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

by Kat Singleton

My foot was about to step off the last stair when I heard the first sob. It stopped me in my place, my foot midair. I thought my ears were playing tricks on me. I didn’t think Veronica was capable of having an emotion as strong as the despair echoing through the basement. Another sob came. My hand clenched the coffee mug, my stomach doing the same. The heart wrenching sound pulled at something inside me.

  Veronica’s bedroom door swung open next and I took a step back at the image I saw.

  She was completely naked, not a strip of clothing on her. I barely noticed her body. My eyes were too busy taking in the turmoil on her face. Grief was written in every line. The wetness of her cheeks and neck glistened under the basement lights as she ran to the bathroom. The door slammed and a few seconds later, I heard the sound of the shower turning on.

  Even though the basement was no longer silent, filled with the sound of cascading water, I could still hear the sounds of her crying over the noise. My mind told me to move, to run up the stairs and pretend nothing happened, but my body wouldn’t move from that last step.

  I was trying to process it all. The tears that ran down her face, covering her neck. The way she was scratching at her body. The way her body shook with grief. I couldn’t unsee it. I couldn’t wipe it from my brain.

  The next sob set me on edge, shook me from my thoughts. I ran up the stairs like a bat out of hell, barely registering that my hand was getting burnt by the hot coffee sloshing around. Now, my forehead is resting against the cold wooden door. My heart slams against my chest, my mind racing in every direction.

  My hands are on either side of my head, pushing against the door like I’m trying to push the thoughts away. But I can’t shake it.

  I wonder if Tristan did this to her. If I find out he had something to do with this kind of sorrow, I will probably lose my shit. I’ve never felt this kind of anger toward anybody before besides Selma’s father.

  Whoever broke her down like this has my fists clenching against the door—and I don’t even know why.

  I can still hear the sound of the running water beneath me. I wonder if she’s still in there, falling apart. I try not to acknowledge the fact that the sight of endless tears running down her cheeks has unraveled me like this.

  Selma’s tears make me feel protective.

  Veronica’s tears have just gutted me.

  Maybe it’s because I had her pinned so well in my mind. The ice queen. The brat. The girl who wants nothing to do with anyone. Maybe it’s because I’m just now realizing how wrong I was. There is something in there, deep inside of her, that hurts. So loudly, it rumbles the whole house.

  I’m still internally losing my shit when the water turns off. I imagine her wiping her tears and drying off with a towel. If I was a betting guy, I’d surmise that Veronica will get dressed and zip that sadness up like she zips up her pink combat boots. That she will come upstairs and keep pretending she has no feelings whatsoever.

  Not wanting to miss her when she decides to come up—in case she wants to talk about it—I grab my laptop and set up shop on our living room couch. I’m anxious, my fingers drumming against my knee, my heart thundering in my chest.

  Twenty minutes go by before I hear her soft footsteps coming up the stairs.

  I start typing on my laptop, pretending to be busy. The words that fill the screen don’t even make sense, but she won’t know that.

  “Good morning,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on my computer screen and not on her.

  She doesn’t respond, choosing to walk into the kitchen and rifle around instead. I sneak a glance once I feel like she’s busy enough to not notice me looking at her. Her back is to me as she reaches into the cabinet for a bowl. Her long hair is wet and tangled down her back.

  When she makes her next motion, I train my eyes back on the laptop in front of me. The sound of cereal being dumped into the ceramic bowl fills my ears. That and the sound of my fingers racing against the keyboard, still forming jumbled words.

  “What happened to your hand?” she asks.

  My eyes shoot up and find her standing right next to me—so close I can smell her shampoo or body wash. I look down at my hand, following her gaze, and find bright red splotches on my skin.

  Burns from the coffee.

  The coffee I spilled after you spilled your heart out.

  Part of me wants to lie and make up a story about where I got it from. But I can’t. Because seeing her in pain like that makes me feel like I have to ask her if she’s okay. “I spilled coffee on it. Look, I had gone downstairs to check on you and I—”

  “I won’t talk about it, Maverick.” Her spoon circles around in her bowl before she picks it up and shovels a bite into her mouth.

  “Veronica—”

  “I said no. You weren’t supposed to be down there, anyway,” she states.

  I set the laptop down on the ottoman and stand up. We are almost toe-to-toe, her cereal bowl the only barrier between the two of us. My eyes look over her, taking in her blank expression, trying to see if she’s okay. Veronica’s hair is sopping wet, like she didn’t even have it in her to dry it. The whites of her eyes are bloodshot and even her strained voice gives her away. It’s hoarse, scratching at the end of her sentences.

  My hands run through my hair, trying to keep themselves busy. There are a million responses that go through my mind, but only one comes out. “But I was, Veronica. And I can’t pretend I didn’t just witness that. So—”

  “So, what?” she bites out, slamming her bowl of cereal down on the end table. Her arms cross over her chest.

  “You were fucking sad!” I shout, losing my cool. I pull a long breath in through my nose, trying to gain some composure. The air escapes back out of my lips, slowly. I feel bad for yelling, but her icy demeanor is driving me insane. For once, I want her to just stop this charade she has going that everything is fine, and admit to someone that she isn’t okay. Even if it’s me. Someone she hardly knows.

  A sad laugh escapes her lips before she shakes her head and retreats across the room. Before she makes it to the door that leads back downstairs, I dodge the ottoman and follow her.

  In front of the door she spins around. “So now I’m sad? That’s great, Maverick. Just call me pathetic next time, won’t you?”

  “Don’t try and twist my words. You and I both know what I meant by that. You didn’t look pathetic. You looked sad. And you know what, Veronica? It’s okay to be fucking sad. It’s okay to have demons. It’s okay to admit to one fucking person that you have feelings that aren’t just vain or selfish or shallow.” I walk closer to her now, retreating into her personal space, but just barely.

  Her small chest rises and falls. I’m ready for her to lash out at me. That seems to be her MO. I brace myself for it, but her only response is the sag of her body.

  “You don’t want to know my demons.” Her blue eyes find mine and there’s no longer anger in them. It isn’t even sadness, but defeat. Her eyelashes are wet and clumped together. Unshed tears making her blue eyes glassy.

  Instinctively, I reach out to touch her. I place my hands on her shoulders. I want to shake the truth from her. “What if I do?” I take a step back from her after realizing how close we are.

  “If you did, you wouldn’t want to be friends with me, let alone have me as a roommate,” Veronica mumbles quietly, looking down at her bare feet.

  “You underestimate me. From where I stand, it seems like you need a friend.” I don’t even realize my fingers are tapping against my thigh until her eyes focus on them.

  “We can be friends, Maverick, but I’m not telling you anything. Today, or maybe ever.” She takes a long breath. “I’ve had enough of my past. I can’t dwell on it any longer.”

  “Just tell me if Tristan hurt you.” I pin her with my gaze, as though daring her to look away from me.

  She lets out a small laugh. “I’m not the victim in anybody’s story. I’m the villain.”

  With that, she opens the door to the basement and retreats
to her room.

  I’m left staring at her soggy cereal, wondering what her last comment could possibly mean.

  16

  Veronica

  I fall into a steady rhythm for the next few weeks. My time is filled between school, work, and hanging out with my roommates. Lily somehow convinced me to go to the last two Thirsty Thursdays at Lenny’s—and they weren’t so bad. I even celebrated Halloween with all of them.

  It wasn’t my ideal scenario, but at least I tried.

  Maverick and I have fallen into an odd almost-friendship. He tries to get me to divulge more and more about myself every day—a side effect, I think, from watching me crumble. At first, I was uncomfortable with it. I didn’t want his pity, or anyone else’s. But for some reason, I shared a little. And I realized how fucking good it felt to not keep every single little thing to myself.

  I still haven’t told him about what led to the breakdown. What haunts me at night. What makes me wake up in cold sweats after a nightmare of reliving the worst night of my life. We aren’t that close, and I don’t ever plan for us to be.

  It’s a Tuesday night, and a large part of me doesn’t want to go downstairs and fall asleep to whatever hell my mind will bring me to tonight. So, I’m sitting on the couch watching old game shows.

  Selma went to bed two hours ago, claiming she had a long day at work and has the early shift again tomorrow. Aspen watched an episode with me earlier before going out for the night. And I have no idea where Maverick is.

  I’m in the midst of dozing off when the front door opens and Maverick walks in. It causes me to jump, sending the remote flying. The picture from the TV is the only source of light in the living room. He sets his keys in the bowl beside the door and walks to the kitchen, mumbling a hi to me on his way. I hear him poke around in the refrigerator before he heads toward me, two beer bottles clutched in his hands.

  He sits on the other side of the couch, a comfortable distance away from me. I look over to watch him take a long pull of his beer. As soon as he looks over at me, I quickly focus back on the TV, an old episode of Family Feud playing. I wipe at my mouth, making sure there’s no drool from my brief nap.

  I wish there was more sound coming from the TV to fill the silence of the room, but the remote fell behind the couch when Maverick walked in and I’m too lazy to get up and look for it.

  Maverick pops the top off one of the beer bottles and holds it out to me. “You know Aspen thinks you hate him. Either that or you’re playing hard to get.”

  His voice causes me to jump, a bit of beer flying from the top of my bottle and onto my collarbone.

  I don’t look away from the TV, where Steve Harvey raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at a contestant’s answer. “I’m certainly not playing hard to get.”

  I watch from the corner of my eye as he stretches out his long legs. “Then you do hate him?” He’s staring at me, jostling his beer bottle with his hand.

  “No. Why would I hate him?” I take a long swig from my own beer, avoiding looking at Maverick.

  “Because you don’t talk to him like you talk to me.” He shifts again, which finally draws my eyes in his direction.

  When I turn my head, I find his body angled toward mine and his blue eyes glowing in the light of the TV, staring straight at me.

  “Oh, that’s easy. It’s because you’re taken.” I shrug, taking another swig from the bottle. The beer tastes like piss, but I won’t complain right now. It’s something to keep me busy. And I’m searching for the numb.

  His dark eyebrows raise as he thinks my words through. I give him the amount of time he needs, not wanting to elaborate if I don’t have to.

  He nods slowly and says, “Well, yeah, but what’s that have to do with Aspen?”

  “He’s single.” I take another sip from my beer, letting the bitter taste of the Heineken linger on my tongue before swallowing.

  “Just because he’s single doesn’t mean you can’t be nice to the guy,” Maverick says.

  “Wait a minute. Just because I’m not eating out of the palm of his hand doesn’t mean I’m not nice to him. I just don’t want to give him the idea that I might be interested in him.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  I drag my eyes away from the Viagra commercial to look back at Maverick. “You’re in a very happy relationship. There is no chance of you falling in love with me or getting attached or wanting more in any capacity. So, we can be friends.”

  “You won’t be friends with a single guy because there’s a chance they might get feelings for you?” he asks.

  “Yep,” I deadpan, popping the p.

  “Aren’t you thinking a little highly of yourself?” he counters.

  I shrug, finishing off the last of my beer. It clinks against the table when I set it down on the end table next to me. “Maybe, but if I think there’s a chance a guy is attracted to me then I won’t be friends with him. There’s a small chance after attraction that the person can fall in love and I don’t want anyone falling in love with me.”

  “So, we’re officially friends?” he asks with a smirk.

  I reach over and pull on his hoodie string, pulling it tight and then letting it go. It recoils from my hand and bounces against his face. “Hell, we could be best friends. You’re so disgustingly in love with Selma that you’d never find me attractive. It’s a win-win situation.”

  He slowly swallows. For the first time, I’m close enough to him to spot it. Starting under his bottom lip and roaming over to the skin above his top lip, there’s a jagged line. A scar. An imperfection. I itch to paint it, unable to look away. I’m too busy memorizing the way it slopes down. My brain ponders how I’ve never seen it before. Maybe I just never looked at him hard enough.

  I’m still staring at that scar when he hesitantly smiles and jokes, “Best friends, then?”

  My eyes pull away from his lips and find his eyes. The smile that overtakes my face is completely genuine. I hold out my hand and wait for his to engulf my own. His is warm; mine is cold.

  “BFFs,” I joke back, shaking our hands up and down once before pulling my hand back. We stay in a stare-down for a few moments before I pop off the couch, leaving my empty bottle on the table, and make my way to the door to the basement.

  As I open the door, I look over my shoulder to find Maverick staring after me, an unreadable look covering his face.

  I hope he knows I was joking.

  17

  Maverick

  “Oh my god, this can’t be real.” Veronica leans over my shoulder as we scroll through our professor’s Facebook page. She’s so close I can smell the sweet flowery scent of her perfume.

  A contradiction I have come to know about her.

  She smells so sweet, a contradiction of her sour attitude.

  “Maverick, are you seeing this?” Her hair hits me in the face as she leans even more over me, her finger touching my laptop screen.

  Our professor is in head to toe My Little Pony gear. It’s basically cosplay of a rainbow pony. His face is even smothered in sparkly shit. His wife and kids are posing in the picture with him, all of them dressed as different ponies.

  “I mean, holy fuck. This is amazing!” Veronica goes back to her chair a few feet away from me, chuckling to herself.

  “Shh!” a feisty student directs at her from across the library.

  Veronica makes a face back at the shusher.

  I laugh under my breath, shaking my head. Judging by the way Veronica glares at the girl, she’s thinking of a way to rile her up even more.

  “Ready to get back to studying?” I ask her, trying to pull her eyes away from the girl and back on me. It’s a nice afternoon and while the weather is almost perfect outside, Veronica and I are both holed up in the library studying for our upcoming sociology midterm.

  “What are you thinking about?” Veronica asks, causing me to jump.

  I bite down hard on the pen I didn’t realize I was chewing on. The pen makes a cracking n
oise. I look down at it, making sure I didn’t just make it explode. When I’m sure it isn’t bleeding ink everywhere, I throw it down onto our large table.

  Looking across the table, I find the start of a doodle on her notepad. Before she realizes what I’m doing, I grab it from the table and take it to examine further.

  “Maverick! Give that back right now.” Veronica shoots out of her chair and tries to grab it from my hand, but I have an iron grip.

  My eyes glide over what she was drawing. It’s a pair of eyes filled with unshed tears. I’m amazed at the amount of detail, done with just her pencil. The eyes seem kind, genuine, like they’re staring into my soul. The more I look, the more details I notice. In the pupils, there are small waves.

  “This is incredible, Veronica,” I tell her, pulling it away from her reach when she lunges for it again. I go to flip through the rest of the notepad and notice many drawings of different features. There are hands, a nose, eyebrows, freckles, moles. As the pages flutter, I see the same pair of eyes—over and over again. They’re always sad.

  Finally, when I’m too busy staring at her art—the beautiful lines and curves of the drawings—she rips the notepad from my hand. I’m about to compliment her further when she storms away from me. The only thing she has in her hand is the notepad, the rest of her belongings still strewn about all over the table I’m now alone at.

  I jump out of chair, making eye contact with some of the people glaring at us. I ignore them and rush in the direction she went. She’s weaving in and out of bookshelves, going deeper into our campus library.

  I finally catch her in a dim corner. “Veronica,” I say quietly, grabbing her by the elbow. I go to turn her toward me and what’s on her face absolutely destroys me.

  It’s hurt. It’s raw. It’s real. But most of all, it’s betrayal—betrayal I put there.

  My heart drops to my feet. I’ve never been looked at in the way she’s looking at me right now. And in this moment, I know whatever I just came across in that notepad is more than just pretty doodles to her. The drawings are another jagged piece of her puzzle I can’t seem to put together.