Hate at First Sight

by Penelope Bloom

  I take a step back, slightly stung by her refusal. It’s sad to admit, maybe, but it’s not something I’ve had a lot of practice dealing with. Maybe it’s part of my facade—I make sure to do all I can to push people away so I won’t be surprised when they leave, so why does it sting that she’s doing exactly that? Because you thought you could turn on the charm for two minutes and make her forget.

  “Your loss,” I say. It’s a sad attempt to cover how badly I really want to feel her under me. Fuck. It’s not like it was in the past. I don’t want to fuck her and walk away. I want the warmth of her skin against mine. I want to wrestle the fight out of her, bending that fiery personality into submission until she is mine and mine alone. Mine to keep.

  I turn my back on her, walking away with a sour twisting in my stomach. I’m letting her get in too deep. I need to find a groupie to fuck these feelings out of my system or something, because there’s no other explanation for how deeply Lindsey is burrowing into my thoughts. She’s playing the game by different rules than I’m used to.

  Normally I know how it ends. My cock gets wet, she gets an experience she’ll never forget, and then she gets a one-way ticket out of my life. This time, I don’t know how it ends. Hell, I don’t even know if it’s started yet. All I know is the rules are new, and for the first time in months, I feel alive, even if it’s just a little.

  All my good cheer sinks away when I check the text on my phone from Alec.

  Alec (8:33 p.m.): Publisher has a proposal. You’re not going to like it, but we need to talk about it. Call me.

  7

  Lindsey

  I'm typing up a review on my blog when I flinch for what must be the tenth time in the last hour as something loud cracks out through the night outside. It sounds like fireworks or gunshots, and it's definitely coming from the direction of Chris' cabin.

  I lean back in my chair, cracking my fingers and looking out the window toward the sound. I still cringe with shame when I think how I touched myself in the shower last night after Chris had his hands on me. I don’t think I’ve ever been that turned on, which pisses me off to admit. Hating someone shouldn’t be so hard. I tried not caring about him, but that isn’t an easy lie to sell when I spend half my time thinking about him.

  I’ve never met a man who is so hard to pin down and define. Ryan was easy. Despite all his douchebag qualities, he had one real thing going for him: a caveman like devotion to protecting my honor, as dumb as that sounds. If we were at a party and somebody said anything that insulted me or some guy was looking at me wrong, Ryan would blow up on them. I always said I hated it in the moment, and most of me did, but when I look back, it’s probably the only real redeeming quality about him. I was so insecure that I needed his over-the-top shows of devotion to feel secure and safe.

  Other than that, I had him figured out within weeks of dating. If I had bothered to see what was right in front of my eyes, I would’ve known he would set his sights on someone new and more exciting eventually, just like he’ll probably do with Claire after a couple more years.

  Chris though?

  He has too many layers to understand. There’s the guy he wants to show me, the guy who’s quick to tell me to fuck off and get rid of me--the one who doesn’t care about my feelings. Then there’s the part of him I’ve caught glimpses of, a side of him that is protective and almost kind. Like when he stepped in to save me embarrassment when Ryan was a douchebag at the grocery store or when he admitted to appreciating my email. Those two parts don’t match up. He’s either one or the other. Chris can’t not care about my feelings and want to protect them at the same time, and that makes me think the real Chris does care.

  It should be impossible to forgive some of the things he's said and done already, but I keep coming back to that other side of his personality. If that's the real him, why is he trying so hard to convince me it's not? It makes me think there's a good heart hiding behind those tattoos and muscles. Maybe that makes me a sucker. I'm not sure. I just know no amount of mental cheerleading is actually going to motivate me to take the smart path and cut him off.

  Brooke barges into my room without knocking, like usual. "Is that your boyfriend? Because I'm trying to concentrate and he's making it really fucking hard."

  “Join the club,” I say sourly.

  “Hey,” she says. She steps into my room and leans against the wall with crossed arms and a smirk. “That’s the first time you didn’t try to correct me and say he’s not your boyfriend. So you’re finally admitting it?”

  “No.” Amelia took the liberty of filling Brooke in on every grizzly detail about the grocery store incident, and my older sister hasn’t missed a chance to tease me about liking Chris ever since. “I’ve just denied it so many times already it hardly feels worth the effort anymore.”

  "Mhm," Brooke says. "Well, it's your choice. You can either go up there and ask him to knock it off or I will, and if he's not your boyfriend, I may take a nibble while I'm up there just so I can say I kissed a superstar."

  I laugh. “Might as well put your face in a bear trap.”

  “And you would know, would you?” she asks with an arched eyebrow.

  “Brooke,” I growl. “I haven’t kissed him. He’s not my boyfriend. But it’s fine. I’ll go tell him to keep it down.” I push away from my desk and stand up, trying to look confident even though my heart is already pounding at the thought of seeing him again after our last encounter.

  She’s watching me with a skeptical but amused expression.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I just think it’s funny that when I talked about kissing him, you suddenly decided you were willing to stop working to go talk to him. You never stop working until you’re done.”

  “Yeah, well you try working while it sounds like someone is having a gunfight in the backyard.”

  “Mhm,” she says with an obnoxiously knowing smile.

  I make a dismissive sound, pushing past her and grabbing my coat before I head outside. I spend the entire walk through the darkened woods mentally re-running all the obnoxious things Chris has done since I met him. I’m just hoping I can keep myself from turning into a melted puddle of fangirl by holding onto whatever anger I can. Unfortunately, my reruns are continually interrupted by the way his touch sends shivers up and down my spine. Not to mention how my stupid heart was warmed by him stepping in to defend me when I was making a fool of myself in front of Ryan and Claire—even if he claims it was just for his own enjoyment.

  More than that, I keep seeing the look in his eyes when he seems to let his guard down, as if the real Chris is hidden by a mask and wants to come out.

  I haven’t thought about the manuscript much since I saw him throw it away that second night I forced my way into his cabin like the psycho he claims I am. It comes back to me now, and I regret letting it go so easily. Part of me is still very much tempted to press him about the manuscript, even now, but I don’t think my self-respect could survive it. I’ve already put myself out there multiple times since meeting him and been told to fuck off for my efforts., Rebuilding my self-esteem is going to be hard enough as it is.

  When I get closer to his house, I'm more sure the sound is coming from a gun and not fireworks. I hear the initial crack and the echoes as they split through the forest, bouncing back in fragments as the sound waves collide with tree after tree. I slow my approach to a near crawl, peeking around every tree before I move closer like a soldier in a war zone. I don't know what the hell he's doing, but I'm definitely not in the mood to get shot tonight. It's a sad testament to how bad I already have it for him that I'm actually heading toward the sound of gunfire to speak with him.

  I catch a glimpse of his back as he aims a rifle into the darkness with one hand, beer clutched in the other, and squeezes off three shots without making any particular effort to aim. I’m thankful he’s at least sober enough to have the sense to aim up the mountain, where there are no houses he might risk hitting.

  “Chris
!” I yell when he sets the gun down on a tree stump and fishes for more bullets in his pocket.

  He turns toward me. I expect to see the slack features of someone who is sloppy drunk, but he looks startlingly sober. “Fuck off,” he says, still jamming bullets into his rifle.

  “Would you put your gun down?” I ask, scampering from the tree beside his cabin to the cabin itself, where I shield myself behind the wall and peek out, ready to duck for cover if he starts waving the gun around.

  “It’s my property,” he says.

  “Okay, but—”

  I have to plug my ears as he aims up the mountain and fires off a few more shots, leaving my ears ringing.

  He searches for more bullets in his pocket but thankfully seems to be out, because he pulls out an empty hand and starts walking back toward the cabin, draining the last of his beer before slinging it toward a tree where it shatters.

  “Are you done?” I ask, creeping out from my hiding spot.

  “Just need to find more bullets,” he says.

  I roll my eyes, following him into the cabin.

  His foot catches on the coffee table and sends him crashing to the floor with a surprisingly loud thump. How much does the man weigh? Jesus…

  I wait a second, eyebrows furrowed as I try to decide if I should help him up or just make sure he didn’t break anything in his thick head before I head home and let him sleep it off.

  He doesn’t move, except to take a long, shuddering breath with his eyes closed peacefully like he just laid down for the comfiest nap in history instead of face-planting and knocking himself out.

  I kneel beside him, lifting his head—which is also surprisingly heavy—and I check him for any injuries. There’s a small cut on his hairline but small or not, it’s bleeding like crazy. Cuts on the head always bleed more than usual, so it’s probably not as bad as it looks, but I’m not going to leave him drunk and bleeding on his own floor. I decide I’m doing it to save the part of him that writes beautiful words, not the caveman part.

  I kneel down like I'm about to try to squat ten times my bodyweight, which I might as well be doing because when I jam my hands under him and try to lift, all I manage is to roll his shoulder up slightly.

  I spot a broom leaning against the wall in the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, it looks like it has never been used. I grab it and wedge the broom under his chest and then pull down on it, trying to use the leverage to flip him, but after a few seconds of straining, the plastic handle gives out and bends in half. I rip it free and throw it down on the ground in frustration.

  “You’re even obnoxious when you’re unconscious,” I say.

  It takes me a few minutes to find, but I end up finding a big snow shovel that’s entirely made of metal in his shed. I try the same maneuver and manage to flip him to his back. It works a little too well though, and his head thumps down when he flops over, probably giving him another lump on the back of his head this time.

  “That one is for calling me a psycho,” I say.

  I search his bathroom for medical supplies but can’t find anything. Finding alcohol, on the other hand, is easy. A nearly finished bottle of whiskey sits beside the couch. I grab a towel, run some water over it, and clean off most of the blood before drizzling the alcohol in the wound and then wiping it clean again.

  I wince at the sight of the gash, which is only about as long as my fingertip and not deep at all, but it seems intent on bleeding like a gunshot wound. I press the wet towel to the cut, not sure if I should be pressing something wet to it or something dry, but figuring anything I try will leave him better off than if I had left him to bleed.

  I try not looking at him for a while as I keep pressure on the wound, occasionally checking to see if the bleeding has slowed, which it hasn’t. My eyes inevitably wander to his face, though, which looks so different now. It’s the same face, of course, but he’s not scowling or sneering or making any of the expressions he wears like armor at all times. Before, I couldn’t look at him and see where the tender words and thoughtful prose could possibly come from in a man like him, but now I can see it as clear as day.

  Yes, he’s still sculpted like a model with a jawline to make statues jealous, bold eyebrows, and full lips that are parted just enough to give a glimpse of his white teeth. But there’s a softness there, too. Maybe it’s the long eyelashes or the bold eyebrows, or the way his ears flare out a little toward the top in a way that’s admittedly kind of cute—

  Oh God, Lindsey. Stop it right now.

  I avert my eyes, searching for anything to distract me before I do it again. Before I let this man defy all my reason and logic. Before I let myself give him another chance because… Because why? Because he’s a brilliant writer? Or is it because he’s drop-dead gorgeous?

  If I had to choose a reason, I would feel better about myself if it were the writer in him that makes this so hard, but I'd be lying to myself. When I accidentally put my hand on his chest to steady myself it was a mistake and proved that it isn't the author but the man who has me enamored. Pulling my hand away took effort, like the hard, powerful chest beneath my fingertips was covered in glue.

  My eyes fall on a box near the fireplace.With a healthy dose of guilt thudding through my veins, I try to decide if I’m really going to snoop through his stuff while he’s unconscious. I glance inside the box and am surprised to see it filled with journals. Sifting through the journals, I see they are dated. I find the earliest journal and sit back on the couch with it in my hands. I press my fingertips to the edge of the journal, debating if I should do this. Just as I’m about to open it Chris makes a snorting sound and rolls to his side.

  I look at him, working my lips to the side in thought, and then toss a pillow at him.

  He stirs but doesn't completely wake. I get up and start prodding him with my toe, but it's no use. Even slapping him with his own hand—while amusing—is fruitless. I set the journal down on the couch and lay down on my side, resolved to wait until he wakes up. I'm doing the responsible thing by keeping an eye on him while he's unconscious, but a not-so-quiet voice in my head keeps reminding me that my intentions aren't so pure.

  Amelia and Brooke will probably start to worry about me before long, because I did go out into the night to investigate something that sounded like gunshots. I pull out my phone and type out a few drafts of a text—yes, drafts, because the blogger in me never fully turns off—before settling on one that is short and simple.

  Lindsey: Everything’s good, but Chris bumped his head (very drunk). Going to hang out till he wakes up. Please don’t worry about me.

  I send the text to Amelia and Brooke before tucking my phone back in my pocket. Chris rolls to his back and stretches his arms behind his head like he’s taking a casual nap on the beach. The movement lifts the hem of his shirt up enough to show me a few inches of his tanned stomach.

  I divert my eyes at first, having seen only the quickest glimpse of his happy trail and a hard line of muscle in the shape of a “V” that cut across his tanned skin and disappear beneath his jeans. My fingertips tighten on my knees and I press my thighs together, trying very hard to pretend there isn’t a wave of heat spreading between my legs. I thought celebrities only had actual abs when they were starving themselves for a scene, not when they’ve been living like a slob in the mountains and drinking a case of beer a day.

  “Asshole,” I mutter quietly. “He’s an asshole.” I look down to my lap. “You got that?” I ask.

  I flop myself down on the couch and cover my face with both hands, hating how Chris is wreaking havoc with my normally ironclad self-control and how rational thought seems lost when he’s around. I just talked to my vagina, for God’s sake. What is he doing to me?

  No matter how many times I try to shut myself off to him, I can’t forget his books. If I had never read his words, I’d be certain he is the man he wants people to believe he is. Crude. Uncaring. Arrogant. It’s a perfect mask. Almost. But I’ve read his stories. I read You’re Fucking W
rong and saw between the lines, despite what I wrote about it on my blog, and despite what even he thinks about his own book. I’ve read the romance he wrote as T.S. Barnes and saw glimpses of someone truly special. Then the manuscript…

  In his writing, Chris isn’t the man he pretends to be. In the book he showed the world, he thought his walls were up. As T.S. Barnes, the walls showed cracks. With the unfinished manuscript, he bared himself. He opened the door and invited the reader in—showed them he’s considerate and kind. Thoughtful, even.

  I look at his sleeping form, remembering a passage from the manuscript. Just one of many breathtaking moments, but for some reason this passage in particular resonated with me. Enough that I read it again and again until I memorized every word. Maybe it's because I could almost imagine Chris saying it in that gravelly voice, his amber eyes shrouded in sadness.

  He smiled and nodded, but not because he thought what she said was particularly funny or even much worth agreeing with. He smiled and nodded because what was really on his lips, what was really fighting to reach his tongue and spark it to life was an idea, an idea so immense and so powerful that it had lived inside him for as long as it was worth remembering. He smiled and nodded because he couldn't say it clearly enough, express it the right way.

  Maybe she’d listen politely, nod her head too, and then she’d smile just like he had.

  She’d lie and he’d lie and just like every other fucking couple on the planet, they’d keep on smiling and nodding, never letting the impossible things that stirred inside turn to words for fear of getting it wrong—the things that mattered most but defied explanation. So they wouldn’t get it wrong because if you never try, you can’t mess it up. They’d get it right enough. And damn it, wasn’t that all he should ever hope for?

  Wasn’t it?

  Like dirty secrets, they’d bottle themselves up. Not in clear glass bottles to share, but in dark boxes to be tucked in corners where they could gather dust and be forgotten. If that wasn’t the American dream, he didn’t know what the fuck was.