Things I Wanted To Say (Lancaster Prep Book 1)

I HAVEN’T CONTACTED Summer Savage in four days. Not since the night when I had her pressed against the fence, a vulnerable, shaking little thing. Staring up at me with those big brown eyes, my hand clamped over her mouth, her body softening for me. I could’ve fucked her there, and she would’ve let me. She probably would’ve begged for more. I neglect her on purpose. Testing her. Testing myself. The all-consuming need that fills me just looking at her is too much, and I must learn how to gain control of my urges.

She brings them all out. Every single dark thing that lives inside me bubbles to the surface when I’m with her. I want to hurt her. I want to soothe her. I want to taste her. I want to be inside of her.

I want to consume her. Make her mine and no one else’s. Primal, unfamiliar urges course through me, heating my blood, making my heart roar.

It’s hard for me to understand. Harder for me to ignore. But I’ve endured worse. I can withstand this…whatever it is we have. I can’t let her see what she does to me.

I must have the upper hand. Always.

Instead of contacting her right away like I want, I do my best to ignore her in the two classes we share, my gaze skimming right past her as if she’s not even there. I can feel her angry glare every time I enter the room. Can sense her presence immediately. Smell her scent. I’m like an animal, desperate to mate with the only female who sets me on fire, yet I refuse to touch her.

It’s a test in control. I will myself to remain indifferent when it comes to her. I’m proving something. To myself.

And to her.

I immediately called off the sheep, telling them the ostracization of Summer Savage is over. They’re disappointed, but they do what I say. She’s not necessarily accepted around campus, but she’s no longer shunned anymore either. I halfway expected a thank you from her, for allowing her room to breathe once more, but of course, she says nothing to me. She ignores me right back.

It’s maddening. She’s maddening.

Elliot, on the other hand? He tried his damnedest to talk to me that Saturday afternoon, eager to explain why he did what he did, stumbling over his words, a babbling idiot full of excuses and apologies, his face bearing as much damage as mine.

There was no explanation necessary. I understood why he ambushed me. I embarrassed him, and in a way, supported the girl who humiliated his ass by kicking him in the nuts. I showed my supposed allegiance, and it pissed him off. I guess I can’t blame him.

But the stupid asshole took it too far. His attack on Summer and subsequent attack on me ruined him in my eyes for good. I made a few calls, and next thing I knew, Headmaster Matthews was having a special meeting with Elliot first thing Sunday morning. By that evening, he was seen packing up his belongings, his parents arriving around dinnertime in their older model Range Rover to pick him up and take him home.

By Monday, he was gone for good.

That’s how easy it is for me to rid this campus of someone I don’t like. Removing Elliot was a message—to little Miss Savage more than anyone else. My father got her on this campus, but it would take nothing at all for me to have her removed.

In fact, it would be too damned easy.

I’m in American Government at this very moment, my gaze going to her as it always does. The back of her head, the sleek dark hair pulled into that ponytail, her entire demeanor contained. Her shoulders are hunched, as if she’s trying to disappear inside herself.

I see you, I want to say. You can’t hide from me.

I try to pay attention to the lecture, but my thoughts linger on her, as always. She mystifies me. I don’t understand her. I don’t understand myself when I’m with her. Seeing her at the restaurant Saturday night enraged me. Caitlyn and Jane made me an offer, one I thought I couldn’t refuse. I thought it would be the perfect thing to banish all memories of a naked Summer coming on my face once and for all.

Two girls instead of one. Two sets of tits. Two wet pussies. Two mouths on my cock. How could I refuse? I took them to dinner, bringing Spence and Chad with me. Rubbing it in their faces that I was about to have a threesome.

My debauched plans were ruined at first glimpse of Savage, her hair in braids, laughing and talking with my sister, oblivious to my presence. Downright joyous, despite how everyone at Lancaster treats her. It was as if it didn’t matter—as if I didn’t matter.

And that infuriated me.

Caitlyn and Jane were sorely disappointed. I have no idea if they propositioned Chad and Spence. I didn’t care. I abandoned them at the restaurant, chasing after Savage like a madman. Creating another delicious memory between us. Me terrorizing her. Her becoming aroused by it.

She’s a mystery. One I know I could eventually figure out. She can’t hide from me. I will eventually lay her bare and open. Until every little secret she hides comes pouring out. I have power over her, and she knows it.

Does she realize she has power over me?

I understand my sister’s fascination with her. Sylvie likes strays. She always takes them in. They make her feel better, as if she’s not so sickly. My sister’s health is a constant concern of my mother’s, yet she never seems to get better. She’s actually getting worse. And Sylvie’s fascination with death is morbid. Seeing her with Summer, which is happening more and more, gives me a little bit of hope. I swear, Sylvie’s gaining weight. She smiles more. I can only assume it’s because she has a friend.

But I don’t like it. I don’t want them getting too close. It’ll hurt my sister that much more if I have to break them apart, and that’s the last thing I want to do. My family is the most important thing to me. I’d kill someone to protect my entire family, especially my sisters. I’m their older brother, and it’s my responsibility to watch over them.

I just hope Summer doesn’t try and get information about me from Sylvie, not that Sylvie would say anything.

She knows better.

Four days is a long time to go without touching someone, but I could go longer. Human beings and their need for comfort, for touch, for consolation, for sex, for love, for feelings—I don’t get it. Needing someone is a sign of weakness. Protecting someone—such as my mother, my father, my sisters, that’s different. I love them, but don’t need them. My closest friends? I care about them too. I need them like soldiers and I’m their general. We’re an army and their singular goal is to protect me.

And my job is to protect them.

Yet there is something about Summer that makes me want…more. From that first moment with her at my parents’ apartment in Manhattan, I felt changed. Charged. A little girl sitting in a woman’s dress, sneaking drinks from discarded champagne glasses like a thief. As I drew closer, I realized she was around my age, and her tits were spectacular. She was all limbs and bare skin and big breasts. Doe eyes and dark hair and flickering interest. She oozed sex to me, and I can’t even explain why. We were young.

Kids.

All I could think about was consuming her that night. How could I inhale her, keep her, mark her so that no one else would touch her? I didn’t know then, and I don’t exactly know now.

I still feel that way, all these years later.

I’m back in my suite after school, my gaze going to the journal, where it lies on top of my desk like a bomb I’m afraid to detonate. Do I dare open it and consume her secrets? Oh I taunted her that night, saying I would continue reading it, but I hadn’t cracked it open beyond my initial discovery of it in the first place. Looking at the nondescript journal sitting on my desk every evening, seeing it first thing every morning, I told myself I didn’t care. Who is she? Nothing. What does she mean to me?

Also nothing.

All lies I tell myself.

I stop at my desk, the journal taunting me, the title scratched across the front like a dare.

Things I wanted to say…

The need to read it grows, rising inside of me. Growling, I snatch it up and crack it open, finding a subtitle on the inside of the cover.

…but never did.

Settling on my bed, I start to read. Bits and pieces at first, flipping through the pages impatiently, eager to find something salacious. In the front of the journal, the words are written in girlish cursive, with rounded letters and tiny hearts instead of dotted i’s. Doodles in the margins, quotes and favorite lyrics. Lists of the boys she liked. Traits she wanted her future boyfriends to have.

None of those traits really apply to me. She wanted them all to be nice and caring and smart, with a great smile and soft hair. She wanted them tall, with a good body and kind manners and a sense of humor. A boy who knew how to kiss, who gave great hugs, who had a caring family.

Hmm. Guess I nabbed a few of the physical traits, and failed all the rest.

I count back through the early passages, aligning the dates of her entries to our ages, and realize she started this journal midway through eighth grade. She talks of bad grades and the future and friends and dances. She writes about traveling in Europe for the summer and where she’ll go to high school and how badly she wants to attend Lancaster Prep, but she couldn’t get in.

Interesting.

She makes no mention of her mother or Jonas beyond them going somewhere as a family. She talks of her stepbrother, a boy I knew, but didn’t particularly like. A boy who’s now gone.

Dead. As is his father.

In the late spring of our eighth-grade year, she complains incessantly of Yates. How he won’t leave her alone. How he sneaks looks at her in the bathroom, always busting in when she’s showering. How she didn’t yell at him to go away one time. Instead, she said nothing, and he stayed in there. Watched her through the rippled glass of the shower door, trying to make out her naked body, she assumed.

The moment I shut the water off, he left, slamming the door behind him. I was so relieved. What a perv! Not like he could see anything through the glass, but maybe me letting him look for once will satisfy him. At least for a little while. Y definitely needs a girlfriend, so he’ll leave me alone.

Interesting. Why does it not surprise me that Yates Weatherstone lusted after his stepsister? It figures. He was always odd. Overly eager to prove his worth, his strength, his wealth. Loud and brash, a braggart when he’d done nothing to brag about. His father was in real estate and had amassed a small fortune. He was a smart man, a quiet man and my father respected him, which shouldn’t be taken lightly. He used Jonas Weatherstone in a few business dealings to acquire some properties in the city, and when my parents had parties and business get-togethers, the Weatherstones were almost always included on the guest list. I remember Yates’ mother—a strange woman who would gawk every time she entered our home. As if she’d never seen such a thing.

I supposed she hadn’t.

I have to force myself to stop reading it, and I leave campus, needing the escape. I drive aimlessly, and end up downtown, though I always knew this was my destination. Last year I did this—too much. In search of a townie. Someone to lose myself in. It’s getting darker earlier and earlier, and the streetlights are already on. Most of the stores are already closed. Only a few restaurants and bars remain open. I slow down when I spot a group of girls standing by a seafood place, their heads swiveling toward my car as I approach, all of their faces familiar. One of them in particular stands out.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. Pouty, dick sucking lips. She always reminded me of someone, but it never dawned on me until this very moment.

She reminds me of Summer.

I pull over directly beside them. Roll down the passenger side window. My gaze locks with hers and I tilt my head, indicating I want her to come over.

They know the drill. As I’ve mentioned, I’ve done this before. I realize quickly that I’ve done this before with her. She’s pretty.

But she’s not who I really want.

“You again,” she says, her voice full of boredom as she leans into the open window. She’s smiling, her makeup garish. Her gaze sly. Knowing. “You want another blowie?”

It all comes back. The last blow job she gave me. How I pulled out of her mouth and came on her face. She became angry. I didn’t give a shit.

We watch each other coolly, and I try my damnedest to realign her features, but it doesn’t work. She’s not a puzzle.

She’s not Summer.

“More,” I tell her.

“Like what?” She lifts her brows.

I want to degrade her completely. “Your ass.”

She makes a face, pulling away from the window. “Ew. No.”

Such a prude.

“Get the fuck out of here then,” I tell her fiercely, and she rolls her eyes, pushing away from the car.

“Fuckhead!” she yells as I pull away from the curb.

I return to campus, hungry. Annoyed. Hard. I take a shower and jerk off to thoughts of Savage. With the lush mouth and soft tongue. With the vacuum quality suction and delicious pussy. I still don’t know what it feels like to be inside her.

And I want to know. I’m dying to know. I want to violate her in every way possible. The beauty of it?

She’ll let me. And she’ll enjoy every goddamn minute of it too. She’s not a prude. She’s sick.

Like me.

Once I’m finished with my shower, I slip into bed and pick up the journal, reading until I can’t take it anymore. It’s difficult, being in her head. Reading her joys. Her complaints. Her dreams. Her hopes, and how slowly but surely, it erodes. Until she has no hopes or dreams left. She’s just trying to survive.

I dream about her. Now I’m the one who’s watching her in the bathroom instead of her stepbrother, the glass wall clear, her beautiful body on complete display, only for me. Her dark eyes never leave mine as she runs her hands over her slick body, suds forming, dripping down her arms. Her legs. She reaches between her thighs and touches herself, her lips curled in a barely-there smile. Coy. Teasing.

I go to her. She gets farther away. The bathroom stretches on and on. I reach out but touch nothing. It turns into a long hall that’s never-ending and I run to her, calling her name, and when she turns around, it’s not Summer any longer.

It’s the townie. She smiles, her eyes turning red.

I wake up in a cold sweat, wondering what the fuck that was about. I’m jittery. Wide awake. I grab the journal from where I left it on my bedside table and open it, finding the spot where I left off.

It’s closer to the end of the school year, and her entries are less frequent. She’s busy with various activities, and I remember doing much of the same. There’s one journal entry that’s concerning as I read it. Again and again.

He won’t leave me alone, no matter what I say to him. I can’t take a shower without being scared he’s going to watch. I lock the door but he still slips inside. I can hear him breathe. It grows louder and louder, and I know what he’s doing. Mia says he’s jerking off. Touching himself when he watches me, which is so gross.

He’s my brother. Stepbrother, but still! I’ve known him for years. We’ve lived in the same house for a long time. I don’t think of him like that. He’s kind of gross, and weird, but I think all boys are that way. He’s worse than other boys though, because he’s too quiet, always watching me, no matter where I am. Touching me in the most obvious way.

Y leaves the bathroom every time I turn the water off, and sometimes I wonder if I’m hallucinating. Imagining it. I want to tell Mother, but she probably won’t believe me. Or she’ll accuse me of making a big deal out of nothing, which is what she always says.

Maybe I shouldn’t shower at all. Then he’d find me disgusting, and eventually stop coming near me.

Alarm flashes through me each time I read the last passage. This goes beyond a stepbrother wanting his stepsister and having a little lusty fun. There were three years between them. He knew better. She was practically a child when he started doing this.

I keep reading, despite how late it is, and how soon I have to get up for class.

Maybe I’ll skip.

There’s a familiar entry about a warm June evening. A night I lived through too.

I met a boy. He was so hot. And so cold too. Mean. He called me a whore. Who does that? And he was dead serious too. Said I was like my mother and claimed that she was having an affair with his father. I don’t want to believe it. I love Jonas like he’s my real father, and if she were to break up their marriage over a stupid affair…

I would miss Jonas so much, and our life. He gives us a good life. But maybe that would be a good thing if he found out. It could get me away from Yates. But I don’t want to talk about him or my problems.

I want to talk about the boy.

He was tall. Beautiful ice blue eyes. I felt his dick when he kissed me. It was hard, pressed against my stomach, and I touched it. I touched it! Not for real, just over his clothes. His tongue was soft, and I liked how it felt in my mouth. He was my first real kiss, and he made my stomach dip. Made my entire body feel fuzzy when he rubbed his tongue against mine. It was like my body didn’t belong to me, but to someone else. Him?

I belong to myself, I know this, but it felt so good to be pressed against a boy like that and let him kiss and kiss me. My head was already spinning thanks to all the champagne I drank, so maybe it wasn’t the kiss at all, but the alcohol. I don’t know. I just liked it. It was a fun party.

A deep breath escapes me and I slap the journal shut, tossing it onto the bed next to me. That’s all I manage to rate. A few paragraphs, mostly about us kissing and how she felt my dick. That encounter with her that night feels like it altered my entire life. I was young and angry then, and eager to blame someone else for my father’s infidelities. To blame him would be to acknowledge that he’s not perfect, and I didn’t want to do that. Not yet.

I blamed her mother—and her. That’s why I called her a whore. I wanted to see what she would do. How she would react. I wanted to make her hurt, because I was in pain and no one saw it. No one ever sees it.

Instead, her eyes flared and her breathing accelerated. I held her against the wall and she gave in to me so easily. Kissed me. Clung to me. Taught me how to kiss, when I had no clue what I was doing.

That one night changed everything. I wanted to find someone just like her, yet I never could. As I got older, I became angrier. Saw things I shouldn’t. Did things I shouldn’t either. No one stopped me, so I kept going.

I’m still going. No one stops me now. Definitely not Summer.

I think of what I want to do with her and it makes me smile. Seems like she has bad memories when it comes to sex. Maybe I could do her a favor. Help wipe away any old memories she shares with that asshole stepbrother of hers, and replace them with me. And her.

Us.