Hating You, Loving You

by Crystal Kaswell

  By the time we're at the top of the next hill, I'm panting and flushed. But it's not from the hike. It's him being right there. Shirtless.

  He stops. Throws his hands over his eyes to block the sun then takes in the view—the canyons flush with grey-green trees, the multi-million-dollar mansions, the rolling ocean. It goes for miles. Forever. From Malibu, all the way to Long Beach Harbor and beyond.

  He turns back to me, those blue eyes on fire.

  My knees knock together.

  My body begs me to touch him.

  I reach for the first distraction I can find. "How was your last appointment?"

  "Should have seen the look Ryan gave me after he saw the tattoo." He imitates his brother's disapproving frown. Then his voice. "Why would anybody want this trendy shit?"

  "It was water color?"

  "How'd you know?" He laughs.

  "You've never told me what your opinion is."

  "Not my body. Not my place."

  I nod. Hug the brush to give two friends room to pass.

  Dean follows suit. He places his body right behind mine.

  His crotch brushes my ass.

  The back of his hand brushes my hip.

  His breath is cool against the back of my neck.

  They pass. Finally.

  I play with the waistband of my leggings. "Would you get one?"

  He shakes his head. "Not that secure with my masculinity."

  "If you were."

  "Hard to envision a universe where that's true."

  I laugh, even though I don't believe it. "You're incredibly secure about that."

  "About my cock? Yeah. Of course. You want to see so you can remember why?" he teases.

  "No. About how manly you are. You're not afraid to hug Ryan and tell him you love him."

  He smirks. "Ryan hates that."

  "Yeah. And you'd probably say that's why you do it, but it's not. You care about your friends and family."

  "Who said otherwise?"

  "You."

  He arches a brow.

  I step over a mass of rocks. "You act like you don't give a fuck. But you do."

  "Maybe." He turns to the view. Lets out a heavy exhale as he takes it in. "You act like you hate everything."

  "I do."

  "Nah. You barely hate anything."

  I shake my head.

  He nods. "You mostly talk about shit you love."

  "That's because I mostly talk tattoos."

  "You're obsessed."

  "That's why I'm here." I round another corner. Ah, sweet, sweet shade. I hug the hillside.

  "Why are you here?" He moves forward. So he's in front of me, then he turns and walks backward.

  "Here? You have some sort of plan to make me see the beauty in the world."

  "And?"

  "It's gorgeous here, yeah. But it's not filling me with zest for life."

  "I'm wearing too many clothes."

  "That must be it."

  His eyes meet mine. "Why are you at Inked Hearts?"

  "I told you. I decided to start going after what I wanted."

  "Tell me the real story."

  I want to.

  I want to let Dean in.

  But the last time I did that, he left me high and dry.

  Can I trust him now?

  "You know the real story." I move forward. "I finished college, had a family problem, figured it out, begged anyone who would listen for an apprenticeship. The end."

  "You're skipping over 'family problem.'"

  "It's not an interesting story."

  "You're not a good liar."

  My shoulders tense. "Why should I tell you anything?"

  "Because you want to."

  That's the thing. I do. My heart is begging me to share with him. My body is on fire just from his proximity. But my head… "Last time I ignored my common sense, I went seven years without hearing from you."

  He stops in a patch of shade. Leans against the hillside.

  "Forgive me if I'm apprehensive about trusting you again."

  "You're still thinking about that?"

  "I wasn't. Until I saw you again."

  His eyes find mine. "You were better off."

  "I was better off crying into my pillow all of June?"

  Something fills his eyes. Some realization. "I meant that much to you?"

  "Yeah." I bite my lip. Here am I, awkward and vulnerable again. And here he is, aloof and in control, again. "I thought about you for three years straight. You and I… we always understood each other. Maybe we hated each other—"

  "I never hated you."

  "I hated you. A lot. But I always liked you."

  "I love the way you hate me."

  "You're disturbed."

  "Yeah."

  "So." I dig my toes into the dirt path. "When we went upstairs… I knew you weren't the boyfriend type. But I thought it meant something. That I meant something to you."

  "You did."

  "Then why didn't you ever call?" I bite my lip. This isn't how this conversation is supposed to go. I'm supposed to slap him and scream fuck you for ditching me, you asshole not stare into his eyes begging for an explanation.

  I waited for him for seven years.

  I'm still waiting.

  I'm still under his thumb.

  He's still holding all the cards.

  "Honestly?" He stares back at me.

  "No. I want a lie."

  "I gotta watch myself. You could push me off a cliff."

  "You must be—"

  "You gonna guess my weight again?"

  "You're all muscle. Don't pretend like it offends you."

  His lips curl into that million-dollar smile. It's a second, then frustration streaks his expression. "It was for you."

  "Fuck you." I push off the hillside. Move forward. He can shill out all the bullshit he wants. I'm not hearing it.

  "Sunshine, wait."

  I don't.

  I climb the damn hill as fast as I can.

  He follows.

  He's taller. Faster.

  I break into a jog.

  A full-on trail run.

  Dart around the curve.

  Down a steep hill.

  Up the next.

  My heart races. My breath becomes a struggle. My focus shifts to the trail and the placement of my feet.

  Fuck his stupid excuses.

  Fuck him for calling me sunshine.

  For inviting me out to show me the beauty in the world.

  We can't be anything.

  Not if he's still refusing to be honest.

  With the next hill, he catches up.

  His fingers curl around my upper arm. "You were going someplace. To a good college and a guy with a real job. A guy who could buy you a car and a vacation and a house with a white picket fence."

  "What about me says white picket fence?"

  "Besides the combat boots and the eyeliner, everything."

  "Fuck you."

  "I thought we were both better off."

  "Both of us includes you." I turn to face him. To try to find some explanation in his expression.

  Hurt streaks his blue eyes. "I told you. I don't do relationships."

  "So that whole 'I didn't want to hurt you more' thing was bullshit?"

  "No. I…" He runs his fingers through his hair. "I was crazy about you. I thought fucking you would cure me of that. But it didn't."

  "You're really bad at apologizing."

  "Chlo—"

  "You were crazy about me. You kept thinking about me. Why didn't you ever pick up the phone?"

  "I didn't want to get hurt."

  "So?" I pull my arm to my side.

  "You're right. I was an asshole."

  The earnest apology catches me off guard.

  "I'm sorry. It was one of the worst things I ever did, hurting you. It still eats at me."

  "Oh."

  "If I could take it back, I would."

  "How?"

  He raises a brow.
>
  "Would you not seduce me? Or would you call? Would you stick around?"

  "I'd call."

  "And then?"

  "I don't know, sunshine. This kind of thing isn't my forte."

  "You really—"

  "Yeah." He moves closer. "We can leave now if you want."

  "No… Let's just… let's talk about something else."

  "Anything in mind?"

  Did you really think about me that much?

  Are you still thinking about me?

  Do you want me as badly as I want you?

  I swallow hard. "Let's just talk about work."

  He nods, accepting my answer.

  But it lingers in the air.

  He wishes he called.

  He wishes things were different.

  He wishes we had a chance.

  Chapter Twenty

  Chloe

  We make it through the rest of the seven-mile hike without another mention of the night we spent together.

  But my thoughts never turn to the Malibu canyons or the Pacific Ocean or the million-dollar houses on the cliffs.

  They stay on Dean.

  He's sorry he hurt me.

  He still regrets it.

  Still thinks about me.

  But is that enough?

  He's still my boss.

  This is still a terrible idea.

  And my heart…

  It's still committed to his.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chloe

  "Do your best with my banana." Dean slaps the piece of fruit on the desk.

  It's Wednesday. The night before the test. Four days since he apologized. Since I fell asleep thinking about all the ways he could make it up to me.

  Okay, that's bullshit.

  I've fallen asleep thinking about him every night for a month straight.

  I pick up my gun. Stare at the yellow flesh. I'm at work and I'm paying attention, dammit. "A star?"

  "Whatever inspires you."

  "Sure." My fingers curl around the metal. At this point, the weight and feel of the gun are familiar. It belongs in my hands. It makes sense there.

  Dean goes into a trance when he's working.

  Maybe I can do the same.

  I turn the gun on. Focus on bringing it to the fruit's flesh.

  There. I draw a curved line. Round it. Finish the other half.

  The room quiets as the tattoo gun's hum ceases.

  It's October now. Even in Venice Beach, even five blocks from the beach, the weather is cooler. Which means the air-conditioning is at brisk rather than ice box.

  At the moment, it's silent.

  Our breath is the only sound in the room.

  My inhale is sharp. My exhale is heavy.

  Dean moves closer. Until he's right behind me. Inches away.

  Then pressed against me.

  His hard chest against my back. His crotch against my ass. His arms around my shoulders.

  My heartbeat picks up.

  My stomach flutters.

  My body buzzes with desire.

  His touch feels so good.

  Right now, I need good. This might be my last chance to kiss and make up with my body.

  But can I trust him?

  Can I muster up the guts to turn around and kiss him?

  His fingers trail down my arm. My wrist. The back of my hand. He picks up the banana and studies it. "Good."

  "Yeah?"

  "This is it."

  "It how?"

  "You're graduating." He sets the fruit on the desk. Steps backward enough to release me. "Do a more complicated design this time."

  "You have a banana?"

  "Not one you can ink."

  "In your dreams."

  "Pretty sure needles on my dick falls into nightmare."

  "Then how did you get the piercing—"

  "Raw willpower."

  "Bullshit." I need to tease him. I need to feel like today is a normal day and not the one before I meet my fate. "It was narcissism, plain and simple."

  "Damn, sunshine. Slow down. I don't know those SAT words."

  I turn and stare up at him. "It was all your ego."

  "It is massive." His smile lights up his bright eyes.

  "But that wasn't enough. You needed jewelry."

  "And this." He takes my right hand between his. Traces the lines of each ring with his thumb.

  "What about it?"

  "Why is it you're adorning your right hand?"

  I wiggle my left hand. I'm wearing rings on every finger there too.

  "So, you use both?"

  I can't help but laugh. "That's where you're going with that?"

  "Unless you've got nipple piercings I don't know about."

  So much for keeping my mind off my boobs. I bite my lip. Fail to force a smile. This is silly. I can't kiss Dean and keep my thoughts off my chest. If I kiss him, I'm tearing off his clothes. And he's tearing off mine. And his hands are going right to my chest.

  And, fuck, I want that.

  I want that so badly.

  "You okay, sunshine?" His voice pulls me back to the room.

  "Yeah. Just tired."

  "You forget your London Fog?"

  "Haha." I flip him off with my left hand.

  He releases my right. "Do the design. Then you can head out."

  "That's all for today?"

  His gaze shifts to the clock. "You've been here for ten hours."

  "But I…"

  "I know I'm irresistible, but I'm taking my tired ass home."

  "Don't you have a gym date with Walker?"

  He arches a brow. "Didn't realize you had my schedule memorized."

  "I notice things."

  "Notice tattoo designs."

  "I do."

  "Pick one." He nods to the banana. "For the other side."

  "Oh."

  "A Latin quote."

  I stick my tongue out.

  "Who doesn't love carpe diem?"

  My nose scrunches.

  "You don't want to seize the day?"

  I do. That's why it's awful. Because it's cheesy and pointless and cliché and completely true.

  "Not sure how you say seize the dick. I can call Kaylee. Ask her."

  "Don't berate the poor girl on my account."

  "Guess you're stuck with carpe diem."

  I barely manage to muster up a laugh.

  His brow furrows. He stares at me like I'm crazy. "You sure you're okay?"

  "Yeah."

  "You've been spacey all day."

  "I'm distracted."

  "By?"

  "Your body. Did your jeans get tighter?"

  He laughs, disarmed. "They're new." He moves into the main room.

  I follow him. "They look good."

  "Yeah."

  "Why is it you try to dress like an emo musician?"

  "'Cause you like it."

  "I do not."

  "How about this. I borrow Emma's eyeliner. Put some on. Come back into the room. Check if your panties are drenched."

  Desire flames below my belly. Yes. Let's skip all those pretenses and get right to taking our clothes off.

  I swallow hard. My body screams for his touch. My head screams bad idea. My heart… it's a confused mess.

  He looks down at me, his eyes heavy with desire.

  This is an invitation.

  I can take it.

  I should take it.

  But I still can't muster up the courage to say yes.

  Or maybe I'm being sensible. Protecting my job. And my heart. And my ego.

  I don't know anymore.

  I try to find the right response. Something flirty. Something that says yes, I want you.

  But it's too late.

  The door is opening.

  Someone is stepping inside.

  A tall guy with gorgeous blue eyes.

  Like Dean’s, only deeper. Stiller.

  He’s familiar. And serious. It’s all over his strong posture, his furrowed brow, his hal
f-hearted attempt at a smile.

  There’s something weighing on this guy.

  Something big.

  Maybe he’s also finding out his fate tomorrow.

  Maybe he’s as fucked as I am.

  Dean turns to the guy. “About time you showed up.” He greets the guy with a high-five.

  The broody guy nods a hello to Dean. Then to me.

  That’s familiar too.

  But different somehow.

  Dean introduces us. “Chloe, you know Hunter.”

  Oh. Hunter. He went to our high school. Hung out with Dean. Slept with all the pretty cheerleaders. And the band geeks. And the nerds.

  He had a reputation for sneaking Jim Beam into parties and spiking the punch at Prom.

  And, well, for being… casual with his body.

  He was never as easy, breezy as Dean, but he wasn’t all quiet and tortured either.

  This is… different.

  He looks older. Not wrinkled or worn. More battle-scared.

  Like he’s wiser.

  Like his last seven years were as brutal as mine.

  And, hey, maybe they were.

  Tattooed manwhores go through shit too.

  There’s something about the hurt in his eyes.

  Or maybe that’s more his broad shoulders and strong arms.

  If things were different, if I was a normal girl with a normal body, if my only concern was getting over my boss…

  I wish this was as simple as finding a hot rebound fuck.

  Why can’t it be that simple?

  Dean moves to the desk. Crouches to rifle through a drawer. “Hunter is filling in for Brendon while he’s away.”

  “Oh.” Figures my hypothetical rebound also works at Inked Hearts. Not that it matters. Nothing is going to help me get over Dean. Not even the hottest guy in the world.

  Dean stands. Places a thin stack of papers on the desk. “You gonna shrug off that chip on your shoulder?”

  Hunter meets him there. Half-smiles. “You gonna be serious for five minutes?”

  Dean shudders. “Never.”

  “There’s your answer.” Hunter’s voice is playful, but there’s an honesty to it too. He knows he’s miserable.

  But he’s not like Ryan. Well, pre-Leighton Ryan.

  He doesn’t seem okay with it.

  They go through the paperwork quietly. Then Dean backs off to let Hunter read.

  The broody tattoo artist—he must be an artist if he’s filling in for Brendon—signs on the dotted line.

  Dean’s eyes flit to me. “You can head home, sunshine.”

  “But…” I want to stay here. I want to eavesdrop on their conversation. To know what Dean is saying about me. If he’s saying anything about me.