Stolen Crush

by Stunich, C. M.

  A laugh escapes me, one that’s just a little too loud, a little too raucous. I clap a hand over my mouth as Maxx flashes me a white-toothed smile. It’s big and gorgeous and most definitely still not a treat my cringe-worthy ass needs to be nibbling on.

  “OnlyFans?” Parrish echoes, his voice strained and honestly, a bit like a tightrope walker onstage and wobbling. I glance over my shoulder, give him a tight smile and a lift of my brows, and then turn back to the front windshield.

  It seems too dangerous to talk to him now, too dangerous to speak to X.

  I pretend not to be interested in either of them as X chooses a playlist on his phone and The Script begins to play. The Last Time is his song of choice. Interesting. And not quite what I expected.

  By the time we arrive at the party, I’m more than ready to get some space from the two boys.

  “I’ll drive you guys back in about two hours,” X says, giving Parrish a look when he scowls. “I know it’s not much time, but I have to be up crazy early.”

  “Whatever,” Parrish says, putting his freshly-tatted left hand on the shoulder of Maxx’s seat as he leans forward. “Old man,” he hisses with a laugh, and then he’s sliding out the back door, dispersing into the crowd, and leaving me and Maxx alone.

  It is awkward as fuck in there, I’ll tell you that right now.

  My gaze moves past the limned outline of Maxx’s profile and toward the house. It’s a five-story monstrosity made out of glass and cement, much like our house but a little flashier, like the person who owns it really has something to prove.

  “Bourgeois,” I murmur under my breath and Maxx chuckles again, turning off the engine and then leaning back in his seat, his body bathed in shadows and outlined with the golden glow from the patio lights. We’re parked near an open gate that leads into the backyard, the grass littered with luxury cars. Comparatively, Maxx’s Jeep Gladiator looks like a cheap hunk of junk. Still fancy to me though.

  “You have no idea,” he murmurs, leaning forward and crossing his arms on the top of the steering wheel before resting his chin atop them. The song switches over to another track from The Script. I chew on my lower lip which is most definitely not a normal fidget of mine and realize that I’m subconsciously imitating Maxx. God. Damnit. I stop the action immediately and squeeze my hands together in my lap, knowing that I should rightfully bail out this door and never climb in another vehicle with Maxx Wright ever again. “Be careful with them: they start off nice but the deeper you get in Whitehall, the worse things you see.”

  Maxx glances my way, and even though I know it’s impossible in the darkness, it feels like I can see the emerald glimmer of his irises. Okay, that’s it. Get the fuck out of the car. I reach for the door handle, but nothing happens. My fingers betray me, resting atop the handle but refusing to press down on it.

  “They’re all stereotypical rich assholes, aren’t they?” I ask and Maxx chuckles at me, the sound somehow even more effective than it was during the daylight.

  “Maybe not stereotypical,” he muses, like he’s chewing over some old stories, “but rich assholes? Oh yeah. Don’t let them intimidate you.” X sits up and reaches for his own door. His hands, however, do not betray him. I hate you, I think at my hands as Maxx climbs out and glances toward the house, letting out a tired sigh. “Am I gonna be ‘that guy’ tonight?” he muses aloud, looking back toward me with another smile. “Like, an old guy creeping around a high school party?”

  I lift both brows and then finally convince my frozen fingers to move, opening the door and climbing out. Maxx comes around the hood to meet me.

  “Should I take your silence as a yes?” he asks, but if I were to answer truthfully, I’d probably get myself in trouble.

  “Oh yeah, you’re definitely the old creeper,” I say, giving him this … this terrible punch in the shoulder like we’re bros or something? Gross. I sweep past before X gets a good look at my face and knows just how insane I’m acting. I’m sure I’ve got pink cheeks and a crimson chest. That’s where I always blush most, on my boobs.

  I shuffle into the backyard in my Pokémon pants and hoodie, staring at the sea of girls in designer body-con dresses and thousand-dollar heels and know instantly that I’ve made a mistake.

  Oh yeah, that’s right, we’re not in freaking high school; we’re in Hollywood high school. Everyone here is a goddamn model.

  “Great,” I murmur under my breath, dragging a hand over my face.

  “What's the matter, Little Sister?” Chasm purrs, sliding up beside me like the pervy shadow he is. “Realize you missed the rules of the dress code?” He looks me over and then shakes his head, making an exaggerated tsk-tsk sound that has me rolling my eyes in a particularly dramatic fashion. “Nice Pikachu pants, by the way. Are you fucking twelve?”

  “You look like a HotTopic ad from 2002 vomited all over you,” I spit back, probably reconfirming the idea that he has of me being twelve. Nice one, Dakota. Really, spectacular. You could be a professional linguist. Hell, you could be a fancy writer like your bio-mom at this point.

  In all reality, Chasm looks … well, shit. Chasm looks really good. Like really, really, horrifyingly good. Tight black pants, bright white sneakers, and a black and white striped dress shirt that’s only got a single button through the wrong hole, leaving it elegantly skewed. It leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, drawing attention to his flat chest and myriad ink. Fuck, he’s hot, and I have to admit, the small amount of eyeliner he’s wearing is doing things for me that I never thought possible.

  “I thought the eBoy look wasn’t supposed to leave the bedroom?” I query back, like I actually care. I'm just … surprised? Most of the time, when I see Chasm, he’s wearing his school uniform or well, almost nothing at all. Shirtless and barefoot, just like Parrish. Now that I’ve gotten a second glimpse of his style, I actually like him more. Which isn’t a lot at all anyway.

  “Aww, cute,” Chasm says, smiling sharply at me. He gestures in the direction of a large firepit with his beer and then tilts his head the same way. “Want to get plastered and hang out? You can tell me all about how much you hate it here.”

  I shrug my shoulders and tuck my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie, clutching my phone for comfort. I am so far outside my element here. I mean miles. I mean leagues. Light years. Legions.

  “Why the fuck not?” I strut across the grass like I own the place while people stop dancing or talking to turn and look at me. Some of them look actively perplexed, like they can’t figure out if I’m the most mockable human being they’ve ever seen or the most interesting.

  Please give me the latter, I beg you! I call out, looking up into the stars for comfort. I’ve got this. I’ve fucking got this.

  I squat down beside the cooler and extract a bottle of … I look at the label. Jägermeister?

  “You drink hard alcohol?” Chasm asks, pausing beside me and tilting his head to one side. He even manages to lift a single eyebrow in mocking query. Ah there it is, NOW you sound intelligent—in your own head. Congrats on that, by the way. “Excuse me for saying this: but it looks like you couldn’t handle the dregs of a wine cooler.”

  I unscrew the bottle’s top and then lift it to my lips for a swig.

  The taste of black licorice hits the back of my throat, nearly making me gag, and that’s before the acrid burn of the booze really starts to singe my throat. Still, I’m not about to be mocked by a guy with a lightning bolt dyed into his hair. No freaking way.

  I almost choke—but then almost is the key word. I manage to swallow the alcohol, dropping the bottle from my lips and giving Chasm what I hope is a don’t fuck with me sort of look. However it comes across, he throws his head back and laughs at me, the sound cold and cruel.

  He’s sharp, this one. Razor-fucking-sharp. I wouldn’t bother with Chasm at all if he weren’t Parrish’s near-constant companion. Seems to fancy himself the dark knight to Parrish’s indolent prince routine.

  “You look like you wan
t to puke, to be honest,” he drawls, turning his head just slightly to look at me. He doesn’t seem unappreciative of the fact that I just chugged, like, five shots of hard liquor in one gulp though.

  “Where did Parrish run off to?” I ask without even meaning to. Chasm gives me a look.

  “You have a thing for your brother, Little Sister? That's seriously messed up.” He stands up straight, finishes his beer, and then chucks it into the grass. I narrow my eyes in irritation but Chasm either doesn't notice or pretends not to, reaching out to take the Jäger bottle from my hand. “He's probably off banging Lumen in an upstairs suite.” He snaps the last word off the end of his tongue, like he’s mildly annoyed about something and then takes a swig.

  Talk about broody.

  Chasm McKenna is the very definition.

  My stomach churns as I glance away from his stormy expression, this sudden, irritational surge of irritation flowing through me. Upstairs banging Lumen? I think, clenching my jaw. Seriously?

  “You know, blatant misogyny hasn’t been sexy for two generations. Get it together, McKenna.” I steal the bottle back from him and down another two shots worth. Or, at least I think it was two shots worth. I’m actually not super-duper familiar with what, exactly, a shot constitutes. I am not a fun or interesting sixteen-year-old. Frankly, I would accept an AARP card tomorrow.

  “How is that misogynistic?” Chas asks, throwing his arm around some random brunette as she snuggles her bikini-clad body against his side and giggles. My mouth twitches in annoyance, but not at her—at Chas. He had Lumen in his car earlier today, spent all of this morning blabbing about a completely different girl, and now … who even is this? “I'm not a misogynist at all. In fact,” he looks back at me and smiles, “I'm a feminist. I helped organize last year’s International Women’s Day parade.”

  And with that, Chas steals the bottle back from me and takes off just long enough for me to realize that the girl was in a bikini so … pool? I follow the flickering light of the firepit to a row of hedges. Moving forward, I come around the side of them to see that not only am I not dressed right for the dancing-grinding-drinking portion of the party, I've also come sans-swimsuit.

  “Hey!” Danyella calls out, dressed in a white bikini and waving around a bright-blue drink with an umbrella and a straw that most definitely did not just come from a cooler. I glance past her, across the lit surface of the pool, and over to where a bartender is mixing drinks.

  A bartender.

  At a high school party.

  Right.

  Okay.

  I can so do this.

  I turn back to Danyella and smile.

  “Hey.” I give a weak wave and take a step forward, realizing already that my head is beginning to spin. Uh-oh. Not good. Not good at all.

  “I didn't think you were coming,” Danyella replies, offering up her drink. My vision swims a bit as I look at it, but I manage to drag my gaze to her face. Somehow, someway. But I can definitely feel the uh, ‘only ever had alcohol three times in my life’ syndrome coming on. “I mean, I was hoping you would.”

  “I figured it was better to be here than at Tess’ house,” I reply, when it occurs to me that—despite our similar love for creative endeavors—we are not friends at all yet. Just strangers. And already I’m dumping my shit on her. I wouldn’t be surprised if Danyella ran for the hills. Didn’t Maxx just tell me they were all rich assholes?

  “Are you okay?” she asks me, sounding genuinely concerned as she sets her blue drink aside.

  The last thing I want to be tonight is a burden, so I force my mouth into a smile. Oh, there it is. Guess I’m not entirely out of them. Each one just costs me a little bit more than the last.

  “Actually, I’m good,” I say, letting my hands bury themselves in the sleeves of my hoodie as I cross my arms and take a step back. I give a slight bend of my knees, like I’m bowing out or squatting or something. “I’m just gonna look around. This is an …” I laugh. “An interesting house, for sure.”

  Danyella picks her drink back up and shrugs.

  “Well, if you get bored around the rich yuppies in there, come and find me. I’ll be here, suffering. Tremendously.” She shifts her gaze over to the writhing horde of teens in the pool. Was I somehow concerned about not having a bathing suit? Jesus, Chasm was right: I’m still twelve and pool parties are fun. Looking down at the pool water, I wonder how contaminated with lusty, sweaty teenage hormones it must be to change color.

  “Deal.”

  I spin on my heel and start powerwalking for the house.

  I'm going to vomit.

  No doubt about that.

  On my way inside, I run into Parrish. With Lumen. They don’t look like they’ve just had sex though, more like they just … broke up? Or maybe were never together in the first place.

  “Are you okay?” I ask Lumen, because she looks like she’s about to cry. Her mascara has run down her face in two charcoal streaks and her left falsie looks like it’s about to peel off.

  Parrish snaps his attention over to me and our eyes meet.

  He looks temporarily relieved—until Lumen throws herself into my arms, hooking them around my neck and sobbing into my shirt.

  “No, I’m most definitely not!” she sniffles as she burrows into me, and Parrish’s flash of relief turns into an angry scowl.

  “Twenty minutes into the party and you’re stealing my fangirl, too?” he growls in my ear, low enough that likely I’m the only person who can hear him. With her racking sobs, I doubt Lumen can hear a thing besides herself. “I hate you, Dakota Banks.”

  He tears himself away from me as I grit my teeth and prepare myself to shout after him. What I’m going to say, I’m not sure because Lumen starts choking like she’s about to throw up and I end up dragging her into the nearest bathroom. There’s no line. Like, not even a single person waiting. Apparently, this place has enough toilets to satisfy the entire population of Whitehall Prep.

  “I hate him,” Lumen moans, blonde hair hanging in glossy waves over one shoulder. Despite the fact that she just threw up—and also that her left falsie is like, floating in the toilet bowl—she still looks like she could walk onto a photoshoot at any moment.

  “My sentiments exactly,” I murmur under my breath as Lumen forces herself to stand up. When I reach out to grab her shoulder and help her, she gives me a watery smile.

  “It must be hell having to live with him,” she murmurs, moving over to the sink and leaning in close to the mirror. She notices right away that her lashes are missing and rolls her eyes as she peels the remaining one off and then proceeds to wash her mouth out with cool water.

  “At least he has a small dick,” I reply with a smile and a shrug, my hands buried in my front hoodie pocket. Taking care of Lumen has helped a bit with my initial nausea, but I’m not exactly … sober? At my response though, Lumen turns so slowly to look at me that I wonder if I’m in a horror movie and there’s somebody with a knife that’s just revealed themselves behind the shower curtain. Eat your heart out, Norman Bates, and just stab me already.

  “You’ve seen his dick?” is her response. It takes me a good thirty seconds to parcel that one out.

  “Huh?” I ask just as Lumen takes my silence for acquiescence.

  “His majesty claims there isn’t a single girl at Whitehall that’s good enough for him,” she says, seemingly unperturbed by the idea of someone else getting it on with her … boyfriend? I have no idea if Lumen and Parrish are actually a thing, but Chasm seemed to think they were. Danyella, too. Parrish said ‘fangirl’, didn’t he? That’s pretty dismissive and rude actually … “Guess you’re the one he’s been waiting for.”

  “Oh?” I ask, still wondering if I’m misinterpreting the entire conversation.

  “He moved in quick, didn’t he?” Lumen replies with a scoff and a shake of her head, digging around in her purse for a piece of gum and popping it between her lips. “Screw him, but good on you.”

  “Good on me
for … what, exactly?” I ask, but then Lumen is snatching my arm and dragging me out of the bathroom.

  “Lumen and the new girl making out in the bathroom just now!” someone calls out, and I gape as Lumen leans over to press a minty kiss to my cheek.

  “Don’t let anybody tell you that I didn’t steal Parrish’s girl out from under him,” Lumen calls out, and then she’s strutting off like the queen of the school. The attitude of the crowd shifts dramatically, and then everyone is smiling and laughing and offering me drinks.

  “What the hell did you do?” Chasm asks, appearing by my side an hour later. Doubtless he’s been drinking all night, but he doesn’t look it. His gaze is sharp, his mouth a thin razor across the bottom of his handsome face. “You’re a bi-icon now, Little Sister.”

  “Yeah, not sure how that happened,” I start, sitting in an armchair near the huge fireplace, a sea of untouched drinks beside me. I’ve been secretly taking sips from a water bottle buried under my hoodie and eschewing the alcohol, and I feel about a million times better now. “Apparently I’m dating both Lumen and Parrish right now.”

  Chasm takes a seat on the arm of the chair, watching the crowd with a smirk playing about his lips.

  “You should’ve seen his face when the news reached us.” Chas glances my way and lifts both brows in my direction. “He’s going to kill you, you know that? Like, verbally destroy you in front of everyone.”

  “Let’s see him try,” I challenge, just enough of the alcohol in my veins to keep my confidence up. Chasm laughs and shakes his head, leaning back on the chair arm as Parrish slips through the crowd to find me. His rich-boy saunter is pronounced as he makes his way across the room to pause in front of me.

  He adjusts the sleeves of his jacket as I look up at him.

  “You’re the only person in Whitehall who’s seen my dick,” he says, almost like it’s a real fact. “Congratulations. Now the entire school knows that.”

  “Sucks, huh?” I ask, pretending to cringe. “Now that they all know about … the size.” I shift in the seat as the edges of Parrish’s mouth curves down in a violent frown. “Or lack thereof, really.”