Stepbrother Studs: Preston Read online

  You hit your head.

  Yes, there were the tender lumps on her scalp, surrounded with dried blood.

  Or someone hit you.

  Why couldn’t she remember?

  She didn’t know what scared her most—her loss of memory or her sudden blindness.

  The fear made her limbs go cold, her heart lurching in her chest.

  She thought, maybe, she was even more terrified of whatever—or whoever—lurked outside this room.

  The man… his touch had been gentle, his voice kind.

  Not her stepfather, certainly.

  But had she dreamed him?

  Was she, in fact, in the hands of some monster? Someone who made her stepfather appear like the Father of the Year?

  The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t…

  Something her mother used to say.

  Lara tried to calm her fast breathing, pressing her hands together to stop them trembling, in an unconscious gesture of prayer. She was injured—blind. She couldn’t remember what happened and she had no idea where she was. Or who might have brought her here.

  She should be in a hospital, bandaged and hooked up to an I.V. But this place was no hospital. There was no hum or beep of machines, no shoes squeaking on a tiled hallway, no murmured conversations in the corridors.

  Slowly, she put her feet on the floor, easing herself off the bed, relieved to find that she could stand. Her ankles burned and her legs ached, but they held her. She was shaking, not from cold but from fear. Shuffling, her hands held out in front of her, she searched for a door. If she could find a door, she might be able to escape. Surely there must be another house close to this one, a friendly neighbor who would wrap her in a blanket and call 911.

  My phone!

  Lara groped the back pocket of her jeans, searching for the rectangular outline of her iPhone. Nothing. Then she checked her front pockets, finding nothing there, either. It had been a longshot anyway—she usually kept her cell in her purse.

  Had the man taken her purse? Had this been a robbery gone wrong?

  She couldn’t remember anything at all about how she’d gotten hurt. Taking slow, shuffling steps on bare feet across the hardwood floor, she tried to remember something. Her last memory. In her mind’s eye, she saw a screen. Her laptop. She remembered refreshing over and over, checking for her grades. The first semester was over and she hoped to get all A’s. Her history professor was a dick, though—rumors were that he never gave anyone an A. Then Kate had called her for dinner.

  Had she found out her grades? She couldn’t remember. The memory of going down the stairs, feeling hungry—her stomach rumbled now, and she wondered how long it had been since she’d eaten—glancing at the Christmas tree and the presents underneath as she went by. She’d been dreading Christmas break in the mountains. She hated it, would never be able to go there again without remembering Preston and everything that had happened there.

  It was Christmas Eve.

  Lara reached up with one hand, reassuring herself that her locket was still on its chain.

  Her other hand touched a wall. She used both hands to explore. Logs, not drywall. She edged to the left, excited when she found a vertical seam, following it down to the doorknob she knew must be there.

  She took a breath and turned it.

  Locked.

  Of course.

  She put her cheek against the door, closing her blind eyes and listening. There was no noise or movement.

  For the first time since she woke, Lara felt the full weight of her situation. It hit her hard, forcing her to her knees. She buried her face in her hands and cried. What was she going to do? Her imagination ran riot—and all of the horrible possibilities seemed endless.

  She was injured, blind, helpless. Alone in a locked room with no food, no water.

  And what if the man came back?

  What if he didn’t?

  What if she’d dreamed him altogether?

  That whispered “Shhhh,” was the one thing she had to hold onto. Could she trust the man?

  It was a mighty thin thread of comfort.

  Crying made her head hurt even more and she cradled it in her hands, rocking, sniffling.

  It hurt so much. She’d had migraines before but this was different. Just as painful but less focused.

  Get out. You have to get out of here.

  The urge was overwhelming.

  While she had the chance, while the man was gone—if there was a man at all—she had to find a way to escape.

  Steeling herself and wiping her wet face with her hands, and her hands on her jeans, Lara squared her shoulders and set off, crawling this time. The floor was smooth and cool, but not cold. She made her way back to the bed and climbs up onto it. Reaching beside her, she found the base of the lamp again. Otherwise, the top of the table was empty. No landline, then. She didn’t think so, but it was worth a look.

  A look. Ha. You can’t see anything.

  This fact still terrified her, even though her body was slowly adjusting to her new state of being.

  She had to feel her way now. So be it. Her hands explored the bed. A firm mattress, sheets, a coverlet. The head of the bed was against a wall. She remembered the faint sounds she’d heard—the bird.

  There must be a window.

  Her hands moved up the wall the bed was against, searching over the headboard. A picture was anchored there. No window. The bed was pushed into a corner and she began to explore that wall, up on her knees on the mattress. Lara startled with excitement when soft fabric brushed her hands. Curtains! She touched the pane of glass, feeling the cold seeping in past the seal. She found the latch, working it with her fingers. It was old. Rusted. It didn’t want to move.

  “Goddamnit,” she swore under her breath, yanking at the metal fastener, putting all her weight into it, leaning back to get more leverage.

  It was stuck. She would need a tool to open it.

  Tears surfaced and she fought them.

  Break the glass.

  Lara considered this.

  The lamp would work, she thought. The base was weighty enough to shatter the glass.

  She could use the coverlet to lay over the window ledge and slip outside to freedom.

  And then what?

  She was barefoot. It was the middle of winter. And if she was still in Colorado—for some reason, she had a feeling she was—they’d had a foot of snow just a few days before.

  Not to mention the fact that she was blind.

  Maybe she could find her shoes? A coat?

  Lara decided to thoroughly explore the room. It took her a while, even though she found that the room was actually quite small, because she was feeling her way. Its dimensions were rectangular. There was only one door and one window, the former locked, the latter stuck shut. The furniture consisted of a full-sized bed with a carved, wooden headboard, a night table, and a small bureau. Inside the bureau, she found a few blankets that smelled like mothballs, but that was all. She even explored under the bed—until she felt a mouse run over her hand.

  Then, Lara shrieked and jumped up onto the bed, pulling the covers around her and cowering in the corner.

  Feeling utterly helpless, she began to cry again, this time letting herself.

  She didn’t have any idea what to do.

  Circumstances seemed to be forcing her to wait, to stay put until the man came back.

  If he was coming back.

  Was he her salvation—or her end?

  She didn’t know.

  She wished she could remember what had happened.

  Lara lowered her head to her knees, closing her eyes, and tried again. There were memories, certainly. Taking notes in class. Shopping at a department store, buying a pair of nice leather boots. Snippets of songs. But they seemed far away. Old memories were the easiest to access, which was far more painful than she could have anticipated. The feel of her mother’s lips brushing her forehead as she tucked her into bed. The smell of her mother’s pe
rfume lingering in the walk-in closet Lara loved to explore when her stepfather took her mother out to dinner.

  Her stepfather’s hand covering her mouth, telling her not to move or make a sound.

  Christ. Was that an old memory or a new one?

  Does it matter?

  Lara had lived so long in constant fear of him, memories like that ran together like every color in the rainbow, until they were all the same dull brown.

  Was he out there, even now?

  She cocked her head, listening.

  The truth was, the thought of her stepfather being her captor terrified her far more than the man, the stranger.

  If he was real… if he had been the one who carried her to safety.

  She didn’t know why she thought that, but she did.

  Lara lifted her head, calling out tentatively, “Hello?”

  She tried again, louder this time. “Hello?”

  Maybe there was someone out there, behind the locked door, who could help her

  “Help me!” she cried, her voice loud in the little room. “Please! Help me! Hello? Is someone there?”

  No answer.

  Cocking her head, she listened intently. Already, her hearing had begun compensating for her lack of sight.

  He’s coming.

  She thought she’d heard the light “snick” of a door closing somewhere but then she second-guessed herself.

  Pulling the covers around her, she shivered. It wasn’t cold in the room, but it wasn’t exactly warm, either.

  I’m lost.

  The feeling overwhelmed her and a memory surfaced. Hansel and Gretel, holding hands and finding their way to a little cabin in the woods.

  Oh God, these old memories are going to kill me, she thought, reaching up to touch her locket.

  Preston. His picture was there now, beside her mother’s, and it gave her great comfort, even if she couldn’t see it anymore.

  She could see his face in her mind’s eye, that quirky smile, those dark eyes.

  “I miss you,” she whispered in the darkness.

  Her head hurt again. Instead of the steady pounding, it became something piercing and hot behind her eyes. Lara rested, pulling the covers over her, and fell into a thrashing, painful darkness again.

  She awoke when the door opened.

  “Hello?” she croaked, her throat dry, as she struggled to sit.

  “Shhh.” It was the man.

  It wasn’t a dream.

  He was here, beside her, holding water out for her to drink. Without thinking, she gulped it. It could be poisoned. But it wasn’t. She knew this, but she didn’t know how.

  “Please,” she pleaded, as he pulled the glass away. “You have to help me.”

  He placed something in her hand. Pills.

  “What are these for?” Her voice was strained, rising. “I’m blind! I need to get to a hospital! Can’t you help me?”

  “Shhh…” He was shushing her. It was an expression of reassurance, but there was a sense of urgency in it, as if there was a very good reason she had to be quiet. Was she in danger? Was there someone nearby who might hurt her? Them?

  The man took the forgotten pills from her hand and placed them in her mouth.

  They were bitter and she gagged. He held the glass up so she could swallow them and she did.

  What did I just take?

  Whoever this man was—he wasn’t her stepfather.

  The man pressed her back onto the bed and, for a moment, she was afraid. But he wasn’t rough and he didn’t climb on top of her. Instead, he covered her back up with the blankets, tucking them under her chin.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, although she wasn’t sure exactly why she was thanking this stranger. She could smell his scent—something masculine. Sweat, with a subtle hint of aftershave.

  The man didn’t speak. He just sat at the edge of the bed. She sensed him looking at her. Was he thinking about what to do with her? Why hadn’t he taken her to a hospital?

  When he touched her hand, she startled. He stroked the back of her hand with his fingertips, gently, so very tender. Then he took her hand in both of his. They were large hands, powerful. But they patted her, trying to comfort, and that brought instant tears to her eyes.

  “I’m blind.” She looked in his direction, eyes open, although she couldn’t even see his shadow. “What happened to me?”

  No answer.

  Lara reached out, feeling her way up his thick forearm, the even larger bicep, her fingers finding his cheek.

  She gasped to find his cheeks wet with tears.

  “Can you speak?” she asked him softly, feeling the shake of his head. He made a noise, but it was just a low grunt.

  What a pair they made! One blind, one mute. She almost let out a little hysterical laugh but managed to hold it back.

  Leaving her palm against his cheek, she asked him, “Am I safe here? With you?”

  He nodded, pressing his own hand over hers against his cheek.

  Lara felt the breath leave her lungs in a rush, as if she’d been holding it all along. She had dreamed this man into being somehow, perhaps. Maybe she was lying in a hospital bed in a coma and all of this was happening in her mind. But the man felt real to her. And she felt safe. Finally, she began to trust that feeling.

  “So, I’m free to go—if I want?”

  He hesitated this time, but nodded again.

  Relief flooded her whole body. Her limbs felt suddenly boneless. The hand against his cheek would have fallen away had he not been holding it there.

  She closed her eyes, a sudden wave of exhaustion rolling over her.

  The pills.

  Her head was no longer throbbing. The pain was beginning to ebb. He’d given her something to help.

  Her next question came more slowly. “Do we… do we know each other?”

  He nodded.

  Tears pricked her eyes. She tried to remember him but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Everything was moving slowly now, even her thoughts. She wanted to thank him for saving her—somehow she knew he had, although her mind still wouldn’t let her remember what had happened—but her mouth refused to work, wouldn’t form the words she wanted to say.

  Instead, she put her other hand up, finding his opposite cheek. Slowly, she pulled him closer, until she could feel his breath, warm and sweet, on her face. Then, she kissed him.

  The man made a low noise, his strong hands moving behind her, lifting her up against the broad heat of his chest, and kissed her back, long and hard.

  The pain was gone now. There was only this man, kissing her, as she floated in the darkness.

  He let her down softly. She felt him stroking her cheek with the back of his hand.

  That was the last thing she remembered before she drifted off.

  ~ Twenty-Four Hours Ago ~

  As much as she used to love Christmas, Lara hated it now.

  When her stepfather told her they were going up to the Colorado property for the holiday, she had almost refused. What would happen if she told him she’d been invited on a skiing trip with Michelle, the new friend she’d made at the University of Colorado. Would he let her go? It was true that she had been invited, but she knew Michelle only felt sorry for her. The bubbly redhead had taken pity on Lara—saw her only as a sad, chubby, lank-haired, pale-faced girl who sat next to her in history.

  Besides, she didn’t have the courage to ask. Her stepfather kept her close. He’d refused to let her go far away to school. For years, Lara had dreamed of distant colleges. Harvard. Yale. Maybe Wellesley. Then, she’d set her sights even further—to Oxford. Yes, her stepfather travelled internationally for business quite often, but if Lara had a roommate—if she had some time and distance away from her captor to heal, to grow, even to bloom—she thought she just might be strong enough to stand up for herself.

  It was the only thing she had to hang onto after Preston was gone. The only reason she didn’t take too many pills or shoot herself with her stepfather’s pistol or slit
her wrists in the bathtub—all thoughts that visited her nightly, usually after her stepfather had paid his own visit to her room.

  Lara sat quietly in the drawing room in front of the fire, remembering the last time she’d been there with her stepbrother. He’d sensed her melancholy, then, had tried to draw her out. What if she’d given in to her impulse and told him that night? She wondered, pouring herself another shot of whiskey. It was a habit she’d started not long after Preston died. It gave her a nice feeling, softened the edges of her memory. Kate always kept the bar stocked in all of their houses. Her stepfather never noticed anything missing. She didn’t even sneak around about it anymore, even though, at nineteen, she was still not technically old enough to drink.

  It didn’t matter to her if he knew she drank, because he knew the reason.

  She stared at the flames through the amber colored liquid in her glass, glad she was alone, but dreading her stepfather’s return. He’d driven down the mountain to meet someone—an urgent phone call had come in around dinner time—on Christmas Eve, no less. And while the news said the roads hadn’t been closed yet, the snow was still falling heavily outside and had been all day.

  Not that she cared. Anything that took her away from him was welcome, as far as she was concerned. If he killed himself driving the treacherous mountain road, she wouldn’t shed a single tear.

  Lara knocked back her shot of whiskey, savoring the burn in her throat, the warmth that spread through her chest and tingled her limbs. Then she poured herself another.

  Through the drawing room door, she could see the reflection of the Christmas tree on the parquet floor. The servants had stacked the presents underneath, most of them hers—her stepfather enjoyed giving her gifts and had no qualms now about buying her things from Victoria’s Secret, watching her open them with a dark light in his eyes. When she refused to wear them, he punished her—so she would do as he asked.

  But Lara had done her best to make herself unattractive to him in other ways. Alcohol was just one way she drowned her sorrows. She’d steadily put on weight—food was a wonderful solace. Candy bars, chips, trips through the McDonald’s drive through. As much sugar, fat and salt as she could manage, until the world receded and she could float away for a while. She’d stopped caring about her appearance a long time ago. He might be able to force her to wear the perverted things he bought for her, but he couldn’t force her to wash or put on make-up. He could treat her like a whore, but she refused to act like one for him. Her hair hung as limp and greasy as her body did when he bent her over the mattress and took what he insisted was his.