The Love You Hate: A Charge Man Novel (The Charge Men Series Book 1)

by Rachel Robinson

Nate still hasn’t closed the car door. “Do you want to go with me? I think the line in the sand is reinforced with liquid magma at this point. We could go as friends,” he says, winking. My stomach flips. He looks hot when he winks, and now I’m the butt of his jokes. “Who knows maybe there will be some fresh meat there for you to fix your, err, other problem. Do people actually come to Gold Hawke for stuff like this?”

  “Yes, I’ll go. Not because I want fresh meat or because I want to be your friend right now but because it might be the highlight of my year.” I mumble, “Highlight of my entire new life.”

  Nate pauses, curious gaze fixed on my face. “What did you just say?” he asks.

  I shake it off. “I said I can’t believe I forgot the concert was happening tonight. I’ve been so distracted.” I know he knows I’m lying, and somehow, I know he’s not going to call me on it.

  “You mean frustrated?” Nate asks, biting his bottom lip. I shoot him a side-eye and his smile disappears. “I’m going to get that truck, hopefully not get bit by any animals, and I’ll pick you up. No sense both of us driving, and I’ll be the one with the new car.”

  “I got mine yesterday, Nate.”

  “Mine’s newer. Technically I haven’t even bought it yet.”

  “If you pick me up, it feels really date-ish,” I counter.

  Nate smiles. “But we just went over this, didn’t we?”

  “If I find a man and want to take him home, you’ll drive us then?” I ask, testing. “That’s what kind of friends we are?” I think my ability to read men has reached an all-time low. Funny it coincides when my life also has the same status.

  “One hundred percent,” Nate says. “Let me go deal with Junkyard Jake and I’ll see you soon.” He closes the door. It’s a loud clanging noise, not the soft, easy close of a luxury vehicle or the smooth slide of Lambo wing doors. No, the doors of my Jeep represent pretty much everything about Presley Cohen at the moment. I drive back to my trailer and feel sorry for myself. Nate turned me down so effortlessly, like he never once thought of me in a way that wasn’t platonic.

  Part of me wants him more because of it, but the other part, the one that acts out of self-preservation, tells me to give it up and not embarrass myself with him any more than I already have. Nate is so different. I can tell he cares about me; I just can’t figure out in what way and why. I slam the jalopy of a door and don’t bother locking it before I go into my tin land submarine. Unlike my Jeep, this door makes no noise, because my pinky toe weighs more.

  I drop my bag on a stool in the kitchen and then open the door to my closet. It’s technically the pantry, but the hole that is supposed to be my closet in the bedroom is a joke. Kneeling down, I find the one article of my former life I managed to squirrel away. Inside the Hermes bag is a bloodred dress, the slinky material balls up easily and doesn’t wrinkle. I’ll never wear it again, but it never fails to make me nostalgic. Sighing, I throw it back into the bag, and inhale the scent of the leather. I clasp it closed, and feel contentment as something, anything, closes the way it’s supposed to. Soft, effortlessly, and smooth.

  I stand, and let my hand trail over all my Gold Hawke clothes. “Back to the real world.” There are really just different variations of flannels, a few long-sleeved tops that came from Walmart and one blouse that holds any kind of potential. I take a shower quickly, and put the blouse on with a pair of jeans and dry my hair. Nate doesn’t want me. Well, maybe I’ll show him exactly what he’s missing out on. The flour-coated girl in the bakery isn’t the only person I’m capable of being.

  My makeup is understated, but on point, I smell like a delicious combination of soap, perfume, and hair product. I resemble my former self when I’m finished. I have a few minutes before Nate is supposed to pick me up so I try the internet on the iPad they gave me. It’s so slow, I give up almost immediately, before pacing to the small window to open the plastic mini blinds. There’s a car, an older model, pulling away from my trailer.

  My stomach flips, my throat tightens quickly, and all of the scary things I lie awake and think about at night become a reality in my mind. I know where every car belongs–which person drives what vehicle, and when. Especially when it comes to my road, and the neighbors who surround me. The beige, late-model sedan isn’t familiar in anyway. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. There wasn’t time to get a plate number or a description of the driver. The fact that I’m so concerned makes me even more concerned. There was a time when the only thing I worried myself with was if I had full coverage foundation on. The paparazzi use some insane telescopic lenses and if you want to look flawless in the pap shots, you need to wear thick makeup. That was my concern. The only thing I worried about while I went about my day. My father’s conviction changed everything.

  My heart is racing as I sit down on the small love seat and focus on my breathing. I slide my hand between the cushions and pull out the small Smith and Wesson I keep there. The gun is halfway between my bed and the front door—the only place that made sense. Growing up my father taught me how to skeet shoot. By definition that’s rich-person-firing-a-gun-for-fun, not true self-defense. It was more about what outfit you wore and how much alcohol could be consumed while still remaining accurate. This gritty place I’m now a part of is again, nothing like how I was raised. There isn’t a shooting range, but I was told that maybe, eventually, I’d be able to visit surrounding towns and I know the closest gun range is seventeen miles down the freeway. I tap the gun against my leg, looking at it, and become sicker by the second. It was just a strange car, not an angry, desperate human looking to exact revenge on a family member of the master villain.

  My thoughts run rampant as I let my mind focus on the scary stuff. The wild stuff. The fact that my friend, Caylee was killed by a mob in her favorite diner, midtown, in broad daylight rushes in. It was her death that made my process of going into hiding quicker. My family and a portion of hers had originally turned down protection when it was offered. We didn’t think it was needed and that the people offering it were exaggerating about how things could go down. We were clearly wrong. After she was killed, my mother and I instantly accepted the offer of protection and all of the rules that went along with it.

  Caylee, like me, had no idea what her father was doing behind closed doors. She was also in the social magazines and had a familiar face. It made her an easy target. Her mother fled the country after her father was convicted, leaving her a sitting duck. I like to think my father is looking out for me in prison, because a true business man is not just sitting in prison. Mark my words, he’s scheming, planning, and trying to find a way out, or trying to find a connection to the outside world to help. My father was a criminal mastermind parading in Prada. People suspected something was amiss, but when you have money it’s easy to make things disappear. A loud pounding on my door brings me to the present.

  Slipping the gun back into the hiding spot, I rush to the door and see Nate standing on the wooden steps. I open the door, relieved to see a human I actually trust. The motion happens before I can stop it. I lean in, throwing my hands around his neck. Human contact. A warm body. A beating heart against mine. Connection. This is what I need. Maybe I confused my damn lust for something else. I’m trembling, and Nate is talking, but I have no clue what he’s saying. I’m still trying to melt into his body.

  When I pull back, his hands are at his side, rigid, like he’s at attention. “I thought we went over this earlier.”

  “I’m so sorry. I saw a scary car and I know that’s not your problem, and I probably shouldn’t be scared of a car, but my life is all messed up. I didn’t mean to hug you.” Nate is staring at me with an unreadable expression. One of those military surveying gazes. “I would have hugged anyone mildly familiar if it makes you feel better.” He’s still staring, except he narrows his eyes.

  Why are you scared of a car? What did it look like?”

  I swallow hard. Part of this deal is complete and utter bullshit.
I have to lie about pretty much everything. “I’d never seen the car before,” I rush. “I know all the cars around here. I’m just weird about vehicles and people I don’t know.” He nods and scans the tree line on the side of my house. “You’re not going to say anything about the hug?”

  He shakes his head. “It meant nothing. I didn’t hug you back.”

  I cough to cover a snarl. “Friends can hug friends. Don’t be so cold.”

  Nate watches me lock the door. “Friends can’t hug friends who they were just sexually propositioned by a few hours ago.”

  Great, I think. I’ve ruined this before it began with my damn libido. “You can’t hold that against me forever.”

  I get into his truck, which seems to be nicer than my used vehicle at first glance, and see a package sitting on the seat between us. “Lucky for you, I don’t hold things against people. Well, good people anyway.” Nate eyes me from his perch in the driver’s seat. “The package is for you. Consider it a gift from the friend who will never, and I mean never, take off your pants.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever been not so graciously offered a gift,” I say.

  “I have never been propositioned without being dined first. There are firsts for everything, Presley.” Nate clears his throat and pulls onto the road as I tear into the brown tape, giddy, and disgusted that all it takes to make me giddy is a brown, unmarked box. “Tell me about the car you saw on your road.” That car is practically forgotten now that I feel safe with another human, especially a human like Nate. He makes me feel safe. Part of his fucking allure, I’ve realized.

  Mindlessly I give him all the details I recall as I pick at the last bit of tape. Squealing when I see the box, I pull the roller skates from the tissue paper. “How did you know what color I wanted? I didn’t tell you!”

  He looks over, and I swear I see a small smirk followed by the most devastatingly handsome smile I’ve ever seen. If my father had that smirk to add to his arsenal the sky would be the limit. Dad has thin Lexington lips, and gums that are too big for his teeth. Nate, I think, has the perfect mouth–actually his whole face is symmetrical and sculpted by a magic wand. He wouldn’t do plastics, I can tell, so that beautiful mug is all genetics. Getting lost in his stupid smile for a few beats is the perfect distraction from the skates, gripped in my sweaty hands.

  “I guessed on the color and size. Just wanted to be a helper for your redo bucket list. Thought those might help.” His eyes soften further. “There should be some protective equipment in there too. Safety first and all that.” The knee pads and elbow pads look enormous, and very… safe.

  “Look at you being thoughtful. I didn’t think you were this kind of person. What do I owe you? I don’t expect gifts this extravagant from a mere friend.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. It was a gift.” The very first thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. Louis Vuitton, Chanel, YSL, that G-Wagon for my sixteenth birthday held appeal, but looking at this rubber and plastic sitting in my lap, and stinking up his car with that fresh from China smell, I know without a doubt I love this gift the most out of any I have ever received.

  “Thank you. I’m not sure how to repay you. It’s not like I have internet to research a gift this fitting. You nailed it. I cannot wait to try these out.”

  Nate pulls into a line of traffic waiting to get through a pass in the mountain. This must be concert traffic. “Just promise me you won’t break any bones, and we’ll call it even.”

  “What a weird thing to say. Why would you care if I broke my bones? I mean, I fully expect to break a wrist learning to skate fast. I want to be a roller derby girl! Breaking bones comes with the territory.”

  Nate clears his throat, and leans an elbow on the window. “The healthcare isn’t the best in Gold Hawke, Presley. Or need I remind you.” He lifts and lowers his bandaged arm. There’s new gauze peeking from under the sleeve of his shirt.

  “Guess you won’t be partaking in the roller derby with me.”

  “Nope, but I will garden.” Nate moves stealthily into a parking spot along the edge of the lot, backing in. Another tactical move, something I wouldn’t dream of taking note of before. “I think I got the basics and will make a trip to the gardening store this weekend.” Pulling up on the gearshift, he puts it in park. “You can come if you want.”

  I know what store he’s talking about. Ryan told me about it the first day I worked with him. It’s not in Gold Hawke, and technically if I went, I’d be breaking a rule. “Yes,” falls from my mouth before I weigh the consequences. Nate won’t let anything happen to me. He’s former military. Maybe if I concoct a story about why I’m scared of basically...everything, it would make the friendship easier. My lie could become our truth and I wouldn’t feel like I’m hiding constantly. “Ryan told me about that place and it sounds like fun.”

  Nate gets out of the truck and rounds the front to open my door, but not before eye fucking the blonde getting out of the car next to us. “Calling a gardening store fun isn’t really accurate,” he says. “More like a middle-aged hobby when most of the good years have passed.”

  I let my eyes linger on the woman longer than is polite. What does she have I don’t? When you once had everything, it’s hard to grasp that you now have nothing. I can’t compete with this small-town Betty, and my stomach flips with unease. “Well, for me it sounds like the best time ever. Pair it with my new roller skates and it feels like a vacation.” The woman is talking animatedly to the guy she’s with, her brassy, from a bottle color is straightened into a curtain of hair. The man wraps his arm around her waist and she leans into his embrace. Nate is still glancing at them even though we’re discussing the dumb gardening store. She’s taken. He has a thing for women that aren’t available. Duh, Presley. I’m as available as they come. Not only that, I quite literally was throwing myself at him. I am the opposite of the kind of woman he desires. It’s fitting, honestly. All of the men I’ve ever known who look like him have tasted the wide variety of normal and they want the challenge–the attached and unavailable.

  We walk together through the giant red rocks, following the stream of folks buzzing with excitement. This is big news for our town and surely, it’s a cool enough event that it’s big news for the surrounding towns too. Nate stays a step ahead of me, I realize, and I continue talking about dumb shit because I’m nervous. This is not a date. If anything, by buying me a gift he’s put me into the forever friend category. The sisterly bond or something equally as friend-zoned. The sooner I can put Nate Sullivan in the same zone, things will be far less complicated.

  Excitement replaces any annoyance when we get through the gates and the view of the expansive crowd unfurls before us. More people than I’ve seen in one place since my second life began are here. I feel the excitement blossoming in my chest–the familiar beat of music, and my wild, familiar life seems to creep back in. I step around Nate and don’t even worry if he is following me, I mix into the crowd and disappear. Maybe I can pretend to be another person. At least just for the night.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Nate

  Presley is gone like a shot. She took off as soon as we got here and vanished into the mob of people. I knew this was a possibility, of course. I wouldn’t take her here if I wasn’t prepared to protect her here, but then again, I also didn’t bet on her deviating so far from the personality I’ve come to know that she’s unrecognizable. She likes being with a crowd, which is ironic because it’s going to make my job that much more difficult. Off to the side, at one of the many drink carts, I see her balancing a beverage in each hand, syrupy liquid splashing over the edge of the plastic cups as she makes her way to our seats. I knew she’d be back eventually, but waiting had me truly worried.

  Presley scoots in, passing the people next to us. People I don’t recognize like those in the parking lot. I’d seen them in Gold Hawke a couple times over the past days, and I recognized them immediately. Not that I think they’re a threat, but I
wanted to make sure I kept out an eye for them if the opportunity arose. “I know you don’t drink,” she says, checking the number on her seat, “But I decided I’m going to drink enough for the both of us tonight.” Great. Let’s add in one more variable to really push me over the edge. I can’t tell her that she’s being a pain in the ass. What kind of friend would that make me? Especially after gaining her favor with the roller skates. She received the gift with more enthusiasm than I thought she would.

  “What is in those?” I wrinkle my nose. Long Island iced teas if I had to guess. No mixer. Hoping it’s not laced with anything, too. I lost sight of her between the cart and our seats for about fifteen seconds. “They smell like rubbing alcohol.”

  “They were like ten dollars apiece. I wanted to make sure to get my money’s worth.” I chuckle under my breath. The Princess of Wall Street worrying about how much drinks cost. Who would have ever thought they’d see the day? “Are you sure you don’t want one?”

  Nodding, I pretend to be really interested in the crew setting up the stage. “Don’t disappear like that again. I was worried you might get kidnapped or something.” I chance a glance at her face and see pure terror. I gulp. “Isn’t that what happens at places like this? I read a news article a while back.”

  “I suppose it is,” Presley comments, taking a shy sip instead of a huge glug. “Why did you bring that up? Also, what are you going to do if someone tries to kidnap me?”

  I laugh. “Nothing. You’re way too much work.” Another testing glance. She’s even more scared than she was seconds before. “I was joking. No one wants to kidnap you. Are you really worried?” This is a backhanded way of making her a little more aware, and my job easier.

  “I told you earlier. You should know better than to joke about that kind of stuff.” There’s two men on stage right I’ve had my eye on since we got here. They’re watching us now. I wonder if she knew there are people lurking in every corner if she’d ever leave her house again.