Girl Lost (8 page)

I'm playing with fire.

"Because I want to be normal, Peter. I want to have a normal life and not the memories of Pembrooke and a boy who isn't real. Lane is real."

"And he’s a douche who isn't good enough for you."

"Says my very own stalker," I say, my voice teasing.

Peter laughs, a soft noise that I feel as he slips his arms around my waist, pulling me back against him. "I can be normal, Gwen. I can give you more than memories."

"You are memories. I can't separate you from him, because you’re too similar," I say. "It's not just the way you look—it’s the gestures and the way you talk. Your laugh. Everything."

"Why do you think that is, pixie?"

I go still in his arms, my heart racing. It's just a coincidence—it doesn't mean anything. It can't. Because Peter is real and the Boy never was.

"You aren't hearing me, Peter. I don't want to think about it."

His lips brush my hair, and I want to turn. I
want
his lips on me, I want to bask in the warmth of his embrace.

I never want that. What the hell is happening?

"Peter," I whisper. He makes a low noise, his grip on my waist tightening a little, hauling me against his body. I shiver as I feel him, all of his body pressed tight to mine.

"If he touches you, Gwen, I will break him. You want space, and I'll give it to you. But I'm not leaving—I'm simply waiting for you to realize we're meant to be together." His teeth nip at my earlobe, and I whimper, my knees weakening. "Don't push me and my patience too far."

I need to respond, some kind of protest or...something. But I can only shake with want as his hand dips low on my waist and his teeth catch my earlobe again, the tip of his tongue darting out in a soft caress.

"Don't forget," he whispers. And then he's gone, releasing me so suddenly I almost fall. My senses are spinning, the world not quite steady. I look at him, standing a few feet away, his eyes too bright.

"Gwen?"

Lane.

Peter's eyes flash with anger, and I watch him choke it down, as I call to Lane. He approaches, and I can see the worried frown as he takes me in and glances over at Peter. "Hey. I didn't see you."

Peter nods, a half smile on his lips. "Are you feeling better, Gwen?" I give him a startled stare, and he looks back to Lane. "I think she's feeling the cider. You might take her home now."

Lane's eyes widen, and he turns to me. "Are you not feeling good, babe?"

Peter's eyes narrow dangerously at the endearment, his hand clenching involuntarily at his side. I nod quickly. "Yeah. Just—the smoke and drinking. I should have eaten something before I came out. I'm sorry—do you mind?"

Lane draws me to him. I have to get him out of here, away from Peter. I need to get him moving. Why the hell is he turning back to look at Peter?

"Thanks, dude. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

Peter gives him a flat stare and then looks at me. "I'll see you later, Gwendy."

I flinch, but he's already moving away. I hear him call to someone, and shadows shift in the darkness of the beach, clustering around him as they move down the beach.

His frat brothers.

"Why did he call you that?" Lane asks, looking down at me.

I shake my head. "I don't know."

No one calls me that. No one ever has.

Only the Boy. Forever ago, on the boat.

In a matter of days, I go from never seeing Peter to seeing him everywhere. He’s on the beach when I row, in the Bitter Brick when Orchid and I stop for coffee, in the halls when I rush to class. He sits in view of me in the caf, alone, wrapped in his obsession.

No one comments on it. Not even Micah, after we make up. Which mostly consists of me showing up on his doorstep with a giant bag of assorted candies and a woeful expression.

My brother, bless his soul, has never been able to stay angry with me for long. Thankfully.

Lane doesn't mention it, although I know he notices—it's hard to miss a red haired, ball-capped stalker.

The one time he does mention it, it's concern for me. "Is he dangerous, Gwen Barrie?"

"No," I say promptly, looking to where Peter is sitting with an open textbook. We're in the library, and I'm only half studying the Bio homework I have spread out in front of me.

Thank god Business majors aren't required to take many science courses.

"He doesn't creep you out?"

I glance at Peter again. His slanted green eyes catch mine, and I swallow, remembering the feel of his hands on my hips, his fingers splayed and holding me. His voice in my ear and how right it had felt.

"No," I say softly. "Peter is harmless, Lane. I promise."

A smile flashes across Peter's face, and I know he heard my pronouncement.

And we both know it's not true. His threat still rings in my ears—and I know without pushing that he will follow through, if he thinks for an instant that I'm serious about Lane.

I stay for another hour, a headache building in my temples. An alarm beeps on my phone.

Grayson Check in.

Fuck.

"Lane, I'm gonna head out," I murmur. He's lost in his studying, mumbling medical jargon like it actually means something—or he hopes it will soon.

I smile and scoop my books up, dropping a kiss on Lane's hair. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Text me when you get in, ‘k?"

I nod and turn away. He is adorably protective.

As I make my way to the exit, I look at where Peter was sitting, only a little surprised to find his seat empty. I take a breath and steel myself to face him.

He's sitting on the steps, and rises as I step out.

"Where are your frat brothers today?" I ask.

"Bored. They are like children—they have a very short attention span."

"And you?"

He shrugs and glances at me from under the veil of his eyelashes. "I have been fascinated with one thing for what seems like years."

I falter. There was a bit too much truth to that statement for my liking. "It's been less than two months," I say tartly.

He shrugs, and I heave a sigh.

"What do you want, Peter?"

He follows me down the stairs. "Have dinner with me."

"Can't. I have to take a phone call. It's important."

"So I'll drive us to a restaurant. You can talk. I'll order. You don't even have to talk to me."

"Peter," I sigh. "Why bother?"

"You spend so much time with him, Gwen. Would it be so horrible to spend some time with me?"

"We've been over this," I remind him.

He's quiet, and I stop walking, turning to look at him. His expression is so hurt I feel guilty. Which is stupid, because I've told him to leave me alone.

It would be more effective if I actually wanted him to leave me alone.

"Will you really make me beg?" Peter asks.

"Would you?" I ask, curious.

He nods immediately. "For you, Gwendy, there is very little I wouldn't do."

My phone beeps again, a two minute warning. I should keep walking. This is a bad idea, and I know it.

"Fine. You drive."

A sly smile blooms on his lips, and my heart trips. I love that look. He looks like the Boy, more than any other time, when he smiles like that.

I shake the thought and grab my phone as it begins to ring.

"Grayson," I say warmly.

"Are you ready for our visit?" he asks, skipping straight to the heart of this call.

I shrug. "I'm nervous."

"Why, darling?"

"What if Aunt J decides I'm not good enough—that I'm failing miserably? What if she forces me to go home?"

"It's in Jane's best interest to keep you at Northern, darling. She wants you to graduate. And you've given neither of us any indication that you’re floundering."

Peter unlocks a car door, a startlingly normal vehicle, and I slide into the passenger seat as he cranks the engine.

"Micah is worried about me," I confess.

"Micah is your brother. He adores you and has spent the better part of the last ten years taking care of you. Letting go of that role is difficult for him."

I frown. "Grayson, are you psycho-analyzing my baby brother?"

"Of course I am. I've been analyzing all of you for years."

I grin. "And what's the verdict?"

"Y'all are all batshit crazy. Obviously."

I snort a laugh and Grayson chuckles. "Don't worry so much, darling. I'll see you in two days—and I expect to see a boyfriend."

I go silent, glancing at Peter.

Grayson, of course, pounces on my silence. "Do you have a boyfriend, Gwendolyn Barrie?"

"No!" I say. "And I'm hanging up now."

I hear his laugh, and then I kill the connection.

"Dad?"

I startle and look over at Peter. The word repeats in my head, and the slight inflection. A question. "No. A friend—a good friend of the family."

"Must be if he's coming for parents’ weekend."

"My parents died," I blurt out. "When I was twelve."

Peter doesn't say anything for a long moment, and then, "Do you miss them?"

Tears spring to my eyes, and I blink hard, trying to keep them at bay. It never gets easier, talking about them. "Every day."

His hand comes down, closing over mine, and I know I should pull away, but I can't. I grasp his fingers tight and hold on until we get to the restaurant.

"Why?" he asks, his voice petulant.

"Because Micah is there. I can't leave him alone."

"You wanted to come here," he reminds me. I shiver. There is a threat in his tone that I am terrified to think about.

"I wanted to get off the boat," I counter.

He makes a dismissive gesture. In the woods surrounding the beach, I can hear the animals moving and the shrill war cries of the other children, mixed with laughter and the occasional furious shout.

One will have a black eye tonight.

"Please. I have to go."

"If you do, they'll send you to that school. The one you hate."

I hesitate. After everything that has happened, I had forgotten the school, had forgotten that it was the reason we were on the boat in the first place.

I hated boarding school—I wanted to be home, with Daddy and Mother and Micah. And even though it was in New York, I wouldn't be. Daddy insisted it was the best, and a Barrie deserved the best. I hated him for it—it meant he was sending me away.

"Micah needs me," I repeat.

The Boy looks up at me from his perch on the rocks. Only he could make rocks look like a throne, I muse, smiling to myself.

"I need you, Gwendy. We need you, here. If you tell them, they’ll never believe you. They will tell you this isn’t real.”

I blink at the sky, and I know it’s true.

I bite my lip and crawl up on the rocks next to him. I don't protest when he curls on his side, placing his head in my lap. I just pet his hair back, and we watch the sun sink into the water. Watch the sky darken into night and the stars slowly wink to life. It never fails to amaze me, how many stars spangle the sky over this beach.

I hear the others creeping from the woods, hear their soft whispers as they see him resting against me.

"Do you ever miss it?" I ask.

"What?"

"Your home."

He is quite still against me, and then, his voice sharply venomous, "Never."

Friday drags by, and I don't see Peter. I don't know if it's because he's content after we spent two hours in that little Mexican restaurant, eating salty chips and guacamole and sharing a platter of fajitas.

Whatever it is, I'm grateful for the reprieve. I need the quiet to prepare for the incoming family.

My phone chirps again, and I glance at it half-heartedly while I work on a paper for Lit. It's on the archetypes of classic literature—the virginal heroine and brooding antihero and dashing hero. I chose to focus on Grimm's fairy tales—a favorite—and dissect the various archetypes that continually repeated in the stories.

It is fascinating and slow going—and it doesn't help that I have homework for Com and my Business Finance class waiting that I am dreading dealing with.