by Grey, R. S.
Love the One You Hate
R.S. Grey
Love the One You Hate
Copyright © 2020 R.S. Grey
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Published: R.S. Grey 2020
[email protected]
Editing: Editing by C. Marie
Proofreading: Red Leaf Proofing, Julia Griffis
Cover Design: R.S. Grey
Contents
Copyright
Author’s Note
Love the One You Hate
Prologue
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
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Excerpt
The Beau & the Belle
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Stay Connected
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note:
Love the One You Hate is a full-length standalone novel. At the end, I’ve included an excerpt from my #1 bestselling romantic comedy The Beau & the Belle.
Love the One You Hate concludes at around 90% on your device.
Happy Reading!
XO, RS Grey
Prologue
He stands across the ballroom, a devil in black. His tailored tuxedo glides over his tall figure. His half-mask conceals most of his face, but the parts I can see hint that the unveiled image would stop me in my tracks. He has a strong jaw, dark thick hair, and unsmiling lips.
Just a brief glance from him makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I don’t know him, but he’s staring like he knows me. Like he hates me, rather. He tilts his head as he continues to study me and my heart is a hummingbird, racing in my chest. I have the urge to get away even before he starts to cut through the crowd to get to me. A hunted animal knows when it’s time to run, so I do. I slip through the double doors that lead out to the empty garden.
But the devil follows.
1
Nicholas
“Money beyond what most of us can imagine. Lineages dating back to the founding fathers. Connections that ensure barriers to entry don’t exist for them. We’ve all wondered what life is like for America’s wealthiest families, and today we’re going to take you behind the gilded doors for an exclusive look inside the private lives of the Cromwells.”
The producers cut to a montage of footage they’ve captured of my family over the years: my mother and father at the New York Opera, my grandmother’s annual Easter egg hunt, me leaving a bar back in college, annoyance evident on my face when I spot the cameras.
Even though I’m tempted, I don’t sling my remote at the TV; instead, I use it to turn off the salacious news story. I can’t watch it, and I don’t have to. Across town, a team of lawyers sit huddled in front of the broadcast, taking dutiful notes and preparing a written statement we’ll release to the press before noon.
The phone on my desk rings and I grab it hastily, immediately recognizing the number on the caller ID.
“Are you watching?” Rhett asks.
“Just turned it off.”
I lean back in my chair, turning to look out the window. My office is housed in a redone brownstone on the Upper East Side, three levels packed to the gills. Outside my door, interns and young associates toil away. I’ll join them soon, but not until I get my head wrapped around this catastrophe.
“It’s really not that bad,” Rhett assures me as I watch an old woman walk down the sidewalk with a dog no bigger than a teacup biting at her heels. “Oh, there you are again, scowling at the camera as you leave The Polo Bar. Hey! That’s me! Dammit, they cut away.”
I nearly smile, but I don’t. “You’re not helping.”
“Ah, c’mon. I’m just trying to lighten the mood. It’s not that bad.”
He’s right, of course. This isn’t that bad in the grand scheme of things, but there’s a reason my family values privacy above all else. Our goal is to keep our name out of the press. We’re not usually splashed across magazine covers or billed as the top story on America’s most-watched morning show. We’re discrete and quiet and largely go unnoticed—until a story like this hits, and then suddenly we’re thrust back into the limelight. The effects of this latest story are already visible. The woman with the dog stops to let him pee, and behind her, barely concealed, is a photographer poised across the street, hoping I’ll show my face.
“Why wasn’t this story killed?” Rhett asks.
We employ a team of people whose sole job is to make sure we’re kept out of the headlines. Lawsuits, coercion, bribery—I have no doubt they employ every tactic necessary, and yet, still, sometimes stories slip through. Like this one. I’m sure the show and its parent company weighed their options thoroughly. They knew we’d come after them with everything we had if they ran the story, and they still did it, because it’s worth that much to them.
Rhett knows that. I don’t have to explain it to him.
“Loyalty is dead,” he says with a disgusted grunt.
Through the phone, I can hear his TV, and I know they’ve switched to the live interview with Michael Lewis, the man I’d love to strangle.
My grandmother’s old driver.
He was only with us for a year after coming highly recommended through an organization that connects families like ours with well-trained staff. We paid him well in exchange for his discretion and trust, and we would have continued to do so if I hadn’t caught him stealing from my grandmother.
I keep track of her accounts myself, and it was obvious the moment he got his hands on her checkbook. Three checks made out to an unregistered S corp, all signed by my grandmother, all cashed by him.
I fired The Talented Mr. Ripley right away.
He claimed innocence. “How could I possibly have written those checks? They had your grandmother’s signature on them!”
He should have been thanking his lucky stars I wasn’t pursuing legal action. It wasn’t out of empathy for him, but out of hope that the small scandal would die down swiftly. I didn’t want my grandmother to be the subject of scrutiny and drama. I didn’t want her title as the matriarch of our family tainted by accusations of senile naivety.
I thought he’d leave well enough alone, but it appears Mr. Lewis has found another way to make a quick buck off my grandmother. Murmurs started last week, a potential article exposing the secrets and scandal of our family. What secrets and scandals he claims to have? Who knows. I’m sure he felt that after driving my grandmother around for a year, he had more than enough information to run to the press with. I hope it was worth it for him.
The non-disclosure ag
reement he signed before starting employment with us was ironclad. I almost pity him.
Another call interrupts Rhett’s rambling diatribe about how we all need to be more careful about the people we let into our lives. It’s my lawyers; I’m sure they want me to read the statement they’ve prepared.
I have real work on the docket for today, items on my agenda that matter more than this petty bullshit. I’m angry with Michael Lewis all over again. Angry that he took advantage of my grandmother. Angry that he stole from her and, when caught, didn’t have the decency to slink off somewhere to rot. Now, he’s sucking up even more of my time, which could be better used elsewhere. I cut Rhett off, tell him I’ll see him in Newport soon, and then switch over to line two.
I don’t let my attorney get the first word in.
I make it perfectly clear that I want Michael Lewis obliterated.
No one hurts my family and gets away with it.
2
Maren
“Hold up! Got one more for you!”
I turn to see a guy sporting a hairnet and a white apron thoroughly stained with food. He’s running toward me carrying a black garbage bag, and it’s near bursting. He’s straining under its weight.
“There’s no more ro—” I don’t get the full protest out before he lugs the bag up and over the lid of the cart I’m pushing, piling it on top of all the other trash bags. “—om.”
He gives me two thumbs up. “You got it, right?”
I don’t got it, but his question is clearly rhetorical seeing as he’s already turning on his heels to dash back down the hallway.
“This isn’t my job!” I shout in protest. “Food prep needs to take out their own garbage!”
There’s no reply from him. He’s already turning the corner, leaving me with an overflowing cart filled with refuse. It smells. I’m surprised there aren’t cartoonish squiggly green lines shooting out of it in every direction. I try not to gag as I push it forward.
The dumpsters are outside the nursing home, all the way at the back of the parking lot.
I push the door open and warm air rushes in to greet me. Some kind of sludge seeps out of the side of the cart, and I accidentally step in it. My sensible black shoes—the kind all the orderlies wear—now make a lovely squelching sound with every step I take. I curse that food prep guy to hell and heave in a deep breath as I push the bulky cart over uneven pavement.
Up front, near the entrance of Holly Home, it’s all rose bushes and neatly trimmed hedges. Out back, it’s tired cooks smoking against the wall and blinking flood lights failing to illuminate the curb I smack directly into. Trash spills over the sides of the cart, and for one second, I think this is it. This is the last day I work this job. I’m going to hand in my resignation, yank off this white uniform, and walk out of this place in the buff with my head held high.
The glorious thought dies a swift death once I remember my reality: how long it took me to find this job in the first place and the unlikelihood that I’d find anything better.
This is my lot in life, I remind myself as I make it to the dumpster and start to toss bags up and over the side.
When I’m done, I push the cart back to its spot in the maintenance department, under the opening beneath the trash shoot. Leroy is there, sitting at his desk. He shoots me a hesitant smile.
“Sorry about that, Maren.”
He glances down to his ankle, the one he twisted pretty bad yesterday, making his job here all but impossible. He hasn’t told our boss about it—worried she’ll cut him loose—so I volunteered to step up where I could. My shift is over anyway. I was about to clock out.
I give him a little salute and a smile.
“Hey, it wasn’t so bad,” I say with a wink. “Now I don’t even need to worry about getting in a workout today.”
It’s a blatant joke. Working out is for privileged people who have calories to spare.
Leroy doesn’t laugh. Instead, he holds up half a sandwich wrapped in waxy brown paper.
“Benita brought it down for me from the kitchen. I left half for you.”
I step forward and take it without any preamble about how “I couldn’t possibly.” I could possibly. I’m starving.
I hold it up in thanks and head back out into the hallway toward my locker. Freedom beckons. I have the next hour mapped out in my head like a luxurious dream. I’m going to get out of here in time to catch the 9:05 bus back to the group home. I’ll eat my sandwich on the way and finish it in three, maybe four bites. Once there, I’ll take a quick shower—because no one should be hogging the bathroom at this time—and make it to my bed in the bunkroom with enough energy to read for a little while before promptly passing out. I nearly shiver with delight thinking of how good it will feel right before my boss, Mrs. Buchanan, appears from around the corner. She’s a tall woman with a deep voice and wears clothes that look like they’ve been run through the wash so many times they’ve lost all their color: muted brown, gray, dull blacks.
“Oh good, Maren—I was hoping to catch you before you leave. Would you mind coming into my office for a moment?”
I’ve learned over the years that people look at you differently if you’re a foster kid, like you’ve got nothing to lose and everything to gain. I switched schools a lot after my parents died, moved around often. Everywhere I went, I felt watchful eyes on me. Wonder how she got those shoes. Hey, that watch Maren’s wearing looks a lot like the one I lost last week.
So when Mrs. Buchanan calls me into her office, I know by her inability to meet my eyes and the tightness to her smile that I’m not going to like what I hear.
“I’m just covering all my bases,” is how she phrases it. “I’m not singling you out by any means.” No, it’s just that I’m the first and only person she’s going to interview about a piece of jewelry that was stolen from Mrs. Dyer’s room during my last shift.
“I’m not suggesting you took the ring. I’m just wondering if you happened to see anything suspicious. I’d rather not have to call the authorities if we can put this matter to rest on our own. Do you see what I mean?”
Accusations have shaved my heart down to a wilting limp thing over the years. I’m surprised it still beats.
“No, Mrs. Buchanan,” I say, voice monotone. Flat. Dead. “I didn’t see anything and I didn’t take anything.”
She purses her lips, upset by my refusal to give her the version of the truth she’s so desperately seeking. It’s my fault this is all happening even though I had nothing to do with the theft. That’s how I feel as she excuses me and tells me I’m free to go. This isn’t over, of course.
Next, I’ll have to sit down with the police and somehow try to prove to them that I’m a decent person, just like everyone else. It’s surprising how few people believe that. Prejudice is a pervasive disease.
I have an overwhelming fear that I will always be painted by a stained brush, that no matter how I dress or talk or smile or spritz on perfume to cover the scent of the mold in the group home, there’s no denying that I’m Maren Mitchell—less than.
* * *
The next day when I arrive for another shift at Holly Home, it’s clear that Mrs. Buchanan has spread the word about my alleged theft. Coworkers who didn’t pay me much attention before now give me a wide berth, afraid of becoming tainted by association. Fortunately, the residents haven’t been made aware of the accusations.
Most of them are as excited to see me as usual. As an orderly, my duties are vague enough that any department is free to use me as an extra set of hands. That means, oftentimes, I pick up the slack for other people, especially when it comes to residents I really like.
Take Mrs. Archer, for instance. She’s placed all the way at the end of the hall on the second floor, which means more often than not, she’s the last on the list to get breakfast and fresh linens and assistance outside on days when she’s up for taking a walk. I hate that. So, I volunteer to take her breakfast up, and I know where housekeeping stores the sheets and
such, so I change hers out whenever I think she needs it.
She’s quiet. I don’t think she’s said more than a handful of words to me in the months I’ve been here, but still, I know she likes me. She smiles when I come in and nods for me to continue talking if I get carried away with a story. I tell her about the toddler I sat next to on the bus as I help lead her down the hall toward the rec room.
In the doorway, she nods toward the back corner, to the chair that sits beside a fading grand piano. It’s her favorite spot, and I don’t mind what it implies. She wants me to play for her.
“I can’t right now. I have to get back to work, but I go on break in thirty minutes. I can come back then?”
She smiles and pats my hand. “I would like that very much.”
I glance up to the clock on the wall to make sure I don’t leave her waiting for one minute longer than I have to.
I’m not surprised to find her right where I left her when I return. Except, she’s not alone. Her friend sits beside her.
Mrs. Archer has more visitors than other residents. Her grandchildren and friends come to Holly Home often, but this particular visitor is my favorite. In my head, I refer to her as the queen because she reminds me so much of the old monarchs I’ve read about in novels. Stately and beautiful, but sharp too, like a finely cut gem. She wears her white hair in a short pixie cut that frames a pair of glacier blue eyes, which hold me captive any time she aims a question my way.