Them Seymore Boys: An Enemies to Lovers Bully Romance (The Seymore Brothers Book 1)

by Savannah Rose

  Of course, I hadn’t been thinking that they would kidnap me at the time, I just thought they’d give me shit for needing extra practice and for what happened to Rudy’s car.

  Maybe he did know.

  Maybe that was why he texted me when he did, to make sure I hadn’t gotten away from school without being intercepted by his brothers.

  Maybe that was why he was so adamant that I shouldn’t tell Julianne—because he knew that she would suspect him of foul play even before he did anything if she knew that we were seeing one another.

  Stupid, I’ve been so stupid!

  Tears slipped down my face and made an uncomfortably warm puddle right by my ear. I tried to move away from it and bumped my head on the stupid bump of the wheel well, which only made me cry harder.

  After a while, though I hadn’t a clue of just how long, the car slowed to a stop and my heart leapt into my throat. I hadn’t thought this far.

  To my surprising relief, the car started moving again after a minute or two. Just a stoplight, then.

  But what will happen when it isn’t just a stoplight?

  Where are they taking me, and what do they plan on doing to me when we get there?

  The grisly details of Sabrina Fisher’s death rolled through my head.

  Strangled.

  Beaten.

  Skull bashed in—but she’d still been alive when she went into the reservoir and drowned.

  The sheer brutality of her murder had made it national news for a while and had earned her a spot on a cold case documentary. The headlines in my imagination blurred and wavered until Sabrina’s name was replaced with mine.

  I was going to die. I knew it with every fiber of my being. For the first time since I was very small, I started to pray. Desperately, fervently, I prayed for a miracle, all the while knowing I wouldn’t get one. My prayers had never been answered. God—if there even was a God—had abandoned me the day my dad bought that stupid tour bus and left me alone with the nannies.

  I didn’t even care about the puddle anymore. I cried and cried, mourning the life I would never get to have, mourning the loss of the family I always hoped would rebuild itself if I could just figure out how to lay the foundation. I would never get the chance now, and it was all my fault. I’d ignored all of Julianne’s warnings, just like I’d ignored the “no entry” signs under the bridge. I’d stuck with Julianne, knowing her vengefulness, her cruelty, would one day backfire, shoving me into the line of heat. And here I was picking up wrath that should have been directed at her. Not that it mattered, right? If they were killers, they were killers, it didn’t matter who they killed. Just…I didn’t want it to be me.

  “Just give me one last chance,” I sobbed into the rough carpet. “One chance to do the right thing. One chance to be smart, please. I swear I’ll be more careful. I swear I will.”

  I meant that with everything in me. If I got out of this alive, I would do nothing else to draw attention to myself. I’d leave the Seymores completely alone. I’d follow the instructions on caution signs, I wouldn’t walk under any ladders, and I would never drive above the speed limit. I’d wear sunscreen even on cloudy days, I’d never pick up a cigarette, I’d even replace the batteries in the smoke detector before they ran out. I wouldn’t talk to Julianne or Macy or Joan. I wouldn’t be roped into their pranks or their stunts or their sins.

  My list grew longer and longer and I knew I was making promises I couldn’t possibly keep. But the exercise was helping me calm down, making me believe that I had some kind of control over my fate.

  By the time the car finally parked, I had resigned myself to a life of nun-like temperance and servitude…but first, to kick the crap out of whoever put me here and run for my life.

  I heard the driver get out of the car and winced as the door slammed shut.

  Every muscle tensed as I waited—but nothing happened. Not for a while, at least. I heard another car pull up, then a couple of quiet voices.

  I listened hard, breathed even less, but they were so quiet and moving further and further away. And then something else. Another car, the sound of gravel kicking up under its wheels and then nothing. The voices disappeared all-together. Whether they’d stopped talking or just moved far enough away for their words to go unheard, I wasn’t sure. Not that it mattered. Still, I listened, balled my fists together and waited.

  Minutes passed. Five and then possibly ten and finally there were sounds again, movements, too.

  One car door shut. And then another. Not the car I was in. An engine roared to life, again, not from the car that I was in.

  Panic surged and I no longer cared about the oxygen I was using up in this dingy trunk, I screamed and wailed, begged and cursed. I fucking pleaded for them to let me out. The other car drove away and my cries turned into sobs.

  I waited, barely daring to breathe, convinced that someone would open the trunk any second, praying that someone would open the trunk—but no one did. I didn’t catch on right away. I don’t think I really wanted to. Soon, though, it was unavoidable. I had to accept that no one was going to open the trunk. All of my fantasies about getting away were just that—fantasies. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  My kidnappers had left me there to die.

  Chapter Forty

  No matter how frightened a person is, if there’s nothing to do and nothing to look at and nothing to think about except how much nothing there is, eventually their brain will give up and create its own things to do. This generally requires that the owner of the brain be asleep. I didn’t know when my despondent imaginings turned into despondent dreams or how long I stayed asleep, but eventually the need to pee jerked me mercilessly back into my despondent reality.

  The first thing I noticed, after my complaining bladder, was that I was still alive. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that just then. The second thing I noticed was the pale line of light above my head, tracing the outline of the trunk’s door. That explained why I was still breathing—if it had been as airtight as I first thought, I probably wouldn’t have woken up at all. And if I hadn’t, maybe I wouldn’t have had to lie there and consider the consequences of pissing myself when I had no way of moving out of the puddle afterward.

  I started to try to figure out where I was parked, but I gave up almost as soon as I started. There were just too many places around Starline where a parked car could go unnoticed for months or years or longer. I’d encountered a VW skeleton from 1976 during one of my excursions with Kitty May that had a whole tree growing through it. I shuddered at the thought of a tree growing through this trunk, revealing my grisly remains. Put that in your documentary, I thought petulantly at a nonexistent director who, I’m sure, would be quite innocent of such macabre leanings, even if he did exist.

  I watched the light brighten and then change. After a while—an hour, maybe a little longer, I estimated—I realized that I’d had it all wrong.

  I wasn’t going to die of suffocation or thirst or starvation or a ruptured bladder (which was becoming a greater possibility all the time); I was going to die of a heatstroke.

  It was already getting uncomfortably muggy in the trunk. Sure, it was October, but this was Texas. It would be in the high seventies, low eighties before lunch and I would be cooked alive in this metal box.

  I wondered for a moment, though brief, what my parents would think when they showed up to an empty home. How long they’d wait before reporting me missing or if they’d report it at all. Whether they’d reflect on the time they had with me and all the hours and days and weeks they had thrown away.

  Would they regret it?

  Would they think they’d done everything right?

  Would they think I died happy?

  Or maybe that I’d simply ran away?

  Thinking about them hurt and so I threw my thoughts in another direction. Julianne, Macy, Joan – what would they think and how would they feel?

  I could already picture Julianne cursing at my grave, telling me ‘I told you so,’ alr
eady having fueled her hatred for the Seymores even more. Despite all her flaws, I think she’d genuinely be sad. The other girls would be too, but whereas Julianne would be out for vengeance, they’d be crippled with fear. Especially Joan.

  Pools of sweat dripped from my forehead and mixed with the tears streaming down my cheeks. I crossed my fingers and prayed a little that all the urine in my bladder would somehow turn to sweat and soon enough, I wouldn’t have to pee anymore. Not that it mattered, right? Dead is dead and I didn’t really believe I’d be able to watch what happened to my body from the afterlife. And even if, the least of anyone’s concerns if/when they found me, would be whether or not I wreaked of piss. Thinking about it, having wet clothes right now, didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world. Maybe it would help against the heat a little bit.

  Just as I was bracing myself to do the one thing I hadn’t done since I graduated from diapers, I heard a car. My heart found new purpose, throwing itself against my ribcage.

  Curling my stiff arm around, I almost burst from adrenaline as I started beating on the trunk again.

  “Help! Get me out of here!” I shouted.

  Shouting was not comfortable. It used too many abdominal muscles, which were currently busy keeping fluids away from where they ought not to be in anybody over the age of four.

  There were a lot of muffled voices outside, but I could hear the tension in them. They were all male voices this time, which made my heart sink a little. In the part of my mind which continued to hope for rescue, I’d assumed it would be Julianne and her clique who would do the rescuing. She always had an eye on the Seymores. And, knowing her, I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a tracker on my phone.

  None of the voices on the outside belonged to Julianne, though. Maybe even the police, I hoped, though I didn’t think so. There wouldn’t have been anybody to report me missing. Not yet.

  I banged on the trunk and shouted again and again. Soon the voices were close and I could see shadows blocking some of the light that leaked in around the edges of the trunk’s door.

  The tones of a muffled argument filtered down to me. I almost thought I recognized the voices, but I couldn’t be sure.

  After several long, tense minutes, something rattled metallically in the lock by my hip. I wriggled farther back, away from the mechanism, as it started to turn. It didn’t seem to want to go. When it finally released, my heart leapt.

  I rolled over, blinking in the morning sunlight, letting my eyes adjust.

  When they finally did, I froze.

  There, looking down on me, were all four of the Seymore brothers I knew, plus an older guy wearing an apron with the name of the local organic grocery store emblazoned on the front.

  I closed my eyes, trying not the think, barely able to breathe. But, even then, the only face I saw behind the darkness of my lids was Rudy’s.

  I tried to push the image of him out and far away. He couldn’t be the last person I thought about before I died. I wouldn’t allow it.

  I closed my eyes even harder, squeezing them shut past the tears.

  This was it.

  The end of my life.

  PRE-ORDER PART II HERE

  Something Wicked is the second part of Them Seymore boys. Can’t wait to see how Kennedy and Rudy’s story unfolds? Pre-order Part II here!

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  VILE INTENTIONS

  “God I love hockey players, don’t you?” Jeanne gazes at the boisterous jumble of muscle-bound seniors as they shove past us. One of them elbows me, making me drop my binder. He doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge me, just keeps horsing around with his jock buddies.

  “Ugh. You can have them all.” I stand to pick up my things, tucking a strand of long brown hair behind my ear as I do so. Jeanne sighs as the boys thunder around a corner and out of sight, before finally rearranging her priorities and moving to help me.

  “Okay, so they’re a little rambunctious,” she admits as she twists her blonde hair out of her face. “But you at least have to admit that Maverick is dreamy.”

  “Oh yeah, super dreamy,” I grunt sarcastically, rolling my eyes. “The kind of dream that ends in night sweats, a therapy bill, and serious PTSD. Super-duper dreamy.” I slam the binder shut and stand, straightening my skirt.

  “He’s not that bad,” Jeanne says dismissively. “Besides, he’s hot enough to get away with it. And that accent! Ugh, he’s just so classy!”

  I can feel my eyes narrowing as my lips draw tightly into a pout. She’s unbelievable.

  “Super classy,” I huff, folding my arms across my chest and shaking my head to keep myself from shaking her. “Because dumping a trash bag of empty beer cans over somebody’s head is the epitome of class.”

  Jeanne laughs. “Oh come on Beth that was just a little prank! Don’t be so sensitive.”

  I press my lips tightly together. I don’t have many acquaintances at this school, so it’s best to keep the ones I do have, rather than completely alienate them with my sensitivity. If my poverty didn’t push them away, there’s no reason my mouth should.

  Still, I’d been late for work that day because I had to go home and shower. As far as I’m concerned, that means Maverick personally owes me $12. It might not be a lot to him, but it sure as hell is plenty to me.

  My parents and I live on such a tight budget that missing an hour of work pretty much means using the rough hand-pump shampoo in the school locker room for a month.

  I’d managed to get into this elite private high school on an academic scholarship—which would have been great if it hadn’t been public knowledge.

  “Oh! Did you see the picture he took for the yearbook? He has his shirt off in it. You can see his tattoo!” Jeanne is somehow still going on about Maverick, and I reluctantly tune in.

  “It goes all up his ribs, it’s a dragon with a coat of arms and knights and stuff.”

  “Wonder how much that cost.” I frown disparagingly as we turn the corner. When I stop short, Jeanne stops with me. A pack of cheerleading puck bunnies is standing in a line across the hallway, blocking our path.

  “More than your whole family could afford.” Sarah, the head cheerleader, smirks at me as she flips her raven hair over her shoulder. “What’s the matter, bookworm? Jealous that you’ll never get a chance to touch it?”

  “Come on,” Jeanne says nervously as she tugs on my arm. “Let’s just go around.”

  I hesitate. I hate caving in to these bitches, but I can’t exactly afford to get into a fight here. Not with a Juilliard scholarship on the line. So, I bite back bile and turn around to walk with Jeanne, only to come face to face with the boy himself.

  “I heard you were talking shit about me,” he says in his very British accent. “Shame, really. You should choose your enemies with a little more, hm—discretion.”

  “So sorry to offend you,” I manage to grit through my teeth in a tone that is very much not sorry. “Please move, your highness, I’m late for class.”

  “How many uniforms do you own, bookworm?” He takes a menacing step towards me. The hairs on the back of my neck instinctively start going up. He has an ominous, large feline-like stare somewhere behind his dark brown eyes, making me feel every bit like a trapped rodent.

  I hate it. But not as much as I hate him.

  Somewhere in my spine, I can feel the cheerleaders coming up behind me.

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Enough. Excuse me.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. Brandy?”

  “Brandy?” But he isn’t looking at me, he’s looking behind me. I tense up and whirl around just in time to get a face full of tomato soup. It’s cold and smells as if it has been sitting in a thermos long enough to grow its own ecosystem.

  I drop my binder again as I frantically wipe the slime off of my face, gagging as everyone around me laughs themselves into stitches at the poor broke girl covered in their classist shit. My white blouse is plastered to my breasts, exposing my cheap, basic bra.

  “Ew, wha
t is that? Victoria’s secret shame?” The cheerleaders all laugh. I can’t see who said it—not that I care—because I’m still trying to keep the moldy goo out of my eyes.

  “That skirt looks freshly pressed,” Maverick says. “Be a shame if something were to, you know, happen to it,” he smirks.

  I brace myself for another dousing of someone else’s grody lunch, but that doesn’t happen. As I’m still trying to collect myself, the crowd around me begins to snicker with new-found enthusiasm.

  Ignoring them as well as I can, I scoop up my sopping binder, duck my head, and try desperately to walk away with what little pride I have left this morning. They’re blocking my way, preventing me from getting through. Jeanne is long gone by now—the fair-weather acquaintance that she is.

  I manage to worm my way through them and rush toward the entrance. As my desperate scurry intensifies, I can feel the back of my thighs warming up and my eyes starting to water. I won’t let them see me break. They don’t get that pleasure. Not today.

  As if conjured up by the demon behind me himself, another group of girls pops up before me, blocking my way. The giggles rise into guffawing laughter as I try to push past this set of minions.

  “Hey, bookworm,” Maverick calls after me with a stupid grin on his face.

  “You probably wanna stop, drop, and roll.”

  The acrid scent of burning polyester finally fights its way past the stench of moldy soup. I look over my shoulder in panic just as the flames reach my ass. Screaming, I drop the binder for the third time this morning and scrabble at the buttons on my skirt. I get it off in the nick of time and stomp like a drowning chicken to out the flames.

  As I stand there, shirt and hair sopping wet, moth-bitten underwear on full display, the bell rings. The savage monstrosities suddenly morph into perfect little angels and race away to class, blowing kisses at each other as they go.

  “Shit.”