Stolen Crush

by Stunich, C. M.

  “Alright, you got me,” I mumble, brushing leaves and pine needles from my ass. “Really funny, I’m highly amused.” I stand up straight, the wind digging cool fingers into my hair and tousling it around my face. The night is as black as they come, an ebony jewel stretched across the sky and dotted with the faintest twinkling diamonds, as if the stars are smiling at me.

  Only, if they are, it feels like an endless sea of mocking smiles. Something doesn’t feel right out here. The hair on the back of my neck stands straight up as I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze tight. Just like that night after the party when I thought I heard someone creeping around outside the gate, I get that same feeling now.

  “Probably just reporters,” I murmur aloud, just to keep the night from seeming too cold, too empty. I’m not panicked, but maybe I should be? I fell asleep in my bed and woke up outside. Even if the boys concocted this scheme, I should probably still freak out, right? How messed up would that be? “You can come out now; I’m ready to go home.”

  I make my voice as firm as possible, a feat not easily accomplished with chattering teeth and absolutely zero sense of direction. I could get lost inside a cardboard box. My grandmother always said it was because I was a dreamer, just like her, just like her mother. Except none of that is true, is it? I guess if I am a dreamer, it must’ve come from Tess or from the mystery father she won’t tell me a damn thing about.

  “Guys, fucking seriously? I’m not with this shit. I won’t tell Tess, but I want to go home now.”

  When nothing happens, I roll my eyes and start walking. Frankly, every direction looks the same to me, but I figure if I walk far enough, Chasm and Parrish will appear and call out to me. They’re brats, no doubt about that, but they aren’t total monsters.

  Ten minutes later, I still see nothing but trees and shadows, and I hear nothing but for the gentle rustle of pine needles and leaves above my head. Every once in a while, there’s the sound of something scurrying through the underbrush, but this is Seattle, right? Not the middle of a South American rainforest. Mice, squirrels, opossums, and raccoons are pretty much the only animals out here. I keep walking, focusing straight ahead, looking for something—anything—in all of that silky blackness to help me find my way. Looking up, I can see the canopy and a sprinkling of stars and not much else. Where it is that I am, I have no idea. Clearly this isn’t Medina proper; there’s not enough nature left there for me to get lost.

  But twenty minutes later? That’s when I start to feel the first surge of panic. I don’t have my phone, I don’t know where I am, and it’s the middle of the freaking night in a wooded area near a big city. Every footfall, every snapping branch becomes a man stalking me.

  That’s my worst fear: being kidnapped, being raped, being murdered. And on top of that, there’s a fucking serial killer offing teenagers in the Seattle area. It’s a very real terror that’s digging its icy claws into my skin, my heart, my head.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I come to the edge of the woods and emerge into a well-manicured park. There’s even a jungle gym, some swing sets, and a small skate park attached. That’s where my relief ends. How much better is it to be in a dark and lonely park in the middle of the night than in the woods? Animals aren’t the danger here: people are.

  My eyes dart around the shadowy playground, my senses on hyper alert.

  That’s when I hear it, that sound that I’ve been dreading but also that I’ve been waiting for.

  The sound of footsteps.

  A windchime sounds nearby, and I start to run. If there’s a windchime, there’s probably a house, right? Because people don’t often put windchimes in public parks. My breath comes in panicked gasps, but I don’t let the fear control me. What good would that do but get me killed? I put all of my energy into running, sprinting for the edge of the park and the row of houses I can see just beyond the quiet suburban street that runs alongside it.

  I’ve never been much of a runner, but adrenaline gives me that extra edge to keep going, to move faster, to ignore the bleeding of my feet as I stumble into the road at the same moment my attacker catches up to me.

  A gloved hand covers my mouth, stifling a scream, while a muscular arm wraps my waist. I’m kicking and fighting, clawing at the black fabric of the man’s jacket. His breathing is even and calm, and there’s the vaguest hint of some spicy aftershave lingering in the air around him, almost like he tried to scrub it off and failed.

  Rather than go for his hand, I jab a thumb back in the spot where I figure his eye must be. I’m rewarded with an awful squishy feeling that turns my stomach. It does the trick though, and the man loosens his grip just enough that I’m able to throw myself forward.

  I end up on the ground, scrambling to my feet as I hear slow, easy footsteps behind me. He isn’t running, just strolling after me. That’s the part that freaks me out the most, how calm this person is. It’s a calculated sort of stalking, a following, a predation. Part of me wants to scream, but I need the breath to run, and I’m choking on it.

  My bare feet slap the ground hard, a sound that, when mixed with the harshness of my breathing, creates an elegy that foretells a very unfortunate ending. If the guy isn’t chasing me then …

  Another man appears from behind a parked car in a strange mimicry of my attack on Maxx, buried inside the safety of a video game. But this … is not a game. And it’s not a dream.

  What the fuck is going on?!

  I skid on the pavement, stumbling as I do my best to avoid the second attacker, some rando dressed in black with a balaclava on his face. That’s never good. Never good at all. I’m up and running again before he grabs me, darting into the yard of the house with all the windchimes.

  They’re swaying now, catching the breeze and adding melancholy notes to my dirge.

  Just three feet from the front steps, I’m wrenched violently backward. I end up on my back, struggling to catch my breath as my hands search the ground for a weapon. Luck must be on my side because I find one right away, fingers clamping around the wooden handle of a small planting hoe. It’s half-buried in the grass, but it comes out easily enough when I tug on it.

  Without thinking, I sit up and swing my right arm back, wincing as it makes contact.

  My attacker lets out a grunt as I wrench the weapon forward, splattering blood across the walkway. But then he’s on me, using his bodyweight to push me into the cement.

  I’m wrestled to the ground, the asshole kneeling on my back, and every instinct I have inside of me turns to fire. Never leave the first location: that’s self-defense rule number one. Except … all the fire in the world can’t push a two hundred plus pound man off my back. All the fire in the world can’t stop the sharp prick of a needle going into my neck. A small snarl escapes me just before everything goes black.

  “Rest now,” the voice whispers, pressing an awful kiss to my cheek.

  That’s the last thing I remember.

  I come to with a gasp, my heart racing, sweat soaking my sheets. A quick glance around the room shows me that I’m back at Tess’ place, the view of Lake Washington taking up the far wall and reminding me that I forgot to close the curtains.

  For several minutes, I just sit there, clutching my pajamas in one fist and struggling to control my breathing.

  When I throw my blankets back, I expect to find dirty and bloodied feet. Only one of those things seems to be true. There are marks on the bottoms of my feet, small scrapes and cuts that clearly came from somewhere. That, and my back is sore as hell. On the other hand, I’m wearing the same pajamas that I went to bed in and there isn’t a speck of dirt or blood on them, not from my fall to the pavement, not from lying on my back on the damp forest floor.

  Nothing.

  “What the hell?” I murmur as my door swings open softly and a pale face appears in the blackness.

  It’s Parrish.

  “Where have you been?” he asks, sounding mildly annoyed. “Tess came looking for you, and I told her you were in the
sauna.”

  “The sauna?” I repeat, because I’m having trouble making sense of what just happened. There’s no way in hell that was a dream; I’m not stupid enough to believe it was. “I was most definitely not in the sauna,” I murmur, reaching up with both hands to rub at my face. Parrish leans his long body against the doorjamb, watching me with a quiet expression. If he’s responsible for what just happened to me, if he was in on the … prank or whatever it is, then he’s a beautiful liar because when I drop my hands to my lap and look at him, I don’t see any hint of subterfuge or cruel amusement. “I think I was in the woods?” There’s a question mark at the end of that sentence that Parrish raises an eyebrow at.

  “You think you were in the woods?” he asks, blinking at me. He moves further into my room, and I feel that hot tightness in my chest again. There’s something about him that really gets to me, some deep core of emotion and self-sacrifice that I understand. We’re really two peas in a pod, me and my new stepbrother.

  “Are there are any parks near here?” I ask, looking up at him and feeling along the side of my neck where I felt the needle enter my skin. Frankly, I should probably grab my phone and call the cops. Or at the very least, go wake Tess and Paul and tell them what happened. But how the fuck do I explain this without the both of them thinking that I’ve gone nuts? I’m the one that experienced it, and even still, I’m struggling to make sense of the whole thing. “Like, a playground/skatepark surrounded by woods perchance?”

  “Are you smoking some really good weed or something?” Parrish asks, glancing away as I yank down the neckline of my pj top, searching for bumps with my fingers.

  “Can you check my neck?” I ask him, and he whips his head back like I’ve gone completely insane.

  “Check your neck for what?” he repeats, puzzlement clear in his voice. I reach over and turn the bedside lamp on—some metal space-agey looking thing that I can’t wait to get rid of. Moving into the bathroom, I turn that light on, too, and start looking for marks. Parrish follows me to the bathroom door, shirtless and barefoot as always, and then gives a dramatic sigh before finally stepping up behind me.

  My breath escapes in a rush as he uses long, inked fingers to sweep my green and black hair away from my neck. In the mirror, I watch as his reflection stands tall over mine, the bare muscles in his chest and shoulders tense, but his touch gentle and warm.

  I could get used to being touched like that, I think, exhaling sharply as he runs his fingertips against the side of my neck, leaving lines of aching fire in his wake. My eyes close of their own accord, and I find myself breathing deep and heavy, leaning back into him without meaning to.

  “Shit,” he murmurs, scoffing as he teases me with his fingertips, stroking one along the throbbing beat of my pulse. “What the fuck am I looking for? Vampire bites?” He pauses briefly and then presses down slightly, making me cringe. “Is that painful?”

  I open my eyes to find him watching me in the mirror’s reflection.

  “Does it look like a needle mark?” I ask, and Parrish blinks back at me in surprise.

  “A needle mark?” he repeats, like I really have lost my mind. “It looks like a fucking bug bite.”

  He rests his hand against the side of my neck, and I find myself pressing harder back into him, enjoying the hot heat of his body. When his eyes drop to my neck and his hand falls by his side, I go tense, waiting, wanting, unsure what exactly it is that I’m wanting or why I care more about this all of a sudden than I do about the fact that I just escaped a pair of crazy men in a park.

  That wasn’t real, I tell myself because to think otherwise is unfathomable. Some random dudes kidnapped me and took me to the woods, chased me for fun, knocked me out, and brought me back home relatively unharmed? It makes zero sense.

  Parrish leans down and breathes against the side of my exposed throat, almost like he’s waiting for something. Permission, probably. Consent. Fuuuuck, there’s nothing sexier than that.

  “Show me where it is.”

  The words sound innocuous enough, but there’s a hidden meaning to it, a euphemism that we can both sense. Parrish curses again, some meaningless words that I feel in the softness of his breath rather than hear. He leans down and swipes his knuckles against the back of my neck, pushing my hair aside and dropping his mouth to the sore spot.

  A sound escapes me, something foreign and new but exciting. I lean back even harder, pressing my body to his, and end up rubbing myself against the bulge in his pajama pants. With a sharp hiss, Parrish steps away from me, swiping his hand over his face. His skin is red with a hot flush, and even though my body feels weird and rebellious, I have to laugh. He blushes as badly as I do.

  “There’s nothing on your neck but a goddamn mosquito bite,” he murmurs, flicking the light switch and plunging us into darkness. There’s no moon tonight either, just the distant twinkling of city lights to guide me as I follow Parrish back to the bedroom door.

  “I woke up in the woods, Parrish,” I tell him, because even if it wasn’t real, it felt real. It could’ve been a prank, right? It could’ve happened, as far-fetched as that seems. “Is Chasm here?”

  Parrish rests his hand on the doorjamb, and it takes me a moment to realize how heavily he’s breathing. How heavily I’m breathing. Without thinking, I reach out and run my fingers down the smooth length of his spine.

  “Stop touching me,” he growls, spinning around abruptly. “And stop asking about Chasm. He isn’t interested in you.”

  “Interested in me?” I echo, like the thought never occurred to me. It had, briefly, but I brushed it off. I must be going through some hormonal phase because I’m finding myself simultaneously attracted to multiple people—two of which are completely off-limits. Maxx is with my sister; Parrish is my stepbrother. But Chasm? I don’t need or want a boyfriend right now, and if I did, it isn’t like they’re hard to get. Any girl can tell you how unbelievably easy it is to get a guy if you want one. It’s harder to get rid of them, more often than not. “That’s not why I’m asking, Parrish.”

  “You were dreaming,” he tells me, trying to close my bedroom door behind him. I stop it with a palm out, pushing my way into the hallway and then following him into his own room. He scowls but doesn’t do much else to stop me.

  Hearing Parrish mock my fears like they’re nothing irritates the crap out of me. His patronizing tone just seals the deal: there’s nothing about this that feels like a normal dream. Even if I want it to be, even if I wish it were.

  As soon as I set foot in his room and he reaches above my head to slam the door shut with his palm, I realize how strangely intimate this moment is. The house is dark and quiet; everyone else is asleep. It’s just me and Parrish, twisted up in a dream that should probably, by all rights, be a nightmare. No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake the bite of the needle in my neck, or the cold chill of the wind as it rustled my hair against my nape.

  “If I were dreaming, then where did the mark come from?” I continue as Parrish sighs and pulls away from me. I don’t miss how hard his nipples are, how big the bulge in his pants is, even as he tries to turn and hide himself. One of those reactions could be blamed on the coolness of the night air, but the other? No, that’s all about heat.

  “It’s probably a fucking bug bite, I told you,” he breathes with another rush of air, reaching up to rub both hands down his face. He moves over to the window and shoves it open with more force than necessary. It occurs to me then that I’m standing in a stranger’s room, dressed in pj’s and accusations of a strange nightly run through the woods. When did I start feeling like I actually knew Parrish? In reality, we’re no closer than me and Danyella, or me and Lumen. Shit, I’ve had saner conversations with Delphine.

  “What about my feet?” I continue, my questions just as much for myself as they are for Parrish. Without asking, I sit down on the edge of his bed and cross my right leg over my knee, examining the sole of my foot in the dim glow of his TV. There’s nothing on, j
ust the home screen for HBO Max, but it’s enough light to see by. “They’re all cut-up and bruised.”

  There’s a sudden rush of footsteps and then Parrish is just there, flicking on his bedroom light and making me squint. Without preamble, he reaches down and grabs my foot, examining it with a frown and a heavy dose of skepticism. The bruises, cuts, and scrapes are unmistakable in the harsh glow of the overhead light.

  “Have you ever sleepwalked before?” he asks me, looking up suddenly and catching me with those pretty eyes of his. His lashes are long and dark, like they’ve been dipped in chocolate, and his gaze is intense enough that my breath catches and stills until my head swims and I’m forced to suck in a sharp inhale.

  “Never.”

  “Well, new and stressful events can trigger episodes.” He releases my foot and looks up at me, kneeling on the floor like a slothful prince. “And think about it: your life has been nothing but stress for weeks.”

  We stare at each other for a long moment, the air thickening and perfuming between us. There’s that scent again, that fresh-laundry-hung-on-a-line scent, and while Parrish smells pleasant enough, I’m reminded of my attacker again, of that strange detail of his aftershave. Could I really have dreamed that? Could I really have sleepwalked and not realized? If so, how did I hurt my feet? What did I step on?

  “And whose fault is that?” I retort sharply. Not entirely fair considering Parrish is only one microcosm of stress in the scope of things. Still …

  He frowns at me again, rising to his feet and heading back over to the bedroom door.

  “Out,” he tells me, flicking off the light and then pointing into the hallway like the gesture will somehow get me to move more quickly. “If you don’t think you were sleepwalking, if you really and truly believe you were kidnapped for all of five seconds and then magicked back into bed through a gate with security cameras and a front door with five locks, then go find Tess. Wake her up. Tell her, let her check the footage. Otherwise, just assume you stepped on some of the twins’ toys and leave it at that.” When I make no move to stand up, Parrish storms over to me and then stops suddenly with his arm extended, like he was thinking of grabbing me and thought better of it.