“Hello Parrish,” I grind out through clenched teeth. The song switches to … something. I’m not a fan of mainstream rap so I have no idea what’s playing now. What I do know, however, is this: Parrish smells amazing. Like, amazing-amazing. My nostrils flare to take in the scent and I hope it makes me look really ticked off. Because I am. I don’t care if the guy smells like clean linen and dewy clovers and bright citrus. He deserves a kick in the balls.
“You.”
Just that one word.
Our eyes meet and my heartbeat picks up speed, adrenaline surging through me as I do my best not to compare the color of his irises to toasted coconut.
“What the fuck is this?” I ask, turning my phone around so that he can see the offending video. “Is this supposed to be funny?”
Instead of getting defensive or even angry—I guess both of those emotions just cost too much energy for the lackadaisical lord beside me—Parrish smiles. It’s a terrible smile. It’s a smile that you could only paint with oil, that’s how slick it is. He looks pleased with himself, and if I thought I was mad before, it’s nothing to how I feel now.
“You’re stalking me already?” he asks with a confident laugh. Those stupid stomach muscles of his—remember, they’re extremely stupid muscles—clench as he chuckles. Parrish sets his phone down and then licks his lower lip, swiping a thumb across the shiny surface as he takes me in. “Let me reiterate this for you: no.”
“No, what?” I blurt out, shooting to my feet. Violence isn’t really my go-to response in uncomfortable situations—I do my best to be nice most of the time—but I feel positively murderous in that moment. The dark tones of the song Parrish is listening to actually suit my mood. “No, you’re not going to take the video down?”
Parrish surprises me by standing up, too, towering over me like he thinks I care that he’s taller. One swift kick to his junk could easily level out the height difference between us.
“No, I’m not interested in you.” He says the words slowly, as if he’s worried I won’t understand. But oh. Oh. Oh. Screw this guy. I’ve dealt with worse online; most girls have.
A laugh escapes me, something dry and mocking and foreign. Who is this person that’s standing here smirking with my face? Anybody that’s met me for even three seconds knows I despise conflict yet here I am inviting it into my life when I should’ve just blocked this douche and given him the silent treatment.
“Interested in you? Are you insane? We just met ten minutes ago, and you’ve managed to show me that you’re a clout chasing misogynist with bad tattoos and an ugly face.”
Oops.
I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop the verbal diarrhea. Sure, I dislike the guy, but does he really deserve all that? Despite the harsh words I’ve just thrown in his face, Parrish doesn’t stop smiling. There’s a slight tensing of his lips, but it’s so minor that I could’ve easily imagined it. Nah, he doesn’t seem fazed whatsoever.
He reaches up to cup the side of my face.
“Try hard not to fall in love with me,” he drawls, his voice a menacing purr that raises goose bumps on every inch of my skin. Gah! I want to slap this asshole in his too-pretty face. Instead, I smack his hand away and give him a dismissive once-over the way he did me.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. I don’t like guys with mommy complexes.”
This time, I get the sort of reaction that I wanted. A dark shadow passes over Parrish’s face, knocking that sultry smirk of his into a deep-seated frown.
“This,” he hisses, pointing at my phone to indicate the offending video and then snapping his fingers, “is just the beginning. I’ve hated you since I was three years old, Mia.” My breath releases in a rush at hearing my birthname, a moniker that I wasn’t aware of until six weeks ago. If I didn’t even know that I was Mia Patterson, how could Parrish possibly hate me so much? It makes zero sense. “I’m going to bury you.”
We’re so close now that we could kiss. That is, if we both wouldn’t rather murder each other.
“I love a good challenge,” I start, pushing over the milk carton with my foot. Milk floods the coffee table and spills across Parrish’s phone. His eyes narrow to slits as he looks from the phone to my face. He makes absolutely zero move to pick it up or dry it off. There’s basically no chance in hell that his phone isn’t waterproof, but milk is sticky when it dries, and it smells if you don’t get it out of every nook and cranny. Hope he enjoys the exercise in humility. “Too bad I don’t see any challengers. Fuck off, rich boy.”
I shoulder past my new stepbrother and saunter out of that room like I’m not shaking and sputtering and burning. My skin feels like it’s on fire, and the nerve-endings in my fingertips are going batshit. I’ve never hated someone the way I hate Parrish Vanguard, not even close. I’ll even go so far as to say I’ve never actually hated anyone before. Disliked, sure, but hate?
Stepping into my room, I slam the door closed and press my back against it, closing my eyes and struggling to draw in several calming breaths. A few minutes later, I hear footsteps in the hallway. They pause briefly outside before I hear another door slam.
Parrish.
I make a preemptive strike by grabbing my phone and connecting the Bluetooth to the speakers on the sound bar that’s mounted below the bedroom’s TV. Cranking the volume, I start up “STUPID” by Ashnikko. The lyrics—and the video where she kills stupid boys—are pretty relatable to how I feel in that moment.
“Enjoy listening to that, you dick,” I murmur, frowning as I hear another song start up in Parrish’s room, drowning out my own.
With a groan, I flop onto my bed and turn my head into the silver pillows. They have too much glitter and sparkly shit on them to be comfy. I end up throwing all of the decorative ones onto the squeaky-clean floor and digging my old, thin folded pillow out of my backpack. When I press it to my face, it smells like home, and I have to force myself to hold my breath to keep the tears back.
“Give it three months,” Grandma Carmen told me, stroking my hair back and then cupping my face between her hands. “Just three months. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll find a way around this. I promise.”
Give it two months? I met Parrish all of two seconds ago, and I’m already over this place.
I force myself up, grab my pj’s, and pause to open the nightstand drawer next to my bed, intending on putting my phone inside. As I expected, there’s a phone charger built right into the piece of furniture. It’s like that with all the high-end stuff. Not that we had any at home, but my best friend Nevaeh’s family has a penthouse in NYC with charging pads on like, every piece of furniture.
There’s also a small red velvet jewelry box with a note underneath it.
I frown as I set my phone on the charge pad, lifting the handwritten note up. Why didn’t Tess mention this? I wonder as I read the slanted handwriting.
I’ve been searching for you for a long time, my sweet princess.
In this box, you’ll find my heart. Wear it always, or you’ll break it.
I’m not sure either of us would survive that.
I frown, setting the note aside and grabbing the box instead. Inside, I find a small metal heart pin. It’s solid metal, a shiny crimson that catches the light when I tilt it back and forth. Huh. Seems a little melodramatic, but then Tess is a writer. I hear authors are batshit insane on a good day.
Without another thought, I put the pin back and set the box aside, grabbing the note and crumpling it up. I chuck it in the trash just inside the bathroom door, strip down, and try to lose myself in warm water and steam.
The only peace I find that night is inside my dreams.
Tess and her husband, Paul, have agreed to give me a week and a half off of school to adjust to my new life. It feels like a century too little. The next morning—a school-free morning where I should rightfully get to sleep in, thank you very much—I awaken to a gentle knock on the door and the sound of a key in a lock.
Sitting up suddenly,
I blink against the brilliant wash of sunshine and decide that the very first thing I’m going to ask Tess to buy me is a set of curtains. Turning over my shoulder, I watch as the door opens and a white girl in a maid uniform appears.
Uhh.
Very Japanese anime of the Vanguards …
“Excuse me,” she says with a tired smile. “But Mrs. Vanguard likes me to wake up the children on weekdays. If you want, I can come back later though.”
I just stare back at her, trying to hide my horror. They have maids here? But of course they do. God forbid the goddess of crime novels and Seattle’s favorite plastic surgeon clean up their own messes. Well, my grandma taught me better than that. Cleaning up after yourself is a basic human function for fuck’s sake.
“Uh, if I could, I’d like to ask that my room not be included on the cleaning schedule,” I say, fighting back the sleepy heaviness in my lids. Reaching over, I open the nightstand drawer, grab my phone, and see that it’s not quite seven in the morning. Jesus Christ. Back home, I don’t get up until eight, leave for school at eight-thirty. My entire family sleeps in until noon on weekends.
“You’ll have to take that up with Mrs. Vanguard,” the maid says, trying and failing to smile at me. She looks stressed-out, and I realize that by trying to be helpful, I’ve just made her job harder.
“Right, right, sorry,” I say, forcing myself out of bed and pretending like I don’t notice her staring at my pink pj’s with the anime girls all over them. My friends and I like to nerd out a bit back home. Reading, Japanese anime, video games. Whatever.
I get the idea that none of that quirkiness will be appreciated here.
Grabbing my backpack, I slip into the bathroom to change into one of the few outfits I brought from home. Tess offered to buy me all new things when I got here. I agreed, but not for the reasons she might think. I didn’t want any of my stuff shipped from home because I intend on going back there at some point. Whatever this is, this … stayover, it’s just a blip in time. It’s temporary.
With my favorite holey jeans, black Eat the Rich t-shirt, and mismatched Chucks on, I feel better equipped to face whatever’s going to come my way today. After a brief moment of hesitation, I put the metal heart pin on my shirt and hook the tennis bracelet around my wrist. I promised I would make an effort. I owe Tess that much, at least. I feel bad for what she went through, even if I had no part in it.
I take one, last look in the mirror, making sure my part is properly split down the middle. The left half of my hair is dyed lime green while the right side is jet black. Tess cringed a bit when she first asked me about it, insinuating that perhaps dying the nearly ass-length waves such extreme colors was a mistake. God help me today, I think with a bit of an eye twitch, ensuring that no black strands are on the green side and vice versa before I flick the light off and exit the bathroom, intending on finding Tess and cancelling the, uh, complimentary maid service.
“Oh good,” Tess says, appearing in the hallway as soon as I open my bedroom door. I notice Parrish’s door is open, too, the linens from his bed piled on the ground along with some dirty clothes. He’s nowhere to be seen (thankfully), but I do catch a small glimpse of matte black walls and wicked tattoo-inspired art pieces. At least somebody in this family isn’t afraid of color—even if that someone is an outrageous dickhead. I turn back to Tess, her eyes on the tennis bracelet at my wrist. Good choice then, to wear it. “I was about to come and wake you up. I’ve called everyone into school today; we’re going to spend it as a family.”
The way she says that last word, all wistful and dream-like, fills my stomach with dread. This is, like, her lifelong dream fulfilled, having me here with the new family she built in my absence. The sound of it makes me afraid that I’ll be stuck here until I turn eighteen.
“Sounds great,” I say instead, the words like ash on my tongue. I tuck my hands into the pockets of my jeans as Tess looks me over with studious interest, like I’m some foreign entity that needs to be studied. “What’s on the agenda?”
“Breakfast at the club,” she begins, perking up a bit and snapping her eyes from my holey jeans to my face. By club, I assume she means a country club of some sort, and I have to hide my disappointment. I don’t think the tee I’m wearing will go over well with a bunch of stuck-up, snooty assholes. “Shopping for your new room.” Tess reaches out to playfully tug the sleeve of my shirt. “Some new clothes, maybe?” She raises her brows, like this should be a tantalizing offer. Instead, I just feel like my heart is being wrenched from my chest and stepped on. “If we have time, we can stop by the tailor and get you measured for your uniform.”
“My uniform?” I ask, blinking in confusion as Tess heads down the hall toward the staircase, and I follow after her.
“For Whitehall,” she says easily, like I should know what that is. “Your new high school.”
Ah.
Whitehall Preparatory Academy.
The fancy new school I’m supposed to be starting next week. Already, I’m dreading the very idea of it. I’ve spent my entire life at public school. Hell, I truly and utterly believe in the idea of equal education for all. A fancy elitist academy that favors money over nurturing the best and brightest, no thank you. According to Tess, most parents have to apply for that school just after their kid is born. Can you imagine that? Your entire life determined by some stupid application and a fat check submitted by your parents at birth?
Am I being too judgy? Maybe.
The only reason I’m allowed to attend Whitehall at all is because my discovery lit up a media firestorm. Combine that with my mother’s fame and money, her husband’s fame and money, and the fact that two of my newfound siblings already attend the school, and my fate was sealed.
I’m going to be paraded around and put on brochures and held up like some sort of specimen in a jar.
I put a hand over my belly to calm my nerves as we hit the bottom of the staircase and Tess leads the way into the living room I confronted Parrish in last night. As soon as I step through the threshold, I find myself faced with an entire room full of people, sprawled out on couches and playing with their phones. Just outside a pair of French doors, I see my new stepdad on his phone, talking and gesturing like this is an important call.
My gaze is immediately drawn back to my new stepbrother.
Parrish is curled up on one of the sofas, hair messy but clearly styled to look a certain way, dressed in a gray hoodie with black lettering that reads Whitehall Academy—Where the Best Shine Bright. I don’t know the guy from Adam, and honestly, he seems like a total waste of life, but I get the feeling he wears the sweatshirt ironically.
I do enjoy a bit of irony …
No. No. No. I hate this dude. Hate him. He’s a pig.
Those toasted almond eyes of his lift up to look at me, but there’s nothing in them, not a flicker of recognition, sympathy, empathy of any kind. Just … boredom. He yawns, and the fury inside of me amps up, making me burn again. Sooner or later this shit is going to turn me to ash. “Fuckability rating: three. Three and a half in the right outfit.”
“Mia,” Tess starts, and then she grimaces, and I sway slightly, like my feet have just been kicked out from under me. “Sorry, Dakota, I’d like to introduce you to your brothers and sisters.” Tess beams with pride as she holds out a hand to the oldest girl in the bunch, her hair an autumnal shade of blond, like gold on sun-drenched leaves. She lifts dark eyes up to regard me with no small amount of contempt. Honestly, the hatred in her eyes makes me take a physical step backward. “This is Kimber. She’s fourteen and just started at the academy this year.” Tess gives her daughter a look. “Kimber, say hello to your older sister.”
“I don’t have an older sister,” she snaps, and Parrish laughs. The sound does strange things to my insides. Namely, it makes me consider murder as an option to dealing with my social problems. My eyes flick his way. At least Parrish just seems bored and disinterested this morning. Kimber is openly flaunting her distaste for e
veryone to see. Sorry for being kidnapped, little sis, I think as I turn back to her.
“Kimber Celeste,” Tess snaps, the strength in her voice raising the fine hairs on my arms. “You will control your temper and your jealousy, or you will forfeit your phone for the rest of the year. Do you understand me?”
Kimber’s mouth gapes open, nostrils flaring as she flicks her gaze to me.
“Hi.”
Just one word, bitten out like a curse. She glances in Parrish’s direction, and they share a look.
“This is Ben,” Tess continues, gesturing to a boy on the other sofa. He gives me a shy smile and a little wave but makes no move to stand up. I’m starting to think this family is a bit … WASP-y. Emotions are tamped down and hidden beneath fancy rugs in this house. “And these are the twins: Amelia and Henry.” The two youngest kids actually do get up, abandoning their phones on the coffee table. I most definitely didn’t get a phone at age six, but I guess to each their own, right?
“I’m excited to have a new sister,” Amelia says, grinning and moving up to me. “Can I give you a hug?” she asks, and, despite my reservations, a smile manages to bloom on my lips.
“Yeah, of course,” I reply, leaning down to give her a tight squeeze. My grandparents, Maxine, and I always tried to give each other the strongest, most enduring hugs possible. A featherlight one just doesn’t feel as good. Amelia pulls back as Henry clings to the cream-colored leg of Tess’ pantsuit. Both twins have dark hair, just like I do, and tiny freckles on their necks. I see them when Amelia turns around to look at her dad.
He smiles at me as he comes in from the balcony, holding up his phone in explanation.
“Sorry, work stuff,” Paul says, zoning in on me. I met him back in New York, and he seems nice enough, but he’s also an extremely wealthy white guy who has no idea how good he has it. I heard him complaining about a new property tax the other day, about how he shouldn’t have to pay that extra three hundred dollars a year since his kids don’t even go to public school.
Stolen Crush Page 3