Stolen Crush

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Parrish, let’s get out of here,” Chasm says, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. His face is twisted in wry amusement, but I can tell his interest in the entire situation is fast waning. He slides his phone from his pocket, glances at the screen for a moment, and then frowns before looking back up. “We have better things to do than hang with your long-lost sister.”

  My eyes flick to him and then switch back to Parrish’s brown ones, dark with anger and pierced through with a thorn of familiar hurt. Having me here hurts him.

  I know it; I could see it from the very first moment I stepped into this ice cavern they call a house.

  “This girl is not my sister,” Parrish repeats, a phrase I’m sure he’ll have to utter as many times as I protest the name Mia.

  “You’re right,” I start as he turns away from me. Even before I say the words, I know that I’m going to regret them. “I’m not your sister because Tess isn’t your mother: she’s mine. You don’t seem to have one yourself. Didn’t she run off when you were a kid? I can see why. Clearly, you drove her away.”

  Parrish hits the wall beside my door so hard that his hand must hurt, but he doesn’t stop walking, storming out of the room and down the hall as Chasm passes a stricken look my way.

  “Jesus, Little Sister. That was fucked-up. Were you raised in a barn or something?”

  Chasm takes off after his friend, leaving me alone and trembling and wondering how I could’ve said something so awful.

  I’d say that Parrish Vanguard brings it out of me, but that isn’t fair. I’m hurting on the inside, so I’m lashing out. He’s doing the same, but how do we reconcile that?

  The answer is something I’m afraid of: we don’t, we can’t.

  “Crap,” I groan, sliding my hand over my face and sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed in my robe. Is hating someone supposed to hurt this much? When I’m around Parrish, I burn. When I’m not, I feel like a pile of cold, wet ash.

  I fall back on my bed, one arm slung across my eyes; I don’t leave that spot for hours.

  After a quick video chat with Maxine, I curl up early and fall asleep, plagued by awful dreams where I relive the hideous words I said to Parrish.

  That wasn’t like me. I’m not like this normally, I swear. I tell myself that was Mia Patterson I was channeling when I need to remember with every fiber of my being that I’m not her. I’m Dakota Banks, and I was raised better than this.

  In the morning, I wake up to an early alarm and head downstairs, fully dressed and slipping past Parrish’s door where the maid is currently cleaning.

  “I’m sorry about the other day,” I tell her, and she glances over at me in surprise, brown eyes crinkled at the edges with confusion. It takes me a second to realize that this is a different girl than the one I met on Wednesday. Oops.

  The new maid isn’t very old, likely around the same age as me. The way she’s staring, I’m starting to get the idea that she doesn’t often speak to the residents of the homes she cleans. I decide to try a different tactic. “You must be new?” I hazard and she shakes her head briskly.

  “JJ usually works Monday through Friday and I do weekends.” The girl shrugs. “She didn’t show up today, so I’m filling in.”

  An awkward moment of silence follows before I decide to, you know, add yet another drop of cringe to the moment. Giving a little bow—I watch too much anime and way too many K-dramas—I decide to add, “and thank you, in advance, for everything you do.” The girl stands up from where she’s leaned over, smoothing the black blanket on Parrish’s bed.

  “No need to thank me,” she says crisply, like she’s worried I’m dragging her into some sort of trap. “This is my job; I’m paid to do it.”

  I pause there, one hand resting on the doorjamb, as the girl’s eyes find my t-shirt and lift up in surprise.

  “Paul,” she starts and then sighs, like she’s made a mistake she didn’t intend to make. “Dr. Vanguard, he isn’t going to like that t-shirt.”

  I glance down at the design–it says Pro-Cats, Pro-Magic, Pro-Witch. Back home, we didn’t always see eye to eye on everything, but the Banks family never lashes out or overreacts. We talk through our differences and try to understand each other; I can’t imagine living a life any different from that.

  “Thanks for the tip,” I tell her, trying to force a smile. “Do you mind if I ask for your name?”

  “Delphine,” she tells me, but with an obvious reluctance, like she isn’t sure that anyone who lives in this igloo can be trusted. That’s probably true, to be fair.

  “Dakota,” I say, pointing at myself. The momentary flicker of surprise on her face tells me that she was introduced to me under a different name: Mia Patterson.

  “Have a wonderful day … Dakota,” Delphine says, and then she disappears into Parrish’s bathroom without another word. Huh.

  My mood slightly soured, I turn and head for the stairs, taking the curved metal steps quickly before I lose my nerve.

  I woke with a very specific purpose in mind today: to apologize to Parrish. It’s going to hurt sure, but I’m fairly certain that’s why apologies are so important. They hurt because when you give them, truly and genuinely give them, it’s like ripping out a thorn embedded deep inside your heart. It bleeds, at first, but later it feels so much better. There’s a sense of relief that follows.

  Even if I dislike—hate—the guy, it doesn’t mean he deserves to be ripped apart verbally. I’m not sure what came over me that first night, but I won’t let this riff between us turn into an all-out brawl.

  I don’t expect to find Chasm in the kitchen, but maybe I should have, considering how often I’ve heard his name mentioned in the last two days. “Tell Chasm he can spend a few nights at his own place.” That’s what Tess said right after I got here, as if she was so used to Chasm spending the night that it’d become habit.

  “Good morning,” I say cheerily, breezing into the main living area and discovering with a surge of dread that Chasm isn’t the only person digging into a basket of pastries on the counter. Parrish is here, of course, which is what I wanted, but it’s Kimber’s presence that makes me feel like I’m struggling with wobbly sea legs on the bow of a storm-tossed ship.

  She lifts her eyes up to mine, the color so similar to my own that I choke back another stab of pain.

  They’re a reminder, those eyes, that Kimber and I share something that Maxine and I don’t. Blood, DNA, things that don’t matter half as much as the legality that keeps me chained here.

  Parrish was right: I don’t fit in here, and I never will.

  He barely glances my way when I come into the room, his eyes half-lidded and lush with feigned boredom. Somehow, I see beyond that, to the seething anger that simmers beneath.

  “Good morning, Little Sister,” Chasm says, giving a breathless laugh that makes Kimber’s cheeks pink. She sees me notice her reaction and turns feral, blocking my sudden discovery with a barrage of hate.

  “What are you even wearing? Did you find time to go dumpster diving last night?” Kimber stands up from the sofa, dressed in her Whitehall uniform, the one that I have to be measured for this afternoon since we ran out of time yesterday. “I mean, after you snooped through my brother’s room and then verbally assaulted him?”

  Chasm laughs again, the sound wicked and thick with careful calculation. The way Parrish glances at him, sharp and cutting, tells me that he wasn’t the one who told Kimber about yesterday.

  “Actually, that’s what I came down here to talk about,” I hazard, watching Parrish’s stoic expression to see what his reaction might be. “I wanted to apologize—”

  “Save it,” Parrish tells me, shoving the basket of pastries across the counter. Chasm looks between the two of us with an iniquitous gleam in his amber eyes. They’re the color of the autumn sunshine on the trees back home, that soft, clinging light that bathes the trunks of the oldest trees in late afternoon. His personality is the exact opposite of that, apparently. “Be
cause I won’t be returning the favor.” Parrish finally looks at me dead-on, and my entire world shifts. All of that carefully crafted calm, that strong resolve, that genuine feeling of regret, it feels like it’s being ripped away under the challenging heat of his stare.

  I feel myself bristling, shifting on my feet and preparing myself for a full-on assault.

  He doesn’t even give me the satisfaction of trying to one-up him with some casually thrown commentary. Instead, he collects his croissant, slips it in the front pocket of his Whitehall Prep hoodie (weird, but okay), and then sweeps past me, knocking me out of the way with his elbow.

  I turn to … I don’t know, follow after or something, but then Tess appears at the bottom of the stairs, pausing to place a gentle hand on the top of Parrish’s head, like he’s seven instead of seventeen.

  “Morning, son,” she says, her eyes warm with love. He pauses to let her kiss his forehead, but otherwise gives no indication as to whether he enjoys the attention or not. “Morning, Mi—” Tess stops herself, her eyes darkening slightly as she focuses on me. A pang of longing hits me in the chest, memories of Grandma Carmen’s big Irish breakfasts, the ones that her grandma taught her how to make. She looked at me and Maxine the way Tess looks at Parrish, with unfailing dedication and endless love.

  I try to remember if she still looked at me that way after she knew, or if her eyes were just too clouded with sadness to see anything but the storm of regrettable melancholy.

  “Dakota,” Tess says finally, and I can’t help but notice Parrish glancing over his shoulder to smirk at me before he slips out the front door.

  “You’re a sickening disappointment.”

  He wasn’t wrong about that: I can see it written all over Tess’ face. I am not what the millionaire crime novelist was expecting.

  The feeling inside of me is compounded by the fact that Tess was—and probably still is—my favorite author. So, my idol and my mother both are disturbed by me.

  “Good morning.” The words sound hollow, like an echo of the greeting I’d call out as I hurried down the worn, wooden steps and skidded around the railing back home, a mere three thousand miles away from here.

  Tess smiles at me, but the expression doesn’t quite reach her eyes, eyes that are the same endless pitch as my own, as Kimber’s. My stomach hollows out, and I turn back toward the kitchen, ignoring the way anxiety makes my gut twist as Tess moves into the room behind me.

  I hesitate near the kitchen island, my eye falling to the basket filled to the brim with croissants, scones, shortbread cookies, tea cakes, and brownies. I’m surprised for a brief moment that this is an acceptable breakfast in a house such as this, but I’m too hungry to resist.

  I reach out to take an all-too tempting scone dotted with bits of cranberries and orange zest when Tess makes a small sound as she comes up beside me.

  With the scone in hand, I glance her direction and find myself surprised to see her staring at me with an uncertain expression.

  “I’m sorry, Dakota,” she starts, the sound of my real name scraping off the end of her tongue like it hurts her to even force it out. “But that basket is for Paul’s business partner; it’s his one-year anniversary of joining the practice.” She hesitates as Chasm snickers and skirts out of the room to join Parrish.

  Meanwhile, I’m left standing there, holding a scone that feels like it weighs a million pounds and wishing the floor would just open up and swallow me whole.

  Guess she didn’t see Chasm and Parrish chowing down, now did she?

  I feel suddenly so awkward that I’m afraid I might throw up again. Here I am, stuck in this house with these people, and I’m supposed to act like it’s my home and when I do …

  I put the scone back and Tess cringes again, only to make me realize that I’ve just sort of contaminated the whole basket by tossing it in.

  “Mia, wait,” Tess calls out as I spin on my heel and take off for the side door that leads into the garage. I slip inside, ignoring the crush of reporters that I can see through the open garage door, and then slide into the backseat of an idling sportscar.

  “Whoa, Little Sister,” Chasm whistles, turning to look at me over his shoulder. My face is burning, and I know I look ridiculous, barefoot and mussed and flushed all over. Can’t wait to see these photos popping up all over the internet. “What are you doing in here?”

  I glance to the right just as the door opens again and Tess appears, flustered and red-faced.

  “I can’t be here anymore,” I choke out as Parrish proceeds to ignore me, pulling his stolen croissant out and biting into it. He gives me a bored, apathetic sort of look in the rearview mirror. “Please.” I hate the way my voice sounds, high and reedy and pleading. Tess turns back around and heads inside, like she thinks I must’ve escaped the house in some other way. As in, the thought of me sitting in a sportscar with her do-no-wrong son is an impossibility. “Just drive.”

  “Suit yourself,” Parrish says, and then he shifts gears and reverses out of the open garage door in just such a way that my body slams back against the seat and then flies forward when he hits the gas to head toward the front gate.

  It slides open automatically, and we just barely clearly the edge of it as it continues opening along a track. Reporters duck out of the way, snapping pictures of the car as we go.

  Chasm and Parrish share a look and then Chas leans forward to turn up the volume on some CORPSE song that I vaguely recognize.

  Leaning my head back against the seat, I try to be grateful that they’re ignoring instead of taunting me.

  My eyes close as I struggle not to go back to that moment, to Tess’ reddened face. Why are embarrassing moments so sticky? They cling like cobwebs to the corners of your mind, latching onto any stray thought until they’re at the forefront and you’re forced to live them over and over and over again.

  With a groan, I swipe both hands down my face and then lean in between the two front seats to turn the music down.

  “You might’ve told me those pastries were for your dad’s work,” I growl out, turning to look at Parrish as Chasm chuckles on my other side.

  As if in response to my question, Parrish slams on the brakes and sends me flying into the back of my seat with a grunt.

  “Maybe you should’ve asked?” he counters, hitting the gas again and taking off with a squeal of tires. I struggle to get my seatbelt on, cursing my new stepbrother all the while and hating his stupidly gorgeous best friend with the crazy hair and the whiplash smile.

  Nevaeh and Sally would be in boy heaven. Feels like I’m in boy hell at the moment.

  “Is Tess always so …” I struggle to find the right word as Chasm turns the volume back up on the music, but not quite as high as it was before.

  “Uptight?” he queries, and then gives another barking laugh as Parrish shoots him an evil look. “Yeah, pretty much. Why? Let me guess: it was all puppies and kitty cats back home?”

  His voice straddles the edge between playful teasing and mocking derisiveness, leaving me unsure how to respond.

  I regret saying what I did to Parrish last night, but at the same time, I’m not about to let these two bully me.

  “If you mean, did my grandparents love me unconditionally and show it through words and actions? Then yeah, it was puppies and kitty cats. Seeing as you’re always at Parrish’s place”—not about to call that sterile asylum home—“I’m guessing your homelife most certainly isn’t.”

  Chasm flinches at about the same moment that I do. Shit. And there I go again, saying awful, awful things that I don’t really mean and feeling guilty about it.

  “Little Sister is a real bitch, isn’t she?’ Chasm asks, and then he cranks the stereo up to ear shattering levels, leaving me to sit hunched in the back seat with my palms pressed over my ears as I grit my teeth.

  I started off wanting to make friends; I usually try the nice route first. But these guys are not making it easy.

  About thirty minutes later, just as I’m s
tarting to become convinced that my eardrums are about to explode, we pull up to a massive, filigreed gate with the words Whitehall Preparatory Academy arched over the top.

  Shit.

  “We’re at the school?” I choke out, staring down at my bare feet and then looking back up and out the front window as Parrish follows a narrow road that winds around the back of the school. There’s a parking garage, half-buried in the hillside. This is where we park, and then the boys are up and out of their seats, taking their book bags with them.

  “What am I supposed to do with no shoes and no phone?” I call out, leaning my head out the door as Parrish and Chasm start up a winding ramp that leads to the top floor of the garage.

  Parrish glances briefly back at me, a cruel edge to his lips that makes fury burn bright and hot inside me.

  “I have no idea. I’m just a shitty, wannabe artist and Chasm here is just an unloved scamp, am I right?” He turns away and the two of them share a cruel laugh while I scramble around inside the car, looking for any spare shoes. He’s a teenage guy, right? Like, he must have some spare gym shoes or something in here.

  Only … there’s nothing, and I forgot to bring my phone. Faced with the idea of sitting in Parrish’s car for eight hours alone or wandering the fancy-pants academy sans shoes, I choose the latter.

  I’ve always been a bit of a risk taker.

  Hopping out, I start across the pavement, side-eying the rows of luxury cars on both sides of me.

  I’ve never found excess admirable, to be honest. So when I come across an old beater covered in stickers, a smile takes over me and I find myself pausing to see what the driver looks like.

  A beautiful black girl climbs out, a piece of toast stuck between her lips, items tumbling out of her purse as she struggles to heft a box and a book bag out of the car at the same time.

  Recognizing a fellow clumsy chick in need, I jog over in bare feet and just barely manage to catch the box before it falls to the ground.