Hating You, Loving You

by Crystal Kaswell

  She comes fast and hard, bucking against my lips, clawing at my skin, groaning my name again and again.

  I plant a soft kiss on her thigh. Her stomach. Her chest.

  Her lips.

  She looks up at me with heavy lids. "That… You…"

  I wrap my arms around her.

  "Fuck." She melts into my touch. "You're…" Her voice gets soft. Sincere. "Fuck."

  I pull her closer.

  Slowly, she falls asleep in my arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chloe

  Morning light falls over the blue sheets and the navy comforter. I roll away from the window, press my eyelids together, soak in the feeling of the sun on my back.

  Slowly, I stretch my arms over my head. Shake my legs. Wiggle my toes. There's this bliss in my bones, this satisfaction I haven't felt in a long, long time.

  Last night…

  God.

  Memories threaten to derail the day's plans. They promise to keep me in a happy world filled with pleasure and connection and love. They promise to lock out ugly realities.

  I want to stay there.

  I want to buy a fucking house there.

  But I only have…

  Shit, how much time do I have?

  I throw the comforter off. Slip out of bed. There. My backpack is sitting on top of my jeans. Phone in the front pocket.

  The screen displays a sassy text from Dad (I swear, he's more older sister than Gia sometimes).

  Dad: Staying with a friend, huh? Wonder if his name rhymes with bean.

  He could at least pretend he's bothered by the thought of me hooking up with an inked sex god.

  I find my spare pair of panties (I keep it around for period mishaps, but this is a much more fun use) and slide them on. Then my jeans. Bra. Tank top. Socks. Boots.

  My clothes are scattered around the room. Collecting them is like living last night in reverse.

  It's a head trip.

  It's too much for nine o'clock. I have two hours until that test. I have two hours to feel like a normal person. To be a girl gushing over great sex. Over the thrill of falling in… well, I think a part of me has loved Dean since high school. But now… I don’t know.

  There are too many feelings whirling around my brain.

  I move into the bathroom. Brush my teeth, wash my face, run a comb through my hair. This is where short hair excels. No fuss.

  My reflection stares back at me with messy raccoon eyes and dark circles, but there's no denying the satisfaction in her expression.

  A little makeup remover and a fresh coat of eyeliner and mascara fix the raccoon situation. The makeup looks good, but it feels unnecessary. I don't need a shield right now. I don't need my defenses up.

  I can trust Dean.

  The thought bounces around my head as I move into the main room.

  Dean's standing at the stove in nothing but his black boxers. "You eat eggs?"

  Fuck, he wears those boxers. The waistband is slung low around his hips. The fabric clings to his tight ass and his strong legs. His entire back is on display.

  My eyes trace the tattoo running over his shoulder. An abstract, geometric design with a modern flair. Classic. Bold. Pure Dean.

  "Do I what?" My gaze goes back to his ass. Perfect doesn't begin to describe it. He's on a whole other level of hotness.

  He lets out a hearty chuckle as he flips whatever is in the pan. "Do you eat eggs?"

  "Yeah." I move into the kitchen. Until I'm two feet from him. "Most vegetarians do."

  "Still gonna ask."

  "Thanks." My stomach grumbles as the smell of said eggs wafts into my nostrils. "Tea?"

  He motions to two mugs sitting on the dining table. A container of honey and a spoon sit between them. "Earl Grey."

  "I drink other things."

  "No shame in knowing what you like." He flips the eggs. Turns to me. Gives me a long, slow once over. "Was hoping you'd come out here naked."

  "I thought about it."

  "Damn, where did I go wrong?"

  "It was when you insisted you wouldn't fuck me until after the test."

  He shakes his head with mock regret. "It's the little things, isn't it?"

  "Yeah." I can't help but laugh. He's just so… Dean.

  "Sit down. I'll bring you breakfast."

  I do. I watch him cook as I stir honey into my tea. He's focused. Intent. Careful. That other Dean, the one that cares about things.

  No. That is Dean. He's both guys—the one who has to crack a joke and the one who perfects his tattoo mock-ups.

  He turns the stove off, scoops eggs onto ceramic plates, and brings them to the table.

  He slides into the seat next to mine and hands over a fork.

  "Thanks." I groan through my first bite. "These are amazing." Fresh, soft eggs with tender tomatoes, sharp green onions, and tangy cheddar.

  "Sure thing." He wraps his hands around his mug and takes a long sip. "How's your head?"

  "Okay. I drank a lot of water last night." My eyes go to the clock. Nine ten now. That still leaves a lot of time to feel normal. I don't want to leave that yet. "How about you?"

  "That was nothing for me."

  "You are—"

  "If you're gonna guess my weight again—"

  "I was going to say experienced."

  He chuckles. "True."

  "With drinking."

  "Still true." He scoops eggs with his fork. "Fuck. I usually chow down on bacon when I have a hangover."

  "That sounds like you."

  "Do you ever get tempted to eat meat?"

  "When I first started, yeah. But after a while, meat seemed gross to me. After fifteen years, the smell of it makes my stomach turn."

  "Fuck. That's dedication. I don't think I've believed in anything for fifteen years."

  "What about lust for pussy?"

  He laughs so hard he drops his fork. His hand goes to his stomach. He holds onto it like he's about to bust a stitch. "Lust for pussy?"

  "What would you call it?"

  "Lust for pussy is perfect." He wipes a tear of joy from his eye. "Fuck, Chloe. You… you're perfect."

  "It's the boots." I show off said boots. "You can admit it."

  "You can admit sandals are more comfortable."

  They are comfortable. But—"They aren't me."

  "You gonna wear combat boots to your wedding?"

  "I don't know. Are you proposing?"

  His eyes light up as his smile spreads over his cheeks. "You shouldn't dare me like that, sunshine. I'll do it just because."

  I have no doubt Dean would marry someone on a whim. But not just to win a game of chicken. Because there's this lonely part of him hiding behind the cocky front.

  He craves connection as much as I do.

  "Who says that isn't exactly what I want?" I tease back.

  "It's only four hours to Vegas."

  "Don't I know it."

  His laugh bounces around the room. "Don't you know it?"

  I nod.

  "You're hitting Vegas on the regular?"

  "Is that really so implausible?" I take a long sip of my tea. Let out a soft moan. God, that's good. Bergamot really is a wonderful thing.

  "I can't think of much that's less plausible than you at the Vegas clubs, getting wasted, bringing home some boy toy."

  "That's because I'm all about roulette."

  "Put it all on black?"

  I wave my hand over my tank top and black jeans. "Of course."

  He leans back in his chair with a knowing smile. "No fucking way."

  "I have been to Vegas."

  "And?"

  "Well…"

  "You hated it?"

  "Only almost everything about it." I laugh. "Just that."

  "It's not your kind of place."

  "Yours?"

  He shrugs. "It's was a thrill when I turned twenty-one. But the whole bar, club, hookup thing got old fast."

  "You should have been putting it all on red."

  "Maybe that was my problem."

  I scoop another bite of my eggs. Chew. Swallow. In the light, the sparseness of Dean's apartment is more obvious. The bare walls and empty shelves are lonely. "How long have you been getting tired of your routine?"

  "Awhile. But I didn't realize it until I saw you again."

  "I mean that much to you?"

  "I didn't think so, but yeah. You're the only woman I've ever trusted."

  "You trust me?"

  "Yeah."

  "Even with everything with your mom?"

  "I'm not gonna pretend that isn't in the back of my mind somewhere, but, yeah, I do."

  "Oh." My cheeks flush. Somehow, this is more intimate than anything he's told me. It shouldn't be news—last night, he promised he'd stick around no matter what—but it is. I reach for the proper response. Find nothing. "These eggs are really good."

  "Thanks."

  "I didn't realize you cooked."

  "I don't. I know a few things."

  "So, I can cook?"

  "Can?" He aches a brow. "Please. Take it off my hands. Unless you want to eat grilled cheese every night you're over here."

  I stifle a laugh. "Is that really it?"

  "Mac and cheese, too."

  My lips spread into a smile.

  "Spaghetti with broccoli and frozen meatballs. I can do that. Get veggie meatballs for you or leave them off."

  "It sounds like your specialty."

  He laughs. "It's… edible."

  "High praise."

  "I mostly do takeout."

  "But you…" My eyes go to his bare torso. "You're super cut."

  "And?"

  "You don't get that cut eating mac and cheese."

  He laughs. "I can cook chicken breast and broccoli too."

  "Do you think… can I cook tonight if we come back here?"

  "Sunshine, if we come back here I'm not gonna give you time to breathe much less cook."

  The second I slide into my car, the wall between now and later falls.

  The test is the only thing on my mind.

  I turn the key, press the brake pedal, bring the car into reverse. Try to focus all my attention on pulling out of this space.

  Parallel parking is the worst.

  No. I can't sell that to myself. Life changing tests are a hell of a lot worse than parallel parking. Especially when they're supposed to be normal and routine.

  We need to do a scan every year for five years. Just in case your cancer is back. No biggie.

  I guess it's no biggie for an oncologist. They eat, breathe, sleep cancer. As awful as that is.

  "What did you do about your appointments?" I pull onto tenth. Head toward the freeway.

  "Rescheduled them."

  "You didn't have to."

  "Yeah, I did."

  "What did you tell your clients?"

  "That I was fucking my apprentice and we needed to work some shit out or we'd be too distracted."

  My cheeks flush. He's kidding, but, God, the thought of our eleven o'clock staring at us dumbstruck, whispering so is she as kinky as she looks or what?

  He is kidding.

  Right?

  He looks to me with a laugh. "You're so fucking cute when you blush."

  "I am not."

  "Yeah, you are." He takes my free hand. Intertwines my fingers with his. "I'm gonna have to keep saying stupid shit."

  "Do you ever stop?"

  "I think it happened once."

  My laugh breaks up the tension in my shoulders, but it's short lived. By the time I turn onto the freeway, it's back.

  Dean is good at distracting me, but there's nothing distracting enough to block this from my mind.

  It's a routine test.

  It's going to be okay.

  It's not a big deal.

  I repeat the words over and over, but they do nothing to make it to my brain.

  Still. I need to focus enough to drive to the damn hospital. It would be the worst kind of irony if I died in a car crash on the way to a test that's going to tell me I'm perfectly healthy.

  I don't believe in much, not anymore, but I do believe in the universe's love of irony.

  "You are kidding, right?" I ask.

  "What do you think?"

  "I'm never sure with you."

  "Yeah. I told them I have a cold. That I don't want to spread it."

  "Oh."

  "I can call back and confess the truth."

  "No. I don't want anyone to know—"

  "That we're fucking?"

  "That I was ever sick. People look at me differently. With pity in their eyes."

  "I can see that."

  "I hate it." Traffic is light. Blue sky and two-story houses whiz by the windows. Picture perfect Southern California. "I hate when people tell me I must be so strong or brave to make it through that. Like it's a character fault to have a terminal illness. My mom was strong. I wasn't. I was lucky."

  "Not sure I agree with that, sunshine."

  "Huh?" My eyes go to him. There's pride in his expression. It's weird, but not bad. Not even a little bad.

  "It takes strength to get through that."

  "Maybe."

  "And it was fucking brave, telling me."

  My eyes go back to the road. "I told you because I was scared. Not in spite of it."

  "You have a higher opinion of me than I do."

  "Maybe." The tall buildings of Century City whiz by the windows. Glass and steel against the blue sky. "You haven't looked at me with pity once."

  "I don't pity you."

  "I know." My fingers curl into the steering wheel. "That may not mean a lot to you, but it means a hell of a lot to me."

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Dean

  Chloe is usually good at hiding her feelings.

  Not right now.

  Her fingers dig into the steering wheel. Her left foot taps the mat. Her shoulders climb to her ears.

  I do my best to distract her with stupid shit—changing the radio to the Top 40 station to get her complaining about the inanity of pop music, teasing her about how much more comfortable she'd feel in sandals than combat boots, asking how she can have any color tattoos where the rest of her wardrobe is black.

  For a while, it works.

  The closer we get to Burbank, the farther away her thoughts are. By the time she pulls off the freeway, she's in some other place. Her eyes stay on the road, but her head stays far away.

  A few turns and she pulls into the hospital's parking garage. The concrete structure drowns out the sun and the blue skies. Turns the world to a cold, grey place.

  Or maybe that's my head going off someplace.

  I'm not a daydreamer. Never have been. I got into art because I wanted to do ink, not the other way around. But right now…

  Fuck, my thoughts are a million places.

  I thought I was scared for Ryan and Leighton and their inability to figure their shit out.

  That was nothing.

  How the hell am I going to handle it if something does happen to her?

  I looked up the statistics this morning. There's almost no chance of a relapse after a double mastectomy. But if there is a relapse…

  Odds aren't good.

  Chloe parks on the third level. She leans back into her seat and plays with her keys. "I guess we should go do this."

  "We have a minute."

  "Barely." She turns to me, her eyes heavy with concern. "I'm sure they'll make us wait forever. They always do. I just… I want to be done with this."

  "I know." I undo my seatbelt and move over the center console. Until I can wrap my arms around her.

  She softens under my touch. "Sorry. I… I'm freaking out."

  "Don't apologize."

  "You're… it's weird, you being serious."

  "Isn't it?"

  "Can you… not?" Her laugh is soft. "This is serious. I know. But can we pretend like it's not?"

  "Sure thing, sunshine." I pull back to release her. "But I gotta know something."

  "Yeah?"

  "That line last night about how you weren't still trying to get in my pants. That was bullshit, right?"

  Guilt spreads over her expression.

  "Fuck, should have known."

  "That wasn't my primary intention. I swear." She opens the door and slides out of the car.

  I follow her lead. Move around the trunk to wrap my arm around her waist. "So, what was it? Coming?"

  "If I only wanted to come, I would have fucked myself."

  "Go on."

  "Oh my God." She hides behind her hands.

  "I'm lacking details." I press my palm into her lower back to lead her through the parking lot.

  Slowly, she brings her hands to her sides. "What is it you want to know?"

  "About you fucking yourself? Everything."

  "It's not that interesting."

  "No, it's fascinating." We step into the elevator lobby. I press the down button. Watch it light up. "Did you fuck yourself in my bed?"

  The elevator doors slide open. Chloe steps inside. She turns back to me with a coy smile. "Not answering that." She motions come in. Her expression stays easy. Distracted.

  "That's a yes."

  She presses the Lobby button. "I'm disregarding your question because it's ridiculous."

  "In other words, yes." I wrap my arms around her waist.

  She wraps hers around my neck. Looks up at me with need in her dark eyes. "Dean…"

  "I'm happy to fuck you in this elevator. If that's your next question."

  Her cheeks flush. "No. That wasn't."

  "I know." I back her into the wall anyway.

  Press my lips to hers anyway.

  Her fingers dig into my hair.

  Her lips close around my bottom lip. She sucks hard. Scrapes her teeth against my flesh.

  Then she's parting her lips to make way for my tongue.

  The reality of the day fades away. There isn't a single ugly thing in the world. Just her and me and all the need pouring between us.

  The elevator's ding interrupts us.

  The doors slide open.

  "Fuck." Chloe pulls back with a heavy sigh. She turns to the door, eyes blinking, cheeks flushing with the sudden realization we have an audience. "Sorry."

  The older couple standing in front of us laughs.

  "You know how it is," I say.

  They share a look. A best friends/siblings/been together forever and finish each other's sentences look.

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