I’d waste my time cataloging trivia like that.” Sherlock slips out from behind the chimney, facing me. Moonlight casts little shadows beneath every angle of his face. Under the stars, he looks like an alien. A really attractive alien. “I deduced it.”


I fight the urge to grab him. He’s balancing on his heels on the slanted rooftop like gravity is the least of his concerns. Maybe it is. Maybe he really is an alien and he has an anti-gravity belt. And he failed Human Conversations 101 in Alien School. “Deduced?”


“Circles under your eyes. Not sleeping. Your hair, your unwashed face, and the prescription in your back pocket all told me about your depression.”


Somewhere behind us, there’s a noise. “Sherlock.”


“You’re wearing a ring around your neck. Class ring, too large for your finger, but a woman’s. Class of 2010—too young for a mother, bit old for a girlfriend, most likely sister. She wouldn’t have given it to you, strange gift, she’d have bought you a normal necklace. You inherited it. Chain’s not scratched or discolored. Less than a year old.”


“Sherlock…”


“There’s a scar on your left temple where you hit the window, white enough that’s it recent but not so recent it isn’t healed. You part your hair to hide it, you don’t want to see it in the mirror. It’s connected to a traumatic event. You also alternate between unconsciously rubbing that area of your forehead and your neck when you’re upset—muscles tense from anxiety, neck aches, leftover from whiplash. Car accident.”


“Sherlock.”


“Oh, let me finish, I’m nearly there anyway. Bumper sticker on your mother’s car. Saw it when we pulled in. My youngest is an honors student.Youngest. She made a point of being prouder of you than of her. Her bedroom in your house is on the bottom floor, can tell because the shades are drawn, bit strange, it’s the middle of the day. The room is exactly as it was when she died and your mother doesn’t outsiders to see. Cartoon stickers on the window, faded. The bedroom of a child who’d grown up. Not you, you wouldn’t put stickers on your window, you’re habitually neat with your possessions—clothes unflattering but clean, they’ve been folded. Cigarette butts under the window too. Old ones. She was a smoker. Your mother hated it. Every mother does.”


Jesus Christ.


“Sherlock, that was incredible, but—”


“It was, wasn’t it?”


“But.” I separate my brain into two halves: the one reverberating with shock at Sherlock’s bizarre brand of magic, and the one paying attention to the figure creeping over the back fence. “They’re here.”


Sherlock whips around, eyes following the burglar, who hops the fence and moves toward the back of the house.


“Interesting,” he says.


I fumble with my phone—need a picture—as the burglar begins to scale the same wooden trellis that I’d used to get on the roof. It creaks under all the weight.


“Not stargazing, then.”


“Quiet.”


The burglar gets close enough so that I can see it’s a man, though his face is still in shadow—a man balancing with his arms out. He’s heading for the skylight, so focused he hasn’t noticed us. The skylight is just above the chimney, moonlight glinting off the glass. I hold my finger above my phone’s camera button.


And then it rings.


This time, it doesn’t shriek. It screams. How could I have not muted it, how how how—but it’s too late. BLOCKED NUMBER flashes across the screen just before the burglar freezes, spots us, and scuttles back toward the trellis.


“You were waiting for him,” notes Sherlock.


I wish I could say I do it because I want to help whoever wrote me that letter. I wish I could say I do it for the right reasons. But I don’t. I do it because I want to be awake.


I dive out from behind the chimney, ignoring gravity, and leap toward the burglar, making a swipe for his sleeve. I miss by miles. My balance is gone. I crash to the tiles, bruising my elbow, skidding, rolling right off the edge of the roof, getting a last-minute grip on the gutter.


Still holding on today, then.


A hand closes on my wrist. “This roof isn’t high enough for you to break your neck. Twenty feet at most. If that was some sort of suicide attempt, the best you can hope for is a sprained wrist or broken elbow.”


Then Sherlock pulls. I didn’t realize how strong he was. The litheness hides muscle. He hooks his foot on the gutter to keep from sliding and drags me back up onto the roof without making a sound.


I twist to look for the burglar, but he’s gone. Light bleeds out behind us. Someone’s turned on the kitchen light.


This time, I’m the one who grabs Sherlock’s hand, yanking him toward the trellis. Together we scramble down, racing across the lawn and hurtling over the fence just as the front door opens.


Once on the street, I run. I’m half-laughing, half-panting, sprinting with sweat blinding me. These are the only moments that matter. When my blood is fire and memories of Carol are so far away.


Eventually, when I’m sure we’ve turned enough corners that the cops won’t find us even if they come, I glance beside me. Sherlock is standing there, as cool and unruffled as if he’d just woken up from a nap.


My chest is burning. I bend over, panting. “Sorry. That was supposed to have gone better.”


“Things can’t always go the way we expect.” He smiles for the first time. It changes his whole face. “You were supposed to be boring.”

Hey guys, guess what? LOCKED is available now on:

Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Smashwords

And I'm doing a big giveaway to celebrate! If you review LOCKED on Amazon before April 10th, you'll be entered to win a Kindle Fire. The winner will be chosen randomly.


Genre: NA Romance
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Eighteen-year-old Irene Adler hasn’t cared much for living since her sister died. 

Until Sherlock Holmes moves in next door.
Sherlock is a conceited, sharp-cheekboned nightmare—and Irene’s first real friend in ages. Within a day, he’s partnered with her to solve their school's mysteries. Within a week, he’s saved her life in more ways than one. 

Within a month, the whole school thinks he's a murderer.

When Sherlock is found alone with a dead girl, he and Irene must crack the case under a hailstorm of hate—before the killer comes after the genius who gave Irene her life back. 

This is a modern-day reimagination of the Sherlock Holmes series by Arthur Conan Doyle. 

EXCERPT:

The door opens and my new neighbor is a vampire.

He’s nearly a foot taller than me. Unruly ink-black hair, and a face made of knife angles. If I were obnoxious, I might use the term shockingly attractive. Or terrifyingly handsome. Holy mother of balls would also be an option. His eyes are crystalized, glittering, and they get even more diamondlike when he sees the casserole.

“Yes,” he hisses.

I swallow. “I’m glad you like casserole so much…”

“What? No. No.” He waves at me distractedly and yells into the house, “Casserole, Mycroft! Not potato salad!”

There’s an echoed “damn” from the living room. 

“Knew it the moment I saw the garden gnome,” says the vampire to the universe at large before directing his voice back to the living room. “That means I get the upstairs bedroom.”

“Um…sorry.” I always apologize to people when I have no idea what to say. Safest thing to do. 

“Apology accepted.” 

He has a British accent. The girls at Aspen High will lose their minds.

“Wait, no,” I say. “I mean, I wasn’t actually apologizing for anything.”

“I assumed you were apologizing in advance for boring me with the standard introductions, which I would actually prefer to get over with, so: I’m Sherlock Holmes, you’re someone whose last name is Adler, going by the surname on your mailbox. No, I don’t find it a particularly lovely neighborhood. No, you’re not invited inside for tea. Goodbye.”

And the door slams.

I check myself to see whether or not I’ve been hit by a truck, because that’s what it feels like. No truck. Nobody tasing me, either, which was my next guess. I shuffle the casserole to my left arm and buzz the doorbell two more times. 

The vampire answers it again. No, not vampire. Sherlock. He’s pale like one, though. It makes his eyes even more alarming. 

“We’re not big fans of Girl Scout cookies,” he says and tries to shut the door again, but I stick my foot in the way. 

“What the hell is your problem?”

Sometimes my anger outpaces my anxiety and later I’ll regret it, but not yet.

The person with easily the weirdest name I’ve ever heard raises an eyebrow. “Did you really want the tea that badly?”

“No, it’s just—we made this for you. Take it.” If I return without the casserole, there will be questions. Mom needs to think I got along with the neighbor. Mom needs to think I get along with everyone. “And you could say thanks.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock says like he’s never heard of the word before and takes the casserole, sniffing it like he’s never heard of a casserole either. 

“It’s not laced with arsenic or anything.”

“If it were, that would make you much more interesting than I believe you are.” His eyes flick up, and I might as well have just slid through an MRI machine. 

I should be nice. Sherlock is reading very low on the social skills meter. Someone like him probably doesn’t get a lot of nice. “Okay. So…you’re my age, looks like. My first name is Irene, by the way. Not on the mailbox. You’re transferring to Aspen High, right?”

He does this pained twitch. “I’ll save both of us some time. I don’t do this.” He gestures. 

“What, talking?”

“Not about things that don’t matter, no. We’re not going to be friends, I’m not going to come round your house after school to do homework, if you ask to borrow sugar I won’t give you any. Now goodbye.”

The door bounces off my foot again. At this rate I’ll need crutches. “Yeah, no, I don’t want your sugar. I just thought it would be nice, since we’re neighbors, to get to know each other a little. But obviously—”

“I already know as much about you as I’ll ever need to,” Sherlock cuts in. 

I laugh. “You know my name.”

“And I know that you suffer from insomnia, likely a side effect of the fact that you’re clinically depressed, also likely a side effect of the fact that your elder sister died in a car crash nearly a year ago and you were in the right back seat. No—” He tilts his head to the side. “Left back seat.”

I hunt through my mind for the part that keeps my lungs working. My stomach wrenches and I will myself not to throw up, like I did when the car finally settled on its back and I unhooked himself from the seat belt and got a good look at—no, stop, don’t go there.

Sherlock’s face changes. Just a little. 

“Nice trick. Been talking to my mom? Looked us up online?” The words fall from me like rocks. “You got one thing wrong. It’s not insomnia.”

“Damn.” His face ices over again. “In that case, what keeps you awake at night? I assume you’re not crying over your sister. You two didn’t get on. You were always the favorite. She must have resented that. People do. And you, let’s see…you were ashamed of—”

One moment, Sherlock is loosely holding the casserole. I move and then it’s slathered down his front, clumps of it splattering on the porch, the flakes of burnt cheese dotted across his collarbone. The dish clatters to the ground. 

“Oh my God.” The pain is sliding farther and farther back, the scene in front of me getting crisper. “Oh God, I’m sorry—”

There’s surprise in his expression. An expression that’s been so flat that any hint of emotion stands out like white on black. There’s a tiny bit of hurt there too, almost unnoticeable. I want to yell well what did you expect, but instead I turn and run.

When I get back to the house, my heart is beating so fast it hurts. I scream into my elbow without making a sound.

“What are the new neighbors like?” my mom calls from upstairs.

“Very…” I manage. “Nice.”

With only a few hours left to go until the release day of LOCKED, I'd love to post my playlist for you! Each chapter has a different song.

Chapter 1: Wake Me Up by Avicii

Chapter 2: Hot N Cold by Katy Perry

Chapter 3: The Monster (ft Rihanna) by Eminem

Chapter 4: I Am Not A Robot by Marina and the Diamonds

Chapter 5: Oh No! by Marina and the Diamonds

Chapter 6: Best Day of My Life by American Authors

Chapter 7: Radioactive by Imagine Dragons

Chapter 8: Hold On by Colbie Caillat

Chapter 9: Say Something by A Great Big World & Christina Aguilera

Chapter 10: Burn by Ellie Goulding

Chapter 11: Love Don’t Die by The Fray

Chapter 12: Brave by Sarah Bareilles

Chapter 13: Human by Christina Perri

Chapter 14: Growing Old is Getting Old by Silversun Pickups

Chapter 15: Let Her Go by Passenger

In case you're wondering who I based my young Sherlock Holmes on, it's...

...NICHOLAS HOULT!


*fans self for the next twenty years*
Add LOCKED on Goodreads

Okay guys, LOCKED is out in the world tomorrow and I'm officially freaking out. In the mean time, I'd like to share the second teaser. This is a big chunk from the first chapter where Irene and Sherlock first meet, so enjoy!

~~~~
The door opens and my new neighbor is a vampire.

He’s nearly a foot taller than me. Unruly ink-black hair, and a face made of knife angles. If I were obnoxious, I might use the term shockingly attractive. Or terrifyingly handsome. Holy mother of balls would also be an option. His eyes are crystalized, glittering, and they get even more diamondlike when he sees the casserole.

“Yes,” he hisses.

I swallow. “I’m glad you like casserole so much…”

“What? No. No.” He waves at me distractedly and yells into the house, “Casserole, Mycroft! Not potato salad!”

There’s an echoed “damn” from the living room.

“Knew it the moment I saw the garden gnome,” says the vampire to the universe at large before directing his voice back to the living room. “That means I get the upstairs bedroom.”

“Um…sorry.” I always apologize to people when I have no idea what to say. Safest thing to do.

“Apology accepted.”

He has a British accent. The girls at Aspen High will lose their minds.

“Wait, no,” I say. “I mean, I wasn’t actually apologizing for anything.”

“I assumed you were apologizing in advance for boring me with the standard introductions, which I would actually prefer to get over with, so: I’m Sherlock Holmes, you’re someone whose last name is Adler, going by the surname on your mailbox. No, I don’t find it a particularly lovely neighborhood. No, you’re not invited inside for tea. Goodbye.”

And the door slams.

I check myself to see whether or not I’ve been hit by a truck, because that’s what it feels like. No truck. Nobody tasing me, either, which was my next guess. I shuffle the casserole to my left arm and buzz the doorbell two more times.

The vampire answers it again. No, not vampire. Sherlock. He’s pale like one, though. It makes his eyes even more alarming.

“We’re not big fans of Girl Scout cookies,” he says and tries to shut the door again, but I stick my foot in the way.

“What the hell is your problem?”

Sometimes my anger outpaces my anxiety and later I’ll regret it, but not yet.

The person with easily the weirdest name I’ve ever heard raises an eyebrow. “Did you really want the tea that badly?”

“No, it’s just—we made this for you. Take it.” If I return without the casserole, there will be questions. Mom needs to think I got along with the neighbor. Mom needs to think I get along with everyone. “And you could say thanks.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock says like he’s never heard of the word before and takes the casserole, sniffing it like he’s never heard of a casserole either.

“It’s not laced with arsenic or anything.”

“If it were, that would make you much more interesting than I believe you are.” His eyes flick up, and I might as well have just slid through an MRI machine.

I should be nice. Sherlock is reading very low on the social skills meter. Someone like him probably doesn’t get a lot of nice. “Okay. So…you’re my age, looks like. My first name is Irene, by the way. Not on the mailbox. You’re transferring to Aspen High, right?”

He does this pained twitch. “I’ll save both of us some time. I don’t do this.” He gestures.

“What, talking?”

“Not about things that don’t matter, no. We’re not going to be friends, I’m not going to come round your house after school to do homework, if you ask to borrow sugar I won’t give you any. Now goodbye.”

The door bounces off my foot again. At this rate I’ll need crutches. “Yeah, no, I don’t want your sugar. I just thought it would be nice, since we’re neighbors, to get to know each other a little. But obviously—”

“I already know as much about you as I’ll ever need to,” Sherlock cuts in.

I laugh. “You know my name.”

“And I know that you suffer from insomnia, likely a side effect of the fact that you’re clinically depressed, also likely a side effect of the fact that your elder sister died in a car crash nearly a year ago and you were in the right back seat. No—” He tilts his head to the side. “Left back seat.”

I hunt through my mind for the part that keeps my lungs working. My stomach wrenches and I will myself not to throw up, like I did when the car finally settled on its back and I unhooked himself from the seat belt and got a good look at—no, stop, don’t go there.

Sherlock’s face changes. Just a little.

“Nice trick. Been talking to my mom? Looked us up online?” The words fall from me like rocks. “You got one thing wrong. It’s not insomnia.”

“Damn.” His face ices over again. “In that case, what keeps you awake at night? I assume you’re not crying over your sister. You two didn’t get on. You were always the favorite. She must have resented that. People do. And you, let’s see…you were ashamed of—”

One moment, Sherlock is loosely holding the casserole. I move and then it’s slathered down his front, clumps of it splattering on the porch, the flakes of burnt cheese dotted across his collarbone. The dish clatters to the ground.

“Oh my God.” The pain is sliding farther and farther back, the scene in front of me getting crisper. “Oh God, I’m sorry—”

There’s surprise in his expression. An expression that’s been so flat that any hint of emotion stands out like white on black. There’s a tiny bit of hurt there too, almost unnoticeable. I want to yell well what did you expect, but instead I turn and run.

When I get back to the house, my heart is beating so fast it hurts. I scream into my elbow without making a sound.

“What are the new neighbors like?” my mom calls from upstairs.

“Very…” I manage. “Nice.”
~~~~
Don't forget to add it on Goodreads! 

Okay guys! LOCKED is out in a little less than two days, and I'm practicing my deep breathing. In the meantime, I'd like to post the first teaser.

|||

“Fine. Penalty shot for Ashley’s team.”

“I’ll take it. I made the last shot,” says Sherlock. Nobody protests. I guess it’s hard to protest when he states everything like it’s already been decided. Ashley beams as she passes the ball to him. He takes his position in the middle of the gym floor, back straight, like he’s the star athlete of the world instead of a genius who’s probably never touched a basketball before in his life.

And then he keeps going.

When he reaches me, I have just enough time to say, “No, you’re supposed to take it from over there,” before he covers my mouth with his.

Sherlock Holmes is kissing me.

I think: Gym class? Really?

I think: What the hell do I do with my tongue?

I think: Oh.

So that’s what a kiss is like.

Oh. Oh—

The whistle shrieks into the middle of everything. My head is a building imploding. I can feel them—his lips. Warm. Human. Alive. Shocking the ghost right out of me.

And then they’re gone.

“PDA, Holmes!” Mr. Dalton is roaring. “Office! Now!”

Sherlock is staring at me and for a split second, there’s a tiny bit of surprise on his face—as if he hadn’t been the one to walk over and kiss me out of nowhere. Not the shot he was supposed to take. 

|||

Hi guys!

Guess what - LOCKED has a brand new release date of February 10th, 2014. This new release date is solely due to some personal stuff that's been taking up more time in my life than I anticipated.

Thanks for your patience, everyone!

Hi everyone! It's time for something I've been really, really excited for...


...the cover reveal for LOCKED!


LOCKED is a contemporary Sherlock Holmes retelling from the perspective of a teenage Irene Adler. Before we look at the new cover, here's the updated blurb:

~~~~

Eighteen-year-old Irene Adler hasn’t cared much for living since her sister died. 

Until Sherlock Holmes moves in next door.

Sherlock is a conceited, sharp-cheekboned nightmare—and Irene’s first real friend in ages. Within a day, he’s partnered with her to solve their school's mysteries. Within a week, he’s saved her life in more ways than one. 

Within a month, the whole school thinks he's a murderer.

When Sherlock is found alone with a dead girl, he and Irene must crack the case under a hailstorm of hate—before the killer comes after the genius who gave Irene her life back. 
~~~~
I am an absolute Sherlock Holmes fangirl (have you guys seen the trailer for Sherlock season 3 yet? If not, GO SEE IT NOW. I can't decide what's a bigger tragedy: Sherlock's faked death or John's mustache) and I just had to write this book. 
And now, without further ado, here's the cover!
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I love the way it turned out! With the stormy sky...and Irene looking over her shoulder all suspicious...like Sherlock's over there insulting someone and she's like "wtf."
LOCKED comes out on February 3rd, 2014 (just a little while after Season 3 of Sherlock finishes airing in the U.S!) and you can add it on Goodreads here!
Everyone's support means so much to me. Thanks, you guys!

I have some REALLY EXCITING news to share with everyone!

 Dun dun dun...

 I HAVE A NEW BOOK COMING OUT!

 Hooray!

 It's a modern-day Sherlock Holmes reimagination set in high school, from the perspective of a teenage Irene Adler, and it's called LOCKED. It's now up on Goodreads for you to add! 

The cover reveal will be next week, and I'll be doing a countdown of sorts.

Until then, have the release date and the blurb.

LOCKED release date: February 3rd, 2014. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


Eighteen-year-old Irene Adler hasn’t cared much for living since her sister died.

Until Sherlock Holmes moves in next door.

Sherlock is a conceited, sharp-cheekboned nightmare—and Irene’s first real friend in ages. Within a day, he’s partnered with her to solve their school's mysteries. Within a week, he’s saved her life in more ways than one.

Within a month, the whole school thinks he's a murderer.

When Sherlock is found alone with a dead girl, he and Irene must crack the case under a hailstorm of hate—before the killer comes after the genius who gave Irene her life back.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Again, don't forget to add it on Goodreads, and keep an eye out for the upcoming cover reveal!

Wow - TORRENTIAL's already been out for a week! In honor of the milestone, I'll be hosting a giveaway AND posting the entire first chapter here on the blog.

I'm giving away FIVE copies!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Giveaway ends this Saturday at midnight, and I'll be distributing copies Monday morning.

Now for the first chapter:



+ CHAPTER ONE +

My name is Sebastian Crane.

I’m not here for the reason you think I am.

The bar is dark with three a.m. smog, the broken dreams and drunken incoherencies almost tangible. I lounge in one corner, shadows keeping me mostly hidden from the idiots falling over each other to argue about which girl belongs to who. I finger the rim of a crystal-clear shot of vodka. When I down it, it barely tickles.

I feel nothing.

I am nothing.

But tonight I’m a little sick of the nothing, so I stand, a deep ache sprouting in several of my muscles. I’ve been practicing too much, I know. But there’s no one to tell me to stop.

There’s a particularly stupid-looking Neanderthal at the table nearest me. He says something filthy to his friends, who slap him clumsily on the back. They’re all wasted. I’ve had at least as much to drink, but unlike them, it makes me sharper. Electrified.

Ready to let the burn out—something I can never do when I’m sober.

I stride past the Neanderthal’s table, purposefully letting my elbow jolt his shoulder. The bar’s crowded enough that it could pass unnoticed, and I hold my breath, but he bites.

“The fuck was that?” he growls, spinning around so I get a full view of the viper tattoo curling over his ugly jaw. His friends chuckle, smelling a fight. This guy is wider than me, but not taller. He’s a pickaxe. I’m a broadsword.

“Sorry,” I say smoothly. “I’m less careful around losers.”

They pick up the scent immediately—my rich-boy upbringing. It’s obvious in the way I carry myself, the imperious expression I’ve picked up from my father. I don’t try to hide it. It makes them want to hurt me more.

And that’s exactly what I’m looking for.

“Hey, you piece of shit.” Neanderthal stands, jostling the table and knocking over someone else’s shot. Nobody complains. He’s their leader. “Ready to get your pretty face broke in half?”

My mouth twists into a rare smile. “I’m ready for you to try.”

His first punch comes like a truck, but slow. I sidestep it, smirking at the dumb surprise on his face. I wonder how many teeth that punch has knocked out before. But not mine. His friends are hollering now, but I tone them out. My body is humming with animal rage.

This is the only time I let myself to feel.

If I hit him the right way he’ll go down in an instant, and I want to draw this out. I strike him once on the chest and once in the shoulder, enough to make it sting, enough to make him angry.

“Motherfucker—” He throws a wild swing.

This time I let him hit me, but I tighten my abs so that the pain, when it comes, is only a dull ache. Still, I relish it. Pain is different when it comes from the outside.

It’s better.

His idiot friends yell their approval. The girls are staring at me with a mixture of desire and fear, an expression I’m very familiar with. And all at once, I’m tired of this. Tired of them.

This won’t save me.

I finish it neatly, delivering a series of lightning blows to his chest and then clipping his temple. He makes an almost ridiculous amount of noise when he crashes to the ground. He’ll be sleeping for a while, and not from the booze.

His friends are dead silent. They’ve realized I’m more than some rich boy in the wrong bar. They’re afraid of me. Not entirely stupid, then. But entirely pathetic.

I curl my lip, kick aside a broken beer bottle, and pull my hood over my head before striding into the night.



The morning after

MAY
When I step out of the airport terminal, Tanner is waiting for me.

He looks almost the same as I remember him—almost ridiculously handsome, his face broad and smiling, skin a little darker than before. From the Florida sunlight, I guess. I throw my carry-on to the ground and leap into his arms. He grabs me and swings me around, laughing.

“Your hair!” he crows as soon as he sets me down. “Who’d you let touch you with bleach?”

I finger the ends of my once-mousy brown hair, now streaked with golden highlights. “Shut up. My old roommate did it for me, okay?”

New hair for a new life. That’s what she’d said.

“You look beautiful, May.” A flash of sincerity crosses his face, which is usually devious with some joke or another. There’s warmth there, and I nearly cringe away from it, because it means that the bombshell he dropped on me the day before he left two years ago still holds true—“I’m in love with you, May.”

A couple girls are gazing at me jealously. They must think he’s my boyfriend. But he’s not, because I’m May Young, and May Young does not have boyfriends.

We grab my suitcases from the luggage pick-up, Tanner making a point not to grunt with the effort even though I know they weigh about a bazillion pounds. Together, we hurry into the bright Florida sunlight.

“Palm trees!” I shade my eyes and point. “Tanner, those are palm trees!”

“You dork.” He hefts my bags into his car, which he’s left in the drop-off zone, even though he’s not supposed to. “Only you could get that excited about trees.”

A rush of stupid joy fills me and I hug him again, nearly knocking him into the side of his Toyota. “You know, even when I got accepted it didn’t feel real. But we’re actually going to the same university now. It’ll be just like high school!”

“Yeah, except in high school we couldn’t drink or go to clubs. Legally, anyway.” He flashes me that wolfish smile of his. “Get in. I’m gonna give you the grand tour of campus.”

Rothschild University is only twenty minutes away from the airport, and Tanner drives fast, blasting the radio with the windows rolled down. His muscular arm—he’s been working out—is hooked over the side of the window. I roll down my own window and lean out into the rushing air, so far that Tanner laughs.

It’s been two years since I’ve really seen him, apart from a few scattered days over breaks. Two years since he got accepted to the prestigious Rothschild University, and I went to New Jersey state so I’d be able to look after my mom, who’s needed looking after ever since my scum-of-the-earth dad walked out on her when I was five. But she promised she’d be all right without me now. Said I needed to start my own life.

When we reach the campus, the first thing I notice is that it’s right on the water. The beach is glittering, a long strip of sandy perfection glowing in the heat with a few students sprawled out on towels. The water is crystal-blue. I want to dive right in, but Tanner pulls into the parking lot and lines my suitcases up on the sidewalk.

“You’re in Chatterley Hall, right?” He points to the building nearest the water, and my heart leaps. It’s very new-looking, with lots of windows that face the sea. “Lucky. Their air-conditioning is the best on campus. Be prepared for me to crash in your room every day for the rest of the semester.”

“I have a roommate,” I remind him, picking up the smallest bag, which is the only one he’s left for me to carry. I laugh at him panting over my three giant suitcases. “Who I’m completely sure is gonna be gorgeous and smart and perfect and I’ll spend the entire semester trying not to die of jealousy.”

“All girls here are generally gorgeous and smart and perfect. I’ve researched it very thoroughly.” He grins, and I punch him lightly on the arm.

“Perv. I’ll have to protect my new roommate from you if you’re going to be hassling me for my air-conditioning all the time.”

He scoffs. “Ladies never want to be protected from me.”

I slug him one more time, for good measure.

Fortunately, my dorm room is on the bottom floor of the building, so we don’t have to drag my stuff up any stairs. The hall is way nicer than my old school, with new carpeting and a lot less drawings of cocks on the whiteboards—maybe because it’s an all-female hall. I realize I forgot to pick up my key and I knock, hoping my new roommate is home. Opal reads the name on the door. Odd name.

Fortunately the door opens. Opal is a pretty girl, a little taller than me, with messy black hair toppling over her shoulders and a sleepy smile. She’s also in her underwear.

“Why hello there,” says Tanner brightly.

Her eyes widen, and she shrieks and shuts the door. Tanner collapses against the wall, laughing, while I try knocking again. “Sorry! I’m your new roommate. Ignore the gorilla in the hall, he’s mostly harmless.”

There’s some rustling and finally the door opens again, Opal having miraculously donned pants and brushed her hair in the span of a few seconds. She’s still blushing fiercely red. “S-sure, come in. Sorry it’s a total mess in here. Need help carrying any stuff?”

“No, we brought it all up. I’m May, by the way.” I smile at her as Tanner drags my things inside. It’s not true that it’s a mess—her side of the room is very neat, papers arranged on her desk and a string of yellow Christmas lights pinned to the wall in a straight line. I’m delighted to see she’s left the bed by the window for me. It has a perfect view of the ocean. I rush to it and throw it wide open, breathing in the salty air.

“That’s it,” I declare. “I officially love it here. Every single thing about this school is perfect.”

“So where are you from?” Opal says, a little shyly, and inches away from Tanner, who’s just plopped down on her bed like he owns the place. That idiot.

And I don’t want to talk about where I’m from. “New Jersey. Hey, I’m really glad to be your roommate. You seem cool and I totally don’t mind if you sleep in your underwear.”

“Now who’s the pervert,” says Tanner, rolling onto his back so that his shirt slides up and reveals a fraction of his abs, probably on purpose. “Opal, meet May. She says pretty much everything that pops into her head.”

I move to drag him off the bed and throw him out the door before he can say anything else to embarrass me in front of my new roommate, but instead I trip spectacularly over one of my bags and crash across his chest. He locks me in a bear hug and I have to squirm to get free. “She’s also the biggest klutz in the universe.”

“Bye, Opal, we’re gonna go take a tour of campus and I’ll see you later,” I say hastily, seizing his hand and hauling him into the hallway. Once we’re there, I kick him.

“Still as mild-mannered as ever,” he says ruefully, rubbing his shin.

“Could you just keep your fat mouth shut for like two minutes? I have to live with this girl for the rest of the year and I’d rather she not figure out straightaway that I’m a complete—”

He frowns. “Don’t. There’s nothing wrong with you. Look, I’m sure she thinks you’re awesome. And if not, I’ll bring some booze over tonight and then she’ll definitely think you’re awesome because you have such a hot, booze-bringing friend. Now come on, let’s actually take a tour of campus.”

I sigh, a little relieved. I was worried things would be awkward with Tanner after two whole years of hardly seeing each other, but he seems just as ready as I am to settle into our old friendship. So far, he hasn’t even said anything about the I love you he gave me the last time we were together, and I’m grateful. Every time I think of it, I’m overwhelmed with embarrassment—and guilt.

“Are you spacing out? Because I have places to show you.” Tanner hangs against the wall at the end of the hallway, tapping his foot.

I grin my brightest and bound after him. “Show away!”

The rest of campus is just as beautiful as my building. Palm trees line the walkways that lead up to each building, all of which sparkle—Tanner tells me that they just finished remodeling almost the whole campus, which is huge. It takes us more than an hour to just to walk past all the buildings. He shows me the big lawn beyond the beach, where people take their books to study on picnic tables, and the main dining hall, which is stuffed with windows and faces the water. There’s even a garden with a stone table in the center, partially hidden from the rest of campus. I know the second I see it that I’ll be spending a lot of time there.

We get takeaway tacos and coffee from library café and eat in the garden, Tanner downing his in practically two bites. When I finish mine, I look up and realize that he’s staring at me, his characteristic joking smile nowhere to be seen.

“May,” he says softly. “I want you to know that I still mean what I said last time I saw you.”

Just like always, the guilt pours into my chest. But this time I’ll do better. I won’t just stand and stare in shock. “Tanner, it’s not you. It never was you. Any girl would be lucky to have you. It’s just that my mom—”

“May, you don’t have to explain anything to me,” he says, leaning forward. The breeze pulls his hair into his sky-blue eyes. “I just wanted to tell you that despite that, you don’t have to worry. We’ll still be friends like we’ve always been.”

“Thank you,” I say a little helplessly. “But listen. You know that my dad left my mom when I was little. She’s never been the same. I promised myself I would never let that happen to me. It’s not you. I just don’t want to date anyone.”

There’s silence for a moment, the wind rustling the flowers around us. Then he reaches out and tousles my hair, like he always used to when we were kids. “As long as you’re happy, May. That’s what’s important. Now let’s go. I have something special to show you.”

He takes me to the farthest side of campus, where the gym building stands between the academic quad and the football field. He flashes his I.D at the door and shows me down several flights of stairs, which is when I smell the familiar scent of chlorine. It reminds me of home.

“I figured you’d like this,” he says, grinning to himself the way he does when he’s proud of something. “I know you’ve always been really into swimming.”

And then he brings me inside the pool room.

The pool is enormous, at least twice as big as the one where I swam for the team at my old college. The water clean and glassy. I almost sprint back to my dorm room and grab my bathing suit, it looks so inviting—and only a single lane is occupied.

I turn to Tanner, ready to squeal with excitement, but his expression stops me short. A shadow has darkened his face. I follow his gaze and realize he’s staring at the one occupied lane.

The person swimming is fantastic, I notice that right away. His lithe arms cut through the water in sharp, flawless strokes. His body moves through the water like a knife, barely causing any ripples but going so fast he does two lane lengths in the amount of time it takes us to watch him. He’s not wearing goggles. His eyes are closed, but he knows exactly when to twist and turn when he reaches the side of the pool, and as he does, I catch a glimpse of his face—frozen in focus so intense he almost looks like he’s in pain.

A shiver runs down my spine, the same sort of shiver I get when I watch Olympic swimmers on television. I’ve always wanted to be that good.

“Come on. Let’s go,” Tanner says, but even the annoyance in his voice can’t shake me out of my reverie. “I have to take a piss.”

Normally I’d make fun of him for that, but I can’t stop watching that man move through the water. He uses his body like a musical instrument. “I’ll be right after you. I just want to check out the pool for another minute. Please?”

He hesitates, scowling. I can tell he’s reluctant to leave me here, but I tear my eyes away long enough to do my best puppy eyes, and he gives in. “Fine. But hurry up, okay?”

I watch him disappear into the locker room, and when I turn back towards the pool, the swimmer has stopped. I almost protest, but then I notice that he’s resting his forehead against the concrete rim, his shoulders shaking very slightly. I wonder how long he’s been swimming like that to make him so tired. Eventually, he lifts himself out the pool in one fluid motion, stands, and finally sees me.

I should probably say something, but all I can do is gape. He’s beautiful. He’s got a perfect swimmer’s body, muscular without being too broad—more toned, like a panther. His flat stomach rises and falls as he pants. He takes a few steps toward me and I’m stunned by his eyes—golden-brown and flecked with silvery gray.

Stop staring like an idiot, May, talk. “You’rearageswma.” No, talk with words. “You’re a really good swimmer.”

He stares at me for another second before he scoffs, a tiny sound that lets me know all I need to—he thinks I’m a moron. He slings his towel over his shoulders and starts toward the locker room, water running between his shoulder blades in torrents. “I’m the best,” I hear him say as soon as he’s no longer facing me.

I can’t let this guy think I’m a total loser. I’ve never seen anyone swim as well as him. I’m burning to know more about his technique. “How’d you get to be so good?” I ask, realizing too late that I’ve got the dopiest smile on my face.

He stops. Then he turns and approaches me again, getting close enough that I can see the water dripping off the ends of his dark hair. My heart does this stuttering thing. “I’m May—”

“I don’t care what your name is,” he interrupts. His voice is low and cutting. “The only thing I’m interested in is why you think you can come here. This is my practice time. Nobody interrupts that. Everyone else seems to get it, so I’m curious as to why you don’t?”

I’m still smiling like an idiot for a few good seconds after he stops talking, before I really realize what he’s said. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you deaf as well as a moron?”

“I’m s-sorry.” A hot blush spreads down my neck. “I didn’t realize you could reserve the whole pool—”

“You can’t,” he says coolly, water trickling in rivulets over his ribcage. “I can.” He turns sharply, back towards the pool. “Don’t come here again.”

His voice contains so much contempt that suddenly my embarrassment solidifies into anger. “And why are you so special that you get the pool all to yourself? A pool is supposed to be shared.”

A fraction of surprise momentarily breaks up his icy expression, but he quickly recovers it. “I don’t share. The pool is mine when I say it is. That’s something everyone accepts if they go to this school. If you have a problem with it, I suggest you transfer.”

His tone is so biting that I can’t think of anything to say in return—all I can do is tremble with anger. Who the hell is this guy?

He strides toward the locker room door, but Tanner opens it. He doesn’t get out of the way.

“Everything all right, May?” he asks loudly.

I’m still so stunned that I can barely remember how to talk, but Tanner is glaring at the swimmer like he’s prepared to deliver a punch. The problem with Tanner is that he has a terrible temper. Even in middle school, he’d blow up at anyone who looked at him the wrong way. Right now the air in here is thick with tension. “Yeah, everything’s fine. You coming?”

On his way towards me, Tanner nearly shoulder-checks the swimmer, who’s been standing with his back perfectly straight. I catch a hint of that sneer on his face, but mostly he just looks tired. Then he disappears into the locker room without a backwards glance at us.

“Congratulations,” Tanner says bitterly, throwing his arms out in a grand gesture as we step back outside into the luxurious Florida warmth I’m still not quite used to. “You’ve just met the biggest asshole at Rothschild University.”

The guy was definitely an asshole—he spoke to me like I was barely worth acknowledging. And yet…when I think about the way he swam, I get those shivers down my spine again. “What’s his name?”

“Oh, not you too,” says Tanner in disgust. “Please tell me you have more taste than that.”

The sun’s starting to set, and yellow-pink light streams over the gleaming tops of the buildings. I shield my eyes, feeling defensive. “What do you mean, not me too? I just asked what his name was.”

“Sebastian Crane.” Tanner kicks an empty soda can out of his way, frowning like the name itself offends him. “I can’t stand the guy. Nobody can. And that’s why he has zero friends and spends all his time at that stupid pool. I was hoping he wouldn’t be around today, but I guess my bad karma’s catching up with me. Anyway, what I meant was that all the girls around here secretly drool over him. They won’t talk to him, though. Nobody’s that stupid. Except you, apparently. You’re probably the first person around here who’s dared to say more than two words to him in ages.” He softens a little as he looks at me. “He didn’t say anything douchebaggy to you, did he?”

“No,” I lie, though I’m not sure why I’m bothering. Maybe it’s because I feel a twinge of pity for Sebastian Crane. “I feel kinda sorry for him. It can’t be fun to always be alone.”

Tanner snorts. “Oh, trust me, that’s the way he wants it. He made that real clear to everyone on his first day here. Say hi to him and he glares at you like you’ve personally poked him in the eye. Real charmer. Listen, May, don’t worry about him. Everyone else around here is nice, I swear.”

Tanner keeps up a steady stream of chatter on our way back to the dorms, even when we stop by the Admissions Office to pick up my dorm key and student I.D card. His jokes are a little forced—he’s trying to turn the subject as far away as possible from Sebastian. But it’s not that easy. I feel jarred to my core. Every time I blink, I see those golden-brown eyes narrowing at me.

How can someone swim so beautifully but be so cold?

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