How do I know if Parrish is still alive?
The man moves further into the room, wearing that same black stag mask on his face.
Parrish turns to face him, his hands clenched tightly by his sides, those gorgeous eyes of his, the color a delectable mix of golds and brown, narrowed in open defiance.
“What do you want?” he asks, his voice rough but so much stronger than it was before.
The man passes over a phone, and Parrish stiffens up even further, taking a step back from the man. He isn’t wearing his pajama pants anymore, but a clean pair of sweats and nothing else.
“Here,” Mr. Volli says, his voice easily recognizable at this point. “This is for you. Don’t bother trying to make any calls with it; I’ve disabled that option.” Since he’s facing away from us, I can’t see his mouth, but it sure sounds like he’s smiling.
The idea of that just infuriates me, and I feel adrenaline coursing through me with no outlet. I’d love nothing more than to kick the crap out of my sixth period teacher, I won’t lie about that.
Parrish accepts the phone from Mr. Volli’s hand with a respectable level of wariness. He side-eyes the man as he looks down at the screen and then frowns heavily. He ends up sitting down on the edge of the bed before tapping play on whatever video it is that’s waiting for him.
It doesn’t appear that there’s any sound to it, and the picture is pretty dark, but when I feel Chas go completely still beside me, an inkling of cold suspicion trickles through me.
No. No, please.
The screen on my phone splits in half, and the video—the one that Parrish is watching—starts to play beneath the feed of him watching it.
Just that little extra bit of mortification that we all needed.
It’s a video of me and Chasm from last night, making love. The images are dark, sure, but there’s just enough light coming in from outside my window that it isn’t hard to fill in the blanks. I’m particularly obvious, what with the dual-colored hair and all. Even in the dark, you can spot the color difference between the left and right side.
Not only is Parrish watching the whole thing, but so is Maxx. He also goes completely stiff and still beside me, and I wish fervently that our bare arms weren’t pressed so tightly together, and that he wasn’t sitting on my bed. On the very same bed from the video.
“I knew it,” Chasm groans, putting his hands over his face. “I fucking knew this was going to happen!”
He did. And so did I. I just hope I’m not right about anything else. I hope … Parrish doesn’t end up dead at the end of this.
I’m shaking now, my own eyes wide as I stare at the beautiful shirtless boy on the screen, the one that I fell so hard for that I feel as if I’m gripping a dual-edged blade, making myself bleed even as I struggle to hold on for dear life.
Parrish is so tense; I can see a muscle ticking in his jaw. His hands are white-knuckled, and his face … oh god, if ever I needed Tess around to spin this story with pretty words, it’d be now.
Parrish is cataclysmic.
He watches the screen with an oil painting for an expression, a work of woebegone art, heartsore and heartsick, crafted by the hand of an angry god. The paintbrush that swept those features across the canvas is surely cursed, an anathematized monstrosity never meant to see the light of day.
I clamp a hand over my mouth. I might very well throw up watching this.
One of the worst parts of it all is how quiet he is, how still, how his eyes bore into the screen even as the muscles in his neck tighten painfully and he grinds his teeth. The video is so fucking long, too. I mean, Chasm and I were at it for a while …
“I want to die,” Chasm whispers, his fingers pressed so hard against his eyes that he’s making his skin red. “This is so fucked. It’s so fucked. It’s so goddamn fucking fucked.”
Even as he’s doing his best to blind himself to the images on the screen, I can’t bring myself to look away. I’m frozen in place, fixated to Parrish’s expression but fully aware of what, exactly, is going on in the video.
“This is hard to watch,” X chokes out, closing his own eyes and resting his forehead against his hand, his elbow propped against his knee. He does, however, open his eyes almost right away, focusing mostly on Parrish rather than the video of me and Chasm. But that doesn’t mean he can’t see it. That he can’t see us kissing and rubbing on each other, stroking each other, rocking our bodies together, gazing at one another.
I could’ve lived my whole life without ever watching myself have sex.
I could’ve lived a hundred lives without hurting someone I care about the way we’ve hurt Parrish.
In a sudden flurry of motion, Parrish rises to his feet and throws the phone as hard as he can against the wall, the same way he did with the wine bottle the other day. It shatters as Chasm drops his hands to his lap to gape, the expression on his face mirroring his friend’s hurt.
We both know why we did it. We both know we had little choice. That doesn’t seem to matter at all in the moment.
“You forget that I know you’re controlling her,” Parrish grinds out, shaking so badly that I wouldn’t be surprised if he threw a punch Mr. Volli’s way. I really hope he doesn’t. Even if he were to somehow get the upper hand in this fight, where would he go from here? On the infinitesimally small chance that the Slayer isn’t actually my bio dad, I still truly believe there’s at least one more person involved in this. Mr. Fosser was not one of the men chasing me in the woods that night; I would’ve smelt that sickness and perversion on him, I’m sure of it. “And anyway, I don’t care.”
He says that, but it’s a lie. It’s such a dirty, fucking lie. His face is open and raw the way it was that night in the basement of his grandmother’s house. His jaw is clenched, and he looks goddamn heartbroken.
“I’m going to fucking die in here anyway, so what does it matter? I want them to be together,” he hisses as Mr. Volli just stands there, and the split screen on our phone switches back to a full screen view of Parrish. “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.”
He turns around and looks right up at the camera. It’s as if he can see me through the screen, even though I’m aware that he probably can’t.
“You hear me? You have nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing at all. I … I love you guys.”
Parrish looks down, realizing suddenly that he’s standing in the broken glass; his feet are bleeding.
Mr. Volli says nothing else, turning as if to leave the room. Parrish watches him go and then moves over to the wine rack, grabbing a hefty bottle by the neck. He moves up behind the man, lifting the bottle like a club, like he fully intends on bashing the man over the head with it.
But at the last minute, he stops, closing his eyes and swallowing hard, like he’s trying his damnedest to reign in those pesky emotions of his, the ones he feels so hard and so heavily that they consume him the way they do me.
Thankfully, he slowly, agonizingly, brings the bottle down to hang by his side. His eyes blaze, the gold flecks turning to fire as he stares at Mr. Volli’s retreating back.
After a moment, Parrish sits down on the edge of the bed, and the bottle slips from his fingertips. It hits the stone ground but doesn’t break, rolling away and out of view of the camera. His expression is far away and distant, a twisted, sad, broken thing.
He looks up at the camera again, like he’s considering whether or not we can still see him. He must know that we saw some of that, at least. There was no point to showing him the video unless we were aware of him watching it.
Parrish says something in Korean and then makes a peace sign with his fingers. Chasm chokes beside me, and even Maxx frowns hard. Does he understand Korean, too? Oh my god, can you imagine? The ultimate bromance. The thought of all three of them conversing in Chasm’s native language pushes back at some of the dark feelings inside of me.
The call cuts out, and a text message follows swiftly along behind it.
I do not lie, princess.
I have told you that. I am also a generous and loving man. You’ve done well allowing yourself the things you deserve. Kwang-seon, as well. I’ve arranged for luxury food and drink to be brought to the boy’s room thrice daily, just for you, to show my appreciation with your dedication to your schoolwork.
If your end of the year grades are good, I’ll treat you to something nice.
I hope you’re excited for tomorrow.
“Excited for tomorrow?” Maxx says aloud, his voice strained and wary. “Excited about what?”
I’m still in shock, and there’s no energy left in me to answer. I feel emotionally drained. And sick to my stomach. And so in love that I forget for a moment what it was like before, before I was forced to come here, before I met Parrish and Chasm and Maxx.
“He isn’t dead … right?” I ask, thinking about the feed, hoping and wishing and praying that we’re right about this.
“I don’t know,” X offers up while Chasm stares straight ahead like he’s in another world altogether. I glance at him before turning back to X. He looks down at me with a gentle frown on his face, and I can see that he’s keeping himself together for the two of us. “I’d like to think so. It sure seems that way.”
“What did Parrish say at the end?” I ask, looking back at Chas. But he doesn’t seem to have heard me. X reaches out, hooking a strong finger on my chin and turning me to look at him. His eyes are dark with unspoken emotions, but I feel like there’s something else there, too, something that neither of us cares to admit to.
Attraction. Interest. A mutual like for one another.
He can’t have just watched me make love to Chasm and not felt anything at all. What it is, exactly, that he’s feeling, I’m not sure.
“He said …” X pauses a minute and then rubs at his forehead. “Something like ‘only you could steal her out from under me; take care of this one for me’.” He pauses abruptly, looking away.
“Take care of this one for me, asshole,” Chasm corrects, his face falling as he drops his head into his hands and then lets out a violent sounding snarl. He shoves up from the bed, pacing the floor and yanking at clumps of his hair in frustration. “Take care of this one for me … asshole,” he breathes. “Or at least, the Korean equivalent to an insult like that.”
We all pause as a car’s headlights sweep across my window. Chas moves over to check on it, peering out at the yard before moving over to grab the heavy drapes. He drags them closed before turning around to face me and Maxx again.
We’re still sitting pressed together in the corner of the bed, and I find myself hyperaware of his skin touching mine. I hate that he had to see that, that he had to watch Parrish’s reaction to it. In fact, there isn’t much about this moment that I don’t despise.
“I can’t wait,” Chasm says suddenly, taking off for the door and wrenching it open.
Maxx and I exchange a look before scrambling off the bed to follow.
The three of us nearly end in a traffic jam when we come down the stairs to find Tess and Paul dragging their tired bodies through the door.
“Is it him?” I choke out, Chas in front of me, X just behind.
Chasm seems paralyzed, standing on the bottom step of the curving staircase with his fingers clenched around the metal railing. I’m two steps above him, peering over while Maxx does the same. The tension in the air is thick, cloying, stretched so taut that it threatens to snap and sink us all.
Tess looks up at me, a very tired, very drained sort of half-smile on her face.
“That poor boy … it was hard to see much …” She looks away like she might be sick. And for someone who writes true crime, it must take a lot. I can’t even imagine the state the body must’ve been in for her to look like that. I know for a fact that she actually spent an entire week at the body farm—this place in Knoxville, Tennessee where researchers lay corpses around the property and then study their rate of decomposition—as research for one of her books. “But he didn’t have any tattoos.”
A sigh of immense relief escapes me, and I sag against the railing. Chasm is in such shock that he actually ends up sitting down so hard and fast that his teeth actually clack together and he cringes. X reaches out to put a comforting hand on my shoulder, and I pretend like it doesn’t affect me much at all.
“I never thought I’d be so happy to see you boys ruin your skin,” Paul says with a soft, sad smile of his own. Under any other circumstances, I’d find his comment annoying, but tonight, I let it slide. Nobody in this family needs to be sniping at each other right now.
“It isn’t him,” Chasm repeats, yanking on his hair yet again. I need to figure out a way to stop him from doing that before he ends up ripping a hunk out. “Thank fuck.”
“Thank fuck is right,” Tess says, turning back to us. There’s a new fire in her eyes, a fresh surge of hope. I wish I could reciprocate that feeling, but I keep thinking about the Slayer’s words: I hope you’re excited for tomorrow. Whatever happens, it’s going to change everything. That much I know for sure. “I’m sorry that I worried you all like that …” she trails off, reaching up to rub at the side of her face.
If I ever felt anything even remotely close to love for Tess, it happens in that moment. It’s just a tiny, distant spark, but we could have a relationship if we really tried.
I just have to get Parrish back first.
And, you know, hope that she doesn’t kill us when she finds out we slept together.
“We’re never going to stop searching for him,” Tess adds, glancing over at Paul as he twines his fingers through hers. She turns back to look at me, her eyes blazing. “Because no matter how long he’s gone, there’s always hope. Always.”
Tess pulls Paul’s hand to her lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles.
Kimber wanders in from the living room, her attention darting to me and Chasm before she narrows her eyes. She looks back at Tess, completely unaware that she almost got the news that her brother’s body had been found.
“What’s happening?” she asks warily, putting aside her newfound vendetta for a brief instant.
“Nothing,” Tess assures her, forcing a smile. “Blissfully, thankfully, nothing at all.”
She slides her hand from Paul’s and scoots past us up the stairs. After a moment, I follow her, pausing near the staircase as she moves into her office and closes the door behind her. Just a few moments later, I hear the pleasant clacking of her laptop keys.
She’s writing to calm herself down.
“Shall we continue our research?” Chasm asks as he comes up behind me. I turn to look at him, but he’s got these huge, black circles beneath his eyes. What he really needs right now is sleep. X joins us, a similar expression on his own face.
His gaze flicks past Chasm to land on me, a contemplative, thoughtful expression behind his gaze.
“You guys go ahead,” I tell them, padding down the hall to Tess’ office door and knocking softly on it. The clacking keys continue for a while and then fall silent.
“Come in.”
I step into her office, closing the door carefully behind me and putting my back against it.
She’s sitting in her chair facing me, her espresso-colored hair hanging loose and slung over one shoulder. It feels weird being in here since last time I came into this room I found that horrible page and then Parrish and I …
Anyway, I was getting sick of Tess’ presence before all this, and now it feels like we never see each other. I’m not sure how I feel about any of it. It’s as if the Dakota-Mia struggle I was experiencing before has been washed away in a tide of other, more dangerous emotions.
I can’t begin to process anymore of the feelings associated with my kidnapping, not until Parrish is safe and sound. Until I’m not being watched by a serial killer. Until things are as close to normal as they ever were.
Not that living in a house with a famous author, an inked stepbrother, and a world-famous plastic surgeon was ever all that normal to begin with.
I
wring my hands slightly, trying to figure out how to phrase this without sounding like a crazy person. We all almost believed Parrish was dead tonight; the very air feels tender and raw.
The glow from Tess’ laptop limns her in white light, a document open on the screen that I can’t quite read from here. Not that I’d want to read it at all after what happened last time. Also, I really do feel guilty about the typewriter, even though I didn’t have much choice in the matter.
“I’ve been rereading Fleeing Under a Summer Rain to distract myself,” I say, and it’s only about half of a lie. I hate lying. Each time a lie leaves my lips, a little part of me goes with it. The truth, as hard as it can be at times, is a million times more rewarding. I shift slightly, annoyed that my tits and cheeks are on fire with a blush. It feels oddly intimate to tell Tess that I’m reading her book, especially after I swore to myself that I was done with anything she ever writes.
Like, she can be so goddamn horrible. But then, so can I. We’ve been horrible to each other.
Anyway, I’d almost forgotten what a talented writer she is.
“That’s great, honey,” she says softly, looking down at her lap. She fiddles with her nails for a minute—these perfectly smooth acrylics with nude polish—before looking up again. “I’m flattered that you like my books so much. I’ll admit, there’s nothing like knowing someone you love is invested in the stories you create.”
I make myself smile back, even though both of our smiles are sad, almost soggy, tainted with fear for Parrish.
“Do you mind if I ask: is the diner in that book—Gabbi’s—real? Based on anything in particular?”
Tess tilts her head slightly to one side, clacking her nails together as she thinks about her answer. She’s remarkably calm right now; I wonder if she isn’t in shock from the whole ordeal. It can’t be easy to be asked to identify a teenager’s body. That guy might not have been Parrish, but he was somebody’s son. Somebody’s boyfriend, perhaps. Their brother or cousin or best friend or whatever else.
Payback Princess (Lost Daughter of a Serial Killer Book 2) Page 24