Things I Wanted To Say (Lancaster Prep Book 1)
Things I Wanted To Say: Prologue

I REMEMBER the first time I saw him.

He didn’t notice me, which was what I preferred. That way, I could stare at him unabashedly, fascinated with the bone structure of his face, the way he moved, how he never smiled.

Why didn’t he smile?

We were much younger then. Innocent? I don’t think you could ever use that word to describe either of us. We’d seen and done too much, that by the time we met again, we were too far gone to stop it. Stop us.

And the darkness.

I accompanied my parents to a party in Manhattan. My mother didn’t want to bring me. Jonas, my stepfather, insisted.

Let her see how the one percent really lives, he said with a chuckle.

Mother scowled. She likes to think she is part of the one percent, when Jonas says he merely works for them.

The building we walked into was on the Upper East Side, with friendly doormen and stern security everywhere. The lobby was constructed of glass and marble. Sleek and gleaming. I must’ve looked like a country bumpkin, my head tilted back and staring at the soaring ceiling, dazzled by the twinkling lights above us.

“Come on,” Mother said irritably, her fingers clamped so tight around my upper arm, she pinched my skin.

The elevator ride was smooth. Quick. We arrived on the penthouse level, and the moment the doors slid open, it was as if we were stepping into another world. No one greeted us when we entered the penthouse. No one was actually inside the apartment either.

Everything was white. The furniture. The walls. Massive paintings hanging everywhere the only pops of color. Most of them were abstract. I stopped in front of one of them, tilting my head to the side, trying to figure out what it could be. Mother practically dragged me away from it, muttering under her breath that they shouldn’t have such vulgar art on display in front of children, and Jonas only laughed, asking what kid could figure out what that was?

That was when it hit me—the painting was a close-up view of a vagina.

I could hear noises coming from somewhere though. As we drew deeper into the apartment, they grew louder, until a wall of windows appeared, beautiful people milling about, clustered in small groups. Talking, talking, talking. Drinking, drinking, drinking.

I was starstruck. Dazzled. This was the sort of thing I lived for. Mother marrying Jonas Weatherstone was life-changing. He made big money. Real money. Mother worked at Jonas’ real estate company, and they fell in love. He left his wife for Mother. Their divorce was difficult but eventually Jonas and Mother were married. I liked living with Jonas. He was kind to me. Our apartment was big, though nothing like this one.

This one was unlike anything I’d ever seen.

As we stepped out onto the terrace, the skyscrapers loomed. They looked close enough to touch. The city lights glittered and twinkled, but I didn’t notice. I was too busy stealing sips from discarded champagne glasses, the bubbly liquid tickling my throat and making me feel funny. I savored the funny feeling. It made my brain fuzzy, helped me forget all of my problems. Like my parents. My stepbrother.

All of it.

He spotted me sneaking drinks and quietly approached. I set the glass down, pretending to look at something else. We were the only two kids at this party. I was fourteen. I guessed he was about the same.

Summer before high school and I felt very grown-up. I had boobs and they were bigger than my friends’. I’d discovered that touching myself in a particular place while in bed at night sent me spiraling, and I chased that feeling as much as I could. Yates kept trying to get me alone when our parents were at work. One time, he slipped his hand down my pants, trying to touch me there, but I slapped him away.

He’s disgusting. He’s my brother.

Stepbrother, but still.

Despite my being disgusted, Yates’s dogged pursuit of me also left me feeling wanted. And there’s power in knowing that someone wants you. Sitting at this party in a strapless black dress, sipping champagne, also made me feel older. Having the attention of this boy, this very beautiful, intense boy, also had me curious.

Who is he? What does he want from me?

“You want your own glass?” the boy asks, pointing at the discarded glasses on the table beside me. I’d sipped every one of them dry.

I glance up to replace him watching me. He’s wearing black pants and a white button down, the sleeves rolled up and showing off his forearms. His hair is golden brown, almost but not quite dirty blond, and his face is stunning. Arrogant.

Perfect.

I rise to my feet and stand in front of him, reveling in the appreciation flaring in his ice blue eyes. “Yes, please.”

I follow him to the bar. He speaks to the bartender and slips him a fifty-dollar bill while I stand there, duly impressed. He hands me the glass, and takes a can of beer, slipping it in his front pocket.

“You don’t like champagne?” I ask him as I glance around, clutching the stem of the glass between pinched fingers. No one’s paying any attention to us, so I take a sip.

Delicious.

“No,” he says. “Besides, the cheap stuff gives me a headache.”

I don’t know the difference, so I take his word as gospel.

I also take what I can get, so I’m not about to turn down this free and very full glass of bubbly.

I follow him inside, the hushed quiet sending a shiver through me. Or maybe that’s the air conditioning that’s on full blast, I don’t know. We walk deeper into the house, until we’re in a dark hallway, where all the bedroom doors are closed.

“My father’s in one of those rooms, fucking your mother,” he says casually, right as I’m sipping from my glass.

I practically spit it all over his face. I gape at him, blinking. “What did you just say?”

His expression doesn’t change a bit. “You heard me.”

“My mother is married.”

“So is my dad. Like that matters.” He shrugs, then pulls the can of beer out of his pocket. He cracks it open, then slurps up the foam before taking a huge drink.

“She wouldn’t do that.” When he says nothing, I feel the need to clarify. “Fuck your father.”

It feels very grown-up, saying that word to this boy while drinking champagne. I take another sip, letting the bubbles linger on my tongue.

“Well, she is. Your mom’s a slut.” He drains the beer can, then crushes it between his fingers, tossing it onto the ground so it lands in a loud clatter.

I’m suddenly furious. Mother and I don’t always get along, but he doesn’t even know her. “You can’t say that.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I just did.” He cocks his head, his gaze narrowed. So much anger there. And he’s so young. I get angry sometimes, but nothing like this. “Are you a slut too? Like your mom?”

“Fuck you,” I spit at him, flinging the champagne in his face.

He winces, slowly wiping his face off with his hand. I stand there, breathing hard, knowing I should go, but I’m too fascinated, watching this unfold.

Watching him.

It’s like it’s not even happening to me. And I’ve never done anything like that before in my life. Who am I? When did I get so brave? Or stupid?

“You’re a bitch,” he hisses. “Just like your mom.”

“You’re an asshole,” I return, about to turn on my heel and walk away from him, but he grabs me.

Stops me.

His fingers sink into my flesh, his grip extra tight on my upper arm and I struggle against his hold, trying to get rid of him. “Let me go.”

“No.” He smirks, and I idly realize he’s the devil hiding behind an angel baby’s face. He shoves me against the wall and I fall against it like a rag doll, nearly sliding to the floor. He grabs hold of me before I land, yanking me up, and presses his body against mine. He towers over me, at least six feet tall, but he’s lean. Skinny. Yates is broader. Meatier. But he’s sixteen. Older.

This boy is just that.

Still a boy.

“What are you doing?” I ask as I struggle against him. Doing so makes me feel him and I’m intrigued. He’s hard everywhere. Solid. Stronger than he looks.

“I think you like it.” The smirk is still there and when he presses his lower body against me, I can feel something else.

He’s got a hard-on.

I go completely still, unable to move.

“Your mom sucks my dad off at least twice a week,” he whispers. “She meets him in his office. They call it lunch.”

I gape at him. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I mean, I know what he’s referring to, but there’s no way she does that.

No. Way.

“You have dick sucking lips,” he tells me, and I almost bloom under the compliment, before I tell myself I’m sick and messed up, and he meant it as an insult.

“Shut up,” I whisper, and he smiles.

“Want to suck mine?”

“Absolutely not.” I tilt my chin, sounding like a haughty princess.

What would it be like, sucking a boy’s dick? Girls do it. All the time. I found a magazine in Yates’s room once, and snuck it back into mine. Photos of naked girls. Couples caught in mid-position. His penis inside her vagina. His mouth on her nipples. His penis inside her mouth as she stares up at him, doe-eyed and with her fingers between her legs.

I think of that now and heady warmth unfurls deep within me, making me weak.

Or maybe that’s the champagne.

“You might like it,” he says with the faintest smile. His teeth are perfectly straight. I bet when he really smiles, he’s beautiful.

Pretty sure he doesn’t smile much though.

“I won’t,” I tell him firmly.

“Ever done it before?”

I furiously shake my head.

“Let me be your first.”

“No.” I shove at his shoulders, but he doesn’t budge.

“Come on. Your mom is my dad’s whore. You could be mine too.” He inclines his head toward the closed doors in the darkened hallway. “Like I said, they’re in one of those rooms right now. I bet your mom is on her knees for him.” He sneers. “I bet she swallows every drop of my dad’s cum. You could do the same for me.”

“Fuck you.” His words are infuriating but also the faintest bit tantalizing. I’ve never thought of cum and swallowing and dicks in my mouth while talking to a boy. No one has ever spoken to me like this before.

No one.

He laughs. “No, fuck you. Your family is fucked up.”

“Uh, I think it’s your family that’s fucked up,” I tell him, thrusting my hips against his to get him off me.

It doesn’t help at all. Just reminds me that he’s hard. And I can’t help but think that he’s hard for me.

I have friends who’ve had sex already. Lana did it with David in the gym during our eighth-grade graduation dance. She told us later she walked funny for a week, his dick was so big. I had a hard time believing her, but said nothing.

Now I’m curious. This boy’s dick seems large, not that I have much to compare it to. I want to see it.

Touch it.

“Let me go,” I say through clenched teeth, struggling a little. I think he likes it. I sort of like it too. His strength. How I’m too weak to break free. What does this say about me? I’m sick. Twisted. Weird.

I’ve always had what I call ‘the darkness.’ I’ve never met someone who acts like he has it too.

He leans in close, his mouth mere inches from mine, and I can feel his breath. It’s warm, and smells faintly of beer. “Make me.”

Going on pure instinct, I part my lips, readying to scream, and he knows it.

So he kisses me instead.

It’s harsh, a shock to the system, and I go completely still. His lips mash against mine, lacking skill, though I’m not particularly skilled either. But I know it can be better than this. Softer than this.

I purse my lips around his lower one, tugging on it. He slows. Relaxes. The kiss turns languid. His tongue darts out, surprising me. I part my lips, and his tongue touches mine.

My first grown-up kiss is with a boy who calls my mother a whore. Who said I could be his whore. I should shove him away. Bite his tongue in half. Knee him in the balls.

I don’t do any of that. Instead, I let him kiss me, and God help me, I enjoy it. Warmth spreads through my veins, warming me from the inside out, and I cling to him. His hands are on my waist. I clutch the front of his shirt. His erection jerks against me, and that secret spot I’ve recently discovered tingles.

This is what Yates wants from me. The disgusting pervert. I will never give this to him, because we’re family, and that’s gross.

But the more this mystery boy kisses me, the more I’m willing to consider giving him whatever he wants.

We kiss for so long I don’t know how we’re able to breathe. Finally, finally, he ends it first and I open my eyes, staring at his parted, swollen lips. Slowly I lift my gaze to replace him watching me.

He reaches for the hem of my skirt, his fingers shooting beneath it to touch the inside of my thigh and I bite my lower lip. “Are you wet?”

“What are you talking about?” I know, but he’s so freaking young. Like me. We know sex is happening. We have access to all the porn on the internet, but still.

He talks to me like an adult. The boys I know won’t even touch my boobs, and this guy is going straight to the spot between my legs.

“Like you don’t know.” He sounds disgusted, and I’m about to say something, a protest. An insult.

But he kisses me again, making me forget. This one is better. I guess I taught him well. It’s slow and soft, the drag of his tongue against mine making me ache. He explores my mouth thoroughly, testing me, and I let him. I explore too. Our mouths are open, our tongues teasing, licking at each other, and my entire body tingles with anticipation. Somehow I touch him, my hand on the front of his pants, and he thrusts against my palm, letting me feel how hard he is.

I throb between my thighs and I want to touch myself.

No.

I want him to touch me.

“I don’t even know you,” I whisper against his lips.

He pulls away with an evil smile. “Liar.”

“I don’t.” I’m confused. Why would he think I’m lying about that?

“You’re at my house. My father is one of the richest men in the entire fucking world. ‘Oh, I don’t even know you.’” He’s mocking me, his voice high-pitched. He sounds ridiculous.

Anger fills me. After what just happened, he makes fun of me? I don’t care how good of a kisser he turned into, he’s an asshole.

“Get away from me.” I shove him off of me and this time, he staggers backward, letting me go. I stalk off, nearly tripping over the discarded champagne glass. I must’ve dropped it when we struggled earlier.

I don’t even remember that happening.

He calls after me, but I ignore him, running as fast as I can on shaky legs. I push my way out of the house, back onto the terrace, searching for my mother. My stepfather, who’s basically like a father to me. But they’re both nowhere in sight.

I hear the boy. He says my name, though I never told him what it was. Panicked, I glance around, scared he’s going to grab me, bracing myself when I feel a hand clamp around my shoulder but…

I turn around to replace it’s my mother.

“Summer! What are you doing? You look petrified.”

Relief floods me. She’s not locked away in a room fucking another man; she’s out here. With me. At the party.

“Mother.” I throw myself at her, hugging her waist tight and she laughs, sounding surprised. We’ve been fighting nonstop since eighth grade ended. All of my friends are going to high school at Lancaster Prep, and that’s where I want to go too. I’m desperate to go there.

Jonas says no. He wants me going to St. Anthony’s like he did. In the city. It’s a good school and all, but I’ll be lonely. My friends will be having fun in boarding school and I’ll be stuck here.

Alone. With Yates, who’ll be a junior. Our parents travel together all the time, leaving us alone, and Yates will be relentless. He’ll wear me down, until finally I’ll give in to him.

“Honey, what’s wrong? You’re shaking.” She runs her hand up and down my back, soothing me, and I’m struck with the fear that this is the last time she’ll do this. Believe me sweet and innocent. It’s like a piece of me was stolen tonight, and that boy claimed it with his lips and tongue and wandering hands.

I try to laugh and pull away from her, desperate to play it off. “I’m fine. Really. I just thought—I’d lost you.”

“Your cheeks are extra pink.” She frowns, cupping my face. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

I try my best to look innocent. “No, Mom. God. Of course not.”

“Good.” That was way too easy. I can’t believe she took my word for it. “Stay away from the champagne. I know how much you like to sneak sips.”

My cheeks heat even more.

Now it’s her turn to glance around, and I study her. Really study her.

Her cheeks are flushed too. Her hair is a mess in the back, like she needs to run a brush through it. One of her earrings is missing. And the dress she’s wearing, it’s all crooked and rumpled. Like she needs to readjust it.

Oh no.

She looks like how I feel. Though I didn’t have sex with that boy, I did let him kiss me, and I sort of lost myself for a moment.

Mother looks like she lost herself for at least a half hour. Maybe longer.

“Where were you?” I ask, my tone accusing.

“I’ve been out here the entire time.” Her gaze meets mine once more, her freshly glossed lips curled into a frown. “Where were you?”

“Right here. The whole time.” I glance over my shoulder to replace the boy standing there, watching us. A man stands behind him, the older version of the boy. He’s extremely handsome, with an air about him that says he owns everything. The boy is watching me.

The man is watching my mother.

The boy raises his brows, tilting his head in my direction. I turn away from him, not wanting to see the smug satisfaction on his stupidly handsome face. He knows I figured it out. He already had figured it out.

And damn him, he was right.