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  Lost In Us

  Copyright © 2014 Layla Hagen

  Published by Layla Hagen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: Layla Hagen 2014

  Cover: Cover it! Designs. https://www.facebook.com/CoverItDesigns

  Formatting by: Black Firefly

  Publishing assisted by Black Firefly: http://www.blackfirefly.com/

  (Shedding light on your self-publishing journey)

  There are three reasons tequila is my new favorite drink.

  One: my ex-boyfriend hates it.

  Two: downing a shot looks way sexier than sipping my usual Sprite.

  Three: it might give me the courage to do something my ex-boyfriend would hate even more than tequila—getting myself a rebound.

  "You need someone hot, hot, hot," my best friend Jess says, plunking her glass on the sleek counter and beckoning the bartender to prepare another round.

  I grimace as the last drops of liquor burn my throat. "Define hot."

  "Tall, tan, six-pack." She spins on her bar stool, turning toward the buzzing room.

  "Every polo player at Stanford fits that description," I say.

  "Precisely."

  She bursts into a torrent of giggles that makes me wonder if I shouldn't accidentally-on-purpose knock over the fresh round of shots the bartender sets in front of me, or my big night might just end up with me carrying an incoherent Jess to our apartment, as usual.

  "Stanford's entire team is here. Have your pick, Serena."

  I twirl around, facing a sea of people. Of course the entire team is here. Almost every Stanford student is here tonight. Who would miss the first bash of the summer term? For Jess and me, it's the last first bash ever, since we are graduating in a few months. I push my chest forward, the way Jess does it, fully aware that I won’t have nearly the same effect she has. My black tank top, which she insisted I wear, doesn't do me justice, revealing far too much of my barely-there cleavage, despite the definitely-there Victoria’s Secret push-up bra.

  Jess twirls a blonde strand of her hair between her fingers, looking around with a confidence that can be neither replicated nor simulated. I take a deep breath and push the curtain of my black hair behind my shoulder. One look at the polo team and I know this was a bad, bad idea. The prospect of talking to one of those over-tanned giants, let alone flirting, has me hyperventilating. I don't know how to flirt. Last time I did it I was a high school junior, and I sucked at it. Also, I thought I would never have to do it again. But six years later, Michael decided his Australian coworker’s seemingly endless legs were not to be resisted anymore, so here I am, a college senior, facing my most daunting exam yet.

  I better not fail.

  Yet as the number of mind-blowing, gorgeous girls floating around the players increases by the second, all vying for their attention, I dearly wish I could escape and cuddle in my bed, surrounded by mountains of Toblerone chocolate, watching The Lord of the Rings extended edition for the seventh time in three weeks.

  I do a quick mental assessment of the probability of escaping without Jess catching on. It’s not good. Besides, she will need me to carry her home, so I'd better not leave her alone. I almost start designing a plan to convince her to bolt together, when someone catches my attention.

  He's tall, with dark, messy hair. Judging by the lavish gazes that the blonde at the next table and the redhead on his right throw him, I'm not imaging his perfectly toned chest and arms. On a hotness scale from one to ten, I'd put him between fifteen and sixteen.

  I lean in to Jess and say in a low voice, "I bet he fits your hotness requirements."

  She follows my gaze and starts giggling again. "James Cohen?"

  "You know him?" Please don't say you dated him. Please don't.

  "I've read an article about him. He looks hotter than the feature’s picture. You of all people must have heard of him, too," she teases.

  "The name does sound familiar," I admit, trying to hide my relief. I wrack my brain for a few seconds. And then it hits me. "Oh yeah, Stanford's golden boy. Every professor in my economics classes mentions him at least once a month. The poster child for successful serial entrepreneurs."

  "Serial womanizers more likely," Jess smirks as he bends to the redhead, whispering something in her ear, sliding his hand playfully down her back. For some reason, the sight of them erases any desire to keep looking for potential prey, so I swirl on my stool back to the bar.

  "He graduated a few years ago. What's he doing in a student bar?" I ask.

  "Alumni sometimes come to semester opening parties," Jess says with a shrug. "Right. I need to pee." She springs from her stool, swaying when her feet reach the floor.

  "Do you want me to come with you?" I ask at once.

  "No, no, I'm fine," she chortles. "I guess I shouldn't have drunk those cocktails before you arrived."

  "That's right, you shouldn't have."

  "But the guy buying them was so cute," she calls over her shoulder. I grimace as she stumbles into a couple on her way to the restroom.

  I turn my attention to the two tequila shots in front of me, and open my mouth to tell the bartender we won't be having them after all, when a voice says, "I'd recommend you try it with orange slices and cinnamon."

  "Excuse me?"

  I look sideways and almost fall of my seat. It's him. And up close, it's obvious I gave him far too few points. His striking blue eyes and full lips, curled in a deliciously conceited smile, earn him at least a twenty on that hotness scale.

  "Tequila," he points at the two glasses. "It tastes much better with orange and cinnamon than lemon and salt."

  "Thanks for the tip." I flash my teeth in the hope they'll detract his attention from my plunging neckline, though I never heard of teeth trumping boobs.

  "Have we met?"

  "Umm... " I'm one hundred percent sure we haven't or I would remember, but I'm perfectly willing to pretend we have met if it means he'll linger here a little longer.

  "We have," he says, recognition lighting up his face. "You were a mentor for the national math contest last year, weren't you?"

  Damn. Of the myriad of rules Jess recited to me concerning flirting and dating, one in particular stands out: never show my nerdy side. And there are very few things nerdier than being a mentor in a math contest. Especially since only previous winners are allowed to mentor. In my defense, he was the one who brought it up. I make a mental note not to mention my part-time bookkeeping job. No need to add the boring tag, in addition to the nerd one.

  "Yep, that's right."

  "I was at the award ceremony," he says, "as a sponsor."

  That would explain why I don't remember him, even though there weren't more than a dozen people there: teachers, parents, and sponsors. The award ceremony took place the day before the seven-year anniversary of my sister's death. I wasn't paying much attention to anything that week.
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br />   He frowns. "Your speech was very intense."

  I stare at him, not sure if he's pulling my leg or not. That must have been the most horrid speech in history. I'd completely forgotten everything I’d prepared, so I started rambling wildly when my turn came. I can't remember one word I said, but I must have made an impression if he still remembers me.

  "I'm James, by the way."

  "I know. I mean… I've heard of you," I mumble, suddenly feeling very hot.

  He seems completely unsurprised.

  "I'm Serena McLewis."

  "So, Serena…" he pronounces my name slowly, as if the three syllables would hide some kind of secret he's hoping to uncover. My name in his mouth gives me goose bumps all over my arms. I hope he doesn't notice them. "Let me guess, you're a math major?"

  "Nope. Economics and computer science."

  "Perfect combination. I had the same." He winks. "I could use someone smart like you in my company."

  Just my luck. Other girls get a free drink, or a one-night stand. I get a job offer. Pity that's the last thing I want from him.

  "Sorry, not interested," I say, hoping I don't sound too disappointed.

  He leans forward, and his hand accidentally brushes mine. Gently, passing. But it's enough to send a torrent of shivers down my spine. Hot ones. Cold ones. Then hot ones again, and I fear I might have had one too many tequilas.

  "And why is that?"

  I try hard to come up with something, anything, but his warm breath on my cheeks wipes any thought other than the fact that his lips are far closer to me than they should be. His delicious scent—ocean and musk—makes my task so much harder.

  He takes pity on me and leans back, his smirk more pronounced than ever as he scans me from head to foot.

  "Are you doing anything tomorrow?" he asks.

  A burning sensation starts forming in my chest and I don't know if it's panic or excitement, but I try to play cool, the way Jess always said I should.

  "Of course, it’s Saturday."

  "Can you get out of it?"

  I sound braver than I feel when I answer, "Depends on what you have in mind."

  "Where do you live?" he muses.

  Normally, a stranger asking for my address would not elicit any reaction from me except running in the opposite direction, while seriously considering calling the police. On second thought, I might add a punch for good measure before bolting. Yet as I stand here before him, watching his eyes trace the contour of my lips, all I can think is that I'm sorry I haven't had one more tequila because then I might have enough courage to give him a kiss. As it is, I'll have to be content with giving him my address. I become conscious that I'm biting my lower lip and stop immediately. I lean over the bar and grab a napkin, then rummage in the tiny bag Jess lent me for a pen. I write my address on the napkin.

  He glances at it once, picks it up and tucks it in the pocket of his jeans. "I know where that is. I'll have someone pick you up tomorrow at three."

  "To go where?"

  "What fun would that be if I told you?" he teases.

  "You want me to get in a car with a stranger and trust him to take me to some place I don't know?"

  He narrows his eyes. "Not very adventurous, are you?"

  Ouch.

  I would dismiss this as a poor attempt to provoke me, if Jess wouldn't tell me the same thing at least twice a day. Someone else used to tell me that as well. I never thought he really meant it until he announced that not only was he leaving me for the Aussie blonde but that he’d quit his job and was going backpacking with her through Europe and living life one day at a time.

  I put on what I hope is a very pro-adventure smile. "How am I supposed to know how to dress if I don't know where I'm going?"

  He bites his lip and leans in whispering, "I'll give you a hint. It's not a job interview."

  "You don't even know me."

  "I'd love to get to know you," he says in a raspy, seductive voice that sends delicious tingles all over my body.

  For a wonderful, wonderful second, in which his blue eyes—a few shades darker than when I first noticed them—bore into mine, I think he might close the distance and kiss me.

  But then he straightens up and frowns at something behind me. "I think your friend needs help."

  I whirl around in a heartbeat, and find Jess leaning on a tall, blond guy, her arms tight around his neck, something that usually makes guys pretty happy. Not this one. He's using both arms in his attempt to shake her off.

  "See you tomorrow, Serena," James whispers in my ear, making the hair at the nape of my neck stand up. I don't need to turn to know he's gone. I remain on my seat for a few more seconds, breathing in the last lingering wisps of his scent, then shove the glasses to the bartender, smiling apologetically, and head straight toward Jess.

  "I'll take this from here."

  "Thank God," the guy says, his voice flooded with relief as I unhitch Jess's arms from his neck. He vanishes the second I free him.

  "That went well," Jess giggles in my ear. And apparently she absolutely has to hang from someone's neck tonight, because she heaves her arms around mine so forcefully I'm positive I'll have giant bruises on both sides of my neck tomorrow.

  "What are you talking about?" I say, trying hard to steer us both toward the door.

  "You and hot guy. You really should work on your expression, though."

  "What about my expression?"

  She laughs. "You looked like you were ready to jump in bed with him."

  "That's not true," I say indignantly, stopping mid-stride.

  "Oh trust me, it is. And by the way, he's staring at us right now so keep moving if you don't want him to see me throwing up on you."

  "Stop making so much noise," Jess complains, pulling the sheet over her head.

  "It's not my fault you couldn't make it to your room last night," I say, continuing to search for something suitable to wear.

  It actually is my fault. When we arrived from the club last night I decided I couldn't possibly carry her all the way to her room, so I put her to bed in my room instead. I slept in her bed, something I regret more with each second. Her bedroom is the only place in our apartment where I couldn't ban smoking, and now it smells worse than a sports bar. I poured half a bottle of shampoo in my hair this morning, but I swear I can still smell smoke under the peach and melon fragrance.

  "What do you think?" I ask, holding out a white strapless dress.

  A deep snore is my only answer. I sigh and slip into the dress. It'll do. I'm not changing yet again. I step in front of the mirror, and as I swirl, I can't help questioning my sanity. Now that the last effects of the tequila have vanished, I am more and more convinced that I imagined the entire conversation last night. Not convinced enough though, or I wouldn't have spent the past two hours trying on almost every single dress I own. I decide it's time to walk away from my closet as the urge to try another one kicks in. I turn my attention to the wall opposite my bed instead and smile. Like Jess's room, mine too is a testament to the vices of its owner.

  Chocolate, books, and DVDs.

  An entire wall of them.

  There are five shelves on the wall, the top three occupied with books and DVDs and the remaining two with chocolate boxes. Fancy wooden or metal boxes, or just regular plastic ones—I don't discriminate. Most boxes and cartons are empty, but I keep them because they make a nice decoration.

  For the first day since the break-up, my stomach isn't twisted in a painful knot, and I don't feel the overwhelming need to pick a DVD and one of the remaining untouched chocolate boxes, then hide under my covers. I could argue it's because Jess is in my bed, and I wouldn't return in hers for anything in the world, but I know that would be a lie.

  There is another reason for my sudden optimism and the absence of the knot.

  It's a silly reason.

  An almost absurd reason.

  One that makes my heart beat quicker and my face turn hot every time I think about it.

&n
bsp; About him. About his eyes and the power his touch had on me.

  I wonder if I should make Jess her beloved (and utterly ineffective) banana and kiwi hangover cure and leave it on the bedside table, but it's likely to go bad by the time she wakes up, and leaving it in the fridge will ensure she won't drink it. No, I'm sure she'll be asleep until I'm back. A rustling noise comes from the direction of the bed. As Jess resurfaces from under the sheets, a painful knot forms in my throat.

  It's when she's asleep that she reminds me most of Kate. Their full lips and golden, silky locks are almost identical. I absolutely adored her, my older sister. She was four years older than me. She brimmed with life, every waking moment. She was all I ever wanted to be.

  Beautiful. Radiant. Perfect.

  She adored me, too. She'd spend hours taking care of me, teaching me how to comb my hair so it would shine like hers (not that it ever did) or painting my nails in intricate motifs.

  Then she'd disappear for days. With her friends. Boyfriend. Whomever. Her only yardstick for choosing them seemed to be the number of times they'd visited a police station. I could find her easily in the beginning, but later on, it sometimes took me an entire week to discover her whereabouts.

  When I took her home, I'd be the one taking care of her. I'd wipe away her mascara, put tea bags on the dark circles under her eyes, and lay packs of ice on the pierced veins of her arms. They were so messed up toward the end they didn't regain their normal condition no matter how much ice and ointment Mum and I put on them.

  I take a deep breath and shake my head. Jess is not like Kate. Jess is what Kate might have been if she wasn't… Kate. But I never could shake off the feeling that some of the reasons Jess's parents so willingly took me in was because they thought I'd be a good influence on their daughter. I'm not quite sure how much I succeeded, since Jess is still as much of a party girl as she was when I first met her eight years ago.

  After Kate passed away, Mum and Dad did something I will be eternally grateful for. They sent me away from London, our hometown. Even though it broke their heart, they did it. They sent me to live with Jess’s family in San Francisco. My mum and Jess's mum had been best friends since kindergarten, and remained close even after Jess's mum moved across the ocean, to San Francisco, while mum remained in their native London. Starting fresh, far away from the city that held so many memories and so much guilt, was the best thing that could have happened to me. I stayed with Jess and her family throughout high school. I haven’t returned to London at all. My parents fly here once a year to visit me.