I nodded. “Good.”
“How do you like yours cooked, Zach?” asked my dad in his thick French accent.
“Make sure it still has a pulse,” he said.
My dad made a disgusted face. “That’s disgusting.”
“If you’re not man enough to cook it the way it was meant to be cooked, I’ll gladly take over.”
I held back a grin. The two of them had quickly developed a bantering relationship like two grumpy old men. Oddly enough, it felt natural. If my dad had just been nice and neutral with Zach, it would’ve felt awkward. This seemed right, somehow. Besides, the two of them were amusing when they got irritated with each other, and I liked the show.
My dad held out his spatula toward Zach, looking ridiculously serious in his bright red apron. “Be my guest. You’ve probably never cooked anything in your life. I hope you catch on fire.”
Zach stood angrily, snatched the spatula from my dad, and slid his hamburger off the grill even though it was only partially cooked on one side.
I winced as he stubbornly slapped it on a bun and squeezed a glob of ketchup on top of the raw meat. My dad was watching like a little kid might watch a firework about to go off.
I couldn’t let him do it. I stood, grinning as I wrestled the burger from Zach before he could take a bite of it.
“Zach, those were frozen burgers you psycho. You’re going to break a tooth and get a disease.”
He looked doubtfully at the burger and then prodded it with his finger. He glared at my dad like it was his fault. “What kind of self-respecting Frenchman cooks frozen burgers? You trying to kill us?”
My dad put a hand on his hip, which made him look unfortunately feminine. “I won’t be lectured on cooking by someone who couldn’t even microwave a potato without messing it up!”
Mandy came out from the kitchen with a bowl of coleslaw and grinned at me. “Are they fighting again?”
“He’s fighting,” said Zach, who waved his burger at my dad.
“Aribella’s little popstar started it.” My dad sounded like a sulking child.
I wanted to laugh, but I knew it would only make the two of them go at it with renewed energy.
“Why don’t you let me cook Zach’s burger, dad?” I asked. “That way, everybody can be happy.”
“Finally.” Zach handed me the burger, bun and all. “Somebody is talking sense around here.”
The rest of our little cookout went about the same as the last few we’d had. Zach and my dad found reasons to argue back and forth, but everyone covered smiles while they bickered, and in a strange way I never would’ve thought possible, it felt like he fit right in with my family, where poorly buried secrets were the norm and we were all a little broken ourselves. Except Mandy, I guessed, but she was broken by proxy, because she’d had to deal with us her whole life.
We ended the night back at our modest little rental outside Belvedere. Zach made me watch the YouTube video of his performance for me and my getting up on stage in pajamas for about the hundredth time, which was a drop in the bucket compared to the ten million views the video had. It had gone viral, as I figured, and Zach took special pleasure in reminding me how awesome his apology had been.
“You know,” I said as I laid on his bare chest in our bed and watched the end of the video, where he led me offstage by the hand. “The chivalrous thing to do would be to stop shoving this in my face.”
He shrugged. “Since when did I do the chivalrous thing?”
I smiled at that. “Since almost never.”
“And is that what you want? A knight in shining armor?”
“No,” I said. “I just want you. Faults and all.”
“Good. Because I think you’re stuck with me, Gardener Girl.
28
Epilogue - Zach
“You’re going to be my wife, Gardener Girl.”
I was on one knee. I never pictured myself proposing to a woman, let alone getting on my knees for one unless I was eating her out, but here I was. Aribella had a habit of making me do things and think things I never thought I would.
She gave me a wicked little smile, eyes twinkling. We weren’t anywhere special—just in our shitty little rental by the bed. She hadn’t put her makeup on yet and I was just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but when I knew I wanted to do it, I knew, and I didn’t want to wait.
“Bad boy,” she said, her smile widening. “Ask nicely, and maybe you’ll get what you want.”
“You’re going to be my wife… please?” I tried.
She laughed, then fell to her knees and kissed me, smiling between every kiss. “You’re hopeless.”
“Fuck, Aribella. Is that a yes or a no? You’re killing me over here.”
“It’s a yes, you idiot,” she laughed.
I slid the ring on her finger and then pushed her back against the bed. “I think I’m rubbing off on you. When did you get to be so mean?”
“So I can blame my fiancé when people ask why I’m so rude? It’s the perfect engagement gift.”
“Only if I can blame you when I’m an asshole.”
“Nope,” she said, threading her fingers behind my neck and pulling me in for another kiss. “I’m the only reason you’re halfway bearable. The world owes me a big, fat, ‘thank you,’ if you ask me.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a saint.”
She flashed a cheesy little smile and I kissed it off her. I loved how I could read her like a book, how my hands could make her melt in an instant.
“Wait a second,” I said, trying to sound serious and alarmed. “If you’re a saint, I probably shouldn’t be touching you like this. Eternal torment, and all that.”
She shrugged, rolled out from under me, and acted like she was about to walk off. “Too bad. I was curious if it’d feel any different to have you now that I know you’re my future husband, but if—”
“Get back here,” I said, snatching her hand and pulling her into my lap.
Aribella was writing again. It made me happy every time I saw her little book of poems sitting out somewhere, left open like she didn’t even care if I decided to peek. I always peeked, of course, and I loved everything she wrote. I even turned one of her poems into a song on my new album. The single for the album was her song, the one I’d played for her in her pajamas, the one that changed everything.
Her poems weren’t angsty or sad. They were like little slices of sunlight, just an appreciation for beautiful words and a penchant for phrasing them in a way that stuck. It was a simple style, and it was pure, like her. I thought I understood why she hadn’t wanted to write for so long. I stole the happiness out of her life back then, and I stole the poetry from her.
I still didn’t know how I was supposed to ever make up for that, but I knew I was going to keep trying.
Brent and Taylor stopped me outside Jenika’s office. We were in California, where I’d spent the last few months between tours. Our next tour was starting up in a few weeks, and we were still finalizing all the promotional dates and record release details.
It didn’t happen immediately, but over time, it felt like the darkness that had hung between myself and my band had faded. Brent and I were close again. Taylor had always seemed fine with how things were, but now he talked more, and he laughed more often.
“Well look at you,” said Brent. “I didn’t realize you still knew how to walk without Aribella attached to your arm.”
“Fuck,” I said. “We should scrap the whole music thing and we can just let you do standup comedy. I don’t know how we’ve missed the potential right in front of us this whole time.”
“I could juggle,” suggested Taylor.
Brent looked at Taylor in surprise. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, man,” said Taylor, who plopped his ridiculously tall ass down on the ground and started taking off his boots.
“Uh,” I said slowly.
“Socks,” explained Taylor. “Unless you see anything else around here I can juggle?”
&
nbsp; Brent peeled off a shoe and followed it with his sock, lobbing it to Taylor, who had already balled up his own socks. He stood and started juggling them with relative ease. “See?” he said.
And that was when Jenika decided to open the door. She looked at the three of us like we had just shit in the lobby. “You three are really lucky your fans can’t get enough of you,” she said in a bored voice. “Come on. I’m ready for you.”
We filed into her office and sat down, and Taylor and Brent did it with only one shoe and one sock between the two of them. Dumbasses.
“About the tour,” Jenika said. “We’ve had some great offers from Europe. The latest offer has us hitting over fifty venues in six months. If ticket sales are anything close to what we’re projecting, it’d be your most profitable tour ever.”
Blake and Taylor made appreciative faces, but all I could think about was dragging Ari along with me on another tour. Hell, I couldn’t even pin it on her. I didn’t want to tour right now. I didn’t want to have my focus away from her.
I sat back in my chair, mulling over that thought. Shows had been my drug. My crack. The time between them was like purgatory, and I was only alive in those moments. And now…
“Should we be worried that he’s smiling?” asked Jenika, who was looking from Brent to Taylor and then to me. “I don’t think he’s supposed to be doing that.”
Brent frowned when he saw me. “Maybe a little worried. Zach usually only smiles when he has done something particularly nasty. Who did you kill? Do we need to bury a body?”
“Actually,” Taylor said. “I’ve been watching Breaking Bad. You can just dissolve the body in a barrel full of acid. Doesn’t leave a trace.”
I glared at all of them. “I don’t want to do the Europe tour. Not right now, at least. I want a few months off.”
They looked at me like I’d just said Ruth’s Chris should start serving hot dogs—which they totally should, for the record.
“Is this about Aribella?” Brent asked.
“Yep,” I said. “And I think I need to ask her something.”
Aribella was on her stomach with her legs kicked up in the bed of our little rental. She wore one of my t-shirts, which fit her small frame like a dress, but it was hiked up just to the start of her ass so I could see the hint of her smooth cheeks. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, casting golden bars across her, the bed, and the notebook she was scribbling in.
“New poem?” I asked.
She looked up and nodded. “Yep. I like it, so far.”
“There’s something I wanted to ask you.”
“Okay,” she said slowly, sitting up and crossing her legs with a look of vague concern on her face.
Why did everyone always assume I was about to admit to murder? Jesus. I wasn’t that bad.
“It’s nothing bad,” I said.
“Then why do you look nervous?”
“Nervous?” I asked, and laughed in a way that sounded forced and stiff. “I’m not nervous. Not that nervous, anyway,” I added.
“Zach… What’s wrong?” she asked. She looked absolutely terrified now.
“I just wanted to know what you thought about kids.”
“I think it’s weird that baby goats, of all animals, get to be called the same thing as little humans. It’s just confusing, really. Like why—”
“Aribella. Kids. You and me. Little Zachs and little Aribellas. What do you think about it?”
“I think…” she looked down, furrowing her eyebrows. She softened her voice, like she was trying to put it gently to me. “I think a tour wouldn’t be the easiest place to raise a baby. Or a family.”
“And if there was no tour?” I asked.
She pressed her lips together and shrugged. “If. But there is a tour. In two weeks.”
“Not anymore.”
She scooted to the edge of the bed, eyes growing wider. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I canceled it. I don’t need the money. I don’t have to tour to make music. Besides, I think it’s your turn to get to spend your time doing something you care and dream about. How are you supposed to do that if I’m dragging you around the country?”
She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, eyes darting across my face like she was waiting for a punchline. “If you don’t mean all this, I will literally murder you. I won’t even wait until you’re asleep. I’ll make sure it’s painful and messy. I’ll ruin that lucky pillowcase of yours, too.”
“I mean it all. And you wouldn’t dare ruin my pillowcase. I’d haunt your ass. And you can bet I’d be a perverted ghost.”
She grinned. “A baby?”
“Sure, we could start with just one if that’s what you wanted.”
She laughed, hopping up from the bed and hugging me tightly. I ran my hands through her purple hair, holding her like I was afraid she’d slip away if I didn’t squeeze her tight. I knew one thing. I’d never let her go. Not again. Not ever.
29
Please don’t forget to leave a review!
Thank you so much for reading Hate at First Sight. Whether you loved it or not, it would mean the world to me if you left an honest review on Amazon. I read every single review and take them all to heart, so it’s not just a great way to give me your feedback and help me improve, it’s also one of the best ways to support me and help me find new readers.
I’m always trying to grow as an author, and I took a chance with this book. The style is a little different than what I’m used to, it’s longer, and I felt like it dove deeper into the characters than I normally have time to do within my typical books. Personally, I loved every second of writing it. I felt like it challenged me and I’m extremely proud of the final story I was able to bring you. If you enjoyed this or hated it, again, let me know in the reviews! I’ll read every last one, so your opinion will really matter and help me decide how to keep developing my style as I move forward.
(P.S. Don’t forget to read on for the two amazing bonus books I included!)
Bonus Book: Savage
Chris Savage.
Gorgeous. Famous. Arrogant.
He moved to my mountain for a fresh start...
Now he’s my neighbor
And I think he wants more than a cup of sugar.
He’s a global celebrity, and it’s not just because he’s mouthwatering.
He wrote a book no one will admit they’ve read, but somehow sold millions of copies.
People call it the Kama Sutra Volume 2 or the Sex Bible. He just called it You’re F**king wrong.
Tragedy struck, and now he wants solitude and a place to avoid the spotlight.
He certainly came to the right place, because the spotlight has never been anywhere near my town, especially not next door to me.
You’d think I would be thrilled.
Except he’s easily the most rude and abrasive man I’ve ever met. He’s a brute. A savage.
I hate that the sight of him makes my skin tingle and my cheeks flush, that I can’t think straight around him.
The worst part?
Some stupid, very stupid part of me knows I’m going to try to fix him, because he’s broken and hurting, no matter how much he hides behind his anger.
I just hope I don’t break myself before I find out what happened to him.
1
Lindsey
Chris Savage - The Aftermath
The pop culture icon stunned the world last year when he stepped away from the global stage without a trace. He exploded onto the scene just three years ago with the book that was the most divisive and immensely popular in recent memory: You’re Fucking Wrong. Most of us have taken to just calling it The Sex Bible, or the Kama Sutra Volume 2. Whatever you call it, there’s no denying it took the world by storm, just like its author.
Hate him or love him—and let’s face it, ladies, we hate to love him as much as men love to hate him—Chris Savage was a force of nature, a colossus, and of course, an unapologetic asshole. The combination of tattoo
s, piercings, sexy eyes, and an attitude that was a big metaphorical middle finger aimed at the rest of the world made him into an icon.
But the storm that was Chris Savage passed just as suddenly as it came six months ago when the millionaire playboy turned recluse. Sources close to Chris are tight-lipped, and the author himself hasn't given a single interview since he turned his back on the spotlight. Speculation has run rampant in the months since his disappearance with theories ranging from a bad breakup to drug addiction. Hopeful fans are crossing their fingers that his disappearance is just setting the stage for his next big book. But what's left for Chris Savage to do? He couldn't possibly top the worldwide firestorm that was "You're Fucking Wrong," and he certainly can't need any more money. This writer thinks maybe Chris just decided he'd done it all and hung up his hat for good. Let's hope I'm wrong.
Either way, it seems we’ll just have to keep speculating until Chris Savage comes out of hiding or releases a new book. Until then, the only thing we do know is that the world misses you, Chris, especially the female half of it (this writer included), so please come back. My editor wouldn’t let me leave my phone number for you in this article, but phone books still exist. Call me!
I click out of the online article with a disgusted sigh, but not before stealing one last glance at the picture of Chris Savage at the bottom where he looks like an angry, wrathful god. I make my living writing reviews for all kinds of books on my blog, Book Whores Anonymous, and my followers have been begging me to review You’re Fucking Wrong by Chris Savage for so long that I finally decided to do it just to get them off my back. My usual process is to read the book first and then dig around the internet to find out everything I can about the author just in case it helps spark some ideas for my review.
Hate at First Sight Page 20
