“We’re going to Saint Croix this week; maybe you could join us?” Maria offers, ignoring the glare her older sister levels on her. It’s a glare that very clearly says he’s mine; I saw him first. I’m not sure why but that alarm bell in my chest starts to blare like a tornado warning. And I’m furious about it. My cheeks feel hot and my pulse is racing, but I do my best to pretend that I don’t care.
“Most tempting offer I’ve gotten all year,” Parrish says with a slick smile, reaching up to run his tattooed fingers through his brown and blond waves. He’s one of those foppish rich boys who acts like they roll out of bed with this sweet, mussy hair when in reality, he spends nearly an hour in his bathroom every morning. What a dick, I think as he meets my eyes in the mirror and smirks. “Especially considering that my new sister here stole my girlfriend.”
“Oh,” Maria breathes, clamping a hand over her mouth as her eyes sparkle with the promise of juicy goss. She drops her hand to her side and leans in conspiratorially. “Is that true?”
“Of course it isn’t true,” I reply as the makeup artist attempts to put a pair of falsies on me. “She left him for me specifically.”
Parrish just keeps smiling, lifting his brows up and letting his gaze slide to Francisca’s in a conspiratorial sort of way. The smirk she gives him in reply makes me feel stabby as fuck.
“Question,” Francisca continues, taking a seat in the chair beside mine and swiveling to face me. “Why are you doing a talk show for old people when you could be insta-famous online? Personal branding is important, and you’ve got clout in spades.” She holds up a hand, like she can already see my name in lights.
The shaved-head girl pulls the pins out of my hair as I stare at myself in the mirror and wish I were anywhere but here. Hell, I’d even take an entire afternoon alone with Parrish if it meant an escape from all of this. I don’t want to be famous because I was kidnapped as a baby. That’s not what defines me; it isn’t who I am.
Though I’m starting to wonder, the longer I’m here, who exactly is it that I am in the first place.
“I watched a documentary on being an influencer once; you can rent a private jet for four-hundred bucks an hour and pretend you live a really awesome life.” The two girls stare at me before exchanging a look.
“Hey Parrish.” Francisca swivels her chair away from me like I’m a horrible disappointment. “Come make a quick video with us?” He shrugs and stands up, following the Cortez girls out of the room and leaving me to the horrible ‘Millennial makeup artist’ who does a fabulous job regardless of her birth year.
As I step out of the hair and makeup room, I run back into the Cortez girls again but they’re substantially less friendly this time around. Apparently I’ve pissed them off. Maybe that’s my real superpower? Pissing other people off …
Parrish is with them, but his face is impossible to read.
“What did you do? Turn them down for a threesome?” I quip as he lets his gaze drift over to me.
“You only wish I’d turned them down,” he adds with another infuriating smile. “I’m going to Saint Croix next week.” He takes off down the hallway as I grit my teeth and wish a plague of locusts on his stupidly pretty head. Obviously, he’s just said that to get under my skin: Tess would never let him take a trip like that without her.
At least I know I’m not the only one wearing gilded chains.
I ignore him and follow the instructions of a woman with braids like Danyella—I think she said they were called Ghana braids—and an authoritative looking badge with a lanyard. She guides me to the edge of the stage next to Tess.
“You look very pretty today,” Tess tells me, but I can’t summon the energy to look over at her. My palms are sweating and my heart is racing, but it’s a million times different than the way those same symptoms feel when I’m around Parrish. This isn’t an oh my god, I’m crushing hard moment, more like an I’d rather be anywhere but here moment.
I say nothing. My mouth feels dry; my tongue is like sandpaper. I should be back home with Sally and Nevaeh, looking up colleges and contemplating if we’d rather take a gap year or just not go to college at all. We should be working on summer plans and bingeing Netflix shows together, gossiping about love interests, and watching Nevaeh perform her dance routines in her mom’s driveway.
Instead, here I am, across the country, standing beside a woman that I don’t particularly like, waiting to go live for millions of people to gawk at.
I can’t fucking wait.
“You’ll thank me for this one day,” Tess says, but more like she’s talking to herself instead of me. Good. I don’t particularly want to talk to her right now, not after she and Paul ransacked my room, took my things, and forced me to participate in this stupid show.
The lights flicker on and off and a sign that reads Silence, Please burns red above the stage.
“Welcome back, familia,” the host—Martina Cortez—says, introducing herself and the show the way she always does. “Today we have a very special returning guest—bestselling author Tess Vanguard. Tess is the author of over twenty-three novels and winner of the Women’s Literacy Prize three years in the running. Not only is Ms. Vanguard a champion for lost and stolen children, but she’s also a woman who’s experienced every mother’s worst nightmare. Let’s take a look.”
Martina turns toward a large screen on the back wall where a cheesy video begins to play. As soon as her voiceover begins to regale the story of my early life with Tess, dizziness takes over me and I’m forced to brace a hand on the wall.
“From an early age, Tess Patterson knew only two things: that she wanted to be a writer … and that she wanted to be a mother.”
At first, I decide that I can’t look at Tess. I just can’t. The video and the voiceover might be cheesy, but the story is almost too real. There are pictures and videos of me as a baby—ones that I’ve never even seen before. You’d think—you would fucking think—that Tess would’ve shown these to me at some point, that she might’ve made mention of my father, that she’d want to spend any time together at all.
But no.
The only time she wants to spend with me is on the set of some stupid show that my Grandma Carmen makes fun of.
“That day—a day like any other—is when tragedy first struck this small but resilient family.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I clench my jaw, glancing surreptitiously at Tess. If she finds out that I do, in fact, have my phone, I’m in trouble. If I lose it, I have a feeling that something in me will just break into a million pieces. The small screen in my pocket is a key that connects me to Maxine, that allows me some sort of escape from this new life of mine.
Tess, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to care much. She isn’t looking at me. Instead, her arms are crossed over her chest and her gaze is fixated on the stage. Based on her expression, you’d think she was about to enter a corporate conference to discuss consumer reports or something. There’s no emotion there, none at all.
I turn away from the video and put my hands over my ears. I don’t want to hear about it anymore. I don’t care. It’s as if this is all happening to someone else, anyone else that isn’t me. This isn’t my life. I’m not Mia Patterson. I’m not some lost and stolen child.
When Tess steps onstage, I pull out my phone with shaking hands, hoping beyond all hope that my grandparents have messaged to let me know they’re watching. That Sally and Nevaeh have my back. Maxine, at the very least, knows that I’m going to be here today. It could be a text from her.
Instead, it’s a message from Maxx.
Heads up: your sister is freaking out. Your grandparents are being interviewed remotely for the show today. They didn’t tell anyone until this morning. Maxine is on the phone with them now, but she’ll call as soon as she gets the chance.
My heart drops into my stomach and a wave of nausea takes over me. My grandparents are coming on the show today? I turn back around to find Tess smiling at Martina and nodding her head; the
y’re talking to each other, but all of a sudden, it’s like I can’t hear anything but the pounding of my heart.
A sense of dread washes over me.
This isn’t going to go well for me today.
“What is wrong with you?” a voice asks. I don’t have to look up to know that it’s Parrish.
“My grandparents,” I breathe, because the lady with the badge is turning me around and positioning me on a taped X near the stage. Parrish stays with me, for whatever reason.
“What about them?” he asks, but I don’t have the words to reply. The assistant gives me a gentle nudge in the middle of my back, and I find myself stumbling onto the stage in front of all those people.
The audience begins to clap, but I feel rooted to the spot, paralyzed. Everyone is staring at me, analyzing me, judging me.
I take a few more steps and suddenly find myself sitting in a chair beside Tess. I hardly remember how I got there, I’m just … sitting. And then there’s even a smile on my face. Because I can’t bear to ruin this or make a scene, because I’m still trying with Tess. Because I’m an idiot.
An idiot.
“Thank you for joining us today,” Martina says, leaning forward and offering up a patronizing smile. I don’t think she means for it to be patronizing; it just is. “Would you like us to call you ‘Mia’ or ‘Dakota’?”
The entire audience falls silent. Not like they were before, but like truly and utterly still as they await my answer. It’s annoying, more than anything else. This whole thing is idiotic.
“Dakota, please,” I reply, and several people gasp. I turn toward the audience to stare at them, but Tess gives my leg a squeeze, reminding me that I’m supposed to be looking at Martina. “I think I’ll always want to be known as Dakota Banks.”
“Tess, how do you feel about that?” Martina asks, because part of her claim to fame is that she’s an actress-turned-therapist-turned-talk show host. About as cheesy as Dr. Phil but so stupidly meme-able that people can’t resist talking about it.
That’s me. A future meme.
Nobody:
Literally no one:
Not even clout hungry iNfLuEnCeRs:
Dakota Banks: yes, I love being a kidnap victim!
“I think that Dakota can’t help but feel that way,” Tess replies, as smoothly and easily as if she, too, is a talk show host. Every now and again, there’s that little sliver of humanity in her, when her hair is mussy and she’s wearing glasses and it’s early and she’s muttering plot points to herself in the kitchen. Then there’s … this. This senator-y stiffness mixed with a touch of wealth poisoning. “She’s been indoctrinated by the Banks.”
“What?” I blurt, blinking as Martina sighs and nods her head, like she agrees. Fuck. I’m not here to talk about my burgeoning—and extremely challenging—relationship with Tess Vanguard. I’m here to see my grandparents roasted on the internet.
Shit.
“Speaking of the Banks,” Martina begins, turning back toward the screen. I follow her gaze just in time to see my grandparents appear on the screen. God. Damnit. If I hadn’t been struggling to breathe in that moment, I might’ve gotten up and kicked over the camera.
Oh, who I am kidding, I wouldn’t because I always try to put everyone else first. I don’t want to hurt Tess. I don’t know what to do here.
“We have the Banks here, live with us. Carmen and Walter, thank you for joining us today.”
“You’re welcome,” my grandmother says, her mouth pursed, her red lipstick bright. Beside her, my grandpa looks older and more fragile than I remember. I feel suddenly guilty and sick to my stomach. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since the coffee shop. Well, my grandmother that is. I haven’t seen my grandfather since the cab drove me and Tess away from my house for the last time.
“Is this the first time you’ve spoken to Dakota since she moved to Seattle?” Martina asks as Tess remains where she is, facing forward. She doesn’t look back at the screen, not even as my grandmother answers Martina’s question. I don’t understand. Tess seemed fine back in New York? Like, she’s mad at the Banks now? Why?
“It is.” Carmen’s words are short, sharp, and clipped. She isn’t any happier to be here than I am. “Which I think is criminal.”
“What’s criminal is raising a kidnapped child full well knowing that she wasn’t your daughter’s.”
I blink at Tess before turning back to the screen, expecting to see my grandparents aghast and upset at such a stupid declaration. Of course they didn’t know I wasn’t Saffron’s.
Silence stretches, long and painful, before I realize that neither of my grandparents is speaking up.
“Is it true that two years ago, your daughter Saffron Banks came to you and admitted that her child—her real child—Dakota Banks had been dead for years?”
I’m frozen to my seat right now. Paralyzed. My heart has stopped, and I’m fairly certain that I’ve stopped breathing. Hopefully, I’ll suffocate and this whole shitty moment will be over.
“That’s true,” my grandfather begins, and the audience gasps and murmurs. I can only imagine the comments we’re garnering online. “When Dakota—our Dakota—turned fourteen, Saffron admitted the truth, but we didn’t believe her. She’s lied about things like that before.”
“From what I understand, you telephoned the hospital she claimed to have had her real daughter at to confirm?”
Another pause.
“That’s true,” my grandfather says, but I can’t even look at him so it’s hard to place the tone in his words. It’s impossible to decipher without a facial expression to accompany it. “But you have to understand, we still didn’t know the whole story. We had no idea, until the episode of that stupid show. Frankly, looking back, we might not’ve made the call at all.”
“You kept my daughter from me for years beyond the period where you were guiltless,” Tess fires back, finally turning around to face them. It makes sense, why she’s angry. Logically, I know that. Rationally, I understand. But this is how she chose to confront the situation? By dragging me here when she knew I didn’t want to be interviewed? Forcing this on me when I’d rather dig my own grave and climb in?
“Fuck you,” I say, and the entire audience goes quiet. Tess stops talking, my grandparents stop talking, Martina stops talking.
At least for a second.
“Who are you speaking to, Dakota?” she asks softly, like I’m a delicate child whose petals might break. I glare at her.
“You,” I say, “because you exploit people.” I look up at my grandparents with angry tears brimming in my eyes. “And you two for having an inkling of what was going on and ignoring it.” Next, I look at Tess and she goes from seeming angry and self-righteous to wary. “And mostly you. For everything. For thinking more about yourself than me. Eat a bag of dicks.” I’m about to launch into a tirade, right there on a live feed, but then someone’s storming across the stage with their sweatshirt hood up and grabbing my wrist.
Parrish yanks me up from the chair and drags me across the stage while everyone watches.
Just a few steps later and we’re running.
We run down the hall, past the woman with the lanyard, past the Cortez twins who gape at us like we’re crazy, and right out the doors of the recording studio. It’s misting out here—of course it is, it’s the Pacific Northwest (gag)—but that doesn’t stop Parrish from dragging me down the steps and along the sidewalk.
A few minutes later, a car pulls up alongside of us and Parrish opens the door.
It’s Chasm.
“What’s the matter, Little Sister?” he asks, his voice edgy, like he hates himself for even asking that question of me.
I look back, finding Parrish’s gaze on mine as he takes a step back.
“I’ll tell Tess you’re headed home,” he says, pushing me in before he closes the door and turns back around on the sidewalk.
“Excuse me,” I breathe, trying to stop myself from hyperventilating. “Can you ju
st … I don’t know, drive me around for a minute?”
The thought of going back to the ice palace is too much for me right now.
Instead, as Chasm drives, I roll down my window and stick my head out, even going so far as to get on my knees so I can breathe in the misty morning air. He leaves me alone for a couple of breaths and then reaches out, yanking on the bottom hem of my already too short dress.
With a yelp, I slap my hands over his and slump back in the car just before we hit a sharp curve and I wonder if I might actually have fallen out if he hadn’t yanked me back in.
“You can’t touch someone’s ass without permission,” I snarl, but he’s already giving me an apologetic look, like he knows something bad happened in that studio. Oh. Oh. He was probably watching the live feed.
“You okay?” he asks, but I’m not. He knows it. I know it. Even Parrish knew it. So why doesn’t Tess? How could my grandparents lie to me like that?
“No. Fuck them, fuck them all,” I grumble, wishing I hadn’t deleted all my social media accounts so I could go rant somewhere and people would listen.
“You just said that—live. Are you sure you don’t want to be internet famous? Because I’ve already seen GIFs.”
I whip my phone from the pocket on my dress—dresses with pockets are the fucking best—and stare at all the messages flooding in. Sally and Nevaeh, Lumen and Danyella. Maxx. Maxine. I pick up when an incoming call shows from my sister.
“I didn’t know, Kota. Oh my god, I swear I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t,” I agree, even though I’m breaking on the inside. My world already felt flipped upside down, but at least I was getting used to it. Now it’s been turned in a completely different direction and I’m starting to get dizzy.
Stolen Crush Page 29
