Page 9 of Stalked
But I don't. Instead, I shove my phone deep into my pocket and start walking toward the parking lot.
The truth burns in my chest—a truth I'm not ready to admit even to myself. As much as Vane infuriates me, as much as I want to hate him for that forced kiss at the party, there's something magnetic about him. The way he looks at me, like he's seeing parts of me no one else notices. The way he challenges me when everyone else just agrees with whatever I say.
Our exchanges used to be pure academic rivalry, barbed comments about test scores. Now there's an electric chemistry that crackles in the air between us when we're close. I can't help but notice the shape of his mouth when he argues with me, or the way his hands move when he's explaining a concept in class.
I hate that I notice these things. Hate that part of me wonders what would have happened if I hadn't pushed him away that night.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, heart skipping despite myself.
You look good today. But I bet you'll look better on prom night with your dress on my bedroom floor.
My cheeks burn hot as I read the message, a strange tingling sensation spreading across my skin. My heart hammers against my ribs. I quickly lock my phone, shoving it back into my pocket without responding. The message sits there, unanswered, as I quicken my pace toward the parking lot.
By the time I reach my car, my hands are still shaking. I fumble with my keys, dropping them once before managing to unlock the door. The entire drive home, I'm hyperaware of my phone burning a hole in my pocket, but I refuse to look at it again.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into our driveway, a modest two-story house with my mom's carefully tended flower beds lining the front walk. The porch light is on, welcoming me home. I take a deep breath before heading inside, willing the flush to fade from my cheeks.
“There she is!” Dad calls from the kitchen as I step through the front door. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce fills the house. “Just in time for dinner.”
I drop my backpack by the stairs and make my way to the kitchen, where Dad stands at the stove, wooden spoon in hand. He's still in his dress shirt from work, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie long abandoned.
“How was debate club, sweetheart?” Mom asks, looking up from the salad she's preparing. Her smile is warm, genuine.
“Fine. The usual,” I say, reaching for a cherry tomato from the cutting board.
Mom gently swats my hand away. “Wash your hands first, you heathen.”
“Sorry,” I laugh, the tension from earlier beginning to ease from my shoulders. I wash my hands as instructed and then pop the cherry tomato into my mouth.
Dad wraps an arm around me in a quick side hug. “Set the table? Dinner's almost ready.”
As I grab plates from the cabinet, the weight of my phone seems lighter. Here, in the warmth of our kitchen with the easy banter of my parents, Vane Blackwood's world feels very far away.
4
VANE
Isprawl across my unmade bed, scrolling through Lia Morgan's Instagram. The springs creak beneath me as I shift to a more comfortable position on my back, my eyes never leaving the screen. The ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, barely moving the hot air in my cramped bedroom. Xavier pays the rent and the place is a shithole, but it's still better than the foster homes we bounced between.
Her latest post is from three days ago—Lia in the school library, hair pulled back, those glasses she wears when she's really focusing perched on her nose. Nothing special to anyone else, but my body responds anyway. It always does when it comes to her.
I swipe through her older pictures, lingering on one from last summer. Lia is in a bikini at the lake, her skin golden in the sunlight. My hand slides beneath the waistband of my sweatpants, wrapping around my already hard cock.
“Fucking perfect,” I mutter, stroking myself as I zoom in on her smile, her curves. The way she looks at the camera is like she's daring me to want her.
And I do want her. Since freshman year, when she demolished me in debate club, her eyes flashing with triumph.Smart girls always done it for me, but Lia—she's something else entirely.
I open our text thread. Empty except for that message I sent after school. She hasn't responded yet. Typical Lia, probably overthinking every word she might say back.
My hand moves faster as I think about her face when I cornered her today, that flush spreading across her cheeks. How her breath caught when I stepped closer. She wants me too, even if she won't admit it.
I type one-handed, my thumb sliding across the screen:
Got you speechless, Morgan? Bet I could make you lose your words completely with my tongue between your thighs.
I hit send before I can think twice, a groan escaping my lips as the message delivers. The thought of her reading it, maybe tonight in her bed, maybe getting wet thinking about me—it pushes me closer to the edge.
My heart slams against my ribs when I see the double checkmarks appear. Read receipt. She's reading it right now.
