Tangled up in Hate

by Charlotte Byrd

  I click on the bar graph. “Thirty-seven,” I whisper, careful not to break the spell.

  “You sold thirty-seven books today?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, come here.” He pulls me up to my feet and kisses me passionately on the mouth. I kiss him right back.

  “I couldn’t do this without you,” I mumble.

  “Of course, you could. It was you who did it.”

  “But you supported me. You believed in me.”

  “That’s what you do when you love someone.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck, draping myself over him. He tries to lead me to the bed, but I pull away.

  “No…” I laugh.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I have work to do. I need to finish this chapter.”

  “I have created a monster,” Jackson says, pulling me in for one more kiss.

  3

  Harley

  When I can’t pull away…

  I want to pull away again.

  I have work to do.

  But with Jackson’s arms around me, I lose myself.

  It’s as if another part of me takes over. I am no longer ruled by my mind, but by my body.

  My arms wrap around his neck on their own as my legs walk backward toward the bed.

  I pull him on top of me and my body quivers under his.

  His muscles are powerful and strong and I bury my fingernails into his back. Our lips devour each other’s but then he pulls away from me for a second.

  “I thought you had to work,” he mocks.

  “I thought I did, too,” I mumble and pull him closer to me.

  I open my mouth and welcome his tongue inside.

  Tugging at his shirt, I pull it over his head.

  With our faces briefly separated, I bite my lower lip as I run my fingertips over his washboard abs.

  They flex and relax with each breath.

  He pulls my chin up to his face and says, “My eyes are up here.”

  I laugh. “You’re just so…delicious.”

  “Delicious, huh? I would have to say the same thing about you as well.”

  He pins me down to the bed with my hands behind my head.

  I smile.

  He presses his lips to mine and slowly makes his way down my neck and to the top of my breasts.

  I am still wearing a long sleeve V-neck, but not for long.

  When he pulls it off, I reach down and unbuckle his belt.

  “What’s the hurry?” he whispers in my ear.

  “I want you right now,” I say and pull off my own leggings along with my underwear.

  I kiss him again.

  Our kisses are sloppy and messy and neither of us really care.

  “How do you want to do it?” he mumbles into my ear.

  I flip over on my stomach and put my butt up in the air.

  Jackson laughs, grabbing me by my hips and pushing me back down to the bed.

  I bury my face in the pillow, only turning my neck slightly to get some air.

  The silk sheets keep slipping through my fingers every time I try to grab hold of them.

  As he slides into me, I revel in his body cradling mine.

  It’s as if he is draped completely around me, protecting us in an impenetrable cocoon.

  With each movement, a warm soothing sensation starts to build within my body. I feel myself getting close, shut my eyes, and try to relax and lose myself in the moment.

  But then he grabs onto my hair and pulls me back off the bed.

  It’s just an inch or so and it’s not painful.

  The sensation makes my whole body ache for his and the moment that I thought I could prolong takes me over completely.

  I yell his name into my pillow, wrapping my fingers around the corners of it. Jackson continues to move on top of me.

  The tempo increases along with his breathing until he can’t hold on anymore than I could.

  I close my eyes as I listen to him whisper my name and collapse on top of me, completely spent.

  Suddenly, a pang of fear rushes through me.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper, pushing him off me. “We didn’t use anything.”

  He smiles and starts to laugh.

  My brows furrow in anger.

  How could he do this?

  He knows that I’m not on the pill.

  How could he be so irresponsible?

  Though I’m directing my frustration outward, it really belongs with me. It is me who I am angry with.

  You’re not a fucking teenager, Harley.

  You need to think.

  But Jackson doesn’t seem to share my concern.

  Instead, he paints a stupid, plastic smile on his face and laughs.

  “What am I going to do?” I shove him, wrapping the sheet around my body. “Why are you laughing?”

  He points down.

  “What?”

  “Look.” He continues to point down. Finally, I look where he’s signaling and crack up as well.

  “You should’ve seen your face,” he says, giving me a kiss.

  “You shouldn’t play games like that.”

  “I wasn’t playing a game.”

  I kiss him back.

  “How did you even get it on so quickly? I didn’t see you doing it at all,” I say.

  “What can I say? I’ve got skills.”

  4

  Harley

  When we disagree…

  The bodyguards are following us around everywhere.

  I think it’s a bit of overkill, but Jackson has decided that it’s absolutely necessary. In the house, they pretty much leave me alone.

  Yet, when I go outside, they don’t leave my side.

  Why does it bother me so much?

  Why can’t I just ignore it, like Jackson has suggested on a number of occasions? Believe me, I tried.

  But I can’t.

  Their mere presence, watching me, following me everywhere I go feels like I have a stalker again.

  “Parker Huntington is a very dangerous person,” Jackson says when I bring up going to the bookstore on my own.

  We are still lying in bed, in the afterglow of our afternoon’s delight.

  “Are you seriously telling me this?” I ask, sitting up, and pulling the sheet over my breasts. “You don’t think I know that?”

  “He’s still out there. The police don’t know where he is. The FBI is looking for him. And he’s looking for you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “He’s probably thousands of miles away from here by now. He’s not an idiot,” I insist. “He doesn’t want to go to prison.”

  Jackson shakes his head with a disappointed look on his face.

  I get out of bed, frustrated.

  This is not how our amazing afternoon today should’ve ended, with this bitter taste in both of our mouths.

  After all of this time together, and through everything that we have been through, this is really the only point of contention that we have.

  I don’t want anyone following me and he does. He doesn’t trust the world and thinks that these people will protect me.

  It’s not that I trust the world much, or that I don’t think that the bodyguards aren’t good at their job.

  It’s more that I want my freedom.

  After being held captive in that God-forsaken cabin, I want to go where I please and do what I want. I don’t want to report to anyone. I don’t want to account for myself in any way.

  After I put on my clothes, I pick up the laptop and head into my favorite room. It’s the downstairs study, with beautiful blush pink walls and bookcases that line the bottom half of the room.

  It has large windows and a soft gray fabric couch.

  Sitting down, I prop my feet up on the matching ottoman and glance out of the window.

  A little blackbird hops on the windowsill, inquisitively peering inside.

  I try to put our argument out of my mind and
distract myself with something else.

  There’s a string of unopened emails, most of which I delete without even opening.

  I should really unsubscribe myself from these lists instead of deleting them every day, but today will not be the day for that project.

  * * *

  I love your book!

  * * *

  I stare at the subject line in disbelief.

  Is this really from a reader?

  My hands get sweaty and my heartbeat speeds up a bit.

  I try to click on the headline slowly, but it’s either a click or not.

  I take a deep breath before reading the body of the email.

  * * *

  Wow! I love this story so much. I was supposed to clean and meal-prep today, but instead I stayed curled up on the couch reading your book. I can’t wait to get back to it tonight after I put the kids to bed. Thank you so much for writing it! When is the next one coming out?

  * * *

  My body trembles as I read the words over and over.

  She loved my book? Really?

  Enough to actually reach out to me and tell me? I have been moved by books before, of course.

  But it never really occurred to me to reach out to the writer and tell her about it. And when Jackson insisted that I make the newsletter sign up and post my author email in the back of my books and on my author profile online, it never once occurred to me that anyone would ever reach out.

  I write her back almost immediately.

  * * *

  Thank you so much! Your email is everything!! I am so glad you enjoyed my book. I am currently working on the second book and it should be out in a week or two.

  * * *

  And as soon as I press send, I turn back to my book and start writing.

  The words flow fast and steady.

  It takes me a good ten minutes to focus my mind at first, but then my body seems to take over.

  It’s as if my fingers type on their own, and all my mind has to do is follow along.

  Everybody knows about writer’s block and I am not immune to it.

  At least, in my past. I would sit in front of the blank page for hours, spending most of that time distracting myself with my phone and the internet.

  But no more.

  When I started writing this series, I realized that the most important key to writing is to place your butt in a chair and force yourself to do it.

  Easier said than done, huh?

  Well, there are a few more tricks to it.

  They may not work for everyone, but they have worked for me.

  I never start writing without having a really good idea of what I’m going to cover in this chapter.

  In fact, I always write down a few sentences of what’s going to happen right below where the chapter begins.

  Another thing I do is time myself.

  It’s always hardest to write the first one thousand words early in the morning. So, I set the timer and lie to myself.

  Just write for twenty minutes.

  That’s it. Just do that and that will be it.

  I read over the paragraph of what I’m going to write about and then start the clock.

  Well, with the timer running, my competitive nature kicks in.

  My mind starts to formulate thoughts and my fingers begin to type.

  Quickly, the page gets filled up with words.

  Usually, by the time the timer goes off, I am well into my creative flow zone and I want nothing more than to keep going.

  So, I do.

  But if, after twenty minutes, I still feel like I’m dragging my feet, then I set the timer again.

  And again.

  That’s the thing about writing.

  It’s an art form, of course. But it’s also a sport.

  It requires constant exercise and engagement.

  All I ever wanted to do was write, so that’s exactly what I’m doing.

  And now that I have this opportunity, now that people are actually buying my books and writing me emails about how much they love them, I want to do it even more. It’s all I really want to do.

  5

  Harley

  When he surprised me…

  After finishing two thousand words, I take a little break.

  I’m thirsty and a bit hungry but I avoid the kitchen.

  That’s where the bodyguards tend to congregate and I hate seeing them here. Though the house is big enough to wander through it without really noticing them, I know that they’re here.

  And that’s what irks me.

  At the top of the stairs, I immediately turn to the east wing of the house because that’s where our bedroom is.

  But something stops me.

  I’ve actually never seen the other side of this floor.

  There is a reason for that. I remember it clearly.

  It was my first day here and Jackson had specifically forbid me to go to the upper west wing of the house.

  And I haven’t.

  Not yet.

  Now, it’s okay, right?

  I mean, I’m not an employee anymore.

  I’m a girlfriend.

  I practically live here now.

  So, it often feels like I am a lot more than that. I walk to the end of the hall and try one of the rooms.

  When I twist the handle, the door opens and I walk into an office. Or maybe it’s a library.

  There are shelves going up to the ceiling, all around the large desk in the middle of the room. The desk is lined with photographs.

  Lila.

  So, this is her. I pick up a silver frame with a little girl in pigtails on a tricycle. She has Jackson’s smile.

  In another picture, she’s swinging on a rope swing.

  In another, she is walking barefoot on the beach, laughing.

  I look at each one and run my fingers over her face.

  In all of this time that we have been together, through everything that we have endured, he has only mentioned her name a handful of times.

  I poured my heart out to him in Montana, telling him of my own loss.

  But he has hidden his pain from me.

  It’s more than that actually. He has hidden his pain away from himself.

  I only know bits and pieces of what happened.

  But being in this room, it’s suddenly clear.

  There’s the fireplace.

  I touch the ornate woodwork on the mantel.

  It’s beautiful, but it’s not original.

  It has been replaced since the fire.

  I try to piece together the sequence of events from what Jackson told me. But it all comes in pieces.

  One moment, Lila was playing here and the next she was ablaze.

  Did she get too close to the fire?

  Did one of the sparks fly too far away from the wood?

  Questions twirl around in my head, but then another one dawns on me.

  Does it really matter?

  She’s gone and so is the man who was her father. Jackson is still himself in body, and most of his soul, but there’s a hole there.

  When I first met him, I thought that empty space within him could mend somehow. I thought that by bringing him out into the world, he would get all better. And a big part of him did.

  But there is still this speck, this little piece that’s not quite the same.

  I know because there’s a part of me that’s not quite the same.

  “What are you doing here?”

  His thunderous voice startles me and I drop the copper picture frame with Lila running through a field in a big white dress.

  The glass shatters as it hits the floor and shards go everywhere.

  “I’m so sorry,” I mumble, getting down on my knees to try to salvage the picture.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” Jackson demands.

  He has never cursed at me before. The word sends shivers down my spine.

  “I’m sorry, okay? I’ve never been here before…I was just looking around.”r />
  He grabs me by my shoulders, pulling me up to my feet.

  “You’re not allowed here. Don’t you remember that?”

  “Yes, but I thought that…” My words trail off.

  “I don’t want you here. This is my private space.”

  He ushers me to the door, but I resist. I know that he’s angry, but that his rage is fueled by sorrow.

  “This is where it happened, isn’t it?” I whisper.

  “I don’t want to talk about it. You have to leave.”

  “Let me just clean the glass. It’s the least I can do,” I plead.

  Our eyes meet and suddenly it occurs to me that this is a much bigger deal than it seemed. There’s a darkness there. His gaze isn’t like it was before. Something is different.

  I apologize again and again.

  I reach for his hand, but he pushes me away.

  When he finally gets me out of that room, he closes the door behind us and locks it.

  I wait for whatever is going to happen next.

  He just needs some time.

  I’ll give him some space and everything will be back to normal.

  I just know it.

  He’s angry, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper again and put my arms around him.

  He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

  Then he pulls away from me and focuses his gaze on mine.

  “This isn’t going to work, Harley.” His words are slow.

  Deliberate.

  Final.

  “I need you to take your things and move out.”

  6

  Harley

  When nothing makes sense…

  My ears start to buzz as a thick haze forms in front of my eyes.

  Suddenly, I’m in a fog.

  Nothing makes sense.

  What is he talking about?

  I stare at him in disbelief.

  “Don’t even joke about that, Jackson,” I say, taking a step toward him.