This Hurt (This Boy Book 2)

by Jenna Scott

  “You don’t tell me to shut up, you ungrateful little shit!” The veins are starting to pop at his temples. “And I will tell you this right now: when you get tired of her—”

  “That is not—”

  “Because you will get tired of her,” Dad speaks over me, “you will be the one wasting your time to find a replacement nanny for Harrison.” He clears his throat, and his voice returns to its regular volume. “Unless, of course, you’re planning to take care of him yourself. Which we both know you aren’t.”

  I want to laugh. He’s telling me all this thinking I’m going to skip town as soon as I’m done with school—well, joke’s on him. I am going to stay next year, and I am going to take care of my brother. And that is the one source of drama that haunts my relationship with Milla. It’s not that I’m going to get tired of her, like everyone seems to believe. I will never get tired of her.

  But there’s no point in saying anything else to these people. All they care about is money and status. Hell, their own relationship is based on money and status; they’d never understand what it’s like to love someone without strings attached.

  “Not that we’d even trust you with Harrison,” Karleigh adds. “We got a call from your principal, Hunter. It seems you can’t even be trusted to graduate.”

  “This isn’t about me,” I say through gritted teeth. “This is about Harrison, and the way you’re trying to destroy his life before it even has a chance to start.”

  “We’ll be the judge of that,” Dad says. “And since you’re here, we need to talk about your failing grades—”

  I turn around and leave. My grades are irrelevant, and who cares about them? All that matters to me is Milla and Harrison. And in that moment, I realize that there is absolutely nothing I can do to save him, not really, because my dad and Karleigh are right. They’re his parents.

  I get in my car and peel out of the driveway, racking my brain for places to go. A bar would be the obvious choice, but with this mood, I’d end up shitfaced and hungover tomorrow, and Milla would rip me a new one for doing that again. I could call one of my so-called friends, spend the night elsewhere like Milla is, but I don’t want to be with any of the guys, either. I want to be with Milla.

  I need her.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Camilla

  As usual, Isabel’s asleep practically the second her head hits the pillow, while I’m laying here on the other side of her huge bed staring at the ceiling. Things are fine with Hunter and I’m back on track at school, but I’m chasing sleep just as hard as I was when I was staying here. Only this time, it’s because my mind is a jumble of panic and anxiety over all the college stuff I’ve been stressing over.

  I’m running out of time to get it together, but the more I panic, the less confident I feel about making any kind of decision.

  A loud tap against the window sends my heart up into my throat, my already rapid pulse kicking into overdrive. And then all is silent again.

  Just as I’ve managed to convince myself it was probably a tree branch whipping in the wind, there’s another tap, only it’s distinctly the sound of something small and hard hitting the Spanish tile roof and then rolling back down.

  What the hell?

  Frowning, I sit up in bed and pad to the balcony doors. Through the glass, I see a tall, masculine frame, a swath of dirty blonde hair just barely visible in the light of the moon. My eyes widen when I realize it’s Hunter.

  He’s leaning against the iron balcony rail outside, waving at me to come out. How can I possibly resist?

  I open the door as silently as I can, easing it shut behind me. A breeze is blowing, the night air cool, and as I cross my arms against my shivering, Hunter pulls me to him, burying his face in my hair as if to breathe me in.

  “How did you get up here?” I whisper. “Or in here, for that matter? Also, it’s a school night. Shouldn’t you be—”

  “I know how to climb all kinds of things, Milla. I’m a bad boy, remember?” he whispers back, but the jest rings hollow.

  He’s here because he’s upset about something, that much is obvious. I can tell by the way he’s clinging to me. Something must have happened at home since I left.

  “What’s going on?” I murmur.

  His arms tighten around me, as if I’m a lifeline and not a person.

  “My Dad and Karleigh banned Nick from our house. They said Harrison can’t be friends with him anymore.”

  My eyes go wide. “What? Why? Nick’s a great kid.”

  “Yeah, he is. He’s also working class, and his dad lost his job recently, and he has”—he air quotes—“one of those Mexican names.”

  Now, I blink. I always knew Hunter’s dad was a bit of an elitist, but this is just on a whole other level. “What?” is my weak reaction. “That’s totally racist.”

  “Obviously.” Hunter’s hands clench into fists, and I take them in mine until they still. “I just can’t believe they’re doing this to Harrison. It’s one thing if they want to go around acting like assholes in their own lives, but they’re ruining his, too.”

  I’m sick to my stomach. This is so wrong. Poor Harry. And poor Nick. I can’t even believe this.

  Suddenly I’m recalling the fact that Hunter and Emmett were never friends, even before I came into the picture to drive the wedge further between them. As an Ortega, Emmett obviously has one of those last names, and even though his family is well-off, they’re not filthy rich like the Becks are. But he’s rich in other ways, isn’t he? He has hard-working, incredibly decent parents who care more about him and his siblings than in throwing money at problems to make them go away. Whereas Mr. Beck…

  “Is that why you were never friends with Emmett?” I ask.

  “I don’t want to talk about Ortega,” Hunter says brusquely, and when I raise my brows, he huffs a breath. “But yeah. I wasn’t allowed to hang out with him, or anyone like him. And now I have to watch Dad and Karleigh impose their disgusting views on my little brother.”

  “That’s awful.” I swallow the lump in my throat.

  Hunter nods, and for a long moment we just stand there under the soft blue moonlight, tracing each other’s palms.

  “You’re the only person I can talk to about this,” he confesses, and there go the butterflies, fluttering in my gut. “The only one I wanted to be with.”

  “And so you…drove over here, snuck over the fence, and then climbed up to this balcony in the dark?” I frown. “How did you even know this was Isabel’s room?”

  Hunter gives me a shrug. “We go way back, remember? I’ve been here before. When I was like, ten, but still. All the rich kids around here went to one another’s birthday parties and whatever. Not all of us had social restrictions in place.”

  “I guess I can’t be mad at you for basically breaking and entering,” I say, trying to make light of the situation, even though there’s nothing light about it.

  “Maybe it was a bad idea. I don’t know, I just…I had to see you,” he says, awkwardly. “To remind myself there were still good things in my life. In Harry’s life.”

  Nope, I’m not melting. You’re melting.

  He’s so smooth, and—as usual—it works, because now I can’t bear to turn him away. “Goddamn you, Hunter,” I whisper, stepping closer so I can nuzzle his neck. “How am I supposed to tell you to get the hell out after all that?”

  “You’re not,” he says, hand coming up to hold my jaw.

  I don’t fight it when he presses me against the rough exterior wall, or when he kisses me tongue-first. It’s borderline desperate, and utterly possessive. I only have time to react with a whimper. My hands bunch the fabric of his shirt, and one of his hands goes to my thigh, lifting it so my leg’s wrapped around him.

  His mouth slips down my neck, nipping as he goes, and I feel myself grow hotter, my thoughts muddled. “You still haven’t told me how you managed to get up here,” I say, trying to snap myself out of it.

  “A combination of stacke
d lawn chairs and that oak tree,” he says before he lowers the neckline of my pajamas to nibble on the skin of my collarbone. “A little height wasn’t going to stop me from getting to you.”

  Very little ever stops Hunter from getting what he wants, and right now, it’s obvious he wants me. Which is something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to.

  The night breeze kicks in again, and I give another shiver. Hunter pulls away, and says, “If you’re cold, we could go inside.”

  “We can’t. Isabel’s asleep in there,” I whisper. “You should go before she wakes up and realizes I’m missing.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t want to leave you. Let me make you warm.”

  Again, that hot, instant pulse in my core. “How do you plan to do that?”

  “I can show you,” he whispers against my lips before kissing me again.

  His hand goes up my shirt, and I break away. “Touch me wherever you want, but we’re not having sex out here. I draw the line at doing it outside my best friend’s window while she’s asleep.”

  “So long as you’re kissing me, I don’t care what else we do.”

  “Liar,” I say with a grin. “I can already feel your semi.”

  “And I’m willing to keep it in my pants.” His mouth goes to my ear. “Do you want to know why?”

  I’m not sure I do, but still, I ask, “Why?”

  “Because,” he murmurs, as his hand finds the place between my legs that’s aching for him, “I know your pussy is drenched and it will be torture for the both of us.”

  Although he’s not touching me directly, the pressure of his touch over the thin fabric of my pajamas sends a jolt of sheer want up my spine.

  “You’re the worst,” I tell him breathlessly, writhing against his hand.

  “I think you mean I’m the best,” he says, kissing me again. “Do you want me to…” His fingers go to the waistband of my pants and his knuckles brush my hip.

  “No.” I grab his wrist and move his hand away. “Let’s save it for next time.”

  With a nod, he presses me against the wall again, shielding my body from the wind. We’re chest to chest, hip to hip, and he grinds into me just hard enough to make me gasp at the feel of his cock. My hands slide down to grip his ass, and our make out intensifies as we strain against each other, against the barrier of our clothes.

  “Mmm,” I moan, wondering if it’s possible to have an orgasm this way. Because I feel like I could. Like I might, at any second, as waves of pleasure ripple through me.

  “I’ve never had a standing lap dance before,” he whispers, “but I think I like it.”

  He slides a thumb into my mouth and I suck, looking into his eyes as I bob my head back and forth around him. It’s not his dick, and it shouldn’t be this erotic, but he starts groaning softly, grinding his hips against mine even faster.

  My best friend is sleeping right on the other side of this wall, and here I am, tangled up with my boyfriend, who she low-key hates but makes herself tolerate because of me. It would be an absolute catastrophe if she were to wake up and find me out here dry humping Hunter. But I can’t say no to him. And I don’t want to.

  “I can’t come like this,” Hunter tells me, pulling his thumb back and slowing his pace.

  “I can,” I whisper.

  “Then do it,” he says with a quiet laugh.

  His tongue parts my lips, then strokes against my own, so aggressive I can feel myself getting instantly wetter. One of his hands comes around to grip my ass, and he helps lift me up so I can wrap my legs around his waist, my back flush against the wall.

  I trace the line of his neck with my fingers, then his jaw, the silk of his hair.

  We both want so much more than this. But I still have a shred of shame in me and I hold myself back. All of me is on fire, but I just can’t let go, even when his hand sneaks up my top to tweak my nipple.

  “I can’t do it,” I groan breathlessly through kiss-swollen lips. “I think I’m gonna need a raincheck.”

  Hunter laughs again and stops his movements, burying his face in my neck to inhale deeply against my skin. Then he looks at me with a sigh. “I can’t wait.”

  He helps me back to my feet, walking me the two steps over to the balcony doors. I step back into Isabel’s room, then turn around to give him a peck on the cheek.

  “Good night, sweet prince,” I tell him. “Until tomorrow.”

  “I’m gonna fuck you extra hard next time I get the chance,” he says, all seriousness. “That is a promise.”

  “You’d better.”

  Stepping back, he looks like he wants to say something more as I start to close the door.

  “What is it?” I whisper, popping my head back out.

  “Nothing. Just…I love you. Thank you for being here, for me.”

  Instant heart-melt.

  I reach for him with grabby hands, and when he comes over I bring our lips together one last time, hoping the kiss conveys all the things I can’t say out loud.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Camilla

  I’m just about to head out after my shift with Harrison when Karleigh corners me at the back door. Immediately I feel myself tensing up, expecting some kind of confrontation regarding either Harry or Hunter, but when she offers an overly sweet smile, I relax. Knowing her, she’s about to ask a favor. A big one.

  “Camilla,” she croons.

  “Mrs. Beck…” I reply carefully.

  “I was just wondering, would you be able to organize the spare room upstairs? It’s just a complete disaster up there, and I need someone to go through everything with a fine-tooth comb and separate it into piles. You know: trash, donate, attic storage.”

  “Umm, I mean, I guess I could do that?”

  At my words, she lights up. Probably the same way she does whenever she gets what she wants.

  “We’ll pay you for your time, of course,” she adds hastily. “The thing is, I need more space for my latest wardrobe refresh, like yesterday, and the room’s being completely wasted. It’s full of old clothes and toys and papers, crap we don’t need. You can’t even get to the closet.” She lets out a little huff of frustration.

  I wasn’t planning on working late, but with college looming, I need all the money I can get right now. “Sure. What do you want me to do with the stuff?”

  “The clothes and Harrison’s old toys and books can go in donation boxes. I’ll look through it all before I drop it off. You can throw out everything else, unless it looks sentimental or expensive.” She waves me off. “Oh, and if you see any clothes you like, feel free to take what you want. I’m sure there must be something that will fit you.”

  This is what rich people don’t realize: there’s a fine line between philanthropy and pity. Which is why my mom is so adamant about never accepting charity. But I don’t have anything to gain by acting sassy, so I just nod and say, “Great. Thanks.”

  “You can get started now,” she suggests. “While we’re eating dinner.”

  I smile through my clenched jaw and do an about-face to go back upstairs. No big deal that I haven’t eaten in seven hours, and heaven forbid she invite me to their table to eat the food that my own mother prepped earlier.

  Guess I’ll just eat later. I’ve gone longer without meals before. And it’s not like a family dinner with the Becks wouldn’t be all kinds of awkward and uncomfortable.

  The spare room Mrs. Beck mentioned is down the hall, toward the back of the house. I’ve gone in there maybe once. When I push the door open—which requires effort, since there are piles of boxes blocking it—I see the whole place a mess, and let out a sigh. This is probably going to take me at least a few days to get through. I’m assuming the reason my mom wasn’t assigned this chore is because she’s more of a scrub-and-wipe-clean housekeeper, not the kind who sorts through personal belongings.

  After locating the light switch and flipping it on, I clear a path to the center of the room and take a good look around. The first thing
I notice are the bagged-up clothes, the stacks of shoeboxes, and the dresses hanging from a rack that takes up an entire wall. The dresses look basically new, with plenty of visible tags still attached. Must be tough getting free stuff all the time as a professional influencer.

  Unfortunately, I quickly realize her feet are a lot larger than mine, or else I’d be snatching up a pair or two of these shoes—or several. The dresses, of course, are all too tiny. Still, I manage to find a few printed silk scarves, a classic Louis Vuitton satchel that looks untouched except for the dried-up lip gloss and ancient roll of mints in the inside pocket, and an indigo tie-dye caftan that I can’t help setting aside. Not a bad haul.

  I throw out dusty piles of mail that are postmarked literally three years ago. Stacks of magazines and catalogues that were probably never read. Boxes of Hunter’s old school papers, notebooks, tests. I never thought the Becks would be the sort to save these, and I find myself smiling as I glance through a few of them, these remnants of who he used to be.

  Surprise of surprises, it appears that he used to be a great student. I’d wonder what happened to make him turn into the slacker he is now, but I already know. Self-sabotage, aka the worst way to get your dad to pay attention to you. I’d say we’re working on that, but it’s not something for we to work on. That’s Hunter’s issue, and his alone. All I can do is try to get him to realize that his scheme is leading him nowhere.

  “Should I be upset that you snuck back in and didn’t say hi?” he asks, joining me on the floor.

  “I actually never made it out the door. Karleigh stopped me on my way out, and now I’m…” I gesture around at the room. “Prepping her newest walk-in closet.”

  He snorts, looking down at the box of his old school stuff. “Sounds like her. Did you eat yet?”

  “No, but I’m fine.”

  “Milla.”

  “Seriously.”

  Hunter narrows his eyes. “I’m making you a sandwich. Sit tight.”

  “Thank you.” Before he can get out the door, I call to him. “Wait! Do you want to keep your school stuff from elementary?”