Stolen Crush

by Stunich, C. M.

  I reach out and poke it with a single finger, leaning down to admire the design inked into the silicone flesh.

  “Either you’re a tattoo artist or a serial killer,” I murmur under my breath with a hushed laugh. “Probably both.” At least the setup explains how Parrish has so many tattoos at such a young age: he clearly did them himself. And for that, I have to give him at least a bit of grudging admiration.

  Closing the book, I glance desperately at his nightstand drawer, wanting to snoop but deciding it’s better not to. Not only is there the privacy factor to consider—because, despite his rudeness, he does deserve some privacy—but I’m also pretty sure that I’ll puke if I open the drawer and find lube and crispy socks or something.

  Eventually, I find my way downstairs to the pool.

  “Seriously?” I murmur, stepping into a long, narrow room with an infinity pool. It’s warm in here, and the windows across from me are all steamed-up, hiding the view of the lake. I’m on the ground level of the house now, the back half of it buried into the hill behind it. “An entire pool and …” I open a wooden door and peek inside, finding a sauna with two benches and heated rocks with a bucket of water nearby. “A sauna. I’m really living a different life now, aren’t I?”

  Since I’ve got nothing better to do for the time being, I head upstairs, the sound of Tess’ keyboard clacking echoing down the hall after me. For a moment, I pause in the hallway, one of my hands resting against the iron bars that act as a banister. Instead of the usual waist height though, these ones go all the way up to the ceiling. Like I said, it feels a bit like a jail cell.

  I glance over my shoulder, wondering if Tess is writing about me. It’s weird as hell, to find out that your favorite author is actually your biological mother. Especially when you grew up thinking you already had one of those. Now, a dad I’ve never had. Other than my grandfather, I mean.

  Saffron—the woman who, apparently, kidnapped me that day fourteen years ago—told my grandparents that I was the result of a random one-night stand, that she knew nothing about the guy she’d hooked up with, and that he was several states away and long gone. Later, on the rare occasion that Maxine and I ever saw her, she’d get angry and storm out if either of us ever asked questions about our fathers.

  And then that stupid crime show happened, and my grandparents called the hotline number at the end of it. Tess showed up, and when my grandfather asked about my dad, she got totally cagey and said she didn’t remember him at all, that he was some old boyfriend. Her face, however, made it pretty clear that she was lying.

  So now, not only did I have to leave everything about my life behind, but I have to live with someone who lies to me about the one question I might have ever really cared to know. That, and she favors her asshole stepson.

  That much, is obvious.

  With a sigh, I turn back around and head into my room, slipping into the new bathing suit Tess insisted I let her buy me yesterday. After our shitty breakfast at the club, she dragged us all to an upscale shopping center. The second Parrish was out of the car, he was gone, disappearing into a coffee shop down the way. Ben, Amelia, and Henry were dragged off by Paul, and I was left alone with Tess and Kimber.

  I shiver and try not to think too hard about the afternoon. Kimber was a snotty brat, Tess managed to be both desperate and cold at the same time, and I spent the entire day wondering when it was going to be over.

  Not a great start to my new life.

  Wrapping a towel around my waist, I head back down to the pool, drop the towel on a lounge chair, and then jump in with a monstrous splash. I do a few quick laps—okay, fine, I doggy paddle since I don’t know shit about like, actual swimming strokes—and then hop up on the side to relax, letting my legs dangle in the warm water.

  I’m not in there five minutes before I feel someone’s hand at my back, pushing me in.

  With a muffled scream, I fall into the pool. My feet hit the bottom six feet down before I’m bouncing back up and sputtering.

  “What the fuck?” I shout, my voice echoing off the wall of windows as I swipe my hand over my face and find a boy crouching at the edge of the pool, staring at me. He’s laughing, too, which I most definitely do not appreciate.

  Um.

  He’s also one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen in my life. His mouth is a hot slash across the bottom of his face, the corner of his lip twisted up in a slight smirk. Amber eyes narrow on me, but that mouth, it never stops smiling. The way he’s crouched like that, like his body’s made of shadows or something, makes me wonder if he’s even human. You are not in a cheesy teen novel, Dakota. He is not a vampire—even if he looks like one.

  His hair is an ebon black with a bright yellow streak in the front, like a bolt of lightning. Clearly, that’s got to be the work of a master stylist. Bet this boy is just as rich as the asshole stepbrother who lives across the hall from me. He’s also just as ripped, and just as covered in tattoos. This one, though, has a piercing through either side of his lower lip and small black plugs in his ears.

  “I’m going to take a wild guess and assume you’re Parrish’s friend, Chasm?” I quip, raising a brow and refusing to let him know how pissed off I am. Or how scared I was for a brief instant. Right before I left New York, I was changing into my pajamas when I heard a sound coming from the roof. I parted the curtains to find a reporter crouching there with a camera.

  So goddamn creepy.

  “Ah,” he says, rising to his feet with that awful, awful smile playing around his lips. It’s awful because it’s cocky as fuck. Also, it seems sort of … genuine at the same time? If he hadn’t pushed me into the pool, I might not have instantly disliked him and that bothers me. Any friend of Parrish’s is likely not going to be a friend of mine. “Now why would you think that, Mia?”

  I grit my teeth. These assholes. I take it back; there’s nothing to like about this guy at all.

  “It’s Dakota,” I correct for what, I’m sure, is nowhere near the final time. “What right do you think you have, pushing a stranger into a pool like that? What if I didn’t know how to swim?”

  “But you do, don’t you?” he asks, looking down at me as I move through the water toward the ladder. His eyes rake my body as I grab the metal bars and climb out, suddenly self-conscious of the bright yellow bikini Tess talked me into yesterday. Oddly enough, it matches the streak in his hair. Personally, I’d have been happier with black. Or lime green. Or something with skulls on it. “I saw you swimming; you just didn’t notice me.”

  “You’re admitting to being a creeper then? Do you regularly spy on hapless swimmers?”

  Chasm seems unfazed by my question and shrugs his shoulders loosely, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s a good actor then; there isn’t a single person on this planet without problems of some sort.

  “Only if they happen to be my best friend’s shiny new sister. You’re like a curio around here: we’ve been hearing stories about you for years.” I just keep staring at him, dripping water across the floor while he continues smiling away at me. After a moment, he retrieves my towel and hands it over. I’m about to thank him when he adds, “Parrish was dead wrong about you.”

  His eyes blaze as he looks me over, his smile turning into an overly appreciative smirk.

  Slowly, Chasm slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks and cocks his head to one side. As he looks me over, I return the favor. He’s wearing a solid black blazer that’s currently unbuttoned, leaving a black dress shirt visible underneath. The shirt itself is also unbuttoned, revealing a smooth chest dripping with ink that I pretend not to like (but holy crap, it’s hot). There’s a hint of a tie hanging out of one pocket, a tartan plaid made up of gray, black, and lime green stripes that are oddly reminiscent of my hair color. The embroidered badge beside the blazer’s lapel clearly states Whitehall Preparatory Academy.

  I ignore my own visceral reaction to his body, wrap the towel around my waist, and then cross my arms over my ches
t. I’m trying to come up with some sort of quip, something easy but deeply insulting—like Parrish’s murmured as if, little sister—but Chasm speaks up before I get a chance.

  “You are most definitely not a three. I’d say a four, at least. Maybe a five, with the right hair and makeup.”

  My mouth pinches into a thin line, but when I move to push Chasm into the pool in retaliation, he grabs my wrists in either of his hands and spins me around, so that my back is to the wall. I become hyperaware of each of his fingertips as they press into my bare skin.

  “Please don’t,” he breathes, letting that cocky smile take over his entire face. “Speaking of swimming, I really can’t.” He pauses again and looks up and to the left, like he’s thinking hard about something. Frankly, the comfortable, easy cadence of his voice is annoying the fuck out of me. “You’ve already made Tess cry and insulted my best friend. The last thing you need on your record is a drowning.”

  Chasm releases me, and my body goes cold as he steps away, the spots where he held my wrists tingling strangely. That does it for me, unleashing my irritation in a choleric jibe that whips off the end of my tongue.

  “Here’s the thing: you do have the right hair and makeup”—here I pause to trace the edge of my eye to indicate the small amount of black liner he’s wearing—“but you’re still a big, fat zero on my rating scale. I only insulted Parrish because he started it. As far as Tess crying … I haven’t seen it.”

  The guy hasn’t answered my question about his identity, but he can only really be Chasm McKenna, Parrish’s bestie and a close friend of the family. Also, I hate him almost as much as I hate Parrish and we met three seconds ago.

  This should go well.

  He resumes that easy, comfortable slouch as he meets my eyes with his jewel-toned ones. I’ll admit: he’s got a powerful stare. I feel suddenly uncomfortable, like I should shift on my feet and try to sidle away. Instead, I stand my ground and stare right back.

  “You’ve got bite, but is it enough?” Chasm shrugs his shoulders like he couldn’t care less either way. Since I have no idea what he’s talking about, I don’t care either. I just want him to go away. “Welcome to Whitehall,” he whispers finally, following up the words with another smile that’s just oozing impertinence.

  I say nothing, watching as he turns and heads for the door, and then I pad over to the sauna, open it up, and grab the bucket from inside.

  Chasm’s already out the door and in the hallway when I step up behind him, but as soon as he hears me, he turns, and I throw the entire bucket of warm water in his face.

  He says nothing, just stares at me with his dark hair bleeding into his face, his soggy dress shirt clinging to the firm planes of his chest. I can’t decide if he’s angry with me … or pleasantly surprised?

  And then, of course, he has the audacity to fucking smile at me.

  This dickface …

  “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll enjoy Whitehall while I’m here.” I drop the bucket on the marble floor, breeze past him, and head up the stairs to change.

  Even if the bathroom here feels like some sort of bleached and sterile space pod, the shower is nice. It’s roomy, and it has a built-in bench seat. Plus, there are over a dozen sprayers and showerheads, and a surround sound system.

  I start one of my playlists, taking my time with washing and conditioning my hair as I mouth the lyrics to “DROWN” by AViVA. In that marble box with its glass doors, I feel protected, insulated from reality. It’s like I’m on vacation or something, steeped in luxury that doesn’t belong to me, that I’m just renting for the time being.

  I’m not a Banks anymore; I’m a Patterson. I’m not Dakota; I’m Mia.

  The thought makes my head spin. It’s been six weeks since I found out. Just six. fucking. weeks. And yet, it hasn’t gotten any easier. I’m not sure it will ever be easy. Then to have to deal with someone as nasty as Kimber? As Parrish?

  Add in his horrible friend, Chasm, and I just know I’m going to hate it here.

  Even if I try. Even if I keep smiling. Even if I plaster a positive can do! attitude over the top of my melancholy.

  With a sigh, I climb out of the shower, wrap my hair in a towel, and slip into the new robe that Tess bought for me. It was hanging in the closet, along with a few other staples. Subtle hints of a dress code my new mother wants me to aspire to.

  I’m looking down at the floor, my chin toward my chest, as I fiddle with the towel on my hair. At the sound of a snort, I look up and find that Chasm guy on my bed. I stop short.

  “What the hell?” I choke out, noticing Parrish standing near the window, his tattooed fingers pressed into the glass. He glances back at me, his face drawn down into a moue of boredom. He taps his fingers against the window a few times as I flick my gaze from him to Chasm. “What are you doing in my room?” My voice sounds a little edgy, like it’s lined in glass, but my nerves are seriously worn thin here. If I can’t have my privacy, then I have nothing left. Nothing at all.

  “You snooped in my room; I decided I wanted to snoop in yours. Fair’s fair,” Parrish says, turning around and leaning his back against the window. “Besides, Chasm’s mad. You stole his room.”

  “Wait, what?” I sputter, trying to figure out how he knew I was in there.

  “This room,” Chasm says with a long sigh, looking around with a sense of faux melancholy on his face. “It used to be mine, when I stayed over.” He glances over his shoulder, flashing that white-hot smile at me. Sally and Nevaeh would go nuts over him. Nevaeh, especially. I remember briefly that she hooked up with my crush, Ryan, and my heart contracts painfully. Not because of Ryan, but because a friend’s betrayal always stings the worst of all. “This bed, it used to be my bed.” He laughs and looks over at Parrish in a conspiratorial sort of way. “You don’t want to know the things I did in here; you’d never be able to sleep on this mattress again.”

  My face heats up at the implications, and I realize that I’m completely naked beneath this robe, in a room with two strange guys, covered in tattoos, and dripping disdain and bullshit.

  “Please. I’m supposed to freak out because you touched yourself a few times in the bed? Get over it. I’ve stayed in plenty of hotel rooms, and the sheets are clean.”

  Chasm laughs at me; Parrish says and does nothing, watching us with such a mild interest that he could very well be watching paint dry.

  “I didn’t just mean that I touched myself, Little Sister. I’m talking about the girls that I’ve brought in here. How many Parrish? I’ve lost count.”

  “The entire female population of the Whitehall junior and senior classes, you mean?” Parrish responds coolly, and Chasm snorts.

  “Come on, man. You know I’m a bit choosier than that.” Chasm pats the bed. “See, that’s why I’m saying she’s at least a four. Probably more like a five. You know I have standards.” He looks me over again and flashes his teeth in what I think is supposed to be a disarming smile. All it serves is to supremely annoy me. Misogyny isn’t cute on anyone.

  “Low ones,” Parrish retorts as my mind searches for an appropriate clap back. Don’t let them get to you, Dakota. You’ve been through the worst there is. What is this? Just bullshit. “But sure, call her a four if it makes it easier for you to hit on her. We both know you’re going to do it anyway.”

  “Look, I’m sorry you’re a shitty artist, and I saw your hideous sketchbooks. What do you want me to do about it? Apologize for cringing when I saw your work?” I watch Parrish as the words leave my mouth. He tries to pretend that he doesn’t care what I’ve said, but I see it, a slight tightening around his mouth. Just like that first night. He’s sensitive about his artwork. Good to know. “You’re upset I stole your mom. I’m upset you let your diseased douche of a friend sit on my bed. Just get out and let’s call a truce.”

  The look on Parrish’s face tells me that I’ve crossed some sort of line. He’s subtle about it, but the darkness that crowds his handsome features reminds me of a storm tha
t has yet to break.

  “You,” he starts, and then he’s smiling at me in such a way that Chasm actually grimaces. I have a feeling that underneath all of that polished perfection and carefully practiced pique is a level of vindictiveness that I hadn’t suspected until just now. Parrish moves away from the window, dressed in the green, gray, and black of the Whitehall Academy uniform. The way the blazer hugs his muscular shoulders is criminal, and I find myself shifting uncomfortably on my feet as he stalks slowly across the room to lord over me.

  I’m not afraid of him, even now, even with his toasted almond eyes narrowed to slits, his chocolate-colored lashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks.

  “Me, what?” I snap back, edgy and on guard, prepared for him to lob something equally awful my way. You shouldn’t have said that, about his art, I tell myself, but it’s too late. I’ve already said it; I can’t exactly take it back now. Besides, didn’t he say he was going to—and I quote—bury me? Who does that? He fired the first shots; this isn’t even my war.

  “You’ll never be a part of this family,” he tells me, and even as I tell myself that I don’t care, that he’s welcome to say and do his worst because it doesn’t matter, we both know it does. It’s the way he says it, too, that stabs me straight through the heart, tears that fragile tissue paper of my soul and makes everything hurt.

  He says it, not like an insult, but like the truth we both know it to be.

  “Doesn’t matter though,” Parrish continues, reaching up with a single finger to twirl a wet strand of my hair until I slap him away. “Because even if you don’t fit in, Tess will never let you go.” The smirk that takes over his face infuriates me to no end. Just as I’ve zoned in on his insecurities, he’s doing the same to me. “Never,” he emphasizes, the two syllables of that word as sharp as glass. “Trust me: I know her. Having you here is all Tess has ever wanted, but you know what else?” Chasm stands up from the bed, like he knows this is about to get ugly. “You’re a sickening disappointment.”