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  Get Lost

  A Never Say Neverland Novel Book One

  By Xavier Neal

  Get Lost

  Never Say Neverland 1

  Xavier Neal

  ©Xavier Neal 2014

  All rights reserved

  Published By: Entertwine Publishing

  Cover Art By: Entertwine Publishing

  License Notes

  Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.

  All character, places, and descriptions come from the imagination of the author. All are fictional and any resemblance to real life persons or places is purely coincident

  The truth is rarely pure and never simple.

  —Oscar Wilde

  Chapter One

  Completely aggravated that I can’t seem to get the shading of the piano keys right, I toss my pencil down on top of my sketchbook. Leaning back in my chair, I look up just in time to see a figure running down the hall at what appears to be light speed. Curious, I lean forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the figure’s face when I see Officer Paul, the five foot five inch, fried macaroni and cheese loving campus cop, laboring unsuccessfully to keep up. Just as I’m ready to turn back to my shading problem, suddenly, my pencil drops again as what I can only assume is Officer Paul’s suspect slides himself into the desk in front of me.

  “Do me a favor?” the bright blue eyed stranger asks as he slips off his fedora, ruffling his dark brown hair and sliding his hat into my halfway zipped shoulder bag. “Pretend that I’ve been here the whole time?”

  Taken off guard by the abrupt proposal but intrigued by the way he looks directly at rather than through or around me, I find myself willing to go along with what is probably a harmless request.

  Almost instantly, Paul pants his way into the art studio and points directly at the guy sitting in front of me.

  “Stop!”

  Puzzled, the mystery man looks around and points to himself. “Me? I’m not moving.”

  “Stop,” Paul huffs, walking slowly in our direction, his right hand gripping his extra-large side. “You…you were…you were just…”

  “You okay, Paul?” The question slides out of my mouth as I pull my honey brown hair to one side of my face. “You look a little tired.”

  “Tired from chasing this…” He tries to point at the male in the desk in front of me.

  “Me? How could you have been chasing me? I’ve been sitting right here with my girlfriend, Peyton.” The name comes out confidently, which frightens me a little, one, because it’s not a common name; two, because I’m fairly certain I’ve never met him before; and three, because I’m almost positive we don’t have any of the same friends. I’d have to have friends in order for that to be a possibility. “She’s been sketching the most remarkable 1876 Steinway.”

  “Yeah,” I respond, impressed by his knowledge of pianos. Without breaking eye contact, I open my mouth slowly and continue, “I, um, have been working on it most of my free period. The darker color keys are ridiculously hard to shade.”

  “You were wearing a hat.” Officer Paul is persistent if nothing else.

  “You know, I don’t really like hats.” The suspect quickly interjects with a soft smile. “Messes with the hair.”

  “I don’t know, honey. I think you look good in hats.” Surprising myself, I give his sun kissed, tan cheek a soft touch.

  “Thanks,” he winks and rubs the back of my cream colored hand.

  “B-b-but I thought…” Paul stutters to himself before pulling a half-eaten candy bar out of his pocket. After a quick bite, he mutters, “So, you have been here the whole time?” The two of us nod in unison, which forces him to sigh and results in bits of chocolate dribbling down his front and all over the tile beside me. “Well then, have you seen a student running down the hall?”

  “Yeah, just a couple minutes ago, headed toward the main building.” I point innocently, really getting into the role I’m playing. “Skipping class?”

  “Stealing,” he grunts before helping himself to another bite of his candy bar. After some muffled profanities, he strolls away uncertainly, I assume, feeling defeated.

  Once he’s out of sight, I tilt my head at the handsome stranger who is now grinning at me wildly. “Thank you,” he says.

  “You’re welcome.” I twirl the pencil around my sketchbook, nervous again after my recent foray into street theater. “What’d you steal?”

  He casually pulls out his fedora, slides it back on his head, and flashes me a black cell phone.

  “All that to get your own cell phone back? If you waited for like an hour, you would have gotten it back anyway.”

  “First of all, it’s the principle of the matter. I needed my phone, and they shouldn’t have taken it. Second, it’s not the phone that was the problem.” He slides out a gold key from the bill of his hat. “It’s the fact that I stole it from the assistant principal’s office.”

  “What?” I chuckle, mildly intrigued that someone would go through that much effort for his phone back. Though, on second thought, I guess if I had friends who called or texted me, I’d be motivated to get mine back too. “How?”

  “Doesn’t the fight for survival also justify swindle and theft? In self-defense, anything goes.” He rambles off a quote and turns his body toward mine, allowing me to admire his perfectly carved face. “Imelda Marcos.”

  “And what exactly are you trying to survive?” I lean forward inquisitively.

  With a raise of his perfectly square shaped eyebrows, he whispers, “High school.”

  I shake my head, giggling, and reload my hand once again with the graphic ammunition to finish the fight I started before he arrived. “Glad I could help then.”

  “That’s a really nice piano, by the way.” He points to my sketch, sliding the key back where it came from before adjusting his black school uniform.

  “How did you know it was from 1876?” I outline the keys out of habit as I cross my legs under the desk, my black and red uniform skirt inching slightly up.

  “I like pianos.” His answer is accompanied by another scheming smirk. “Name’s Justin. Justin Ryan. And you’re Peyton Darling.”

  “Yeah, how’d you know that?”

  “Well, your name’s hung up next to that picture over there.” He points to the giant wall made out of cork where our best artwork gets showcased. “By the detail to lightening and emphasis more on the black and white over the other shades, I could only assume that’s you.”

  Nodding slowly, a bit embarrassed, I lower my face. “What can I say? I like art.”

  “Especially ancient things.”

  Justin points to my drawing. “Why are you drawing pictures from so far back?”

  “I like art from the Old World. There’s something about the play on color and the emphasis on light. For some reason, I feel like something is hidden inside it like an underlying story or directions to a secret treasure.” Rattled with excitement, I lean in closer, and my hand accidentally brushes against his. “You see, back then, paintings and drawings were actually stretched over frames. But, there was this pair of brothers who designed these frames for wealthy people.” Realizing I’m rambling, I scoot back and lower my head again. “It’s not interesting. Sorry for rambling. I do that when I’m nervous.”

  “Don’t be.”

  Justin touches my hand once more, forcing me to look up. “What’s so special about these frames?”

  Quickly, my word vomit spews forth. “Well, one brother was a carpenter and the other a locksmith, so they desi
gned these frames where the art could actually be slid inside instead of having to be stretched. The interesting thing about these frames was that they were built with pieces supposedly missing, which wasn’t true at all. The missing parts were actually keyholes, and the keys were different jewels hidden in like the royal crown. It was amazing. Most of the frames have been passed down from generation to generation. That’s why no one believes they exist because they’re supposed to be a secret.”

  “Secrets are one of the many things that drive life.” Justin grazes his tongue along his lips softly. “So, why did they feel the need to hide these pieces of artwork?” With a simple shrug, I sigh. “Some people believe they wanted to insure that valuable art wasn’t stolen

  and resold.”

  “What do you believe?” The words come out of his mouth slowly as if another question lingered after.

  “That they had more secrets than I’ll ever know.” My answer causes us both to smile.

  “So, Peyton Darling, since you were wonderful enough to lie to help cover for me, how about I treat you to some afternoon ice cream, and we can finish this conversation about art history?”

  “Oh, I d-d-don’t know,” I nervously stutter, shutting my sketchbook before sliding it into my shoulder bag. “I mean, you don’t have to do that.”

  “But I…”

  “It wasn’t really that big of a deal. I mean, there’s no reason to have to take me for ice cream because you feel bad for making me cover for you.”

  “I know, but I…”

  Completely ignoring him, I fidget with my teardrop shaped ruby necklace on its gold chain as I continue mumbling. “I mean, I would have done it for anybody. You know, sometimes people need help, and if everyone was just a little more kind to each other or, hell, if they even listened when someone else talked, we would all be much better off. In fact, I can’t believe…”

  “Peyton!” Justin interrupts, touching my hand while staring deep into my light brown eyes. I feel like I’ve been paralyzed. With a crooked smile, he sighs. “Just say yes.”

  I fiddle with my sleeve and nod. “Yes.”

  “Come on.” He hops over the side of the desk, exiting the same way he entered, with a bit of flare. Following him sheepishly out the door, I try to blend in next to him knowing that, as we pass, people’s heads are turning in confusion as to why he would ever be seen with a girl like me.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t go after all.” My head hangs, and I admire his oddly clean, pure white tennis shoes.

  “Why?” he glances back at me in between greeting friends.

  “Because people are staring,” I mumble undermy breath.

  “Good.” He pulls me in a little closer by my hand. “Why’s that good?” my voice quivers.

  “It’s like three card monte. They’re focused on the cards and not the dealer.” He glances down at his hand, where I see the key barely hanging on his fingertips. In a soft voice he says, “Follow the key.”

  Suddenly, a tanned, thin guy carrying a skateboard stops and greets Justin. “What up, bro?”

  “What up?” he greets back as they high five and embrace quickly. Instantly, Justin slides his now key free hands in his pockets, “Hey, I like your new board.”

  “Thanks.” The skater gives him a nod as I see him slide the key under one of the wheels. “Later.”

  Before I can open my mouth to comment, Justin quickly grabs my hand, spins my medium framed body around, and pins me against the side of the front office building. His arms straddle on each side of me before he leans his forehead against mine, causing an unbelievable pounding in my chest. “Watch.”

  I casually glance over his shoulder as Assistant Principal Perkins comes strolling out of the building, clutching his briefcase tightly while grumbling some- thing under his ’70s mustache. My eyes meet Justin’s once more before I hear a loud thud behind him. I quickly glance around Justin once more to see his skater friend helping Assistant Principal Perkins pick up the lost papers.

  “Keep your eyes on them.” Justin’s face suddenly snuggles against mine as he whispers in my ear. “And everyone is keeping their eyes on us.”

  Sure enough, the guy hands the key back, forcing Assistant Principal Perkins to scratch his head in confusion as to how he could have misplaced it. As if his timing couldn’t be more perfect, Officer Paul strolls out of the office building. Justin moves his face to my neck. I watch as Perkins flags down Paul to show him that his key hasn’t been stolen after all, just misplaced. The skater boy merely fades off in the distance, while Justin pushes a strand of fallen hair behind my ear.

  My attention finally returns to him and he sighs. “That’s why you should always watch the dealer and not the cards.” With a chuckle, he slides an arm around me. “Come on.”

  In awe of what just happened, I keep my mouth shut as we stroll across the parking lot toward a black, two-door, freshly washed and bought Benz. Adjusting my sliding shoulder bag, I ask, “Is this yours?”

  “Yeah.” He hits the alarm and unlock button and activates the top down button. Nonchalantly, he leans against the passenger side and opens my door. “Do you have a car?”

  “No. I live so close to the school and everything else here downtown. My parents don’t see the point. I told them that I could use one for traveling to find art inspiration, but they always refuse and tell me there’s inspiration everywhere, which I understand because there really is inspiration everywhere. I mean, I just…”

  “Peyton,” he clears his throat and adjusts his tie.

  I cover my mouth as I mutter with embarrassment, “I can’t believe I can’t stop rambling. I mean, I can believe it because I usually ramble. I really ramble the most when I’m nervous, but I don’t know why I’d be nervous. Well, it could be because…well, you know, because…”

  “Peyton,” Justin interrupts once more with a slight chuckle, “get in.”

  Nodding, I allow him to open the door and slide into the cream colored leather seats. Immediately, I buckle my seat belt and place my bag at my feet. Justin slips in, buckles up, and tosses it in reverse like he was a stunt driver in his previous life.

  Whiplashed by the unexpected change of gears, I ask, “Are you really that popular?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you knew people were going to be staring at us.”

  “If I was that popular, wouldn’t you know who I was?”

  Diverting my attention down to my bag, I begin fiddling around in it. “No. I don’t really keep up with that stuff. I mean, that’s a whole world I would never fit into, let alone know anything about. I just kind of fade into the background. It’s pretty out here.”

  Justin shifts again before changing the subject. “So, why art?”

  With a crooked smile, I bite my bright pink bottom lip. “My parents own the D.R.E. A.M. gallery. We live right above in a penthouse apartment.”

  “Nice.” He nods slowly. “I live a couple streets over from that place. I love going in there. The art is so amazing.”

  Doing my best not to roll my eyes at the fact I doubt he’s ever been in there, I let my hair free from its low ponytail, so it can fly in the wind the way it does in movies. “But seriously, how did you pull that off?”

  He cautiously glances in his rearview mirror, adjusts his tie, and clears his throat, “What? That con back there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s like second nature.” He slams on the breaks, causing my head to hit the seat with a rough jerk. Two black crotch rockets go soaring by us as Justin revs up his engine and thrusts us forward.

  Almost immediately, the motorcycles turn themselves around so that they are headed straight at us, compelling me to ask, “Do you know them?”

  “You could say that.”

  Suddenly, it’s almost like my life goes into slow motion as Justin drifts into the left lane and slows down but continues heading straight for the riders covered head to toe in black, including ski masks, something I thought people on
ly wore in bank robberies. As one of the motorcycles approaches, moments from a head-on collision, Justin takes a sharp left. The car slams into the bike, which sends the black rider flying across the sky, where he hits a building before evaporating into a thick, gray smoke.

  My jaw hits the floor before I scream. “Did he just…”

  “Yes.” His response is reflex as he shifts gears to increase speed down the side alley road.

  “Oh my god!” My shrieking gets louder. “People don’t just disappear into smoke! That didn’t just happen! That couldn’t have just happened!”

  I glance over my shoulder for a second look when I notice newspapers, empty coffee cups, and fast-food containers are flying around in the wake of the remarkable amount of speed we have to be doing. After turning back around, my jaw slides open to yell another question, but the sound of the other motorcycle quickly closes it.

  Justin effortlessly takes another turn, with the motorcycle steadily trailing behind him. My head turns back around once again. This time to see the rider pull out a long, black gun. Frozen in fear, I can’t seem to move as bullets begin bouncing off the inside of the car.

  “Down,” he instructs as he points to the floor.

  I try to undo my seat belt, which has locked due to the intense speed and reckless driving. Before I can duck, I’m struck by one of the bullets right beside my left collarbone. As the metal burns through my flesh, I stare at the implausible sight, wondering what that high-pitched sound is. After a moment of gawking, I realize it’s me. I turn to say something to Justin, who is maneuvering around other cars, when my entire body goes numb, and all is black.

  I feel heat burning my eyelids. I force them open to see Justin enjoying an ice cream sundae at McFrost’s, a local fast-food restaurant where carhop service still exists. My body slides itself up against the hot leather seat in an attempt to gain full consciousness.

  “Want some?” He offers, sticking the melting treat toward me.

  With a small head tilt, I lower my eyes to glare more fully at him. Who asks someone who’s just been shot if they want ice cream rather than taking them to the hospital? Quickly, I begin to feel the spot where the bullet pierced me, which is when something even stranger than the fact he didn’t take me to the hospital occurs. Neither the bullet nor the wound is there.