Unmistakable Read online

  Unmistakable

  I hate him. I hate his stupid, laughing eyes, and his stupid, magnificent body, and the stupid way he looks at me and takes away all of the not-completely-insane parts of myself. The few I have left.

  I hate everything about him, but I can’t ignore the truth lurking underneath the haze of my anger, beating its unmistakable rhythm: I want to stand in his fire. I want to be consumed.

  After a tragic crime leaves her physically and emotionally damaged, eighteen-year-old Stella Granger struggles to come to terms with the collapse of her idyllic life. Desperate for anonymity, she escapes to Greenview College, exchanging charity balls and pastel cardigans for frat parties and black leather boots.

  Three years later, she’s finally managed to put the pieces of herself back together. Holden Evans, her absurdly handsome psychology professor, might be the most annoying person she’s ever met, but he’s a welcome distraction. In fact, Stella can almost forget that Luke Dixon, her brother’s best friend and the man who saved her life, ever existed.

  Luke, the rebellious son of a British billionaire, hasn’t forgotten about her. When a chance meeting threatens to unearth long-suppressed secrets and desires, the battle lines are drawn. The universe may have conspired to bring them together, but Stella’s gotten pretty sick of near-death experiences and she doesn’t want to play Luke’s treacherous games.

  However, she may have underestimated one tiny truth—need beats want. Every single time.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Bonus Chapter: Luke

  Sneak Peek of Beholden

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © by Lauren Abrams

  The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited. No part of this book can be reproduced in any form or by electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without the expressed written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locals is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  “Stelllllllllaaaaaa!”

  You might think that the sound of a half-drunk, half-grown man screaming my name would catch my attention, but truthfully, I’ve been expecting it. Most people at this party left tipsy behind a long time ago, and it follows that grand, sweeping, romantic gestures start to seem like a good idea. Plus, Dr. Simmons, who is teaching playwriting this semester, has a seriously unhealthy obsession with Tennessee Williams. The first assignment for his class is to write a modern version of A Streetcar Named Desire, and while the Stella reenactment to house party ratio is currently running at about 30%, those numbers skyrocket when lazy frat boys take his class in the hopes of scoring an easy A on their transcripts.

  It’s going to be a very, very long semester.

  I turn sharply on my heels and give Reese my best hate glare.

  “Stella, come on,” he whines. “Where’s your sense of adventure? You can’t leave yet. The party’s just getting started.”

  “All evidence points to the contrary.”

  I incline my head towards a girl who’s heaving into the bushes and sweep my hand over the lawn, which is littered with beer cans and discarded ping pong balls. While the music is still thumping, the drunken voices, with their calls of “one more shot,” are drowning out the inane lyrics. I’ll give it maybe thirty minutes before one of the neighbors calls the cops.

  Reese gives the girl in the bushes a disgusted glance before focusing his attention back on me. “Some ladies just can’t handle their liquor, and that’s a damn shame. But not our Stella. Stelllllllaaaaa.”

  My annoyance level is reaching monumental proportions. “Original. Seriously. Great job. Marlon Brando himself would be proud. I would give you a standing ovation, but I’m already standing, so that would kind of defeat your purpose, don’t you think?”

  “Want me to try it with an accent? I can do Southern, y’all. Stella, baby, come inside and we’ll get you a nice sweet tea, now. Ya heard me?”

  “Nice try. Also, sweet tea is absolutely disgusting.”

  “I ain’t gonna quit on you, baby. Get your cute little butt inside and we’ll take another shot.” He beckons me with one finger, bearing an uncanny resemblance to an overgrown, slobbering puppy dog.

  “How can I resist when you make it sound so appealing, Reese?”

  “Seriously?”

  I throw my head back and laugh. “No way in hell. I’m going home, but you boys have fun now. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to torture in no time flat.”

  “Stella.” All traces of the Southern accent have vanished, and his voice carries a hint of real concern. “Let me walk you home. At the very least, let me find Izzy so the two of you can schlep across campus together. It’s not safe out there.”

  “Iz is staying with Danny tonight. And trust me, I can take care of myself.”

  “You know the rules. No girl walks home alone. Ever.” He pauses, his lips set in a thin line. “In addition, Izzy scares me. You and I both know that she will murder me when she hears about this.”

  I soften. Slightly. And it’s mostly because Izzy scares the crap out of me. “Just tell her I tackled you. I’ll take the heat.”

  “She won’t believe me,” he says, his voice firm.

  “Izzy knows me pretty well, and my self-defense skills are legendary at this point. Even if I do say so myself.”

  Satisfied that I’ve made my point, I turn to leave. When I hear his footsteps on the stairs of the porch, I whirl around. He’s persistent. I’ll give him that.

  With my hands placed firmly on my hips, I unleash a lecture. “If you happen to get any bright ideas about following me home, which I highly doubt, since I’m not sure if you’ve had a bright idea in your life, I make no promises about being able to protect you. I think I might just be better off alone. In fact, I know I’m better off alone.”

  Exasperated, Reese finally retreats. “Stella, you are everything they say about you. The frozen one. The ball buster. Carved from steel.”

  “Proud of it,” I call back.

  I’m unable to keep the tiny quaver out of my voice, and my hands tremble. Thankfully, Reese isn’t exactly an astute observer of nonverbal human behavior. Or any human behavior.

  Ice princess. The queen of devastation. There’s a long litany of other names, and each and every one of them drives a tiny spike of regret into my gut. I still have to give bonus creativity points to whomever came up with bone-crushing femme bot. It might even make a pretty good WWF name, if I ever decided to change career paths. Steroidal rage might not be too pleasant, though.

  It’s really my own fault. I pretty much cemented my reputation by kneeing an overzealous senior in the balls at my first frat party. Then, lest anyone forget that minor inciden
t, I punched some dude’s lights out when he tried to get a very drunk Izzy to come see his “impressive” comic book collection after the sophomore Spring Fling.

  As it turned out, Victim #2 was just a huge nerd who loved comic books. But by the time I bothered to apologize, I was condemned to go down in Greenview history as the only homicidal maniac to maintain a perfect 4.0.

  Jack would have had a good laugh over the comic book incident. I can see him slapping his leg and rearing back his head to laugh at me. “Not my little delicate flower. Are we really talking about the same Stella who refuses to watch Homeward Bound because she’s afraid Sassy is going to die?”

  I stumble backwards on the sidewalk. Sometimes, the memories abate quickly and all I can catch is a whiff of freshly cut grass or the fading rumble of his laughter. Sometimes, I’m not so lucky.

  I take a deep breath and count to five, knowing that his voice inside my head will eventually fade into nothing. It was once five days, five hours, five minutes, but I’m practiced in the art of grief now. I return to my normal, ball-busting self within five seconds.

  Reese takes another step off the porch, but I merely flip my middle finger up and blow him a goodbye kiss, which he catches and holds close to his heart. I even manage to smile. How’s that for normal?

  As I start my trek back to my dorm room, he bellows one last warning: “Be careful out there. The world’s a big, bad dangerous place, Stella girl.”

  I don’t need him to tell me that, but I appreciate the sentiment. Reese isn’t so bad, really. I reach into my purse for my can of pepper spray and wave it at him.

  “Good girl!”

  “Don’t you know it!” I yell back.

  I sidestep a couple of party deserters who are weaving back and forth across the sidewalk, and my pace quickens when I reach the dimly lit path across Greenview’s main quad. Sanderson Avenue would be quicker, but the open spaces and the glowing emergency boxes provide the illusion of safety.

  Because safety is always an illusion. Even for the bone-crushing femme bot. Even if I wanted to, I can’t forget that one simple truth.

  Haver Hall, the upperclassmen dorm, is a decaying monument to 1970s décor—flat-roofed, rigidly symmetrical, and brutally ugly. In spite of the assault on my eyes, I breathe a pitiful sigh of relief when I reach the stone steps. My phone hums out a familiar rhythm and I pick it up automatically, knowing exactly who is calling and why.

  “Hello, Isabella.”

  “Girl, are you trying to give me a heart attack? Reese just told me that you refused his very generous offer to walk you home. What are you, ten thousand kinds of stupid?”

  “What are you, ten thousand kinds of blind? Have you seen that boy’s spaghetti arms? Besides, I’m already at Haver. I’ll be inside as soon as I can get my stupid card to work.”

  “It’s a well-known fact that Reese has spaghetti arms. He’s also half in love with you. You could throw the guy a bone once in a while.”

  “That would only encourage him, which is needlessly cruel.” I smack the little black box with my electronic card, but the red light continues to beep angrily at me. My anger is exacerbated by the fear that I can’t quite suppress. My head knows that I am safe, that there are security cameras currently examining me from every angle, but my gut hasn’t gotten the message.

  “Iz, I freaking hate…”

  “Let me guess. You freaking hate the stupid, ugly, prison-like, non-functioning, crumbling, shit brick dorm?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  “You’ve only told me that every five minutes for the last three years. You have to jangle your card in front of the pad. Swipe it back and forth.”

  “That’s what I did.” I swipe again and let out a frustrated groan.

  “Do you want some cheese with your wine, Stella? Try smacking it against the sensor, then. Gently. If you hit it too hard, which I know you’re doing, it starts to bug out.”

  I slap the card against the black sensor, more gently this time. Of course, Iz’s little magic trick works wonders, and I’m mildly annoyed that she is, as always, right. The generous thing to do would be to thank her, but I’m not in a generous mood.

  “You know, if we had gotten the apartment on Pine...”

  “We never would have had to deal with prox cards and RAs and shower shoes. Yes. This is all true. But if your parents found out that we were living the good life in an off-campus den of iniquity, we’d both be in the shitter. Your dad’s probably hacked all of the satellites to target you. He’s probably listening to us talk about him right now.”

  I don’t argue with the satellite comment. My father is a psychopath. A kind, wonderful, fantastic psychopath.

  “So, we stay under the radar. We can buy some blow-up dolls and stick them in our room. That should fool him for a few weeks. He doesn’t have enough skills to tap into the government satellites.”

  It’s a half-hearted attempt. Also, my dad happens to have an excellent business relationship with the Russians. He probably worked unlimited satellite usage into his last deal.

  Izzy’s laughter comes tumbling out. “Blow-up dolls? What is this, some kind of sick horror movie?”

  I give up.

  “Don’t you have a boyfriend to bother? I need to spend the next couple of hours agonizing over my first day of school outfit.”

  “Let me guess. You’re picking between black and hideous and black and revolting.”

  “Nag.”

  “Baby steps? Maybe gray?”

  I choose to ignore her sarcasm. “Iz, I really have to go. Our table? 9:30? We can head to class right after we get some coffee.”

  “Get pumped. Psych 101 is practically a rite of passage for college students.”

  “Don’t remind me.” I could go into all of the reasons why I could skip this particular rite of passage, but I’m not in the mood for another lecture, so I merely groan. “Just you and me and five hundred of our freshmen buddies.”

  “You never know,” she teases. “One of them might be cute.”

  “One of them might be a deranged weirdo taking Psych 101 to get some insight into his own twisted serial killer mind. Serial killers can be cute. What was that guy’s name? The Facebook killer? I’m sure plenty of people thought he was cute. Nope. I am staying away from cute freshman serial killers.”

  Izzy sighs in exasperation. “Night, Stella. Love you.”

  “Night, Iz. Love you, too.”

  After shoving my phone into my purse, I let myself into our “deluxe suite.” The name suggests that the guy who makes the residential life brochures has a decent sense of humor, because I’m fairly certain that my room used to be the janitor’s closet. Iz’s room is only a little larger, and the biggest of the three, the laughable living room, barely fits a coffee table and two beat-up chairs from Iz’s parents’ house.

  This was supposed to be our year of living dangerously. I had visions of a loft apartment with twelve-foot ceilings. Iz would have a studio for her painting (which would double as a dance floor for 80s night), and I would have a little study nook in the corner.

  Instead, I live in a dungeon. I’m going to frat parties that I outgrew three years ago. And I’m enrolled in Psych 101, which means that tomorrow, I get to listen to some talking head wax poetically about the five stages of grief and post-traumatic stress disorder and chemical alleviation and catatonic states and a million other clinical phrases. I know them all.

  I am so not looking forward to this.

  Chapter 2

  The cavernous lecture hall is filled with eager faces, sparkly Macbooks, and the most telltale sign that we are the lone senior citizens amidst a sea of children—freshly-showered faces. Ugh. Freshmen.

  I can’t help but envy their doe-eyed innocence, which only increases my craving to mock them.

  As we make our way up the aisle, I whisper into Izzy’s ear, “Ooh. Our first college class ever. Oh my gosh. We should totally Instagram this. I’ll want to remember it forever and ever.”


  “You are such a brat,” she hisses.

  “Selfies for Facebook?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I’m on a scouting mission. Stop trying to distract me.”

  As she ogles a few of the boys, I keep my eyes focused on the prize, which is a pair of seats in the back row.

  Ever the dutiful student, Izzy sits down first and immediately pulls out her laptop. I have no intention of doing anything other than taking a nap, but before I can settle in to do just that, my vision catches on the question scrawled in Sharpie on the back of the ancient wooden chair.

  What can change the nature of a man? (One word answers only).

  It’s a decent question, and it’s inspired some decent answers. Most of them are related to vengeance in some form or another—rage, grief, revenge, hate, torture. A nihilist scribbled nothing in bold block letters over some sentimental sot’s answer—love. To my absolute delight, the accompanying little heart doodles have been turned into more obscene scribbles.

  I’m not satisfied with any of the answers, but nothing better pops into my head. That’s good. I like questions without obvious answers. If we sit here for each class, the chair might even provide me with a little project for the semester.

  And I know that we will be sitting here every time. After three years at Greenview, I’ve learned that it generally takes an act of god (or a well-meaning professor trying to promote a positive class culture) to get people to change their seats.

  I used to switch it up a little bit by sitting in a different area of the room each time, but it really freaked out this girl in my Grecian architecture class. She started screaming at me in the middle of lecture on Doric columns, and while that probably had more to do with her asshole boyfriend, I didn’t want to risk it again.

  So, I conformed. It wasn’t too much of a hardship. We’re all pretty much creatures of habit, I think, somewhere deep down. My mother would say that it has something to do with behavioral conditioning over centuries of human history, but I’d like to think that we’re really just looking for something familiar in the face of unimaginable chaos. There are enough surprises in life. An agonizing choice of where to sit (back or front, side or middle, strangers or friends, teacher’s pet or slacker) shouldn’t be one of them.