Girlfriend. He had never put a label on us until now, to the point that I was sure he had deliberately been avoiding it. Seeing that he was only willing to call me his girlfriend to make a jab at Zach irked me. He was just being possessive. Staking his claim over me. That should have flattered me in a damsel in distress kind of way, but it only made me feel like a tool. Did he only want to call me his girlfriend to piss off Zach, or had he been thinking of it that way all along and hadn’t thought to voice it?
Zach’s eyes narrowed, emphasizing his thick eyelashes. He flicked his gaze to me. “No. That would be a shame. Besides, I know your girlfriend enjoys a good show. Trust me,” he added.
My stomach knotted at the implication. Brent looked confused and suspicious, but must not have wanted to make himself seem pathetic by asking what Zach was talking about in front of him.
Cold eyes watching me from the second floor. Long fingers between a nameless girl’s legs. Her mouth open with pleasure, hands planted on the glass.
He was trying to wound me. To embarrass me. It worked, because I had shamefully fantasized about what those fingers might have felt like between my legs later that night.
I wanted to do something low and petty to get back at him, like stealing my first kiss from Brent right there just because I knew it'd piss Zach off, but I couldn't do that to Brent, so I settled for storming off. It felt more like a retreat than the statement I intended, but it was better than stooping to Zach's level and playing his dumb, pointless game.
White Christmas lights dangled from the ceiling of the auditorium even though it was early September and still warm most nights. A crowd-pleaser type of song played over the speakers, but not loudly enough to be heard above the din of voices. The auditorium was filled almost entirely with students, except for the back few rows, where proud parents clustered together. I spared a glance for them on my way in, marveling at how out of place my family was here. My gardener parents wore their years in the sun plainly, with sun-deepened creases across their faces and necks. Dirt under their fingernails.
I normally would have talked them out of coming, but I knew how it would seem if I tried in a place like Belvedere. They would’ve thought I was embarrassed to have the other kids see me with them. So I had suppressed the urge to say anything and let them come, because all their obvious flaws aside, they did try to be good parents when they could.
The other parents couldn’t be more different. The women had hair bleached blonde just like their daughters. Many of the men were abnormally fit for their age, probably thanks to expensive home gyms, personal trainers, and personal chefs.
Mandy apologized to the few people she had to ask to move their legs when she shimmied over to sit beside me. She tucked her hair behind her ear, looking effortlessly beautiful, as usual.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said.
“Yeah, well, I’m supposed to be the socialite here. I couldn’t let my little sister show me up.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn't help grinning. "Yeah, the socialite is a stretch. Everyone wants to wave at me and smile in the halls, but they all act like I have leprosy when it comes to actually talking to me."
“Are you surprised?”
“What do you mean?”
Mandy gave me a look like I was a stupid, but adorable baby lamb then. “I mean Zach Thornwood set his sights on you. Nobody here is going to risk pissing him off by talking to you.”
“Brent doesn’t seem scared.”
Mandy shrugged. “I don’t know, Ari. From some of the stories I’ve heard about Zach, maybe he should be.”
“Oh come on. What’s he going to do? Make up a nasty rumor? Pelt Brent in the head with wads of cash until he gets a concussion?”
Mandy flashed me a forced smile. “I think you should take this more seriously, Ari. I know it’s not your fault, but—”
A student on stage interrupted her when he shouted an over-energetic “good evening” into the microphone on stage.
For no good reason, my heart started to pound. I would’ve liked to think it was because I was excited to see Brent—my boyfriend. I was still trying to decide how I felt about being used as a weapon like that. He obviously felt something real for me, and the label wasn’t a complete lie, but the timing of it left a bitter taste in my mouth. For the first time since our group project in Mr. Smith’s class, I could see how Brent fit into the corrupt ecosystem of this place, even if only a little.
The first band to play was surprisingly good. I guessed I shouldn’t have been surprised because kids here all probably came from families with more than enough money for the best music lessons. Still, I found my foot tapping along to the beat and clapping along with everyone else when the song finished.
“Not bad,” Mandy said to me, having to shout to be heard over the applause.
“Yeah,” I agreed, distracted by the fear that Brent and his band wouldn’t be any good. I couldn’t explain the fear. Not exactly. The obvious part was not wanting my “boyfriend” to embarrass himself. I didn’t think that was the real reason, though. Zach Thornwood, as horrible as he seemed, was larger than life. The way he looked, the way he walked, even the sound of his voice. Every part of it had an almost otherworldly feeling, like he didn’t belong here, or he was too good for us and he knew it. I could hate him all I wanted, but the thought of him grabbing the microphone and screeching out a horrible performance—or worse—an average one, was uncomfortable. I didn’t want to watch the image I had of him come crumbling down like I knew it would if he wasn’t any good. Hating him was easier if he was perfect.
The entire school had turned up to see, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that was primarily because everyone wanted to see Zach, Brent, and Taylor.
The next two bands actually weren’t half-bad, either, and I found myself enjoying the night, bouncing a little and swaying with the music, clapping and laughing when the lead singer of the second band cracked a quick and crude joke before the principal wrestled for the microphone with him.
Then Zach, Brent, and Taylor came on stage. Zach wore a black shirt with black jeans. Kids from previous bands had really tried to nail the rockstar look with wristbands, tattered graphic t-shirts, skinny jeans, and even one guy had worn a fishnet shirt. Yet Zach looked more like he belonged on stage than any of them had, without even trying. I tried to tear my eyes from him to admire Brent, who was wearing a plain white t-shirt that made no secret of how well-sculpted his body was. I even tried looking at Taylor, who was abnormally tall and gorgeous as a statue with his lean body and defined muscles.
No matter how I tried, my eyes kept drawing back to Zach. He scowled out over the crowd, which fell silent for the first time of the night. He looked so right up there on stage, with hundreds of people waiting for him. At his command.
Brent fidgeted, tilting his head to the side and leaning forward a little from behind his drums, trying to get Zach’s attention as if to say are we going to play music, or what?
Zach held his hand up to Brent, never taking his eyes from the crowd as he continued to scan, eyes searching for something.
Then I felt the weight of his attention like a thousand pounds of pressure on every inch of my skin, like ice and fire crawling inside my bones. He was looking straight at me. There was no doubt in my mind. The laser-focus of his attention lanced straight through me. Ignited me.
He nodded slightly then, lowering his hand but still looking at me.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t look away.
Music seeped out across the auditorium, note by note and then chord by chord. Zach only strummed his guitar at first, eyes never leaving mine. I saw the familiar glint of hatred there, but I saw something else, something deeper. Maybe it was the melody playing tricks on my brain, but I thought I saw longing and sadness and anger all competing behind those sapphire eyes.
And then he sang.
His voice rasped into the microphone and through the speakers in a way that felt intimate, like he was sin
ging to me and only me. It was a voice that instantly brought my mind to moonlit walks, intimate campfires on the beach, and dancing barefoot on the grass while fireflies float all around.
It was a voice I knew was special from the first syllable.
It took me a few moments to get past that irresistible, perfect sound to listen to the lyrics of the song.
Yeah, you’ll be sorry,
So sorry you knew me,
So sorry you didn’t walk away,
Yeah, you’ll be sorry,
He sang the verses over a catchy, quick melody that was at odds with the lyrics before the lights dimmed and the music grew softer and his eyes—still locked on mine—turned smoky.
Broken girl…
His voice was little more than a husk, a whisper, and it sent chills across my entire body. The lights brightened and the music kicked back in with Brent going hard on the drums and Zach’s voice rising as he took his hands from his guitar to clutch the microphone, forehead scrunching up as he belted out the words.
I’m standin’ alone in a crowded room,
Oh, oh, oh.
And I’m watchin’ him kiss you,
I’m watchin’ him hold you, oh, oh, oh.
And I’m sorry I knew you,
I’m sorry I met you,
But not as sorry as you’re gonna-ah-ah-ah-ah be,
My broken girl…
The lights kicked back on and the last threads of music faded out. In that moment, it felt like Zach and I were the only people in the entire auditorium. There was just me and his eyes and the helpless feeling in my chest, the feeling that I knew he had me then. He might wear his poisonous personality like armor, but there was something real behind it. A single glimpse of light that I knew was going to be my undoing.
I chewed my lip and looked to Brent. He had been watching me, and it was only then I realized I had hardly looked at him from the moment Zach started singing. Brent dropped his drumsticks noisily, ignoring the applause, and stormed off the stage.
4
Zach
Eight Years Ago
It was another Saturday in Belvedere, California, which meant I’d invited everyone at school worth inviting to another one of my parties. Almost everyone was out by the pool, watching the sunset over the waves on the beach beyond the pool deck. I was staring at the spot where I’d first given Aribella shit over the hedges, the little alcove by the wall where she’d first set her eyes on me.
“Zachary. I’m extremely busy. If you’re going to—”
"Yeah, Tammy. I heard you," I snapped at my cell phone, which was sitting on my bed in speaker mode. Tammy was my step-mom, the woman who had shoved her hand so far up my dad's ass that he had become the puppet and she was the puppeteer. Dad hadn't even waited for mom to die from cancer before he remarried. Once the chemo left her hair in thin, baby-soft whisps and hollowed out her cheeks, he discarded her like a broken toy that no longer interested him.
And go figure, mom decided not to die after all. She had the nerve to fight the cancer into remission, but she had left her career for my father, and now she was too weak from side-effects of her meds to start again. Of course, dad had a prenup, and my mom had never been the type to care about money, so she willingly signed herself into a paltry forty-thousand dollar agreement in the case of a divorce. That had covered her treatment for about half a year.
After that, I figured my dad would at least kick her some money for meds, but he wouldn’t budge. Tammy had her manicured nails so tightly around the nape of his neck I doubted he shit without her permission anymore. It was pathetic. But my dad had inherited everything from his father, who had inherited from his father before him. We were old money, and for God knows why, it was the most prestigious kind of money.
Look at the Thornwoods. We could all be useless fucking assholes for generations to come and never have to work a day in our lives. Our blood runs blue and our money has wrinkles and liver-spots. Envy us.
Easy money made people soft, and my dad might as well have been clay in Tammy’s hands.
“Then you’ll sign the papers?” she asked, voice laced with impatience, like she was irked to be dealing with a task as menial as blackmail.
“Let me think about that for a minute.”
“Listen, you little shit,” she hissed. “You think about this. Sign, or mommy doesn’t get her meds. Wouldn’t it be just terrible if her cancer came back? Bald definitely didn’t suit her.”
I hung up then. I’d sign. Of course I would. But making her wonder was one of the few ways I could strike back. For now. I glared out the window, seeing but not seeing as my chest rose and fell rapidly. I’d break her and everything she cared about. Bit by bit. Piece by piece. I’d never lay a finger on her, but one day, she’d look at the ruins of her life—the empty accounts, the ashes of her dreams—and she’d realize she should have never fucked with me.
Tammy was dad’s new toy, except my dumbass dad had managed to find someone even more vile than himself. In a year, she had her name on his accounts. In two, she’d convinced him to gut my trust fund. In three, she’d had me removed from his will. She’d accomplished all of it without any wit or cleverness. It was just a dumb, jealous willingness to blackmail me.
Fuck if I cared, though. I never needed my dad’s money. Once she got the money in a trust, I had no choice but to play along with their demands. I couldn’t touch the money for two years, and my mom might not have made it two years without the meds. I played along, or they cut her off. It was that simple.
They could disown me and I wouldn't give a shit, so long as they kept up their end of the bargain and took care of mom's bills. I'd make my own way, and when I did, I'd show Tammy she had fucked with the wrong person. I'd take every last dollar from her I could. I might even torch every last dollar of it for fun. It was about revenge, which was one of the few things I seemed to understand.
Revenge against dad for mom’s sake.
Revenge against Tammy for being a cold, ruthless bitch.
Revenge against Brent for having the audacity to think he could claim Aribella.
And revenge against Aribella, for the way she had looked right through me and saw what I felt, that I wasn't what everyone made me out to be, for seeing that I was just as broken as her, except I was living a lie while she owned it.
I hated admitting that she got under my skin. I hated that she had the nerve to be poor and new but still so goddamn hot that it put all the other girls here to shame. I hated that she refused to bow down like all the rest when I first met her. She had become my fixation. My obsession. There was only one way I wanted her, though. I wanted her to come to me knowing full-well what she was walking into—knowing I was a bastard and that I’d break her heart. I wanted her to battle through all the shame and guilt it’d take for such a good girl to wind up with someone like me.
And then I thought about the way it felt singing that song to her. Her song. Because I’d written the fucking thing a few days before the battle of the bands, and I wrote it about her. About her and about me, but for her. I'd never admitted it to another living soul, but it was the truth. I hadn't planned on singing it to her, either, but once I spotted her in the crowd it was like I couldn’t look away.
She felt something, too. I saw it in her face, in the way she was stiff with Brent after the show and flinched away from his attempts at kisses. I was a toxic bastard for thinking so, but it felt so goddamn good to see I was already driving a wedge between them.
I went back to the upstairs lounge in the beach house and sat down on the chaise. Claire Chapman’s sister climbed into my lap. She was holding a blunt and wearing nothing but a bathing suit. Lacy, maybe? She’d mentioned her name, but I wasn’t listening. She was a senior, I think. My eyes were looking past her though, out the window over the backyard where most of the party was still raging on. Now that the sun had set, people were migrating back to the pool and the patio where some dumbass had accidentally set a batch of hotdogs on fire. He and
his friends decided to make the best of it by throwing whatever they could find into the fire and watching it burn with drunken cheers.
Hey Ya by Outkast was blaring loud enough to piss off all the neighbors, and I could hear something thumping against the wall in the room next door and an occasional moan.
Taylor was too high to be interested in girls, so he sat next to a smoking blunt the size of my thumb and played Call of Duty.
Then I saw the two of them through the window. Brent and Aribella were standing beside the pool together. I sat up suddenly, pushing Claire’s sister off me and ignoring the offended sound she made when she flopped to the floor. I moved to the window and saw Brent pull Aribella into a hug. I’d had enough of this bullshit. It ended tonight. I thought I had already driven them apart enough for this to be over, but apparently my work wasn’t done.
I headed for the door.
Taylor turned his head, fixing his bloodshot eyes on me and then raising his eyebrows when he saw the look on my face. “Don’t kill anyone, man,” he laughed before taking another hit of his blunt. “Hey,” he said, absentmindedly holding the trigger on his control down so his character in the game was firing a gun into a wall. He waved Claire’s sister over. “Zach looks like he’s planning to beat someone’s ass. If you’re horny, you might want to look elsewhere tonight.” He casually motioned to his lap. Claire’s sister took one more look at me, decided he was right, and sighed before moving to straddle Taylor.
I closed the door behind me and stormed downstairs. Mostly everyone I passed was smart enough to recognize the look on my face. It wouldn’t be the first party I’d started a fight at, and I doubt it’d be the last. I heard murmuring and sensed a growing crowd following me as I made my way out to the patio where Brent and Aribella were.
Brent noticed me as soon as I stepped outside, which I guess wasn’t surprising since more than a dozen people were fanning out behind me, making a kind of improvised viewing circle for whatever I was planning.
Hate at First Sight Page 3