“What are you doing tonight?” he asks.
“I’m at a party.”
“Having fun?”
“Not really. It’s a bunch of work people and people they know. Not sure why I thought it sounded like a good idea. Really not in the mood to be social.” I take another sip of my drink. It’s almost gone. There’s not an ice cube’s chance in hell I can get Gage to hook me up with another. “Kind of want to leave.”
Maybe in another version of our lives, he’d ask me to meet him somewhere. We’d walk around at night, under the cover of a moonless sky, discussing literature and basking in our insane chemistry. He’d kiss me. Then he’d take me home. Fuck my brains out—but not break my heart—and in the morning, I’d make him pancakes before going for round two.
In a perfect world, I suppose …
“Why don’t you want to be there?” he asks.
Dragging in a lungful of heavy, night air, I contemplate my response. “I don’t even have an answer for you. Didn’t feel like hanging out at home tonight but now that I’m here, it’s kind of lame.”
“Do you need a ride?” he asks.
My heart gallops. I was thinking of calling Emily a second ago.
“Why? You offering?” My response sounds more eager than I intended.
“I’m offering to call you a Lyft.” He chuckles. “I feel the need to remind you that we’re never going to meet. I have this idea of you, and it’s perfection. I want to keep it that way. Now get back to your party, Absinthe. Make some bad decisions for me. Try to have some fun. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Such a fucking tease,” I say with a smirk before hanging up.
Chapter Fifteen
Ford
The Saturday morning news fills the silence of an empty, Arlo-less house as I unpack the last of my boxes. It’s kind of lonely without that little guy, but I’m glad to be done with Bree invading my space—literally and figuratively. Each day, her clothes would get progressively skimpier, her smile would get progressively sultrier, and her pathetic attempts at flirting would get progressively bolder.
Not to mention Arlo couldn’t stand her. He said she was on her phone the entire time and when she wasn’t, she was grilling him about me.
So much for the superintendent’s daughter being a safe choice.
Never. Again.
I’m mid-reach for my coffee when the Karma app on my phone begins to vibrate, telling me I have a call.
“Good morning, Absinthe,” I answer. “I was just thinking of you.”
“Liar.” God, I love her voice. Picturing this voice coming from those sultry lips in her photograph makes me hard as a rock.
“How was the rest of the party?”
“Fun,” she says. “I made some bad decisions, just like you told me to.”
“And what did you do?”
“I fucked a guy in the bathroom,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “He was big, and he fucked me so hard, Kerouac. I thought he was going to split me in two. And when we were finished, he ate my pussy until I came three times.”
“Bullshit.”
She laughs. “I know. You believed me for a second though.”
“I did.” So much so that it was beginning to make me envious of the faceless, big-cocked stranger who got to devour my Absinthe.
“I like your voice,” she says after a silent lull. “It’s sexy. You should read to me sometime.”
“That’s a strange request.”
“Just do it. Grab the nearest book and read to me,” she pleads. “Come on. My hand is down my pants right now, fingering my pussy. I want to cum to the sound of your voice, Kerouac. Please?”
My throat is tight, my cock straining against the fabric of my sweats. Grabbing a book from the coffee table beside me, I flip to an open page and begin to read, taking my time, keeping my voice steady and rhythmic. “And I know I am deathless, I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter's compass, I know I shall not pass like a child's carlacue, cut with a burnt stick at night. I know I am August …”
Absinthe exhales a sweet, soft moan, her breath quickening with each word I utter.
“Keep going,” she whispers, and so I do.
I turn to the next page, and I read another line, and another. Her breath grows forced and impatient and then quiet altogether.
“Walt Whitman.” Her breathy rasp mixed with her intelligence is like sexual napalm. “Very nice.”
For the first time in weeks, I find myself wanting to touch her—physically touch her. And knowing it’s an impossibility makes me want her even more.
The ache in my cock is a distraction that refuses to go away, and while I’d love nothing more than to lie around on this lazy Saturday, waxing poetic with Absinthe and getting lost in the sound of her sweet, sexy voice, I’ve got a little problem to take care of.
“I should shower. Work and all,” she says. The image of her in the shower does nothing to help my current situation. “Thanks for … that.”
Absinthe ends the call, and I close my eyes, slipping my hands down my shorts and jerking the length of my throbbing cock while a fantasy plays out in my head. In my mind’s eye, I’m punishing her for teasing me about fucking another guy at the party. And I’m showing her how good I can make her feel, how she’ll never need another man but me so long as she lives. I gift her with demanding kisses, animalistic thrusts, her ass cheeks red and warm from the slap of my palms.
And in my reverie, she gazes at me, her green eyes full, and she declares that it’s only me.
I’m the only thing she wants.
The only thing she’ll ever need.
Chapter Sixteen
Halston
I count the weekends.
There are five.
Five more Saturdays, five more Sundays, then I’ll be done with Big Boulders. I’ll have saved around three grand, purchased my car, and burned my uniform.
My back and feet are throwing themselves a pity party, but at least I have tomorrow off. Mondays and Tuesdays are officially my off days now, though I’m not opposed to picking up a few shifts here and there. So far, no one’s asked. I think they know I hate working there, but no one’s actually come out and asked me yet.
That said, I think I do a pretty decent job at hiding my true feelings. I’ve learned to smile on command, walk with enough bounce in my step that my breasts bounce, and I’ve yet to screw up anyone’s order, which apparently puts me in the running for this month’s top server bonus.
Not to mention gratuities are getting better by the hour.
Who knew I was such a hustler?
Tugging my pajama drawer open, I reach for my vinyl makeup bag to add today’s tip money to my growing collection. Last week I asked Vic about my birth certificate so I could open a bank account, but he said he knew nothing about its whereabouts, that I’d have to request another copy from the state, so I submitted my request online and received an email stating it could take three to twelve weeks unless I paid two hundred bucks for a rushed copy.
But tonight the cherry red pouch feels lighter than usual …
Yanking the zipper, I’m seconds from throwing up when I see it’s empty.
Bree.
That fucking twat.
Marching toward my door, I pull it open so hard it slams against the wall. Storming down the hall, I burst into Bree’s room. She’s lying on her stomach on her bed, earbuds in her ear as she does homework, her feet bopping to the music.
I yank the earbuds.
“Hey!” She rolls over to face me, resting on her side. “Oh. It’s just you.”
“Give me my money.” I try to appear intimidating, keeping my shoulders lifted and my hands on my hips, but my eyes are burning and my mouth feels wavy and I’m seconds from simultaneously puking, crying, and screaming. “Now.”
Bree leers. “No clue what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You stole my tip money.”
“Oh, you mean, your tip money from the
Waterfront Sea Food Restaurant?” She sits up, her blonde lashes fluttering as she fights a bitchy smirk.
“What’d you do with it?”
She shrugs.
I want to smack her. I want to rip her hair from her scalp, one handful at a time.
“I thought it was odd,” she says, brows furrowed. “You were making so much money waitressing, like even for a nice restaurant. So, I did some checking. I went into Waterfront for lunch one day, when you were supposedly working, but the manager there said she’d never heard of you. So, then I asked myself … is she selling drugs?”
Rolling my eyes, I tune her out, rifling through her drawers and closets, looking under her bed, turning over pillows.
“You’re never going to find it,” she says, admitting what I already knew. “It’s gone.”
“What. The fuck. Did you do with it?” My jaw tightens, aching.
I’ve never hated anyone this much in my life.
All those weekends. The aching feet. The tired backs. The grease-scented skin. The disgusting customers. The blatant stares. The selling of my soul.
All of it was for nothing.
“You know, you really should’ve kept it in a bank account,” she says. “That’s what normal people do. They put their money in a safe place, where no one else can touch it. Guess your parents didn’t teach you that, did they? I bet they never even had bank accounts.”
Before I can stop myself, I lunge at Bree, pinning her scrawny body beneath mine. She’s screaming, but the house is so big I doubt her parents can hear her.
It’s only when I have my hands around her throat and her lips are turning a mottled shade of blue that I realize I’ve gone too far.
I let her go, my chest rising and falling as I struggle to breathe with all the adrenaline coursing my system.
She reaches for her neck, coughing, choking on spittle as she scrambles toward the head of her bed like I’m some serial killer about to murder her.
I’ve scared the hell out of her, but to be fair, I’ve just scared the hell out of myself as well. I’m not a violent person. I don’t have these tendencies. I’ve never wanted to hurt anyone in my life. But I want to hurt her. I want to inflict pain. Teach her a lesson. Make her sorry.
This is fucking war.
“You’re paying me back.” I point a shaking finger at her. “Every last fucking dime. And if you don’t? I’ll make your senior year a living fucking hell. That’s a promise.”
Bree looks like she’s about to cry. “I told you. It’s … gone.”
“Where is it?!”
“I donated it to a charity,” she manages to squeak.
My gaze falls to the diamond pendant around her neck, then to the Gucci watch on her left wrist. Come to think of it, her entire outfit is new. And this morning, I spotted her carrying a little Louis Vuitton handbag.
“You lying bitch,” I growl. “Hope you kept the receipts.”
Bree scoffs. She doesn’t need to answer. I already know. She destroyed the evidence, and since she paid with cash, it’ll be impossible to return those items without any proof of purchase.
Refusing to look at her disgusting face a second more, I run back to my room, slip on the first pair of shoes I can find—pleather ballet flats—and get the fuck out of here.
I walk until my heels throb with the threat of blisters, down several tree-lined blocks, past beautiful houses with manicured lawns and expensive cars in the driveways, and finally past the iron gates that guard this stupid neighborhood from the rest of the world.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been walking, but I manage to find a little park at the end of a cul de sac in an older part of town.
It’s dark now, the end of another shit-tastic day in my shit-tastic life. I’d sleep here if I knew I could get away with it. The thought of going back to Uncle Vic’s and being under the same roof as that fucking bitch makes me want to gouge my eyes out with rusty pliers. But if I don’t come home, Tab will freak out and say to Vic, “I told you this was a bad idea!” and then I’ll be on the streets.
A group of teenage boys in baggy t-shirts pass me on skateboards. They’re way too young to be out this late, and they smirk when they see me, circling, swarming.
“Hey,” one of them says to me, slowing down. “You lost?”
“Fuck off.”
“Suck my dick.” He spits at me, missing.
“I would if you had one.” I glare.
His friends laugh. They skate away.
That’s what I thought.
Continuing, I make my way to the park, tucking myself in a plastic tunnel like I used to when I was little and my parents were screaming at each other over missing drugs.
I feel safe in the tunnel. Cut off from the outside world. As a young girl, it was my armor.
I stay as long as I can, but Vic and Tab will freak if I’m not home before ten, and it’s already half past nine.
Sucking up my pride and refusing to let this be the end, I tell myself tomorrow’s another day. I’ll work harder, flirt more, pick up extra shifts. I’ll make that money back and then some. I’ll get my fucking car. And then I’ll get the hell out of here.
“Todd wants to see you before you start your shift.” Courtney doesn’t smile when she sees me the next morning. Her mouth is pulled into a frown and her eyes carry pity.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She shrugs, pretending not to know.
She knows.
My heart races, and I can’t help but feel I’m marching to my death as I head back to the door with the crooked “manager” plaque.
“You wanted to talk to me?” I stand in his doorway wearing a hopeful smile.
“Hey there. Why don’t you have a seat?” His lips press into a straight line. He won’t make eye contact. “Shut the door too, will you?”
“Am I being fired?” I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.
“It’s been brought to my attention that you’ll be attending Rosefield High this fall.” His voice is flat, and today he’s wearing a plain blue polo and khakis, a departure from his usual jeans-and-quirky-t-shirt uniform.
“Yeah? So? I’ll be nineteen in early December.”
“We have a strict no high school students policy,” he says. “It’s straight from corporate. It’s nothing personal. Frankly, I wish we could make an exception for you.”
“Why didn’t you ask me that when you hired me?” My words are terse, my skin hot.
Todd places his hands in the air. “I know, Halston. It’s my fault. I just … you look so much older than you are. I figured you were at least twenty, twenty-one. You checked the box saying you were over eighteen. To be honest, I don’t look at the paperwork or any of that. That all goes to HR at corporate.”
“So, there’s nothing you can do? I’m one of your best servers, and I’ve only been here a few weeks.”
“I know you are. You’re a great addition to the team and the customers really like you. You were our most-requested last weekend,” he says. “But a policy is a policy. I’m sorry.”
I turn to leave, eyes stinging. The smell of the greasy kitchen wafts down the hall, making me nauseous.
“Oh, HR wanted me to have you sign this waiver really quick before you go,” he adds.
“I’m not signing a damn thing.”
Maybe I should accept half the blame. Maybe I should sign the damn form and walk out of here with my head held high, but I’m not in a good place.
And right now, I’m in the mood to burn my life to the ground.
It’s the only way I’m ever going to be able to rise from the ashes.
Chapter Seventeen
Ford
“I want to meet you.” Absinthe’s smooth cadence purrs into the earpiece of my phone.
I’m in the office early today, trying to get things in order before Bree shows up. She told her father about our mentorship agreement and he insisted that we get started right away so she has time to decide on a major before fill
ing out her application to Northwestern.
“I know you do.”
“So?”
“It’s not going to happen.” I exhale, rifling through some leftover paperwork the previous principal had tucked away in the bottom of a seldom-used drawer. “Not that I don’t think about it every fucking minute of every fucking hour of every fucking day.”
She sighs. “You have no idea what it does to me when you say shit like that.”
“You’re right. I don’t. Enlighten me.”
“I don’t even know what you look like, Kerouac, and I know with one-hundred percent certainty that I would fuck the shit out of you if you asked me to. If you named the time and the place, I’d be there with fucking bells on. Tied to my nipples.”
I laugh at the image.
“Seriously though,” she continues. “You’re such a mind fuck, and it drives me wild.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“I got fired from my job yesterday.” She changes the subject.
“Congratulations.”
“Heh.” She releases a breath into the phone. “If only I shared your sentiments.”
“You hated your job.”
“I needed my job,” she says.
“Find another. There are hundreds of restaurants in this town.”
“Yeah, but this one was a cash cow. I’ll have to work twice as hard for half as much anywhere else.”
“Then maybe you’re in the wrong profession. Did you go to college, Absinthe?” I assume the answer is yes. She speaks with intelligence and grace, and she’s the most well-read woman I’ve ever had the privilege of chatting with.
“Nope.”
“That’s surprising.” I come across another stack of papers. “Why not?”
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s never too late,” I say. “What’s your dream job?”
“I just want to marry some rich guy, have a couple of his babies, and spend my days catching up on Real Housewives between spin class and Botox touch ups.”
P.S. I Hate You Page 29