Page 4 of Stalked
Good. This is safe territory. School, assignments, normal friend stuff. Not green eyes that seem to see right through me, or the strange electric feeling when our hands touched.
I take a large sip of my latte, burning my tongue in the process. Perhaps physical pain will override the malfunction occurring in my brain today.
2
VANE
The bass pounds through Jordan's house, vibrating the plastic cup in my hand. I didn't even want to come to this stupid party, but Xavier insisted we make an appearance. Something about maintaining social connections or whatever bullshit he spouts these days.
I scan the crowded living room, pretending I'm not looking for anyone in particular. That's when I spot her—Lia Morgan, leaning against the wall, laughing at something her friend Zoe said.
She's wearing a dark blue top that makes her skin glow. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders instead of the tight ponytail she wears at school. This version of Lia—relaxed, smiling—is rare, and I find myself staring longer than I should.
“Take a picture, it'll last longer,” Xavier mutters.
“Fuck off.” I tear my eyes away from her. “I was just surprised to see Little Miss Perfect at a party. Figured she'd be home alphabetizing her textbooks or something.”
Xavier gives me that knowing look I hate. “Right. That's why you've been searching for her since we walked in.”
“I haven't been?—”
“Save it.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I'm getting another drink.”
I down my beer, crushing the cup in my fist. I don't care what Lia Morgan does. I don't care that she answered every question in AP Chem today while looking at me as if I were something stuck to the bottom of her shoe. I don't care that she's the only girl in this school who doesn't either fear me or try to fuck me.
Our eyes meet across the room, and for a split second, something passes between us before her expression hardens into that familiar look of disdain.
I should walk away. Instead, I find myself moving toward her, drawn by the same magnetic pull I've been fighting since freshman year.
“Didn't expect to see you here, Morgan,” I say, leaning against the wall next to her. “No calculus problems to solve tonight?”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth. “Blackwood. Always charming.” Her friend Zoe gives me a look before muttering something about finding the bathroom.
“Someone has to balance out all that perfection you bring to the room.” I lean closer, breathing in her scent—something floral. “Though I've got to say, you clean up nice when you're not raising your hand to correct everyone.”
“You have quite the talent for backhanded compliments,” Lia says, sipping her drink. The music pulses around us, but somehow she creates this bubble where only her voice matters.
“I have many talents,” I smirk, watching her eyes roll again. “Most of which you'd find shocking.”
“I doubt anything about you could shock me anymore.” Something flickers in her expression—not the usual contempt, but something softer.
I lean in closer. “Is that a challenge, Morgan?”
“It's an observation.” She doesn't back away like I expect. “You work so hard at being the bad boy everyone's afraid of.”
“And you work just as hard at being perfect.” I gesture toward her with my empty cup. “We all have our roles to play.”
“Is that what you think I'm doing? Playing a role?” Her amber eyes lock with mine, unexpectedly serious.
“Aren't we all?” The words come out more honest than I intended.
She studies me for a moment. “Maybe. But some of us don't have a choice.”
“Everyone has choices,” I say, but the words taste bitter. Some choice we had after Mom died, bringing Knox into the world. Dad was already gone—motorcycle crash two months earlier. The Blackwood name meant something back then. Now it's just four brothers fighting to stay together in a system that wants to tear us apart.
Lia's studying me with those sharp eyes of hers, like she's trying to solve the vertex of a quadratic equation in her head. “Is that why you act like you don't care about anything? Because caring hurts too much?”
I laugh, hollow and sharp. “Damn, Morgan. Save the psychoanalysis for your college applications.” I turn away from her probing gaze, uncomfortable with how easily she sees through the armor I've spent years building. Some truths aren't meant to be dissected in the middle of a crowded party.
