Hide and Keep (Lit U #1)

Prologue

I read the email again, my head swimming, my body temperature skyrocketing more than it already was.

He said I had four years. Four measly fucking years to get the full college experience. Or as close to one as I’m allowed.

Does he know I left?

Even if he figured it out, he doesn’t know where I am…right?

Every year, the Saturday after Halloween, our local corn maze gives college students the place to themselves for a night to run amok. Originally, it was meant to be an opportunity to decompress with peers, but under the anonymity costumes provide, it quickly became a hunting game of sorts, and now it’s legend among the entire Northeast, not just the state of Connecticut. For everyone outside the maze, life continues as usual, but for everyone inside…time comes to a standstill. For one night only, all bets are off. Responsibilities cease to exist. Relationships are put on pause.

You can do anything you want, be anyone you want, and most importantly, be with anyone you want.

That’s the whole point of Hide and Keep now—you run, you hide, but once you’re found, that person gets to keep you until the first light of dawn appears, then everything goes back to the way it was before you stepped into the maze.

Every high schooler dreams of finally getting to attend Hide and Keep, myself included, but me being…well, me, I wasn’t sure I’d get the chance.

After high school graduation, when my father informed me of my new future, I decided I would. I should . I’ve been planning for this event ever since, going to great lengths just to experience a night of total anonymity while I still can.

I change my phone to selfie mode, trying to see myself through the dark of the backseat. Thanks to a lacy black mask covering half my face, heavy makeup, orange contacts, and my hair hidden under a long amber wig with artificial monarch butterflies clipped to the wavy strands every few inches, I don’t look anything like I normally do.

I don’t feel anything like I normally do either. Or at least I didn’t until this email appeared on my screen, reminding me not only who I am but who I have to be.

Not even a full three months into my freshman year and my father’s already changing the terms. I thought four years was nothing compared to the lifetime he’s demanding from me. Now he’s cutting it down to only one. Less than one really.

“If it’s all right with you, I’m gonna wait in this line so I can drop you off near the front?” the rideshare driver says from the front. “Even though I’m technically supposed to, I won’t charge you. I just don’t feel comfortable leaving you on the side of the road out here.”

I can’t help the incredulous huff that leaves me before I thank him. This man sounds more like a father than my own.

Money determines my father’s every move, even the emotions behind them. Everything in his world is so incredibly fucking dire, while everything in mine is trivial, including my happiness.

Including me.

The thought makes my stomach churn.

The only thing Arthur Munreaux cares about is money. His entire personality is based on the balance of his bank accounts.

Which I have access to and could do anything I wanted with…as long as my father approves.

I study the driver’s profile. He sounds like a father…

“Ugh. My father’s gonna kill me,” I complain under my breath.

Feeling his stare, I frown at my phone, my eyebrows scrunched together painfully.

“For coming here? You’re old enough, aren’t ya?”

I meet his weathered eyes through the rearview mirror.

I used to hold that same belief, that once I was eighteen, that was it—the end of my father’s reign over me—but that was back when I was too na?ve to understand age is the only number on this planet my father doesn’t give a shit about.

“No, that’s not it. I was supposed to do something for him before I went out tonight and I completely forgot,” I lie.

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah.”

After a moment of sitting in the long line of cars waiting to turn into the parking lot, the driver asks, “What was it?”

“I was supposed to go into the bank and transfer some money for him.”

“If you have the app, you could probably do it right now.”

“I don’t.”

“You could download it.”

I bob my head slowly, noncommittally. “Or I could try calling?”

Inching forward to a cacophony of thumping sound systems, the driver’s shoulders do a little shimmy, and he mumbles something about it being after hours, probably unaware that people like my father don’t have any real limitations.

And for tonight, neither do I.

When my father’s financial advisor answers, he does it already knowing who I am even though I’ve never called him directly before.

“Good evening, Miss Munreaux. How may I assist you?” His smooth, professional tone doesn’t hold a trace of irritation at being inconvenienced at nine p.m. on a Saturday.

I think about how I’d word the request if my father were right next to me.

“Some funds need moved around.”

“Absolutely. I’d be happy to assist you with that. Which account are you wanting to withdraw from? And how much?”

“Three hundred thousand taken out of the money market account.”

The line goes silent, meanwhile the driver begins choking. Or at least that’s what it sounds like.

“I’ll need to call your father to get approval for that amount,” the advisor says finally.

“Oh, no need. He’s right here.”

As soon as the driver whips his head over his shoulder to gape at me, I mute the call and start begging.

“How do I know your dad would approve of you taking three hundred grand from him? You’re just a kid!”

I try not to bristle at his words. I am not a kid. I’ll be nineteen in a couple of weeks.

“It’s not that much,” I say, because to me, it’s not. To most people, I’m sure it’s inconceivable to even have three hundred thousand dollars readily available.

“Not that much? That’s more than my house is worth!”

“I’m not taking any money out. I’m just moving it around, I promise. My father, Arthur Munreaux…” I let that marinate for a moment. Everyone in this state knows that name. They teach it in state history classes in high school. “He told me himself to do this. Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency.”

He eyes me skeptically. “What kind of emergency?”

What would he consider an emergency? He thinks I’m just a kid.

Kids need school.

“My college career,” I blurt. “This money is for my tuition. If it’s not in the right account when the check my father wrote the university goes through, I could be dropped.”

When the silence stretches so long I know he’s going to decline, I pop out my bottom lip.

“Dang it. I can’t believe I’m doing this. What do I say?” He keeps one hand on the steering wheel and extends the other out to me, but I keep the phone in my hold.

“Just that you approve.”

I tap mute again, then the speaker button.

“Here he is.”

“Mr. Munreaux, how are you this evening?”

“Uh, good. You?”

I cringe. My father would never ask anybody that.

A tight chuckle drifts through the speaker. “I’m doing all right. Mr. Munreaux, I apologize for the inconvenience, but I must ask, what’s the password?”

I mouth “Milan” to the driver and he repeats it out loud.

“Fantastic. Speaking of Milan, aren’t you getting ready to head there soon?”

My head almost nods off my neck. Milan is where they hold the largest motorcycle exhibition every November. Of course the founder of Munreaux Motorcycles will be there.

“Uh-huh.”

“Got any fun surprises up your sleeve this year?”

I mime twisting a key between my lips.

Following my lead, the driver says, “I guess you’ll have to tune in to find out.”

Another chuckle, this one easier.

“Fair enough. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, can I get your approval for transferring three hundred thousand dollars out of your money market account?”

“I approve.”

I take the phone off speaker to ask, “Is that all you need from him? He’s running out the door.”

“Yes. Thank you for your patience.”

Turning my face away from the phone, I yell, “Bye, Father!” adding to the confusion of the driver.

“What account would you like the money transferred to?”

“High-yield checking.”

“You got it.” There’s some typing. “Okay, three hundred thousand has been—”

“Oh crap! Actually, it was supposed to go into the high-yield savings account.”

“Not a problem, Miss Munreaux. Bear with me just a moment.” More typing. “Three hundred thousand dollars from the high-yield checking into high-yield savings. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Umm… Maybe? I’m kind of confused now. I can’t remember if he did want it in high-yield savings or if I’m just getting confused by the names.”

“Checking. That’s where checks come out of,” the driver whispers, reminding me what I said this money was for.

“Would you like to call and ask him, then call me back?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just buzz him on the intercom. He’s probably still in the garage, deciding which car to take.” After putting the advisor on “hold” for thirty seconds, I get back on and say with faux embarrassment, “Okay, so…apparently, I did confuse myself. I had it right the first time. It’s supposed to go in high-yield checking.”

After a brief pause, he says, “All right, that’s all finished. Three hundred thousand dollars have been deposited into the high-yield checking account. Now, because of your father’s preferences for getting alerted anytime there’s a withdrawal from an account, he will be receiving three separate texts. Please let him know not to be alarmed, they’re just in reference to the transfers done tonight between different accounts.”

I let myself smile as I say, “I will,” before hanging up. I may have only shuffled three hundred thousand dollars around, but my father will think I withdrew nine hundred thousand and that will ruin his night. Just like he ruined mine.

The rest of the wait is so full of questions about my father and our garage, specifically how many motorcycles it must contain, that by the time we reach the front of the line, I’m dying for fresh air. It’s always the same once people realize who I am. All they want to talk about is my father and his company. It’s never about me. I’m only a bridge to Arthur Munreaux, not my own destination.

After adding a three-hundred-dollar tip to the electronic payment, I thank the driver again and get out.

Taking in the fifteen-foot-tall twin scarecrows with scary jack-o’-lantern heads and bodies wrapped in flickering orange lights, giving the illusion of being ablaze, I allow myself the first full inhale since I snuck out earlier.

Thick woodsmoke clings to the air, hinting at the bonfires I’m looking forward to seeing in person. Leaves flutter off shivering tree branches, relocating their coverage to the ground where piles are already gathering.

Slowly, I walk through one, smiling at the way the leaves crunch beneath my soles. A gust of wind suddenly picks up, swirling them around me like I’m inside an autumn snow globe.

My smile grows as my eyelids fall closed, committing it all to memory.

Somebody lets out a scream, making my eyes fly open. When no one appears next to me or calls my name, I find my way into another long line, this one for admission.

What feels like an hour later, I’m getting my hand stamped, then with the twin scarecrows towering above me, their features welcoming in the most sinister of ways, I enter the maze. Immediately, a weight slips off my shoulders, my hands lifting on their own, high into the night sky dotted with twinkling stars.

I made it. I’m here.

Bringing them down to shoulder height, the orange and black silk attached to my wrists spread my wings out wide. Before I know it, I’m breaking into a frolic. I drift through the maze, weaving around people who have no idea who I am. For once, nobody’s scrutinizing my every move. I’m just…free. Free as a butterfly.

I don’t know how long I float, but it’s not long enough before the foghorn is blowing and everybody scatters from the well-groomed path into the cornstalks, hiding, laughing, squealing in excitement.

The hunt begins…

Careful to keep my steps light over the vegetation, I make my way through the tall stalks, my skin tingling, my heart thundering.

Rustling to my left has me freezing in place. Whoever finds me can’t know it’s me. My hair and eye color may be different, half of my face concealed, but there are other identifiers about me, like my voice. I didn’t think about that. I didn’t think about the kept part at all, only the hiding.

Really, that’s the only part that appealed to me. If I could be this—a butterfly—forever, I would.

I can tell it’s a person making the noise beside me, not a critter, because they’re…panting? Sounds like it’s two people.

Someone else’s moan creeps up my own neck and into my ear, flooding my cheeks with warmth.

Definitely two people. And they’re already going at it.

Peering through the foliage, I catch sight of them. A man dressed in Ghostface is hammering into a pirate, her fishnet-covered thigh pulled up to his ribs as he pumps into her mercilessly. The scene causes a fire to ignite in my core, my pussy clenching. Both of them are in full costume, Ghostface’s mask still in place. They probably didn’t even speak to each other before getting right down to fulfilling that basic need everyone’s here to satisfy.

I watch them for another minute, my mind wandering, imagining, before I move on, quietly leaving the couple in search of a new hiding spot.

It’s not long before somebody charges right past me. While I’m still in the stalks, he’s out in the open. Cloaked head to toe in black clothing, he’s in some sort of tactical gear, like a soldier or military police. Instead of diving into the cornstalks, he positions himself where the path leads into a corner and waits, his head on a swivel as it rotates back and forth, glancing both directions. A hood is pulled over his head and he has a fabric mask covering the bottom two-thirds of his face. I can’t make out any of his features, yet I can’t stop looking at him. His approach is…interesting. Confident. He’s not actively hunting anybody. Like a spider sitting atop its web, he’s set a trap and now he’s waiting for someone to come to him.

My eyes fall down his body to his heavy-duty boots, then back up, coming to a stop on his hands. In fingerless gloves, they’re twitching at his sides like they’re trigger-happy even though he clearly has no weapons, at least none that are visible.

His head begins another rotation, so I quickly crouch down.

What if he finds me this early?

Do I even want him to be the one to find me?

I…don’t know. Maybe? It’d help if I could make out anything about him.

But that’s the point of tonight. The allure of the unknown. And the freedom to explore it without judgement.

A newly formed couple—a meticulously detailed Medusa and a creepy clown in haphazard makeup—passes by him and he gives them a nod, his stance still alert as he continues his watch.

As soon as he’s focused elsewhere, I sink backward to put some distance between us, hopefully muffling my movements as I approach him from the side. Something about him has me intrigued enough to stay a little longer. He isn’t behaving like the men I know, the ones I’ve grown up around.

I think it’s the way he holds himself. He’s confident but not arrogant. He’s choosy, not desperate like the guys currently stomping through cornstalks, grabbing at anyone they can reach.

Who, exactly, is hidden beneath all those layers?

Not that I can actually find out, but I can wonder. I can study from afar.

“Are you going to say something or just watch me all night?”

I scan the area, searching for who he’s talking to, but find no one.

Me? Does he mean me?

My chest locking up, I work to control my breathing but it’s coming out of me in fitful spurts.

After a tense moment, he turns his head, giving me his profile, and says, “Your breath gave you away.” Pulling down his mask, his lips form an O to blow out a cloud of steam.

I knew it’d be cold out here, but a coat doesn’t go with this costume. Teeming with adrenaline, curiosity, and anticipation since I left my house, the temperature hasn’t registered once. And I’m in a minidress and thigh-high boots.

No, what has my entire body feeling absolutely electric with goose bumps are his full lips. They look downright pillowy, more so from being pursed.

I remain quiet, still unconvinced he’s talking to me.

Replacing his mask, he finally looks at my exact spot, his eyes piercing mine through the darkness.

I’ve been caught.

Without breaking eye contact, his expression turns expectant, but I hesitate, unsure what to do. Do I run and take my chances being caught by somebody else? Do I wait until he seizes me?

Does he want to?

A loud crash behind me solidifies my decision as I rush forward, spilling out from the stalks and into muscular yet gentle arms.

“Do you want to be kept?” he asks, his gaze penetrating.

I shake my head without hesitation.

With a nod, he guides me behind him as he faces the oncoming noise.

He’s really tall, at least a foot taller than I am, so he easily blocks my entire body with his.

I hear him mumble a few words to whoever just pushed through after me. As soon as that person leaves, another takes his place, then another, an entire line of guys filing out from my previous hiding spot. I would’ve been found—and kept—a half dozen times by now.

I focus on my savior’s shoulder blades at my eye level. Beneath the tight black fabric, they move and flex as he gestures the group away from us.

One of his gloved hands reaches back to me, grabbing my hemline to pull me closer, out of view. My body obeys with hardly any coaxing at all, my forehead fitting between those shoulder blades. I rest my face there, releasing a full, contented exhale.

His hand doesn’t release my dress, the chilled fingertips awakening the skin underneath the fabric as they graze my thigh.

Warm breath pours in and out of my mouth, making a damp spot on his shirt.

Safe. That’s what I feel in this moment.

When was the last time I felt safe?

Have I ever?

I became a cheerleader soon after learning to walk, a flyer in preschool. I was being thrown into the air with only one to six hands below to catch me before I could recite the alphabet. My body’s in constant danger.

As for my sanity… Being a Munreaux feels just as perilous these days. Impossible expectations. No real safety net. And through it all, a smile plastered on my face because we at Munreaux Motorcycles know it’s presentation that truly makes the sale.

Tears cloud my vision, so I close my eyes before any can fall and ruin my expertly applied makeup, instead choosing to focus on the scent of this newfound safe haven. Salt water and some sort of tree. Fresh. Outdoors. Amazing.

The line of guys finally ends, but neither of us makes a single move. We just remain locked together in this unconventional pose. Unconventional to humans. Monarch butterflies stay embraced for up to sixteen hours when they mate.

Not that we’re mating but… This somehow feels more intimate than mating. More meaningful, at least to me. I’ve always envied monarchs for that ritual. Now I kind of pity them. After feeling this for myself, sixteen hours doesn’t seem long enough.

“Are you ready to come out yet?” he eventually says.

Releasing a private smirk, I shake my head, the edges of my mask snagging on his shirt.

“Can I come to you?”

That makes my smile grow and I nod. It’s not just that he asked for permission, it’s that he asked me for permission.

Slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare me, he pivots around to face me. To look up at him, I have to crane my neck back.

“Why’d you come tonight if you don’t want to be kept?”

Unable to answer, at least not verbally, I shrug a shoulder.

He lets out a husky chuckle. “Okay…” His attention shifts from my face to the raised shoulder, then down my arm. Lifting my hand with his out to the side, he murmurs, “Butterfly.”

Maybe because I do feel safe with him and because he asked me for permission and because I’m not me, not tonight, I thread my fingers through his and pull.

His gaze snaps to mine.

“Um…” Shaking his head, he swallows and glances around us, but my hold on him tightens, bringing his attention back to me. “This is…uh… You don’t…”

One small step toward him and our bodies are flush against each other. My skyward chin doesn’t even graze his, so I push up on my tiptoes.

“Butterfly…” His voice sounds strained, like he’s in pain. “You’re…” He gestures at me. “And I’m…not.”

Not? That’s exactly why I’m drawn to him. Because he’s not. He’s not like anyone else I’ve ever encountered. He’s not asking me about my father. He’s not looking at me how everybody always fucking looks at me.

I go to pull his mask down, but his free hand catches my wrist, stopping me.

“It’s not…” Again, he shakes his head. “Worth it.”

What isn’t worth it?

One hard tug and the mask comes down—his, not mine.

At first, I maintain eye contact, but when his drop, mine follow. Except while he’s staring at the ground, I’m studying his face. His stunning, unique face. Stunning because he has light eyes, full lips, a razor-sharp jawline, and just enough hair on his chin to qualify as a goatee. Unique because of the half-moon scar under his left eye, which I’m assuming is what he didn’t want me to see, what “isn’t worth it.”

It does nothing to detract from how hot he is. If anything, it makes him hotter.

But obviously he doesn’t feel that way.

He’s not as confident as I thought. He might not be confident at all.

If I could speak, I’d squash any insecurities he has by telling him how beautiful he is, how much of a disruptor he is to the current stale beauty ideals. Goddess, if I were scrolling through fifty selfies, his is the only one that’d stop my thumb from swiping. I wouldn’t just pause either. I’d zoom. I’d take a screenshot. I’d keep him, and not just for one night.

Palm to his cheek, I run my thumb over the groove, a gentle smile playing on my lips to show him it doesn’t bother me. I like it.

He tries to shake me off, saying, “Butterfly—”

But I hold firm, molding my hand to his face and pulling him down a few more inches until his lips touch mine. Thanks to the mask, they’re not the slightest bit cold. They part instantly, letting my tongue right in and giving me the freedom to do as I please. The way nobody ever has.

The way nobody ever will.

I kiss him with all the conviction I wish I could voice, all the affirmations I can think of.

You are worthy.

You are attractive inside and out.

Your imperfections make you beautiful.

You don’t need to blend in.

You’re perfect exactly the way you are.

Sliding my hand to the back of his head, I tilt him for a better angle, pouring more energy, more desire into him.

Something about it sets him off, like a match to a fuse, and on a growl, he grabs an ass cheek, tugging my body flush against his as he finally gives in completely, kissing me, not just back but ravenously, like I’m the first taste of something he’s had in days. Maybe longer.

It takes all my effort not to release my own sound of appreciation at the feel of his growing erection between us. My mind flits back to the couple I saw in the stalks and the carefree way they fucked each other out in the open. Raw, like animals.

I want to be like that. I want to do that, with him, now.

When I reach for his waistband, the rest of him locks up before he breaks the kiss to say, “Sorry, uh…” With a backward glance, he gives our surroundings another scan.

He’s used to hiding himself.

I keep his hungry gaze as I back up, toward the vegetation, the coverage.

“Where are you going, butterfly?” he asks with a trace of humor to mask the worry his feet give away by following immediately after me.

Leaves tickling my back as I continue walking backward, I crook a finger at him with one hand while lifting my dress with the other. As long as I don’t pull it up past my stomach, I’m fine.

“Fuck,” he grits as he reaches for my hips. “You’re gonna get me—”

A helicopter appears overhead—flying too low and way too slow to be coincidence—cutting him off. Anything loose on the ground becomes airborne, creating a cyclone of dirt and debris around us. My savior curses as he spins around, shielding my body with his once again. His face to the sky, he’s trying to get a look at our intruder. Only the bottom of the helicopter is visible, but I don’t have to see the sides to know whose name is on them.

Impeccable timing, Father.

After one final glance at that spot between his shoulders, I put my dress into place, turn, and disappear into the cornstalks. When I emerge out the other side, my father’s chopper is just touching down on the front lawn, letting everybody know exactly who he is, and now, who I am. He doesn’t get out, just waits oh so fucking patiently for me to come to him.

He’s only patient when it suits him.

I try to keep my attention out ahead of me, but extended fingers pointed at me from every direction spear my periphery. My spine straightens on its own, my posture as confident as if I were at the top of the pyramid.

Yeah, I made an appearance at Hide and Keep. My costume was too good not to. But finding the game juvenile and the selection lacking, I called my father to pick me up early.

That’s what I’ll tell everyone, and nobody will doubt me. Why would they? I’m Ever Munreaux, sole heiress to Munreaux Motorcycles. I get everything I ask for.

Except a single shred of autonomy.

Before climbing into the helicopter, I let myself look back, but I don’t see the man I kissed.

Look for me…

Inside, my father tosses a headset onto my lap. When I don’t rush to put it on, he reaches over and pinches the side of my hip until I cry out, scrambling to get it over my head.

As soon as the seals are over my ears, his voice booms, “A million fucking dollars!”

We’re off the ground in the next instant, the speed making my stomach drop. I focus on Long Island’s scattered lights in the distance, my eyes watering. Sounds like his night did get ruined.

Good.

“I can’t believe you made me chase you down here. Here. This is not somewhere you should be. This is not where you belong!”

I don’t react whatsoever, gazing aimlessly out the glass…until I feel another pinch at my hip, then I gasp. That one was deeper than the first. What is happening? He’s only pinched me a handful of times before, always where no one will see, but he just did it twice in a row.

“You can consider that million dollars your signing incentive. And your money allowances? Those just got lowered. Significantly. A million dollars…”

I’ve been such a good, quiet, demure daughter. This is the first time I’ve even attended a public outing that didn’t directly benefit him in some way and I had to sneak out to do it. But what did any of it get me? More of the same. It’ll always be more of the same.

Right now, I don’t feel the same. I don’t even feel like me.

I tear my eyes off the horizon to glare at my father, shouting into the mic, “I didn’t take a penny of that three hundred thousand dollars I moved around three times!” I stick three fingers up to emphasize my point and brace myself for a third pinch.

Except my father does something uncharacteristic and laughs. It’s not humorous. It’s full of malice and mockery and makes me want to rip the headset off my ears just to make it stop.

“I guess you carry some of my genes after all.”

He says it like he’s proud of me, but I know that’s impossible.

Up until this point, I’ve done everything to try to make him proud, but nothing’s ever worked.

Why bother anymore? I only have five months until Nationals—apparently the last one I’ll ever get to compete in—and six months before my duty to Munreaux Motorcycles catches up with me, and my adult life will officially begin.

Six months to live how I actually want to.

Six months to live.