The Boy I Hate

by Taylor Sullivan

  Samantha pulled in a deep breath and picked at her fingernail. She wished she knew what he’d said, but asking that sort of question would only make her sound guilty. So she shook her head, stuffing down the frustration for Renee’s benefit. She wouldn’t add to her best friend’s stress by complaining about Tristan. She didn’t have to share what a cocky bastard he was. Not now, anyway. She would save that for later.

  “Things are fine, Renee. Better than fine. We’re making good time, and I’m mostly listening to audiobooks.” Which was true. It was all the times in between that felt like hell.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Renee took a deep breath, as though some huge weight was lifted from her chest. “Okay, good. Where are you guys? How much longer until you get here?”

  Samantha’s eyes fluttered with exhaustion, but a curve pulled at her lips as she glanced around the room. “Motel 6. I have no idea where though. I fell asleep.”

  “Ahh… Well, go to sleep, Sam. It sounds like you need it.”

  Samantha nodded, agreeing completely. “When I get to NY, let’s have a spa day. Just me and you: massages, facials, the works.”

  Renee sighed. “Sounds like heaven.”

  “It will be.” Samantha let go of the phone, anchoring it in place between her face and the mattress, feeling herself start to doze again. “We should get off the phone and get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Night Ren.”

  “Night Sam.”

  11

  Chapter Eleven

  Present day

  Bright, blinding light streamed into Samantha’s motel room as she sat on the edge of the bed. It was just past nine in the morning, yet a chill lingered in the room, reminding her they were no longer in California. She wrapped her hoodie around her shoulders and zipped it shut. She was in a bad mood.

  Not because of the cold, but because she’d been awake for hours, and they were no closer to their destination. Which left her listening, waiting for any indication he was awake. A floorboard creaking, the sound of running water to indicate a shower had started, but there was nothing. All morning, which left her patience incredibly thin.

  She inched to the edge of the bed, trying to ease the stiffness in her neck that had gathered there during sleep. She was anxious to be on the road already, to get this trip over with, and be with Renee, but nothing at all seemed to be helping.

  The last two months had been especially hard without her best friend. Yes, there were the daily phone calls, even FaceTime every now and then, but it wasn’t the same. She longed for the days they stayed on the couch all day, buried in blankets and sharing a box of tissues as they watched the saddest movies they could find on Netflix.

  But the moment Renee had gotten engaged, Samantha’s life had changed forever. Because never again would she live under the same roof as Renee, or fight over the last scoop of ice cream in the freezer. It had all changed with one phone call, and she wasn’t even given time to prepare.

  Air. She needed air.

  Having been dressed for over an hour she slipped on her comfortable brown sandals and pushed herself from the bed. Maybe she’d even check out the complimentary breakfast while she was at it.

  She flung open the motel door, finding Tristan’s Mustang right away, parked just below their joined rooms. Knowing the sight would only make her angry, she ignored it, and gazed out to the bright blue sky and the town she didn’t recognize. In her twenty-three years, she’d only traveled out of California a handful of times. She’d always wanted to, but with family close, travel wasn’t one of her parent’s top priorities.

  It was a shame—because there were so many places she wanted to go. So many sights she wanted to see, and now she wasn’t sure she’d get the chance.

  The wrought iron banister was chipped and worn, but she leaned against it anyway, taking in the empty road below, and the trees covered with tiny buds she was sure would be gorgeously green in a few weeks.

  What was stopping her now? Why not travel now? To Paris, where she’d dreamt of going ever since she was little? To see the sculptures, the architecture, and culture that inspired her even to this day.

  It didn’t take long to come up with an answer: she had no one to go with.

  Her best friend had moved across the country, and Steven was too busy with his career to even consider as an option. The truth was, that at twenty-three, she was nearly tied down to a man she’d known since junior high; and she had only a handful of wild stories to carry with her into the future.

  Pushing all the regrets away, she tucked her hands into her oversized hoodie and walked down to the first floor. In the back of her mind, she knew this was her last adventure. She tried to convince herself otherwise, to believe there would be other opportunities, but she knew the truth. Steven would be too busy with his internship for the next few years, and once she got started with her “real” career, there would be no time for her, either. Yes, this was her last hoorah, one she had planned to take with her boyfriend; instead, she was stuck here with Tristan.

  She continued past the royal blue doors to the long corridor, taking in the white paint that had a yellow hue that showed its wear. They’d traveled only a day, yet reminders they weren’t in California were everywhere. She loved it. She loved the age of the place. The fact it showed its wear without being hidden behind a million layers of paint.

  In her hometown, the lowest priced home was over a half million. A three bedroom, two bath modest home. Women got Botox at thirty, and graffiti was covered the second after it was placed. All evidence of age or flaws were brushed under the rug and forgotten about. As if they didn’t exist.

  To Samantha, it was like erasing history. Laugh lines of happiness and joy or pain that shaped a person to who they were. Painting over this stuff was like sand blasting a Cathedral—criminal. But when she took in a lung full of crisp clean air, she let it all go on an exhale. The money, the perfectionism, the facade of a perfect life. And she took in the refreshing, exhilarating air she couldn’t get in Los Angeles. Fresh, somewhat cool, and without even a trace of smog.

  She continued into the main office, where the scent of perfume and dust made her clear her throat. Glancing around the room, she looked for any sign of life, and locked eyes on a little old man sitting at the counter. He wore an oversized brown sweater and wool-lined slippers propped high on the wooden desk. He was fast asleep, peaceful, with deep wrinkles that formed crevices all over his face, and he didn’t show any signs of waking up.

  Not wanting to disturb him, she carried on down the hall where a propped up sign with red removable letters told her the breakfast menu: bagels, cream cheese, and fresh fruits.

  Perfect.

  She made it to the bar, where the factory cut pineapple and too ripe bananas were left on the counter. She wrinkled her nose, then moved to the end of the counter and pushed down two bagels into the shiny red toaster.

  It was peaceful here. So quiet she could hear herself think. She filled a mug with steaming coffee, sat down at a nearby table, and picked up a discarded copy of the Salt Lake City gazette.

  They’d made it to Utah. She smiled at their progress, and some of the tension from her shoulders eased away. Rocking back in her chair, she enjoyed the quiet, and then a moment later, ate her bagel in solitude, while reading the classifieds and snickering about an old woman who owned one-hundred-and-one cats. Attached was a photo, slightly underdeveloped and dark. All you could see was the little woman’s white fluffy hair, surrounded by nothing but fur and eyes.

  When she was done with her meal, Samantha wrapped up the last bagel in a white paper napkin and filled a brown cardboard cup with coffee to bring to Tristan. It was nearly ten now, and if he wasn’t awake by now, he would be very soon.

  With the bagel tucked into the pocket of her hoodie, she tapped gently on the door to his hotel room.

  There was still no movement, no running
water, nothing to indicate he was even awake. She tapped again, heat creeping up her neck, but she took a deep breath and immediately knocked louder. “Tristan, it’s me. I brought you breakfast. Open up!”

  Nothing.

  She looked down to the parking lot, seeing his Mustang still parked below, and knew she was about to lose it. She headed for her own room, placed the breakfast on the nearby table, then rid of every last drop of patience, began pounding on Tristan’s door.

  “Wake up you lazy bastard! Wake up, or I swear to God I’ll beat this door down with my fists.”

  A large boom sounded from inside the room, and Samantha smiled with satisfaction as she continued to pound. “That’s right,” she whispered. “Get up you lazy ass—”

  But before she could finish her sentence, the door was yanked out from under her. She stumbled forward, barely able to catch her footing, and slammed face first into warm, solid, skin.

  She froze, because the glimpse she caught on the way down wasn’t one she ever thought she’d see. It was a very large, very bare, and very “Good morning” version of Tristan Montgomery.

  “Please tell me you’re not naked,” she whispered, but it was mostly to herself, because she didn’t really need him to answer. She squeezed her eyes shut, took one step backward, and turned around.

  They both stood there, quiet and still, and she tried to recover her heart. The sight of Tristan in nothing more than his birthday suit left her feeling dizzy. She’d seen many naked men in her days, though until now, the only one she’d seen in person was Steven. Especially this close up.

  “Well?” he finally asked, when she remained silent.

  Well? Well… Tristan was much…larger than Steven. Much larger in every way imaginable.

  She cleared her throat, knowing her voice would’ve cracked otherwise. “It’s ten in the morning,” she answered with more confidence than she felt.

  “And?” But his voice was thick and husky, and she could swear he was having as difficult a time recovering as she was.

  “It’s time to go.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes,” she said, hating how the tone of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. “And you should really put some clothes on. The people of Utah don’t want to see…that.”

  He chuckled, but shifted slightly behind her. “Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but a lot of people want to see that.”

  She cringed, because she knew it was true. Like in high school, she knew women lined up to catch the barest glimpse of Tristan.

  He moved quietly behind her, his steps so soft you’d never know they came from a man of his size. “You can turn around now.”

  She raked her teeth over her bottom lip, taking the very corner and chewing it before turning to face him. He still had no shirt on, his feet were bare, but he wore a pair of old gray sweats resting so low on his hips you could tell he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

  “Aren’t you freezing?” she asked, feeling a shiver run through her own body.

  “No,” he said, leaning against the doorway and crossing his feet at the ankles. A tiny grin teased at the corner of his mouth, and she knew he was having too much fun at her expense.

  She turned toward the Mustang, not attempting to hide her irritation. “I brought you breakfast,” she said quickly.

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “It’s not nice. Just my way of getting your lazy ass out of bed.”

  He threw his head back with laughter. “Are you always this pleasant in the morning?”

  Pressing her lips together, she wasn’t about to let him pull her into another argument. “We need to go,” she said, turning on her heels and opening the door to her room.

  She walked inside, hoping the action would give him the hint to do the same. “I’ll have your breakfast waiting for you in the car.” But before she closed the door, she could swear she caught him smiling.

  “My God.” she whispered, resting her forehead against the wall, taking in all the air she’d forgotten to take over the last two minutes. “Three more days. Just three more days of Tristan Montgomery.” She repeated the last words over and over, gathered up the rest of her belongings, and headed for the car.

  12

  Chapter Twelve

  Present day

  Samantha threw her oversized pillow to the back of the Mustang, as visions of Tristan standing in the doorway still clouded her mind. It had been over ten minutes, but she could still see each detail of his perfect body. She remembered all of it—his abs, his arms. Though they were larger now, and a scar ran across his right shoulder that hadn’t been there before. For some reason that fact bothered her. She wasn’t sure exactly why—maybe because she wasn’t sure how he got it, but it left her with a weird feeling in her gut.

  She’d spent most of her adolescence with the Montgomerys, which meant she also spent a lot of time with Tristan, whose life goal was to see how many hours he could spend of it shirtless. She’d become accustomed quickly, or as quickly one could with a half-naked Adonis lounging around by the pool—but a three-inch long scar was something she was sure she wouldn’t have missed.

  Climbing into the front seat of the Mustang, she told herself it shouldn’t matter—but for some reason it did. What had happened? Was that why he’d left Texas U? Mostly, she wondered why Renee had never mentioned it.

  She shook her head and lounged back in her seat, knowing she was telling herself lies. She knew the reason… Because she was an asshole, that’s why. An asshole friend who’d kissed her best friend’s brother, then never wanted to hear about him again. Whenever Renee would bring him up, Samantha would quickly turn the subject to something else. Renee was smart and caught on quickly—and stopped bringing him up altogether.

  Feeling a little bit shitty, Samantha leaned forward once again and set Tristan’s now cold coffee in the center console. The fact she’d been so shaken by him frustrated her. Yes, he was beautiful man, and yes, he had been naked right there in front of her. But she was a twenty-three year old woman. And an erect penis was something she’d seen at least a thousand times… But this was Tristan. And for some reason, the sight of him made her feel like she was sixteen all over again.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, determined to shed the memory from her thoughts and move on. This was natural, right? It was biological. Not a reaction to Tristan himself, but rather a man-woman sort of thing. She set the bagel on the dashboard, found her freshly charged iPod at the bottom of her bag, and began loading up her next audiobook. But when she looked up, she couldn’t help but notice the stark black arrow pointing directly to the red E on the gas gauge. They were out of gas.

  “Great. Just great.” She pulled in a calming breath, grabbed the balled up molding clay from the bottom of her purse, and began needing it with her fingers. She kept it around for moments like this. When her blood was heated, and she needed a way to calm down. The smooth, hard texture immediately eased her mind, and she glanced across the street to look for a gas station. They were already behind schedule, and now they had yet another delay. Yes, it was only to get gas, but Goddammit, they were never going to get out of Utah. Then right on cue, Tristan appeared on the balcony. He was dressed simply, wearing weathered jeans, a plain t-shirt with a hoodie over the top—but now she knew what lay underneath, and for some reason that changed everything. It sent a wave of guilt through her chest, and left her with an overwhelming urge to call Steven.

  Her fingers began to kneed more quickly and she suddenly felt guilty—because she shouldn’t be obsessing over a man like Tristan when she had Steven waiting for her at home.

  But as Tristan came down the steps, she couldn’t look away. He was rugged, and big, and he looked both dangerous and inviting at the same time.

  He threw his backpack over his shoulder, took one step and stretched his arms overhead—which only added to her bad mood. Because he seemed calm, collected, rested, as if he had all the time in the world.

  And looked just as
sexy with clothes on as he did naked. Goddammit!

  He walked down the rest of the way, his white t-shirt showing off how remarkably tan his skin was, and flung his backpack to the back seat with her pillow. The roughened up leather bag landing directly onto of the soft white cotton pillowcase, where the vast contrast in materials made her shiver. It was a much needed reminder of how different they were. About how right she was to walk away all those years ago. He was rough and ready Tristan Montgomery. She was Samantha Smiles, the girl who needed to pull her shit together and stop day dreaming!

  Next she knew, the driver’s side door flung open, and he climbed into the car beside her. He took a large gulp of coffee and fastened his seat belt before glancing over at her. “Ready to go?”

  Samantha licked her lips, knowing right well that coffee was frigid. Yet he hadn’t even winced at the temperature. He didn’t complain at all, which she wasn’t used to at all. Steven always complained about things like that. Always. Steven always wanted things perfect.

  “We need gas,” she stated all at once, turning in her seat to fasten her own seat belt. “I think there’s a station just across the street.”

  He put the car in reverse, glancing in the rearview mirror before backing up. He grabbed his bagel from the dashboard, and ripped off a healthy chunk with his teeth before answering. “We don’t need gas,” he replied with a mouth full of bagel. He threw the car into gear, then pulled out to the open road. “I filled up yesterday.”

  She glanced over at him, as calmly as she could, faced with such arrogance, and tapped on the glass of the odometer with her fingernail. “See that red line there? Right next to the E? This says otherwise.”

  He laughed under his breath and took another bite. “It’s broken.”

  She leaned way back in her seat, far enough to get a good look at him and squeezed the ball of clay in her palm. “You’re lying.”