His hair is an ebon black with a bright yellow streak in the front, like a bolt of lightning. Clearly, that’s got to be the work of a master stylist. Bet this boy is just as rich as the asshole stepbrother who lives across the hall from me. He’s also just as ripped, and just as covered in tattoos. This one, though, has a piercing through either side of his lower lip and small black plugs in his ears.
“I’m going to take a wild guess and assume you’re Parrish’s friend, Chasm?” I quip, raising a brow and refusing to let him know how pissed off I am. Or how scared I was for a brief instant. Right before I left New York, I was changing into my pajamas when I heard a sound coming from the roof. I parted the curtains to find a reporter crouching there with a camera.
So goddamn creepy.
“Ah,” he says, rising to his feet with that awful, awful smile playing around his lips. It’s awful because it’s cocky as fuck. Also, it seems sort of … genuine at the same time? If he hadn’t pushed me into the pool, I might not have instantly disliked him and that bothers me. Any friend of Parrish’s is likely not going to be a friend of mine. “Now why would you think that, Mia?”
I grit my teeth. These assholes. I take it back; there’s nothing to like about this guy at all.
“It’s Dakota,” I correct for what, I’m sure, is nowhere near the final time. “What right do you think you have, pushing a stranger into a pool like that? What if I didn’t know how to swim?”
“But you do, don’t you?” he asks, looking down at me as I move through the water toward the ladder. His eyes rake my body as I grab the metal bars and climb out, suddenly self-conscious of the bright yellow bikini Tess talked me into yesterday. Oddly enough, it matches the streak in his hair. Personally, I’d have been happier with black. Or lime green. Or something with skulls on it. “I saw you swimming; you just didn’t notice me.”
“You’re admitting to being a creeper then? Do you regularly spy on hapless swimmers?”
Chasm seems unfazed by my question and shrugs his shoulders loosely, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s a good actor then; there isn’t a single person on this planet without problems of some sort.
“Only if they happen to be my best friend’s shiny new sister. You’re like a curio around here: we’ve been hearing stories about you for years.” I just keep staring at him, dripping water across the floor while he continues smiling away at me. After a moment, he retrieves my towel and hands it over. I’m about to thank him when he adds, “Parrish was dead wrong about you.”
His eyes blaze as he looks me over, his smile turning into an overly appreciative smirk.
Slowly, Chasm slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks and cocks his head to one side. As he looks me over, I return the favor. He’s wearing a solid black blazer that’s currently unbuttoned, leaving a black dress shirt visible underneath. The shirt itself is also unbuttoned, revealing a smooth chest dripping with ink that I pretend not to like (but holy crap, it’s hot). There’s a hint of a tie hanging out of one pocket, a tartan plaid made up of gray, black, and lime green stripes that are oddly reminiscent of my hair color. The embroidered badge beside the blazer’s lapel clearly states Whitehall Preparatory Academy.
I ignore my own visceral reaction to his body, wrap the towel around my waist, and then cross my arms over my chest. I’m trying to come up with some sort of quip, something easy but deeply insulting—like Parrish’s murmured as if, little sister—but Chasm speaks up before I get a chance.
“You are most definitely not a three. I’d say a four, at least. Maybe a five, with the right hair and makeup.”
My mouth pinches into a thin line, but when I move to push Chasm into the pool in retaliation, he grabs my wrists in either of his hands and spins me around, so that my back is to the wall. I become hyperaware of each of his fingertips as they press into my bare skin.
“Please don’t,” he breathes, letting that cocky smile take over his entire face. “Speaking of swimming, I really can’t.” He pauses again and looks up and to the left, like he’s thinking hard about something. Frankly, the comfortable, easy cadence of his voice is annoying the fuck out of me. “You’ve already made Tess cry and insulted my best friend. The last thing you need on your record is a drowning.”
Chasm releases me, and my body goes cold as he steps away, the spots where he held my wrists tingling strangely. That does it for me, unleashing my irritation in a choleric jibe that whips off the end of my tongue.
“Here’s the thing: you do have the right hair and makeup”—here I pause to trace the edge of my eye to indicate the small amount of black liner he’s wearing—“but you’re still a big, fat zero on my rating scale. I only insulted Parrish because he started it. As far as Tess crying … I haven’t seen it.”
The guy hasn’t answered my question about his identity, but he can only really be Chasm McKenna, Parrish’s bestie and a close friend of the family. Also, I hate him almost as much as I hate Parrish and we met three seconds ago.
This should go well.
He resumes that easy, comfortable slouch as he meets my eyes with his jewel-toned ones. I’ll admit: he’s got a powerful stare. I feel suddenly uncomfortable, like I should shift on my feet and try to sidle away. Instead, I stand my ground and stare right back.
“You’ve got bite, but is it enough?” Chasm shrugs his shoulders like he couldn’t care less either way. Since I have no idea what he’s talking about, I don’t care either. I just want him to go away. “Welcome to Whitehall,” he whispers finally, following up the words with another smile that’s just oozing impertinence.
I say nothing, watching as he turns and heads for the door, and then I pad over to the sauna, open it up, and grab the bucket from inside.
Chasm’s already out the door and in the hallway when I step up behind him, but as soon as he hears me, he turns, and I throw the entire bucket of warm water in his face.
He says nothing, just stares at me with his dark hair bleeding into his face, his soggy dress shirt clinging to the firm planes of his chest. I can’t decide if he’s angry with me … or pleasantly surprised?
And then, of course, he has the audacity to fucking smile at me.
This dickface …
“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll enjoy Whitehall while I’m here.” I drop the bucket on the marble floor, breeze past him, and head up the stairs to change.
Even if the bathroom here feels like some sort of bleached and sterile space pod, the shower is nice. It’s roomy, and it has a built-in bench seat. Plus, there are over a dozen sprayers and showerheads, and a surround sound system.
I start one of my playlists, taking my time with washing and conditioning my hair as I mouth the lyrics to “DROWN” by AViVA. In that marble box with its glass doors, I feel protected, insulated from reality. It’s like I’m on vacation or something, steeped in luxury that doesn’t belong to me, that I’m just renting for the time being.
I’m not a Banks anymore; I’m a Patterson. I’m not Dakota; I’m Mia.
The thought makes my head spin. It’s been six weeks since I found out. Just six. fucking. weeks. And yet, it hasn’t gotten any easier. I’m not sure it will ever be easy. Then to have to deal with someone as nasty as Kimber? As Parrish?