Cheater's Regret (Curious Liaisons Book 2)

by Rachel Van Dyken

  I stared at the screen as Avery’s name lit up.

  The phone stopped buzzing.

  Then started all over again.

  She would keep calling until I answered.

  Finally, I swiped and held it to my ear. “Yeah?”

  Laughter, and then a snort, met my hello. “Thatch is going to kill you!”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I said through clenched teeth, then frowned. “Hey! I promised him revenge, and he still refused to tell me why, so he can just—suck it!”

  “That’s the spirit.” She giggled. “But a word of warning, Thatch isn’t the type to take things of this magnitude lying down.”

  My stomach clenched. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, according to Lucas, he’s an equal-opportunity revenge taker. In fact, Lucas said the last person he would ever want to start a war with would be Thatch.”

  “But, but—” I did a little circle in place and tried to calm my racing heart. “Lucas helped us! He helped me, the whole list thing and—”

  “Right, the list was Lucas’s idea, remember? His way of helping you get even without you actually engaging in a battle that you’d most likely lose! He was trying to help you NOT get in this situation!”

  “You’re telling me this now!” I shrieked.

  A knock sounded at my door.

  Eyes wide, I waited as my heart slammed against my chest.

  Thump, thump, thump-freaking-thump.

  He’d only been to my house once.

  I was being paranoid.

  “Austin?” Avery yelled. “Hello!”

  “I, uh, someone’s here,” I whispered.

  “You live with your parents. Of course someone’s there.” I could just see her rolling her eyes.

  “But—”

  “Look, all I’m saying is you’ve basically just dropped a red flag in front of a horny cheating bull—keep your guard up and your A game strong.”

  “Thanks,” I said through clenched teeth. “Great advice, anything else?”

  “Hiding out until this blows over wouldn’t hurt either.”

  I huffed out a breath and grumbled my good-bye, then very slowly went over to the main entrance and peeked between the blinds.

  There was something in front of the door, but I couldn’t make it out. It looked like part of a yellow flower, but I couldn’t tell if it was part of the potted arrangements by the door or something else.

  I opened the door a crack and then wider.

  A huge bouquet was sitting on my doorstep.

  I rolled my eyes—I was ridiculous to even think he might have sent me flowers. My dad always bought my mom flowers, once a week. It was kind of their thing.

  Head still pounding, I bent down to pick up the vase and screamed bloody murder when I turned the glass around and saw a giant tarantula inside, just waiting for me to pull out the flowers so it could pounce.

  I almost dropped the vase.

  Almost.

  Shit!

  I looked around. What the heck was I supposed to do? If I put it down, the tarantula could escape—if I put it in my house, the creature would most likely find its way into my bedroom and eat my face while I slept.

  With shaking hands, I set the vase back down on the ground and went in search of a bucket I could put over it—surely, the pet store could use another giant flesh-eating spider, right?

  It took me longer than it should have to find an old bucket in the garage that wasn’t infested with dirt and more spiders—the last thing we needed was some sort of Arachnophobia situation where the spiders mated and created a superspider.

  I shivered.

  I hated spiders.

  Thatch wouldn’t go that far.

  Would he?

  There was a note tucked between the pretty roses, but the last thing I was going to do was pull it out and aggravate the hairy thing.

  It was officially the morning from hell. I was sweating, most likely going to be late for class—again—and had had a run-in with one of my biggest fears.

  The front door was open when I made it back to the front of the house. Frowning, I stepped over the threshold. Where had it gone?

  “Hi, honey!” Mom held the temporary glass vase in her hands, her boobs so big and pressed up against the spider side. “How was your night?”

  “Mom, no!” Bucket raised high in the air, I ran toward her, ready to slam it down on her hands if need be. But clearly, she was used to my dramatics, since she frowned and reached for the card, tugging one of the roses up.

  “Thatch?” She turned the card around, and that’s when the aggressive little monster crawled right out of its prison and landed on my mom’s hand.

  What happened next was like something out of a war movie.

  She screamed, glass went everywhere, and I swore the spider made some sort of high-pitched noise while I charged at it with my blue bucket. I captured the furry beast just in time before it scurried into the living room.

  But the spider had been drugged.

  That was the only explanation for why the bucket moved across the wood floor like the spider was pumped full of ’roids and well on its way to eating through the plastic.

  “I think . . .” I was breathing too heavily, and my mom was standing on the countertop. “That we need to call animal control.”

  “That”—she pointed down at the bucket—“is possessed!”

  The bucket made a scraping noise against the floor. I jumped onto the couch and yelled.

  And that, folks, is when I realized we had an audience in the form of a slow clap from the open door, and a cell phone held high in the air, the camera lens pointed at me.

  “You!” I glared at Thatch, unable to move from my safety zone on the couch.

  “What?” He tilted his head. “I was in the neighborhood.” His cocky grin was menacing, aggravating.

  “I’m going to murder you!” I yelled. “You KNOW how I feel about spiders!”

  “Spiders?” He stared down at the bucket. “I’m not responsible for the shipments of flowers, I hope you realize that. I was just trying to send you flowers to apologize for last night—oh and . . .” He checked his watch and made a face. “You should probably go—don’t want to be late for class.”

  He held up his phone, snapped a picture, and walked off; two seconds later, he retraced his steps and called over his shoulder, “I hope you know . . . this is war.”

  I fumed and screamed after him, “I thought you wanted to be my hero!”

  He turned fully around and braced his hands in the door frame. His look said it all. He was pissed, not just a little, but a whole lot. “Consider this my warning. Post any more shit, and I’m going to make my way down my own little list. Bike shorts are one thing, but this? A viral video. War.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” I said, calling his bluff.

  He nodded toward the bucket. “Funny, because I think I just did. Have a good day!” He winked at my mother. “Mrs. Rogers, sorry for the mess.”

  Chapter Eight

  THATCH

  “I’ll be your hero.” The first sentence that was texted to me by an unlisted number.

  The hell?

  The morning just kept getting weirder.

  When I went to grab my coffee at my usual Starbucks, the barista stared up at me with wide blue eyes and said, “Enrique Iglesias is boss.”

  “Okay.” I drew out the word slowly. “Thanks for the coffee, good talk.”

  As if that weren’t weird enough, my Facebook feed was full of hero memes, one of them a picture of me wearing a cape.

  “What the hell?” I scrolled through my phone.

  And then a video started playing on my newsfeed.

  From Austin’s page.

  I’d been meaning to unfriend her—it was too hard seeing pictures of her all the time.

  Instead, like a masochist, I’d remained friends so I could stalk her and get angry all over again at my decision to push her away.

  My drunken voi
ce sang out not only the wrong key to the “Hero” song but also the wrong words.

  “Holy shit,” I whispered as I stared at my drunken self belting out a song in a pitch that probably only dogs could hear and understand.

  It was already going viral.

  With more than five hundred shares and two thousand comments.

  The video had been shared from her new website.

  And when I clicked on the website, lo and behold, there I was, in all my satanic-looking glory.

  I was going to murder her.

  MURDER.

  This was my life she was messing with! I had a career—a reputation!

  Damn it.

  That’s why they always warn you about scorned women.

  I quickly sent out a text to Lucas to meet me at my office and then tilted my head as a sign in the pet store window proclaimed “Tarantulas.”

  A smile curved my lips.

  Oh, she wanted to play?

  I’d play alright.

  Her forehead had the word “whore” written on it backward. She’d been using a mirror. Enough said.

  I took a picture because it had been so hilarious.

  And then I posted it to my Facebook page but made it private, selecting her profile along with Lucas’s and Avery’s. At least she’d know I had my own version of blackmail hanging over her head. Above the picture, I typed, “Who cheated who?”

  After all, she might blame me for our relationship being destroyed, but a part of me still blamed her.

  Blamed her for asking too much too soon.

  Blamed her for making me feel like it was what I needed to do in order to stay with her.

  “Austin.” I breathed her name as she rocked her naked body against mine. I could never get enough of her. She wasn’t the type of girl you slept with once and conveniently lost the number for the next day.

  It had taken me one full week with her to realize that I didn’t want something easy; I wanted her.

  Lucas was going to lose his shit the minute I told him that rather than break up with her, I was going to ask her to be my girlfriend.

  I grinned to myself like a complete loser.

  “Harder.” Her fingernails dug into my skin, and pain, mixed with the pleasure of being inside her, sliced through my body. “Thatch—”

  I silenced her plea with a kiss.

  Our fling was supposed to be quick.

  Fun.

  But nothing about her deserved to be rushed—her skin smelled like fresh rose water and tasted sweet, like she bathed in sugar. I was addicted to the way she tasted.

  “You always feel so good.” She hooked her arms around my neck. “How is that possible?”

  “I’m a surgeon.” I winked. “I’m good with my hands.”

  “Yeah, you are,” she agreed, her eyes locking on mine. “I like you.”

  “I like you too.” I swallowed my stupid nerves. I’d never done this. Never committed to anyone—my parents’ failed marriage was one of the main reasons I never had more than a one-night stand and was thriving in a lucrative career where I had enough money to buy my own damn happiness. It was no use investing that happiness in another person—they’d just let you down.

  “Be my girlfriend?” I asked in a quiet whisper.

  Her eyes widened and then she was kissing me, pushing me onto my back and rubbing her hands up and down my chest.

  I let out a moan. “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s a hell yes.”

  I shook my head at the memory and made my way toward my office, ignoring the funny looks and whispered hero references all the way to my desk.

  At least I wasn’t paranoid about what she was going to do to me anymore—she’d already embarrassed the hell out of me. There was no way she could do worse.

  No chance in hell.

  Chapter Nine

  AUSTIN

  “What do you mean it doesn’t count?” I fought to keep my voice even as my evil professor looked at my website. “It went viral!”

  “You posted an embarrassing video of an ex-boyfriend singing off tune.” He rolled his eyes and closed his computer. I swear he had some sort of God complex, since he was in his forties and had women falling at his feet, mainly hot undergrads. “Of course it went viral, but that’s not what this class is all about. What you posted is fine, but it’s a flash in the pan. It took absolutely no effort.”

  Hah! I nearly died from a spider attack because of that video, but whatever. I bit my tongue and waited for him to fail me.

  One of my classmates walked up to the desk and gave him a flirty wave. Her top was so tight, I could see nipple.

  He grinned and waved back.

  Bastard!

  “What you need,” he said, returning his attention to me like I was an epic disappointment, “is something that is actually interesting. Maybe you can document something important to you? Your father’s campaign for reelection?”

  Thanks, but I’d rather barbecue the trapped tarantula and eat it.

  When I didn’t say anything, he kept talking.

  “This man broke up with you?” His eyebrow arched. “That happens every day, and as fun as it is to watch someone else’s misery, people don’t root for that sort of thing, they forget about it. Besides, it lacks importance in society.”

  Another girl walked by, another perfect girl winking at the dear old professor. I was half-tempted to snap my fingers in front of his face to gain his attention.

  “Okay . . . ,” I said slowly, trying not to cry. “So, you want me to stop posting embarrassing videos and do what? Makeup tutorials? That’s the only other thing I’m noticing that goes viral fast and would get me followers. I’m not trying to be difficult here, I just don’t know what you want from me.”

  His intense stare wasn’t helping my nausea, and the last thing I needed to do was puke all over the man who held my MBA in the palm of his hateful hand.

  “It’s easy to lose a guy, it’s easy to get even—do the hard thing and you’ll figure it out. You’re an MBA student. Use your brain.” He shrugged. “You can go.”

  “But—”

  “Three weeks, Austin. You have three weeks to figure out your niche in social media. All you need is one hundred followers invested in your story. Make them love you. You just have to decide what you want it to be. This”—he tapped his computer again—“isn’t it.”

  I barely made it out of his office without crying angry tears. A part of me knew it was my fault. I’d gotten drunk and posted a stupid video, partially out of hurt, partially out of anger. The tears had more to do with Thatch than my class.

  I found an empty bench and sat, miserable.

  Hungover.

  In a war with a man who was going to put spiders in my bed.

  And all for nothing.

  I’d worked my ass off for eighteen months to do the MBA fast-track program with UW, and now a stupid elective class was standing in my way of getting that degree! An elective class that most people didn’t even have to take unless they were getting their MBA in marketing.

  My story. He’d said I needed to make them love me. Love the story. The story, the story.

  A couple holding hands walked by me. The girl looked like she’d been crying, and then the guy stopped walking and hugged her. When he pulled back, his eyes briefly fell to her mouth before he kissed her.

  I tilted my head.

  Their mouths met.

  Jealousy slammed into me.

  I had to look away.

  Stupid heart.

  Stupid invested heart.

  Stupid boob-obsessed professor!

  I jerked to my feet.

  That was it.

  He was right, anyone could post a video.

  Anyone could exact revenge.

  But a documentary on his favorite subject by way of Seattle’s youngest and best-looking plastic surgeon?

  I grinned.

  And then stopped smiling when I realized what type of sacrifice this would require on my part
.

  It would be hell.

  Epic.

  Hell.

  And I was going to have to beg on my hands and knees—oddly enough, one of Thatch’s favorite positions—so maybe, just maybe, it would work.

  Either that or he was going to laugh in my face and send me to one of his creepy partners who I had seen leering at me last time I was in the conference room.

  I shuddered.

  This was business.

  Not personal.

  I needed that grade—and if there was one thing I knew about Thatch, he’d buried his heart a long time ago. He’d be fine. After this, we’d go our separate ways.

  It might even give me the closure I so desperately needed.

  Chapter Ten

  THATCH

  “I have a proposition for you.” Austin’s raspy voice always did mess with my head. I quickly turned around.

  She was dressed in a short black skirt with a black-and-white striped T-shirt that showed an inch of pale skin at her waist. Her black gladiator sandals wrapped all the way up her calves. Basically, she was trying to kill me by way of high-heeled sandals and a hell of a lot of thigh.

  “Austin.” Damn it, could my voice be any hoarser? “I’d say this was a pleasure, but I wouldn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

  She flinched before moving swiftly into my office, closing the door behind her, and grabbing a chair.

  “Yes, please come in. It’s not like I have a job where I have appointments,” I grumbled, at my wit’s end with whatever the hell kind of drama she was about to unleash on me.

  “I’m going to fail my class,” she blurted, eyes wide with worry. “And I can’t fail, not after everything I’ve gone through to get to where I’m at. I’m living at home still, and I just—” She took a deep breath. “Failure isn’t an option. Ever.”

  Which was probably why our failed relationship drove her insane, not that I was going to say that out loud.

  “Why is this my problem? Didn’t that little video of me go viral?”

  Her lips twitched.

  “It’s not funny,” I snapped.

  “Admit it, it’s sort of funny.” She tilted her head in that adorable way that would make a weaker and lesser man fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

  I clenched my hands into fists.