“Hi Ryan,” Amelia says sounding like she’d like a bomb shelter or a bunker right about now.
Ryan slides his arm around Claire’s waist, low enough that his fingers are brushing her ass, just like the way he used to hold me. I can’t think about my past with him without feeling sad and stupid. It all seems clear now that I’m out of it, and all the anger I feel toward him is more for letting me waste three years of my life deluding myself that he was different than he seemed.
I see it now. He's tall, broad and his years of playing linebacker in college are still evident in the way he's built. No matter how hard I try though, I can't see what I saw three years ago when I met him at a frat party. I should've known any relationship that started at a frat party should never continue after college, but it was all just too easy. I wasn't even a frat party kind of girl, but I let a friend talk me into going to one because she kept asking me what was the worst thing that could happen? I don’t know, maybe I end up wasting three years with some dumb jock who will still go out of his way to make me feel like shit even after we break up? When I got busy with work and school, it was easier to already have a boyfriend and skip the whole dating scene. After college, it was easy to say yes when he proposed because it meant I could just keep moving in the same direction.
Hasn’t that always been what I’ve done? Follow the path of least resistance. The guy of least resistance. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised I ended up where I am, unhappy more days than not and never able to think about much except how we’re going to scrape together the cash for next month’s bills.
In the moment, it’s easy to blame it all on Ryan. So I do. I let the heat in my belly grow warmer and warmer until it feels like the only thing I’ll be able to do is spit fire. “The lighthouse, huh?” I ask sweetly.
He makes a face and shrugs like he's saying, yeah, what’s the big deal?
“Did you tell your new fiancée about how getting married there was always my dream? Or how the only reason you suggested it to her was to get back at me?” I look to Claire, who is clearly not taking this news very well if the confused frown she’s directing at Ryan is any indication. “I’m sorry,” I say to her. “You actually seem nice. He has a talent for convincing nice people they don’t deserve better than him.”
“Lindsey,” says Amelia through tight lips, pulling on my arm a little to separate us.
“Damn, Lindsey,” says Ryan, who is grinning like none of this matters. “You get into the ole boxes of wine again? You still drinking that shit?” he asks with an obnoxious laugh.
I let all the bitterness that I’ve held in since the breakup boil over and I actually lunge for him. I don’t know what I’m planning, whether it’s just to push him or claw at him or something, but my body reacts before my brain has a chance to calm it down.
Amelia manages to hold me back, but now Claire’s anger toward Ryan all seems directed at me.
“Look,” she says hotly. “You’ve obviously got some baggage. Some serious fucking baggage. Ryan is mine now, and you need to get the fuck over him and stop acting like a psychopath." She puts her hand on Ryan's shoulder and tries to push him away from me, but Ryan is clearly enjoying this too much.
“So you’re not coming?” he asks with a twisted grin.
Amelia has to double her efforts to hold me back. It's not even about Ryan because I could care less about him now. I mean, yes, the wedding invitation pissed me off, but not because I wish it was me who would be standing across from him at the altar. It pissed me off because it was just an unpleasant reminder of how completely out of my mind I was to think a guy like Ryan was right for me in the first place.
“There you are,” a masculine voice behind me says.
When I turn toward the sound, I’m eye-level with a muscular chest that’s barely concealed by a white shirt. It’s Chris. Did someone schedule a reunion for all the assholes of my past and present at the grocery store or something?
“What do you—”
Chris puts his arm around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pulling me close and causing Amelia to let go of me with wide-eyed disbelief. His arm is so hard and warm. The closeness of him bathes me in his scent, which is equal parts pine forest and something I can only think to describe as manly. Like the way I imagine models and celebrities would smell if they walked straight out of fashion magazine ads. Then again, I guess Chris is basically both model and celebrity, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised.
My first impulse is to snake out of his reach because I’m so done with him I can’t even call it pissed. Pissed would imply I care enough about him to have a recurring emotion that involves him. I don’t even want to dignify him with that. I met him. He showed me he’s a total ass. End of story. Well, sort of end. He had to go and drop a few breadcrumbs to make me think that maybe, just maybe, there's a good guy hiding in there somewhere, and knowing me, I'm not going to be able to entirely forget him until I find out one way or another.
It feels good to have his arm around me, though. It feels even better to see the way Ryan and Claire are staring at us like I just grew angel wings and started levitating while trumpets blare in the distance.
“Friends of yours, honeybuns?” Chris asks punctuating his question by squeezing my ass so hard I jump and let out a very undignified squeal.
I’m too confused to even slap him or react beyond standing there just as dumbfounded as everyone else, except now my cheeks are burning too.
“You’re that washed up celebrity, right?” Ryan asks once he’s regained a little of his composure. “Chris something, right?”
“Savage,” Claire says looking and sounding like she’s in a trance.
“That’s me. So, how do you know my girl?” he asks.
“Your girl?” Ryan asks. “Lindsey?”
No matter how I feel about Chris, I feel an immediate and eternal gratitude toward him for the gift he just gave me: the look on Ryan’s face. It looks like Ryan sucked on a lemon and got anally probed at the exact same moment. Like his brain is about to explode as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing and hearing.
Amelia is watching us suspiciously, but her suspicion doesn’t seem to be enough to keep her from ogling Chris.
“My girl,” he says. “I could go into detail if you’re still confused, like the way it sounds when she moans my name or—”
I elbow him in the side. I can’t even make myself look at Amelia right now. It’s going to take a miracle to convince her this was just an act by Chris. Especially because I can’t begin to fathom why the cold and icy writer would suddenly decide to step in and help me save face in front of my ex.
“Whatever, man. You can have her,” Ryan says but his tone isn’t quite as carefree as he is probably going for. “Come on, Claire.”
“Would it be terrible to ask you for an autograph?” Claire asks.
The furious look Ryan gives her is the second best moment of my day. “You fucking kidding me?” he asks her.
“It’s Chris Savage!” she hisses.
Chris whips out a black sharpie from his back pocket and takes a step toward her. “Got anything for me to sign?”
Claire pats her pockets and winces. “Shit, no. Ryan, do you have a paper or a receipt or something?”
“Fuck off,” he says, arms crossed as he sulks.
“Here,” Chris says taking his hand off me to pull her shirt down enough so he can sign her chest—not really her cleavage, but the flat and relatively innocent part below her collarbone in a space between two tattoos.
Everybody but Claire and Chris roll their eyes in disbelief, and Ryan yanks Claire away when he’s done, leaving me alone with my little sister and Chris.
“If you’re expecting me to thank you for that,” I say hotly, but I force myself to pause when I think about it. In all fairness to him, he was an asshole to me when I trespassed on his property and acted like a crazy fan. I can at least be civil now that he helped me out. “Well, you deserve a thank you. The look on Ryan’s fa
ce was priceless.”
Chris cocks a half-smile. “He looked like a douche. I just saw a chance to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face and took it.”
“Hi,” Amelia says scooting out from behind me and waving at Chris before quickly squeezing her hands together between her legs like she has to pee or she’s about to start jumping up and down.
“She yours?” asks Chris.
“How old do you think I am?” I snap.
“Hm,” he says, lifting up my hair and making a show of inspecting me. “Twenty-five. And your daughter is what, thirteen, fourteen? It’s possible. Technically.”
“I’m her sister,” says Amelia. “And I’m twenty-one, actually. Old enough to drink and vote.”
“Wow,” says Chris with feigned enthusiasm. “Drinking and voting. You girls must have a great time, then.”
“Is it some kind of compulsion for you to make sure people think you’re an asshole?” I ask. “Because you go and do something a little nice, and then you have to try extra hard to remind me you’re a dick.”
“I’m not sure, Psycho Fan, maybe I could come over and lay down on your couch while you psychoanalyze me some more.”
“Okay!” Amelia says.
I shoot her a glare. “He’s kidding,” I say. “Although kidding implies he’s being funny. Which he’s not.”
“Humor was never really my forte,” he admits.
“So you can’t write anymore, you’re not funny, and you live alone in a cabin in the woods,” I say. “You sound like a real catch.”
“Do I?” he asks. “Are you trying to figure out if we’re compatible, then?” He steps closer until he’s too close. Way too close.
I can smell him again.
I can feel the space between his body and mine like it’s an electrically charged field where even the slightest movement could ignite a spark. The heat from his body seeps into me and fills my mind with bad, bad ideas. Why do I have to keep reminding myself this guy is a complete jerk? It’s not fair that a pretty face and a perfect body are enough to turn me into one of his drooling fans anytime I let my guard down.
“Trust me, Lindsey,” he says, making a fresh wave of warmth run through me when he uses my real name instead of calling me Psycho Fan. “We’re incompatible in every way. I’d use you up,” he lowers his voice so Amelia can’t hear, even though I can practically feel her leaning in to catch every word. “You’d forget everything except what it feels like to have me inside you. You’d be a slave for it, so desperate for my cock there’d be nothing you wouldn’t do. Then I’d let you go. I’d toss you aside like all the rest, ruined and used up.”
He backs up with a look on his face that catches me off guard. I expect a confident, cocky grin, but instead, I see only the shadow of confidence. He wears the half-smile I've come to expect, but it doesn't touch his eyes. I only see sadness there and a loneliness so deep it's like he's reaching out to me even as he's pushing me away.
“Nice to meet your daughter,” he says, smoothing his expression and walking off like nothing happened.
“Remember when you said you’d include me more?” asks Amelia. “Now would be a great time.”
6
Chris
I’m standing outside Lindsey’s door the night after I fucked with her ex at the grocery store. My hand is raised to knock on the door and I’m trying really hard to tell myself it’s just because I’m bored, that messing with her is one of the few things I’ve enjoyed since I came out here. Every time I try to pass that lie off on myself, my bastard brain throws the memory back at me of how tight her little ass felt and how small and fragile she felt with my arm around her. My cock—also a bastard—stirs at the memory.
I adjust my jeans in annoyance and knock on the door, wincing as I do. I meant what I said to her before I left. I ruin people. Not just the women I've fucked but the people who make the mistake of calling me a friend. Not to mention the people unlucky enough to call me family. I'm not proud of it. I don't set out to do it, either. All I know is when I look at my past, it's littered with people who probably regret knowing me.
I don’t leave anything good behind in my wake. Most people are superficial. They see my money, recognize my name and my face, and they’ll do anything for fifteen minutes of my attention. Even before I was rich and famous, women would let me get away with just about anything. I could treat them like absolute garbage and they’d still keep coming back. I enjoyed it at first, but all I can think of now is how empty it feels to know that it doesn’t matter to anyone if you’re a royal asshole or the coolest fucking guy on the planet.
Boo hoo, though, right? Poor me and my life that most people would kill for. It’s a one-man pity party that I know no one would come to, but not many people have lived it. I doubt anyone would pass up the life I’ve had, no matter how hard I’d try to convince them. Most people would love it for a few weeks, maybe even a few months. It doesn’t take long for sex to become meaningless. For the women to become just another face in the crowd. Even having money to buy anything you want becomes tedious. Then you ask yourself the real question: What now?
Because what else is there when you have it all? What is there when you lose the things you didn’t realize you wanted. When all you’re left with is a pile of glittering, golden shit that you would like nothing more than to burn down if it’d just give you the chance to go back and do it differently.
I've apparently been on my own too long and had way too fucking long to think about everything, which is another reason I'm distracting myself with my psycho fan neighbor.
I knock again when no one answers after a few minutes. The door swings open almost immediately.
Lindsey has her curly hair pulled up into a ponytail and she’s wearing a white t-shirt with no bra as far as I can tell and pajama bottoms.
My eyes wander down to her tits, which I had little-to-no interest in until touching her in the grocery store flipped a switch inside me. I don’t bother to hide my interest, and she responds by crossing her arms over her chest and glaring until I look back up into her eyes.
“What?” she asks. “Run out of flour or something? Or did you just forget something mean you were going to say to me?”
“Sugar,” I say, holding back a grin.
“What?” she asks, clearly at the edge of her patience but still curious enough not to slam the door in my face.
“I need a little sugar,” I say, grinning.
“Oh my God,” she says, slamming the door.
I catch it with my hand before it closes, leaning in. “Seriously,” I say. “I thought about it, and you did go to all the trouble of finding my address like a stalker. The least I can do is fuck you for your trouble.”
She screws up her face with the effort of pushing the door shut, but I don’t budge.
“Is that a no?” I ask.
She finally stops trying to slam the door and breathes out a long, shuddering breath that’s laced with anger. “I don’t know what this is to you,” she says, waving her finger between the two of us. “Some kind of sick game bored superstars play, or maybe it’s that you’re sad and lonely and it feels better to act like an asshole than it does to face your problems. Whatever it is, you can go back to your shithole cabin and deal with it yourself. Leave me out of it.”
I plug the door with my foot so I can lean in the doorway and take in the sight of her and her adorably perky nipples. She’d probably be mortified to realize she’s forgetting to cover herself. “Careful,” I say softly.
“Or what?” she snaps.
“Or you’re going to go from uninteresting to interesting, and I just might have to make sure I get a taste of what you’re hiding under those pajama bottoms.”
She looks down, notices her hard nipples and covers them again, which gives me the chance to push into her house and close the door behind me. I recognize the look on her face as she stands there wide-eyed and open-mouthed, utterly speechless.
“I’ve seen that look,” I s
ay. “You’re scared, but not in the kind of way that makes you want to run. It’s the kind of scared you feel on a roller coaster when it’s climbing toward that first drop, click by agonizing click. You realize you’re already strapped in and there’s no turning back. Your fate is sealed, and you’re about to be in for the ride of your life. It terrifies you, but you couldn’t be more fucking excited.”
She shakes her head but loses room to back away from me when she bumps into the wall behind her. Her voice is quiet and breathless. "No. I'm just scared because a big ass guy is inside my house."
"You're feeling your body rebel against your mind," I explain, pressing two fingers to the tender skin of her neck just below her jaw where her pulse thumps against me like rabbit's feet. "Elevated pulse. Body temperature is increasing. I'll take credit for the hard nipples, too. Don't fight it, Lindsey." I let my fingers run down the length of her neck, and her eyes follow them, body still rigid and stiff but melting into something more warm and pliable with every passing second.
I’m falling into it too easily, the old habits, the old web I’ve weaved so many times. I’m almost disappointed to see Lindsey falling into it so easily. Even as my own body goes through the practiced motions of undoing her resistance and washing away all the logical reasons screaming at her to stay away. Part of what she said keeps echoing in my mind. It feels better to act like an asshole than it does to face your problems.
When I look back on my time since I came here and even before that, I can’t help seeing more truth than I’d like to admit in her words. She doesn’t know the half of it. Not even close.
I bring my thumb to her lip and rub it down, actually feeling my cock stir at the touch of her velvety skin.
“Stop,” she whispers.
I don’t realize what she said at first, and my hand slides behind the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair.
"Stop!" she says more forcefully, taking my wrist and pushing me away. She holds her hands up to her ears, shoulders bunched in tight and eyes closed as she shakes her head. "Just stop."
Hate at First Sight Page 25