The Consequence of Loving Me: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Aftershock Series Book 1)

by Kat Singleton

  We all look at the card, in silence. It doesn’t even make sense.

  Everyone is still quiet when Derrick realizes his card actually won. He shoots up like a firecracker into the sky on the Fourth of July.

  We all watch him with amusement because we know his card wasn’t actually funny, but Lily gave him a break anyway.

  “Does he really not understand that he just got a pity one?” Selma sweetly whispers into my ear.

  She sits in a ball on my lap. Her arms wrap around her legs, and any time she moves I have to adjust underneath her to get comfortable again. Whenever she leans back, the short strands of her hair tickle my neck.

  “I doubt it,” I whisper in her ear. My gaze finds Veronica and Tristan at the same moment she busts out laughing. I don’t think I’ve actually ever heard her laugh until now.

  I’m curiously watching them interact, wondering what he could have said to get the stoic Veronica to react in such a way. Before now, I haven’t seen anything but annoyance come from her.

  “Maverick!” Lily shouts, snapping her tan fingers in my direction. I look up from the spot I was staring a hole into at the table and try to wipe the confusion off my face. Selma’s body turns in my lap to look at me, giving me an inquisitive look.

  “Are you going to play a card this round?” Lily questions.

  13

  Veronica

  I watch Maverick with fascination as he clearly tries to pull his thoughts together—about what, I have no idea. The whole table is silent, waiting for him to pick a card from his hand and play it. Lily waits impatiently, tapping her foot against the tattered rug below her.

  “Oh yeah,” Maverick says under his breath. He quickly sorts through the cards in his hands before throwing one down. He doesn’t even look to see the card he’s filling in the blank for.

  Lily narrows her eyes at him from across the table, clearly aware something is off about him right now. She doesn’t say anything, though her eyes find Aspen who’s looking through the white cards to pick his favorite.

  My eyes should be on Aspen as well, but they aren’t. I’m too focused on watching Selma and Maverick in curiosity. She still sits in his lap, but her body now faces his. She has a puzzled look on her face just before she whispers something under her breath to him, but his only response is a shake of his head. He watches Aspen read through the cards he’s been given.

  It registers a few seconds late that the chosen winning card is the one I played.

  I bend across the table. “That would be mine! Thank you, Aspen.” I pluck my card out of his fingers and set it in my large pile.

  My body falls back into the uncomfortable fold-up chair I’ve been sitting in for the past hour. I cross my legs and look at Tristan, who’s currently staring at me.

  He leans closer to me, moving my blonde hair from where it cascades down the front of me, so it rests down my back. His breath tickles me as he pulls his body close to mine, his lips almost touching my ear.

  “Let’s go,” I say to Tristan, grabbing the wine bottle I’ve been drinking in one hand and Tristan’s hand in the other. My door is only a few steps away. I lead him inside and refuse to look over my shoulder at the inquisitive gazes I still feel on my back.

  As soon as the door shuts, Tristan’s lips are on mine. They are hard and persistent, and it’s the perfect combination to wipe everything else from my brain. His hands are calloused, probably from baseball, and I love the way they feel when they scratch against my skin.

  I let him guide me to the bed, unashamed that I can still hear voices right outside the door.

  The only thing I can think of right now is the way Tristan’s lips travel across my body.

  This.

  This is the feeling I crave. The feeling I live for.

  “You won’t stay the night in here,” I tell Tristan as he peels my leggings off.

  “I won’t stay the night in here,” he repeats, his eyes hooked on the lower half of my body.

  “This won’t happen ever again.” It comes out quickly, my body anticipating where his mouth will hit next. I tell this same thing to every guy I hook up with.

  Because I can’t give them any more than my body for a night.

  And I don’t want anything more than their body for a night.

  I wake up the next morning, happy to find that Tristan kept up his end of the bargain. The other side of my bed is empty and cold—just like I prefer it.

  Footsteps echo above my head, multiple sets of them. I am not in the mood to see anyone right now, so I turn over in my bed and grab my phone from the nightstand. When I look at it, I see that I have two missed calls from my mother. Why she feels the need to call me twice before ten a.m., I have no idea, but instead of dodging her calls all day, I swipe to call her back.

  As the phone rings, I sit up in bed and pull my feet in. There’s a loose thread coming out of my comforter, so I pull on it.

  She finally picks up after four rings. “Veronica?” she asks hesitantly.

  “Hi, Mother,” I respond, still playing with the loose strand.

  I can hear one of the barstools being pulled across the hardwood floors above me.

  “Glad to see you could make time for your own mother. You must have one busy schedule,” she says, and I don’t miss the aggression in her voice.

  My mother and I haven’t always had a strained relationship. There was a time when we had constant spa dates together. We’d hit up our favorite boutiques afterward, with our fresh faces and nails, but that time has come to pass.

  My mom hasn’t changed at all—but I have.

  I went from a sheltered, spoiled, selfish, but still decent daughter, to a fuck-up. A life ruiner. At this point, I’m not sure I know how to be anyone other than someone who lashes out at others—especially the people who know of every single one of my mistakes, and the lowest points of my life.

  “I don’t have classes on Fridays,” I respond lazily, trying to keep the conversation from getting too deep.

  Unfortunately, my mother knows me better than anybody. I know she can see through all my bitchy bullshit. But for some reason, she puts up with it. After a few years she probably realized this is just who I am now.

  “Will you be coming home for Thanksgiving?” she asks.

  “I can’t, Mom. I’m sorry.” And I am sorry. Part of me wishes I was stronger than I am, that I could go back to that town and face my past, but I can’t—even if that means I can’t face my own parents.

  “Your father would really like to see you,” she presses on, not willing to go down without a fight.

  My mind races through excuses on why I can’t make it. In reality, I have nothing happening here to prevent me from going home except my own cowardice. We have fall break coming up, which gives us the whole week of Thanksgiving off. Clementine had offered to give me that time off as well so I could go home and visit family, but I didn’t take her up on it.

  “I know.” I pause, taking a deep breath. “I have to work that week. I can’t take off.” It’s a lie I should feel guilty about, but I don’t.

  Nothing could weigh heavier on my conscience than what I’ve done in my past. Nothing could be more violent than the waves that ocean town brings back.

  “You know you don’t need that silly job, Veronica. We can more than afford to pay for your well-being while in college. Tell that eccentric boss of yours that you’re coming home, or you’ll quit,” my mom says.

  “I can’t just quit, Mom. I need this job. It’s my chance to get my paintings in a real gallery, maybe even get a buyer or two to buy some of them. I’ll make it up to you and Dad, I promise.”

  “Sweetie, you know we could tell our friends at the club about your paintings. I’m sure you’d get some buyers that way,” she offers.

  I scoff. There’s no way I want my name attached to any of my paintings, especially in front of the people back home. They’re the last people I would allow to see inside the dark crevices of my soul should my paintings eve
r be put on display.

  Nope.

  I’d rather remain anonymous and make shit money at a gallery in exchange for the chance to have them hanging on the walls there.

  The scratching of the barstools against the hardwood floor screeches again above me. Aspen is ranting about something before the sounds stop, and then there is nothing.

  “The Liams have been asking about you.” My mom pauses, waiting for a response for me.

  Except, I have none.

  I’m stuck in a moment that happened years ago. A moment that came and went. A moment that took most of me with it when it left.

  My hands are clammy as they grip the phone. She just betrayed me. She knows not to bring them up. To never bring them up. It’s a punch to my gut—no, to my throat—when I hear that name.

  I don’t even say goodbye. Like a child, I hang up the phone and throw it across my bed in an attempt to escape her and her meddling.

  The phone makes a soft thump against my fluffy white comforter. I wish I could have thrown it down on hard concrete, shattering the phone in pieces. Anything to ensure my mother could never mutter that last name again.

  No matter how hard I fight against them, the memories rush in—and I am paralyzed.

  14

  Veronica

  Four Years Ago

  It’s three a.m., and I’ve had one of the best nights of my life. After spending hours at a local arcade, Connor and I have ended up in a small diner outside of town.

  “So, you’re cooler than I thought,” Connor says, taking a long pull from the straw to his milkshake.

  I am fascinated by the way his cheeks pull together when he takes a drink, his lips working strongly against the straw.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask sarcastically, taking a drink of my own milkshake.

  “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “You just seem...uptight all the time.”

  “Uptight?” My voice comes out in a screech, making my own ears cringe.

  He laughs. “Yeah, very uptight. And well, you kind of come off as a bitch.”

  My mouth hangs open. I’ll be the first to admit it, I’m not the nicest girl at East Point, but I didn’t think I came off as a bitch to strangers.

  His pink bow-tie has been loosened around his neck, and the red lights of the diner reflect off his face. He stares at me, allowing me time to work through his comment in my head.

  “I guess I don’t really care what people think about me.” I look away from him, staring down at my red dress. My mother and I had so much fun picking it out a month ago. It’s made of a deep red satin material. The neckline plunges between my cleavage, or lack of cleavage. At the waist, it cinches in and then flares out in an A-line shape, making my already slim waist appear even slimmer.

  “Is that just something girls say to appear tough, but deep down they really do care?” He dips a fry into his chocolate milkshake, and I crinkle my nose at the mix of flavors.

  I shrug. “I don’t let people get close enough to know the real me. If they don’t know who I really am, then I don’t care their opinion of me.”

  The waitress comes over, asking us if we need anything. We both shake our head before she retreats back to the kitchen. The diner has an older couple on the side of the restaurant along with an old man sitting alone a few booths down from us. Other than that, it’s empty.

  “But why wouldn’t you just let people see that you might not be the huge bitch that they all think you are?” His face is full of confusion. I feel weird under his gaze.

  I lather my tater-tot in ketchup, popping it into my mouth and slowly chewing. He watches me, waiting for a response. “Maybe I am a bitch.”

  His lips pull into the smile I’m quickly becoming a fan of. “Maybe,” he retorts. “But somehow I think there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

  My heart starts to race in my chest, and I want to flee this diner and get away from him. He can see me, see past my exterior I’ve built, and I don’t like it. I’d rather keep everyone at arm’s length. I’m a fan of shallow relationships, neither party delving too deep into the psyche of the other, but somehow, I think that Connor only keeps his relationships deep.

  I shrug, trying to come off more nonchalant than I feel. “No one ever sticks around long enough to see.”

  I hesitantly watch the slow rise of his shoulders. He stares at me, his eyes slightly narrowing, and it feels like he can see every thought or feeling I’ve ever had.

  “What if I want to?” His stare only becomes even more intense, which I didn’t even know was possible. The diner is quiet, and it’s quite possible that even from across the booth he can hear my heart slamming against my chest.

  I throw my blonde hair over my shoulder, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. Putting up my shields that were just slightly lowered right back into place. I pull my lips into a smile, “You won’t.”

  And then I reach across the table and steal one of his fries.

  I can taste the chocolate of the milkshake on my tongue as if it were yesterday. I can feel the way his green eyes analyzed every last part of me. It’s agonizing. My skin itches and much to my dismay, my eyes fill with tears.

  It was the best night of my life.

  It led to the best year of my life.

  And then, it led to the worst times of my life—to the hell I’m still living in.

  Connor and I were just friends for a week before his witty jokes and persistence won my heart. He was the silly boy in love with the entitled girl. We were never bound to work. But we were happy in our short-lived fairytale. He consumed every part of me. There wasn’t a single part of me that didn’t also belong to him. It turned out that my hard armor was guarding the softest heart. A heart that danced out of my chest and made a home in him in less than seven days.

  A sob escapes me as our year together flashes through my head.

  The soft curls of his hair. His dumb jokes. The way his body didn’t fit into the coupe my parents gifted me on my birthday. The way he loved every inch of me. The way I loved being his. The way I loved feeling love.

  The way I felt when it came to a crashing end.

  It all flies through my head until I can’t pinpoint what is my reality and what is my past. I hit my pillow with my balled fist over and over, trying to release the tension in my body, the tension in my mind.

  I can hear my phone vibrating on the end of my bed—probably my mother.

  I want to answer it and yell at her. To scream at her for uttering the name I never want to hear again, can’t afford to hear again.

  But I don’t have it in me to battle her. I can’t even battle my own demons right now, let alone her.

  So I let the tears fall from my eyes until my naked skin dampens. My naked skin that is still naked from the night before with Tristan.

  The irony crosses my mind. The fact that these tears I cry for the boy who knew me inside and out are washing my naked, dirty body from a night with a guy I hardly know.

  I think of Connor. He was constantly trying to make me better, trying to prove to me that deep down I was a good human being.

  He was wrong.

  Right now, all I feel is dirty and evil. As I cry for a man from my past while I sit here naked for a man who has no part of my future, my skin begins to crawl. I want to get out of it. I want to wash every mistake—the past and the current—from my body.

  I fly off my bed and into my bathroom as fast as I can, not even bothering to put something on me for the walk from my room to the basement bathroom.

  My mind doesn’t stop to consider if there’s somebody down here or not. All it can register is the fact that I am so dirty and gross and damaged that I have to wash it, scratch it, remove it from my body.

  The bathroom door slams behind me as another sob breaks from my body. I can’t get to the shower quick enough. My hand shakes as I push the nozzle as hot as it will go. Water sputters out of the shower head. I don’t wait for the water to warm before I climb in and
let it run down my body.

  The tears won’t stop coming. No matter how many times I tell myself I don’t deserve to grieve—or feel anything—it still comes.

  The sound of a door shutting pulls me from my memories. And now I have to wonder if someone was down here. If someone in my present just witnessed this breaking. This thing I try to hide so fiercely.

  The hot water stings my skin. I relish it as the night before gets washed from my body.

  I can almost feel Connor’s memories getting washed from my mind.

  Almost.

  15

  Maverick

  My feet hurry up the basement stairs, racing like I can’t get out of here fast enough. The coffee mug in my hand splatters hot coffee everywhere, dripping down my hand and onto the carpet. I fiddle with the doorknob, slamming the basement door behind me. I hastily slam the coffee cup on the kitchen counter and then beeline for my room. I have enough mind not to slam the bedroom door, and I push it shut softly before resting my forehead against it as I gather my thoughts.

  Aspen and Selma are both gone—thank fuck.

  I had gone downstairs to see if Veronica was home or not. My eyes were scanning over a newspaper at the kitchen bar this morning when Tristan made the walk of shame. He opened the door to the basement with a shit eating grin on his face. There was no shame, only pure glee. His hair was all over the place, making it evident that Veronica’s hands had run through it and pulled it every which way. His clothes were wrinkled, probably from being on the ground all night.

  When they were whispering to each other last night, I wasn’t expecting them to leave the game halfway through it.

  I went with a warm cup of coffee in hand to see if she was downstairs this morning.