The Forever Crew

by Stunich, C. M.

  I don’t stop running until I’m slipping into my dorm room and leaning my back against the door to close it. Only, it won’t close all the way because someone’s pushing their way in from the other side.

  I spin and my wet rainboots slip on the floor, knocking me to my ass as Church steps into the room behind me. He closes and locks the door, looking down at me with a brow raised in questioning.

  “Miss Carson,” he says, almost like a soft chastisement that makes me wrinkle my nose. “You ran from me.”

  “I wasn’t running from you,” I protest weakly, looking away toward the miraculously clean space under my bed. Never in my life have I managed to keep a clean room, but Church tidies it up for us. He says he likes to do it, and I can’t decide if he’s full of shit or if it really does please his OCD or something. “I just had to get something.”

  Church squats down in front of me as I reluctantly drag my gaze from the dust-bunny-free zone and back to his aristocratic face. Cheekbones for days, skin like alabaster, a mouth that can make sunbeams but also go sharp as a knife. My heart is already pounding like crazy from my mad sprint across campus, but now I feel like I might pass out.

  “You ran all the way over here in a wedding dress and rainboots to grab something?” he questions, and I nod. Words won’t come. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be feeling. “Do tell.”

  “My nightstand drawer, next to the packer penis.”

  Church smiles and stands up, stepping around me to slide the drawer open and coming up with a small wooden box. It’s decoupaged with old magazine photos, just some relic from an elementary school art class. But when he opens it, sliding off the top and peering inside, he’ll see it: my mother’s hairclip, with all the pearls and lace. She wore it at her own wedding to my dad, when she was just a teenager.

  “This?” he asks, coming back around and sitting on the end of my bed. Church leans forward and tucks some of my blond curls back, using the clip to keep them in place. “Tell me about the clip, Charlotte.”

  “It was my mom’s,” I say, looking down at my poofy lap. “She wore it when she married my dad.”

  “You came all the way back here to get it?” Church clarifies again, and I shrug my shoulders, my black rainboots sticking out from underneath the full skirts. “Why?”

  “Have you seen The Proposal?” I ask, turning to the side to look at him. He’s so … perfect looking, dressed in the crisp champagne colored blazer and slacks, his tie straight, his shirt free of wrinkles.

  “Just once,” he supplies, putting an elbow on his knee and watching me carefully. “Why?”

  “They have a fake engagement, too, but at the end, the girl runs away from the wedding.”

  “And this is what you meant by Sandra Bullocking?” Church asks, and I nod. His smile gets a little wider. “Interesting idea, to turn an actresses’ name into a verb. I like the way you think, Chuck.” He pauses for a moment to consider my explanation. “So the clip was truly inconsequential then. You were running away.”

  “I was running away to protect you,” I say, twisting the fabric around in my hands. “You and your awesome mom, and your really nice dad, and all your sisters …” I pause for a moment, trying to untangle my feelings. “And I did want my mom’s clip.” My mouth turns down into a sharp frown.

  “Come,” Church says, standing up and offering out his hand for me to take. I grab on and let him haul me to my feet, brushing off the back of the dress. Hopefully I haven’t gotten it too dirty. It didn’t even occur to me until now that I could’ve seriously stained or torn it on the way over here. “Sit with me.” He pulls me down onto the bed next to him, holding my hands in his. One of his thumbs lazily traces the surface of the ring. “Is that it? You think that by running away, you’ll protect me?”

  I look up, from the ring to his face, watching me without judgment, just a hint of concern glinting in his eyes.

  “I don’t want to unpack … all of this,” I say, gesturing at my chest to indicate the strange mix of feelings resting there.

  “Why not?” he queries, turning my hands over and then running his thumbs along the pulse points in my wrists. “Are you afraid you’ll hurt my feelings?” I shake my head, shrug, and then nod, just a mess of contradictory body language. “Do you believe I actually have them now? Or am I still a possible psychopath waiting in the wings?”

  I snort.

  “No, I don’t think you’re a psychopath anymore. The way you grieved for Ranger in the woods …” I trail off, because neither of us wants to talk about that day just yet. Maybe one day, but not today. “If I were gone, wouldn’t you guys be safer? If I left, then the Fellowship would leave you alone.” I study Church’s face for a moment, searching for clues.

  “If we’re dealing with any of the families that I currently suspect, then there is no getting away. I could hire you a private security team, but I imagine the Fellowship would want to tie up loose ends. They’d come for you; you’d never feel safe, and you’d never truly be alone.”

  “But at least you guys wouldn’t be in danger,” I mumble, wondering why my stupid heart won’t stop beating so fast. “And then we wouldn’t have to lie to your family about getting married.”

  Church releases my hands and leans back on the bed, his palms flat against the comforter, ankles crossed.

  “You’re very concerned with our well-being, aren’t you?” he asks, but I don’t know how to respond to that. I am. I’m a million times more worried about them than I am myself. “Are you afraid of getting married? Or maybe you just don’t like the idea of marriage?”

  “My parents got married when my mom was young. My dad was so in love with her, I thought they’d be together forever. Even when they got divorced, even when she went away to rehab. He still loves her, but she doesn’t love him anymore.”

  We sit in silence for a moment before Church gets up and retrieves us a pair of coffees in glass bottles from his cute little mini-fridge. He hands one to me and then sits just a few inches closer than he was before.

  “Maybe I thought their divorce didn’t bother me, but it does?” I ask, wrinkling up my face. “That sounds pretty pathetic, huh? To be upset about divorce? I mean, half the population has divorced parents. And really, I think high divorce rates are good—it means people aren’t taking abuse and shit from their partners anymore.”

  “But?” Church asks, as I twist the top off my coffee and take a sip.

  “But, I guess … if my parents didn’t make it? Why would we? Maybe the way I feel about you guys is just crazy teen stuff. Besides, that’s another problem with marriage, right? I can only marry one of you.”

  The smile that takes over Church’s mouth surprises me.

  “Only legally, but there are other ways to be committed.” I blink back at him in shock as his face takes on this determined edge. “Not to sound like an asshole, but maybe your parents didn’t care about each other the way I care about you.”

  Whoa. Far from sounding like an asshole, his statement floors me. He may as well have admitted that he feels like we’re written in the stars or something. My palms get sweaty, and I swipe them on my bedspread to keep from messing up the skirt.

  “I …” Words fail me as Church looks up, eyes bright. There’s a certainty there, a confidence that I don’t feel, but that maybe I should. Looking at him, it truly feels like he has a plan here.

  “My parents are still together,” he argues, taking the top off his own drink and sipping it slowly. The way he licks the rim of the bottle is most definitely suggestive in nature. He turns to look my way, his amber eyes sweeping over me in his mother’s wedding dress. “And maybe, at the time, your father was everything your mother needed—sometimes forever means just for now.” Church pauses for a moment and breathes out a small sigh. “But I don’t want this engagement to cause you so much pain. I’ll go back and tell my mother that the wedding is off; it’s clear your dad won’t be sending you away again.”
/>   “But your mom came all this way to give me the dress,” I start, squeezing a handful of skirts in my fist, struggling to figure out why I feel so reluctant to give it back.

  “I can wait and tell her later, if you’d prefer,” Church says, watching me with that stoic calm of his. “And you can keep the ring. It’s yours, even if you want to sell it and keep the money.”

  “You picked this out for me?” I ask, and Church nods.

  “In the antique store, just like my father picked out a ring for my mother. That’s where I went, when I disappeared before your attack in Santa Cruz. The twins told me you were concerned.” My face flushes, and I sputter to explain, but … okay, it’s true. Church has always been just a tad suspicious, right?

  “You were in Nutmeg?” I ask, and he nods.

  “Just for a night—I couldn’t make up my mind over which ring to choose. And then I took it home to show my parents and ask for their blessing.” He sits there patiently, waiting for me to sort out my thoughts again. “I’m glad we were able to get you back to Adamson when we did. But things have changed.” Church takes my hand and carefully slides the ring toward the end of my finger.

  “Wait,” I say, pulling my hand back and adjusting the ring. I feel possessive over it, clutching it against my chest.

  He smiles at me again.

  “Keep it. But you don’t have to wear it anymore.”

  Our eyes meet, mine searching his for clues.

  “You really like me, Church? I mean, I know you said you did at the hot springs, but … you shouldn’t have to be engaged to a girl you don’t want.”

  “Who said I’m engaged to a girl I don’t want?” he replies, setting his coffee on the dresser at the end of my bed and turning back to me. He captures my chin in long fingers and studies my face. “I don’t typically do things I don’t want to do.”

  “Yeah, but this was just to get me back to Adamson, right?”

  “Was it?” he replies, meeting my question with yet another of his own. Church leans forward and kisses my mouth, just so, a soft brush of lips, like the touch of a butterfly’s wings. “I like seeing you in my mother’s dress, Charlotte Farren Carson.”

  My breathing quickens, and I struggle to find the words to respond to that.

  Church presses his mouth to mine again, and my eyes close of their own accord. Slowly, like he’s afraid he might ruin the moment if he moves too fast, he kisses me again. Just like that night on his parent’s patio, I find myself melting into his touch, opening my lips for his tongue. My coffee drink falls to the floor and rolls beneath Church’s bed, but neither of us cares.

  Instead, I find myself lying back in the pillows, his body stretched above mine, lithe but muscular, smelling like lilac and rosemary. His mouth works against mine, relaxing me and bringing sweet sighs and sounds of contentment from my lips.

  “It doesn’t have to be fake, unless you want it to be,” he whispers, his hands sliding up and underneath the full skirts of the dress. Warm palms caress my bare thighs as he settles himself between my legs, kissing each corner of my mouth with the gentlest of touches.

  He’s holding back. I’m sure of it. But why? It doesn’t even occur to me that he might be just as scared as I am, just as unsure, but just as in love.

  Love.

  That’s come up a lot lately, hasn’t it?

  “You’d actually marry me? The weird, dorky poor girl with a maid for a mom and a teacher for a dad?”

  “You know my secret,” he says, his face taking on just a hint of sadness. “My biological mother was a maid, too. We’re no different, you and me.” Church’s long fingers tease the waistband of my panties, causing me to suck in a sharp breath. He’s avoided touching me for so long, and now I can see why. Each place our skin comes into contact tingles. It’s like there are these little bolts of energy darting across my skin. “I’d be honored to marry you—but only if you want me, too.”

  “I do …” I whisper, but the way I trail off gives him pause. Church stops kissing me, looking down into my face with a sweet mixture of frustration and longing. “I want them, too.” It almost hurts to say it, but I know that I have to. It gives me anxiety every day, wondering if there’s an ultimatum coming, or an expiration date.

  “They’re my family, Charlotte,” Church says, propped up on with a forearm on either side of me. “They’re not going anywhere.” He smiles at me and then dips his head to kiss me again. This time, though, there’s an edge to it. It’s like his personality: half sunshine and half ironclad control. It’s a part of who he is, a part of being a Montague.

  “There are condoms in the nightstand,” I whisper, and Church nods, his eyes hooded as he looks down at me. We kiss again, one of his hands coming up to rest on the curve of my waist, the other slipping beneath my panties. Part of me knows we should take off the wedding dress, but the rest of me doesn’t care.

  Church dances the fingers of one hand across my clavicle while the other teases the embarrassing amount of wetness between my legs. I’m desperate to touch him, too, but when I drop my hands to his slacks, he grabs my wrist.

  With his eyes locked on mine, Church sits up and reaches for his tie, carefully unknotting it and slipping it off. He then takes it and wraps it around one of the spindles on the headboard and then around my wrists, tying it in just such a way that the navy-blue silk holds me tight, but lets my skin breathe.

  His own breath catches when he sits back on his heels and looks me over, bound with his Adamson Academy school tie, and dressed as his bride. Sunlight streams in through the window, coloring Church’s honeyed hair with gold as he studies me.

  “What are you waiting for?” I ask, sweating and doing my best not to writhe beneath him. But I’m desperate for him to touch me. Desperate.

  “I’m savoring the moment,” he replies easily, mouth sliding to the side in a devilish little smirk. “If I were a different sort of person, I’d probably take a picture. Maybe even a video?”

  “Don’t you dare,” I growl out, but Church just chuckles.

  “I won’t. After all, this is just for me to enjoy. If I recorded it, I bet one of those assholes would get ahold of my phone at some point and see the evidence.” Church bends down and kisses the side of my neck, making me squirm. “I don’t mind sharing, in general, but certain things are just for me. This is one of them.”

  “You really are an arrogant ass pig, aren’t you? And for a second there, I actually thought you were nice.”

  The nightstand drawer slides open and out come the condoms.

  “You thought I was nice?” Church asks, smirking. “That’s your mistake.”

  “Did I really just … agree to like … marry you or something?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer with words, using his body to fill in the gaps instead. He kisses me deeply, the touch of his mouth cutting right through all the bullshit and going straight for my soul.

  I never expected to like Adamson; I most definitely didn’t expect to like the Student Council.

  And yet, coming here is the best thing that ever happened to me.

  Church sighs contentedly and unbuttons his slacks, revealing the hard length of his cock to me. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it—hot springs, remember?—but it’s different somehow, now that we’re alone, now that both of our intentions have been made clear.

  He slips a condom on and then reaches beneath my dress to remove my panties, tucking them into the pocket on his blazer before he takes it off and tosses it aside.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” I murmur, as Church pushes the frothy white skirts up around my hips, running his tongue up the side of my neck and then resting his lips against my thrumming pulse.

  “Why’s that?” he asks, looking down at me.

  “Because I wasn’t even sure if you liked me for the past year.”

  “We all have our secrets, Chuck,” he whispers, just before he slides into me, keeping himself propped up with one hand and using the other to touch the side of
my face. He never stops looking into my eyes, not even as his body’s moving inside of mine and bringing tears of pleasure to the corners of my gaze. I try to meet his eyes, but it’s so intense, I end up turning away. He turns me back to him, stroking across my bottom lip with his thumb and making me tremble.

  When he kisses me again, my eyes close of their own accord and he lets them be, moving his mouth down the side of my neck and encouraging me to lift my chest up to meet the touch of his lips.

  It’s slow and torturous, but in the best possible way, like a fire stoked slowly and then left to burn. And I’m burning.

  “Church,” I moan, trying to pull my arms down by my sides. But I’m trapped, and not just physically. My heart’s trapped, too, stuck right here in Adamson Academy.

  I just hope that doesn’t turn into a literal statement.

  My body betrays me, muscles tightening, pleasure flooding through me in a wave.

  Church cuts my gasp off with a kiss, taking my chin in his hand, owning me with a gentle grip of fingers. He scoots back and then, with another naughty smile, disappears beneath my skirts. I’m still shaking, and I haven’t quite recovered yet, but I want more. I crave it.

  Or maybe I’m just craving him?

  Church’s fingers curl around my pelvis, holding me in place and giving me a lesson in the alphabet with his tongue.

  It doesn’t seem to be any difficult task for him to give me multiple orgasms.

  Soaked in sweat, I lift my head up to look at him as he comes up for air, eyes dark with the fervid heat that’s taken over our room.

  “You’ve done this before, huh?” I ask, my body quivering as he comes up beside me, lying casually with one elbow on the bed, head resting on his hand.

  “Not much, actually. Two girls, one time each. You’re more experienced than I am.”

  “But … you’re really good at it,” I choke out, breathing hard, my arms burning but that ardent heat in my lower belly burning more.