Laws of Physics Book 1: MOTION Read online

  Perhaps this was something odd about me, but when my physical urges were like this, sometimes they made concentrating difficult. I’d discovered that a tangible, present partner wasn’t necessary for satisfying these urges, yet space, quiet, relaxation, and time to think of fantasy situations were essential. But for right now, and likely for the next week, I could do nothing about it. Satiating measures would have to wait until I returned to California.

  Ignore him. That’s the only logical course of action. Good, solid plan.

  5

  Time, Velocity, and Speed

  Ignoring Abram proved difficult.

  On the way to the shop, I walked slightly behind him. This made sense since he knew the way. I distracted myself by counting the number of houses we passed instead of staring at his ass, and I deserved a medal for this because he had a super great ass. Super. Great.

  I also distracted myself by cursing out Gabby in my head. I rarely noticed man parts, and usually only as a Well, look at that nice thing. Huh. Moving on. Presently, however, I was on the precipice of full-on man-part appreciation. Frustrating.

  Once the houses gave way to shops, I counted the bus stops, but continued to curse out Gabby.

  Overall, my coping strategies kept me from fixating on his very attractive form, backside, confident stride, and how he stopped at every intersection to walk adjacent to me, as though he were a gentleman from a bygone age of lusty ankles and jaunty carriage rides. Afterward, he would motion that I should precede him. I refused with a tight shake of my head, a flat smile, and no eye contact. With a sigh, he would lead the way once more until the next intersection.

  It was just after the fifth intersection that he attempted conversation. Not allowing me to resume my position behind him, he slowed his steps such that we were shoulder to shoulder.

  “Do you play?” he asked.

  I knew what he meant and I had no reason to lie. Both Lisa and I had taken piano, oboe, singing, and violin lessons. I nodded.

  “What do you play?”

  “Several instruments.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him tilt his head to one side, as though leaning closer so he could hear better. “Like what?”

  “Violin.”

  “Do you still?”

  “No.”

  He was quiet for a moment, perhaps contemplating this information, before asking, “You don’t like to play?”

  “No time.”

  Abram made a small grunt that sounded both derisive and amused. “Too busy managing Pirate Orgy’s social calendar?”

  Pirate Orgy was Tyler’s band and Tyler was the grossest human ever. Unthinkingly, I glanced at Abram’s sunglasses and caught my reflection. I might as well have had a marquee on my forehead that read INTENSE DISGUST.

  Get control of your facial expressions, Mona!

  His eyebrows shot high on his forehead. “You split from Tyler?”

  Nodding, I wiped at the beading sweat on my forehead with the back of my wrist. “Yes.”

  “Huh.”

  I felt his eyes on me, so I glanced at him again. “What?”

  “I’m surprised. When Leo asked me to watch you for the week, until that Steward lady gets here, he said one of the reasons your parents were so pissed was because you kept seeing Tyler behind their backs.”

  I nodded even as my wheels turned, realizing that this conversation had presented me with a unique opportunity. “What else did Leo say?”

  “About Tyler?”

  As I studied Abram, the curiosity floodgate I’d sealed shut hours ago sprung a leak. Due to the urgency of Lisa’s predicament, I’d agreed to lie for her. And though I’d been playing along and doing my best, justifying my role as sisterly duty and worry for her and Whatcha gonna do? Decision has already been made, nothing about this hatched plan sat well with me.

  The whispers of doubt I’d suppressed this morning were now asking different questions: What had Lisa done that made my parents so angry? Knowing my parents, it had to be something that had the potential to make them look bad or damage their carefully constructed images of having it all: a happy, well-adjusted family; beautiful houses and clothes and art and things; cultural relevance; respect of the industry; living their best life of ethical hedonism.

  She’d done a ton to make them vaguely annoyed, but what could have possibly galvanized them into acting? It couldn’t be just Tyler. And why was she in jail?

  Up to now, I’d endeavored to ignore my curiosity about the subject, reasoning that curiosity with no source of reliable information was pointless. Gabby had been either unsurprisingly vague or outright hostile when I’d asked her. I couldn’t question Lisa or Leo or my parents, and I had no idea when I’d be able to get in touch with Lisa’s lawyer.

  But Abram? . . . Possibly.

  Choosing my words carefully, I asked, “What else did Leo say about my parents and why they were—or are—upset?”

  “Trying to find out how much they know?” He seemed to be scrutinizing me. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I could feel them.

  Rolling my lips between my teeth, I said nothing, hoping he’d fill in the answer for himself.

  Abram watched me for a bit longer, and then released a short laugh. He shook his head. He sighed. “Um—” he sighed again “—according to Leo, it was the drugs that really freaked them out.”

  “Hmm.” They were upset about drugs? That made no sense.

  My parents’ attitude toward illegal substances was that nothing should be illegal. To say they were progressive would be an understatement. They’d always done a variety of drugs, even when we were little, making no secret of partaking in what they called “creativity enhancers,” like ecstasy, marijuana, and mushrooms. They’d even talked about it openly in interviews.

  That said, my dad had “the drug talk” with me and Lisa when we were eight. The message had been: wait until your brain is fully developed, and then consider them like a rich dessert: fine on birthdays, bat mitzvahs, Christmas, and when you want a rare treat, but avoid more than one serving at a time.

  I’d never touched anything—not cigarettes, not alcohol, not marijuana—mostly because any curiosity I might’ve experienced ended after I took a series of MIT OpenCourseWare classes on the brain and cognitive sciences, including neurochemistry. I’d subsequently decided that if I was going to put chemicals in my body, then they better be pharmaceutical grade, produced in a lab overseen by the FDA, and prescribed by a medical professional.

  While I was still pondering the puzzle of his response, Abram added, “I guess they didn’t want their baby girl selling cocaine to sixteen-year-olds at concerts.” And that’s when I choked on air. Hard.

  What. The. HELL?

  LISA!

  Oh man. Oh man oh man oh man. Cocaine? To SIXTEEN-YEAR-OLDS?

  I had to stop walking or risk falling over. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, I was coughing so hard, tears formed in the corners of my eyes and I wheezed when I inhaled.

  Cocaine was right up there with opiates as the most addictive, life destroying substances. When I saw her next, she would give me answers. All the answers. I would settle for nothing less. And if what Abram said was true, if she’d been peddling to kids, I was going to blow the lid off this deception. I was going to—

  “Are you okay?”

  Abruptly, I became aware that we were stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Abram was still there, once again standing close enough for me to feel the heat of his body even though it must’ve been eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit in the shade. Interestingly and confoundedly, his hand was also rubbing circles on my back and I hadn’t noticed.

  But as soon as I became aware of his touch, I stepped away. Sucking in a raspy breath and holding it, I let my eyelids fall. I tried to swallow. My throat felt gravelly and raw.

  No wonder my parents had freaked. If this got out to the papers, their pedestals might not survive.

  “I guess it’s not true?” His words were halting, like he wa
s speaking his thoughts as they occurred to him.

  What could I say? One of my anytime-situation phrases popped in my head (And thus, I die), but I quickly pushed it away. Opening my eyes, I glared at my reflection in his aviators and said nothing. I didn’t know what she’d done to land behind bars. I had no idea!

  “Where’s this guitar shop?” I asked, glancing up and down the sidewalk, my voice extremely rough.

  Abram hooked his thumbs in his jeans’ pockets. “We’re about a block away.”

  Clearing my throat, I motioned for him to proceed. Irritatingly, his initial footfalls were slow, which made it awkward for me to follow without walking next to him. I didn’t want to walk next to him. I wanted to quietly fume and make plans for how I might uncover the truth as soon as possible.

  But I couldn’t do either because he was talking again. “So, the Tyler stuff is true, but the drugs stuff is not.” He nodded at his own statement. “Good to know.”

  Staring forward, I erased my face of expression. The drug stuff better not be true. . . OR ELSE!

  “But—” He scratched his cheek, seemed to hesitate before finishing his thought, “But you and Tyler are split? For good?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve broken up before though, right?”

  I nodded, only half paying attention. If Lisa was selling cocaine to teenagers, I will go to a nerd-con and, posing as her, I would make out with a B-list celebrity and ensure we were photographed. She would be horrified and might never recover. I felt certain of this in my bones.

  “What’s different this time with Tyler?”

  Preoccupied by my perdition plans, I tried to remember my sister’s response to this question when I’d asked two nights ago. “Never again. I’m done with that floating trash island of whale excrement.”

  Whale excrement? Where had that come from? Once again, I blamed Moby Dick.

  Abram’s chuckle was a burst of air, like my answer had caught him totally off guard.

  “‘Floating trash island of whale excrement, ’” he quoted, sounding contemplative, drawing my eyes to his profile.

  Since I was walking on his left, I caught the flash of his dimple and it—paired with his super handsome profile—was enough to distract me from my thoughts of revenge. “That’s right.”

  “That’s an interesting description.” Abram’s steps slowed, stopped, and he reached for the door of a shop, holding it open for me. “You have a way with words. You should write song lyrics.”

  I grunted, scanning the front of the building. The window facing the sidewalk showcased a two-by-ten array of guitars, all held aloft by a heavy-duty black wire cage display. Through the wire and guitars, the interior of the shop was scarcely visible. But, no matter. Clearly this was our destination.

  “Why whale excrement?”

  Abram’s question drew my attention away from the guitars. He’d taken off his sunglasses and was folding them with one hand, holding the door open with the other. His gaze felt different. Oddly piercing.

  “Because it’s got to be the biggest piece of poop. Right? Whale poop should be massive.”

  He seemed to be fighting another smile and he opened his mouth as though to respond, but a voice called from the interior of the shop, “Are you coming inside? You’re letting all the AC out the door!”

  “Whoops!” I hurried past Abram and quickly found the owner of the voice. Giving him a little wave and conciliatory smile, I said, “Sorry about that.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The man didn’t look up from where he stood in the far corner, one foot on an amp, the other on the floor, a Martin D-45 Fire & Ice Dreadnought in his hands. Based on his level of preoccupation, he seemed to be tuning the acoustic guitar.

  “It’s expensive.”

  I turned to Abram, giving him a questioning look as the door shut at his back. “You mean the guitar he’s tuning? The Martin D-45? Yes. It is. My mom has one and she never let us touch it.”

  His rich brown eyes seemed to glitter. “No. I mean”—he shook his head, now fully smiling—“Yes, the Martin D-45 Fire & Ice is expensive, but I was referring to whale excrement.”

  I wrinkled my nose at him. “What?”

  “Have you heard of ambergris? It’s found in the digestive tract of sperm whales.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Yeah. They use it to make perfume—real perfume, not the fake stuff—it’s expensive,” he said conversationally, like this was true.

  Crossing my arms, I waited for the punchline. Based on interactions with my brother, I was sure the joke’s end had to do with both poop and sperm.

  But when he continued to stare at me steadily with a small smile on his lips and those intense brown eyes while leaning a few centimeters closer, butterflies re-awoke in my stomach.

  I was flustered again. Stupid, distracting pretty man parts.

  Shaking my head, I lifted my chin and hid behind a frown. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He leaned even closer, splitting his attention between my eyes and my mouth. “It makes scent, perfume, last longer. And some people believe it allows a person’s pheromones to comingle with the perfume, increasing the intensity of both.”

  I said nothing. The butterflies swirled. He still smelled so atypically delicious, I fleetingly wondered if what I was actually smelling were Abram-specific pheromones mixed with fancy sperm whale poop instead of cologne.

  “Look it up if you don’t believe me.” His statement sounded like a dare. His dimple and voice deepening, Abram’s stare seemed to dance as it traveled lower, from my eyes to my nose, mouth, chin, and neck. And then, he smiled.

  I turned abruptly—needing . . . away, from all that—walking aimlessly forward. “Aren’t we here to get a guitar?”

  “You really don’t believe me?” He was trailing close behind and I didn’t need to look to know he was shadowing my steps.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Why would I lie?” Abram’s voice held his smile and was still deep and lovely. For some reason this caused a shiver to race down my spine.

  “It was an acoustic, right?” Meanwhile, my voice was tight, held a hint of betraying nerves, and why was my neck hot?

  Abram chuckled, like he was enjoying himself, and the sound—close to my ear—gave me new goose bumps. “No. It’s a bass. You want to make a bet?”

  NO BETS! Right then and there, I solemnly promised myself I would never make a bet with Abram as long as I lived, with the universe as my witness.

  “I want to get your new bass guitar so we can get back to the house,” I said stiffly, pretending to be interested in a used Rogue RA Dreadnought. How had a discussion about whale excrement turn into something that made my body temperature go wonky? And wasn’t I supposed to be giving one-word answers?

  Needing to hurriedly analyze the situation, I listed the facts: I’d just discovered my sister had—allegedly—been selling drugs to minors; I’d been roped into unwittingly covering for her; I was upset and flustered and off-balance and Abram had very pretty man parts I shouldn’t be noticing, because they’re irrelevant.

  Conclusion: DEFLECT!

  “How about if I’m right, then you—”

  I spun, glaring at him towering over me. “Fine. Then Tyler is whale vomit. Happy?”

  Abram sucked in a breath between his teeth while also—blatantly—still grinning. “Actually, whale vomit is also expensive.”

  “Now I know you’re making this up.”

  “I’m not.” He pressed a hand to his chest, laughing. “Partly indigestible beaks of squid cause sperm whales to have indigestion, and their vomit also contains ambergris.”

  Partly indigestible beaks of what? Scrunching my face, I shook my head, rejecting his nonsense.

  He mimicked my headshake and face-scrunch while still smiling. “The indigestible beak causes irritation in the intestines, and this results in a build-up, like a rock, to form inside the whale. Ambergris is expelled.”

&
nbsp; “No.”

  He was laughing again. “It’s like an extremely rare, smelly rock.”

  “Smelly rock. Riiiiiight.”

  Now he was laughing harder. “And they wash up on shore.”

  “You are full of ambergris.”

  Now he was laughing so hard, he was forced to take a step back and was holding his stomach. Goodness, that smile. My heart thumped and stuttered; my chest ached; my mouth curved into an answering grin (against my will). That smile is lethal. Wow.

  However, before basking in or allowing myself to comprehend the full effect of his smile, it was tempered by a sudden thought: was he laughing in good humor or laughing at my expense?

  I’d never been gifted in the art of solving situations for this unknown variable. There’d been many incidences—especially during my freshman year of college—when I’d thought my classmates and professors were laughing in good humor. As it turned out, it had been the other . . .

  “I will prove it to you.” He reached for my arm.

  I backed away before his hand could make contact, the butterflies ceasing abruptly, my stomach turning cold.

  What did I know about Abram? He’d lucked out in the genetics lottery with his face and body and voice. He slept past noon. He’d dropped out of high school for reasons unknown. He wasn’t a fan of consistently applying logic. Like my parents, he was a musician (ugh). He smelled like the Orion Nebula looked (beautiful). He didn’t like Lisa. He thinks I’m Lisa.

  He was probably laughing at me.

  A lump formed in my throat.

  So what if he was laughing at me? So what? Technically, he was laughing at Lisa. But that didn’t make me feel better, either. I didn’t want anyone laughing at my sister—unless she’s been selling cocaine to sixteen-year-olds. Then all bets are off!

  “Whatever,” I said, glaring at him, trying to find fault with his maddeningly attractive face.

  “I insist. I will prove it.” He didn’t see my glare, he was too busy pulling out his phone and swiping his thumb over the number keys to unlock it.

  “Your source better not be Wikipedia. I don’t trust crowd-sourced data. You could have created the page and edited it.” These words came out more hostile than I’d intended. I told myself to relax.