Chapter 7
N ot only has the interior of Munreaux Manor been completely renovated several times since it was first built in the 1700s, but my father increased the square footage with a massive addition to the back of the house. He also added his garage to the side, turned the carriage house out back into a pool/guesthouse, and for one of my mother’s birthdays, he had the atrium built. The only thing that hasn’t changed over the centuries is the original building’s facade, which lucky for me, is where my bedroom is located, making it easy to wedge my feet between the granite blocks in my descent.
I didn’t use to sneak out. Truthfully, I never even considered it before… Before my father handed me a contract instead of a graduation present. Even then, doing this was just that—a thought. One I eventually followed through on for Hide and Keep. After that I started sneaking out more and more frequently. Now it’s almost a regular occurrence.
If I were any other nineteen-year-old, I probably wouldn’t have to resort to such measures. Most nineteen-year-olds can come and go as they please, hang out with whoever they want, do whatever they want, be whoever they want.
While my fate has never been open-ended, it didn’t have an exact end date either. Discovering that it does set off a countdown only I can hear.
Ticktock. Ticktock.
Overwhelmingly loud, sometimes I can’t focus on anything else, can’t even hear anything else. And it’s not just my ears. I feel it in my throat, a constant strangling sensation like a noose around my neck, tightening with each of those ticks.
How am I supposed to live like that? How is anyone?
Sometimes I just need something, anything, anyone to distract me from that choking feeling. Since those kinds of distractions aren’t allowed at Munreaux Manor, at least not for me, I have to go offsite to find them.
I’m not sloppy like Crue said. I’m thrashing. Cut off anybody’s air supply and see what they do. They’ll thrash, kick, fight, scream, anything they can to draw in air. It’s not a choice—attempting to prevent asphyxiation. Self-preservation is natural, built into every living being. If I were a man, my behavior would be applauded, promoted without hesitation. Because I’m a woman, I’m judged for it. Ridiculed. Labeled.
Slut.
Out of control.
Risky.
Tainted.
Regardless of behavior, girls everywhere are constantly repressed. If I’m already getting screwed, I might as well indulge in the little bit of pleasure I can find while I can, where I can.
On the ground, I’m just coming out from behind a dogwood bush, rubbing at that invisible rope, when headlights flash on, blinding me. Automatically, I book it toward the maze straight ahead. What the hell is this? No one’s ever out here at this time. Edwin’s interest is limited to what happens inside the manor. As for my father, sleep’s way too important for him to miss a wink over something as trivial as me.
This has to be another “bodyguard.”
How my father managed to replace Crue so quickly, I don’t know.
Hopefully, this one’s in worse shape than the last one. One thing’s for sure, he won’t be sexier. It’s impossible for anyone to be. Crue is—
“Ever, stop!” he shouts somewhere behind me.
Here? Crue is here?
I almost bite it.
How? I filled the guesthouse with enough mousetraps to send him to the hospital. Did he not go into the bedroom at all? Did he even sit on the couch? What has he been doing this whole time? Just waiting in his car for me?
I was too busy researching him on my phone to notice what was happening out front. While he did tell the truth about Yasmin being dead, Crue wasn’t entirely upfront on the details. For one, she was not his girlfriend, and two, he was partly to blame for her death. Apparently, he’d been drinking and driving the night of his senior homecoming, so when another drunk driver came at him on the wrong side of the road, his abilities were too impaired to avoid a head-on collision. The other driver sustained serious injuries that he was expected to make a full recovery from before being carted off to jail. Crue’s were minor, mostly cosmetic, but his passenger’s were fatal. Yasmin—his passenger—eventually succumbed to hers a few days later at the hospital where she died surrounded by family and friends…excluding Crue because, again, he was neither.
Another confusing tidbit about the situation is that Crue didn’t get in any trouble for his part. The other driver was clearly more at fault, but Crue was not only drinking while underage but also driving under the influence. Only one of the articles I found reported him being cut from the wrestling team he’d been captain of as a result of his infraction, otherwise he served no jail time whatsoever, not even in juvie, or community service. I’m guessing Ronny Veen’s father had a lot to do with that.
Hearing my bodyguard enter the labyrinth, I pick up the pace, quickly taking the turns that will eventually lead out the other opening. There are a couple dead ends in here, not many, but I envision him winding up in those, buying me time.
I can’t believe he has the energy to chase me again. I pushed myself to the point of exhaustion today. I mean, I wasn’t exhausted but he should’ve been. He’s not a runner, or a swimmer, or a… I’m not sure what Crue is. Or was. Regardless, he’s supposed to be passed out, preferably under the covers of the bed I took over an hour to prepare for him. It was so hard to position the blanket over the traps without triggering them.
When Crue’s steps grow closer, I halt and slow my breathing as I wait for him to pass on the other side of the evergreen wall. At over six feet tall, they keep the maze’s occupants hidden from view while inside. I can only see the pathways closest to the house from my bedroom windows, but the rest of the maze is obscured, even from the elevated vantage point. The walls are tightly packed, too, but knowing what I’m looking for makes it easier to pick out the movement of Crue’s body charging past.
I picture him running right into a dead end, frustrated and helpless, and smile. It will be too easy.
Quietly, I resume my previous pace until I exit the maze, practically skipping out. I knew it. He didn’t stand a—
“I know you fucking heard me!”
I glance back to find Crue jogging through the same opening I just did.
Oh my Goddess. How’d he make it through so fast? I don’t think he got lost once in there.
Spinning around and running backward—still faster than him, by the way—I taunt, “I can’t hear anything past your wheezing.”
Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t respond, probably because he can’t. He really should work out more often.
I turn and sprint into the woods. Once I’m sure there’s enough distance between us, I twist and press my back up against a tree trunk, the bark snagging my sweater. The risk, the fear, the thrill of being caught takes me right back to Hide and Keep, and I can’t help but smile even bigger. It was fun while it lasted.
This isn’t exactly like that, but close. The rush feels the same.
Flapping noises pull my attention skyward. Some of my nocturnal friends have returned from their winter roost.
Welcome home, I tell them in my head.
What will happen next month? Will all my conservation work just stop? Will I get to have any hobbies at all?
Of course I won’t. I’m already being forced to give up cheer.
That choking sensation reappears, and I roll my head forward as I gasp out loud. Hot tears fill my eyes, burning.
It isn’t fair. It isn’t fucking fair.
A twig snapping nearby has me on the move again, darting from tree to tree, only stopping long enough to gauge which direction Crue’s coming from. Each time he gets too close, I perch down and bear crawl away. Because he’s already taller than me, and probably not expecting me to be on all fours, the significant height difference allows me to escape without discovery time and time again.
Suddenly, the forest goes eerily silent, and with how hard my heart’s pounding in my chest, I’m surprised the sound alone isn’t leading Crue directly to me.
I close my eyes and concentrate on my hearing. The Sound to my left, clicks overhead, and…music? I tilt my head to the right, picking up a few words. “What it means to be a girl” by EMELINE.
My ride is here.
The moment I open my eyes, I shrink back. A tall, dark form is in front of me, latching on to my shoulders. His mouth opens and I imagine him repeating what he asked me that same night. “Do you want to be kept?”
My answer now is the same it was then. No. I don’t. I want to fly.
But he doesn’t ask that. He asks what the fuck is wrong with me.
Does he mean in this moment? Or in general? Neither is easy to explain.
“Eighty-seven.”
I give him a blank stare.
“That’s how many mousetraps I found in the guesthouse.”
Oh. He missed a few.
“You wanted to know what else I was capable of.”
“Is that it? Is that all you fucking got?”
Trying not to look at the silhouettes swooping over our heads, I lazily shrug a shoulder.
His green gaze narrows. “Are you high?”
“Drugs are strictly prohibited in cheer. And unlike you, I actually respect my team enough not to jeopardize my spot on it.”
“Unlike me?”
I shake him off and step forward to say in his face, “Unlike you .”
Understanding dawns, but it’s not nearly as satisfying as I’d hoped it’d be.
“I see. You think you know me because you looked me up.” Those eyes ping back and forth between mine. “You don’t know shit.”
“I know I’m leaving and there’s nothing you can do to stop me, murderer.”
With one arm out to the side, he stops me when I try to pass. “What’d you say?”
I regard his arm against my waist, then his profile. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he stares straight ahead.
Is he really going to make me say it again? I already regret the word leaving my lips once.
“Murderer,” I repeat, shame eating away at my insides until I feel like I might puke.
Crue lets out a humorless laugh as he rotates his head to finally meet my eyes, and I see the pain he’s working to conceal. All I want to do is take his face in my palms and apologize, not just for calling him a murderer but for everything I’ve done and said to him today. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Crue Brantley. If you’d just leave, it would all stop.
For him. I’ll still be in my own personal hell. But at least he won’t be here with me.
My hands find themselves behind my back, my fingers writhing against one another. Don’t do it. Don’t touch him.
“No, not the name,” he says a little too dismissively. “The part about me not being able to stop you.”
That arm at my stomach hooks, then Crue’s hefting me off my feet and carrying me— one-armed —back toward the house. The closer we get, the fainter the music from Paris’s car becomes. She’s waiting for me.
I buck in his hold, but he brings me against his front, wrapping his other arm around my chest, too, restricting my movement. If I were taller, he wouldn’t be able to carry me like this, my feet would be dragging, but since I’m about a foot shorter, my toes don’t even skim the ground.
I eye his bicep flexed next to my face.
“If you even think about biting me, remember you’re not the only one with teeth,” he warns.
A shiver runs up my spine. Would he bite me back? Where? The only place he could reach right now is my face…or my neck.
Warmth floods my pussy, making me ache between my thighs.
“If you do that, I won’t need to go out and find someone else.”
It could be my imagination, but it feels like Crue’s steps falter for a split second.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight.” His voice is hoarse and low, maybe from the strain of carrying me, maybe not. Maybe it’s because he wants to bite me as much as I want him to.
If that’s the case, I could trick him into releasing me right now, no physical exertion needed.
I angle my head to the side, opening my neck up to him. “So do it. Give me a reason to stay. Bite me.”
Halting, his breath fans across my skin, igniting the surface into goose bumps. He quickly readjusts his hold on me, his arms like steel bands around my body, keeping me locked in place. Not that I want to be anywhere else right now.
My pussy tingles in anticipation.
He lowers his head until his lips are just below my ear, making my heart hitch in my chest. What if he does sink his teeth into my neck? Will he stop there? Will I let him?
I can almost guarantee I won’t want to stop him. I’m already putty in his hands and his mouth hasn’t even touched me yet. But I remember when it did. Vividly. It’s practically all I’ve thought about since.
If he kissed me on the mouth again, he might remember, too, and that I don’t want.
Hovering there like a spacecraft, Crue rasps, “I’d rather eat glass,” then he’s on the move again.
I’m equally offended and relieved. That was a stupid plan.
Unfortunately, this next one isn’t much better.
I tangle my legs with Crue’s, causing him to trip and both of us to fall. I’m crawling away in the next instant until two hands on my calf pull me backward, my nails leaving gouges in the earth. No.
“Eat this!” I send my free leg out, kicking at his perfect jawline, but he just grabs that, too, before flipping me over onto my back. He comes down on top of me, pinning me to the ground, a sharp rock digging into my back and tree root wedged up my ass. The harder I struggle, the more everything hurts, so I force myself to go limp. It’s pointless to fight anyway. He’s a former wrestler.
“How is this any different than what I want to go do?”
At least Crue still sounds out of breath when he says, “Penetration, Ever, that’s the difference.”
“I’m being penetrated from so many different angles right now I could be a heroine in a why choose novel.”
“What’s that?”
“A why choose novel?”
He jerks out a nod, his lips bitten between his teeth.
Goddess, he is really out of shape.
If I had any feeling left in my body, I’d use it to feel embarrassed for him.
“Instructional manual for men that don’t know how to please women. You should pick one up sometime. Maybe learn how to use your acorn better. I’ve heard not all women care about size.”
“Fuck you. My dick’s not an acorn.”
“Why are you trying so hard not to let me feel it then?”
He’s purposely angling his body so the side of his hips are between my legs, holding me down, not his crotch. I lied in the pool. I didn’t see anything. However…I did feel it in the corn maze and it was not even remotely close to the size of an acorn.
“I’m trying to keep things semi-professional.”
I attempt to bark out a laugh except with the pressure of another, larger body on top of mine it comes out a wheeze.
“You’re so immature.”
“You’re so unprofessional,” I counter.
My bodyguard just shakes his head.
“I’m taking you all the way back to your room, where you’re going to spend the rest of the night.”
More wheeze-like laughter ensues.
“I’ll just do the same thing all over again,” I admit.
“Then we’ll do this all over again.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Fucking drained.”
“When are you planning on sleeping?”
“In three years. After you graduate.”
“I told you,” I groan. “I’m. Not. Graduating. You’re better off letting me leave now. At least you’ll get a full night’s sleep.”
“That’s not what I was hired for.”
“My father doesn’t have to know I sneak out.”
“Like I told you , you’re sloppy. Your father already knows.”
How does he know?
The hickeys. I guess I could’ve been more inconspicuous.
“The second you walk through the front door, you’ll set the alarm off and wake up the whole house. Once the alarm’s been activated, my bedroom window’s the only way in or out.” After Hide and Keep, I paid a girl to disengage the sensor so I could open and close it without affecting the manor’s security system. “And I’m not going back in,” I add sweetly because he can get fucked if he thinks I’m climbing back up there right now.
“Then you’ll sit in my car until someone gets up. You’re not leaving the property.”
Crue pushes himself up in one smooth motion, but I don’t move a muscle. If he wants to carry me anywhere, he’ll be doing it without my help.
He does exactly that—carries me to his Bronco while I lie limp in his arms, making myself complete dead weight. He basically drops me in his passenger seat in a boneless heap before slamming the door shut.
Professional.
Sitting up, I admire Crue’s side profile as he rounds the front end. In another life, he might be here for an entirely different reason. He might be here because he likes me. He’d pick me up to take me somewhere or climb up to my room so we could spend the night together.
Past Crue, movement on the second floor catches my eye, and I swear I see my curtain flutter, but then I strain my eyes, and everything’s as it should be—completely still.
“The paint job came out nice,” I chirp once Crue’s seated next to me.
Sometime in the last several hours he must’ve removed the tape on his hood. Because he waited so long, the flames did turn out a bit shoddy, but they were never supposed to look good. They were meant to humiliate, enrage, spark any emotion that’d get Crue to overreact and either quit or get himself fired. Sadly, neither happened.
All of today’s plans have failed.
Crue only mutters an equally insincere, “Thanks,” as he pulls out his phone and opens it to a screen full of text.
I have to admit, it’s hot that Crue isn’t intimidated by the uber-feminine flames. A lot of men would be.
“What are you reading?”
He turns his phone away from me when I lean over to sneak a peek.
“ The Babysitter’s Guide to Taming Unruly Children ,” he deadpans.
“Good luck with that.” I chuckle while retrieving my own phone to check Paris’s location. Paris is…gone, already at the party. She didn’t even text me to ask what was taking so long, she just left.
What if something happened to me? Would she even give a shit?
Would anybody?
“Is that your ride?” Crue’s voice makes me jump, and now I’m the one hiding my screen.
“Yes. I told him to circle the block. As soon as you get tired reading about your future kids and pass out, I’ll meet him at the bottom of the driveway so we can finally begin our night of debauchery.”
“How do you get over the gate?”
“I fly over it,” I lie.
Obviously, Crue hasn’t explored the outer perimeter of the Munreaux estate yet. Yeah, near the driveway we have tall wrought iron fencing to give the illusion of security, but like a lot of residents around here, we use the property’s original stone walls as our border. Hand-built by farmers back in the late 1700s and early 1800s, stone walls aren’t very high, only like two and a half feet tall usually. Covered in moss and algae nowadays, they’re historic and charming, which New Englanders love. Robert Frost even wrote his poem “Mending Wall” about a New England stone wall.
Yawning, I notice how dirty my hands are and flip them over to find a bunch of filth caked under my nails, too.
“Do you have anything in here I can use to clean my nails?”
“No, but I’m sure your room does.” He doesn’t even look up from his phone, his forehead creased as he reads.
Using my pinky nail, I start digging out the grime, then drop it right onto Crue’s floormats. Crue gives me a nasty side-eye but doesn’t say a word. We sit in silence for I don’t know how long, me picking my nails, him reading, until somewhere around finger eight or nine, my eyelids prove too heavy to lift again.