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

by Kat Singleton

  I don’t know how I found him. How fate had this hilarious way of punishing me by putting someone so perfectly imperfect in front of me and expecting me to stay away.

  But I’m about to raise my white flag—to stop pushing him away and have him for myself.

  29

  Maverick

  We stand in front of her bedroom door, the both of us utterly silent after our trip to my grandfather’s property.

  I want her to invite me inside.

  I need her to ask me to stay with her tonight.

  For her to admit that she feels something for me, too.

  I wait for her to tell me that the hours by the lake discussing Connor and so many other things meant something to her. I just need some kind of reassurance that this isn’t all in my head. But more than that, I need reassurance that she’ll allow whatever’s developing between us to happen—or attempt to happen. Judging by the way she acted today, it seemed like she might be doing just that.

  Veronica had allowed me to hold her as we sat in the field.

  We watched the sun set behind the lake with our bodies intertwined.

  We didn’t kiss, but our bodies said more to each other than our lips ever could.

  In the soft brush of our hands. When she absentmindedly traced the muscles of my forearms. When she let out the quietest gasp when my fingers rested on the bare skin of her leg. So many touches that felt like…something more.

  “Thank you for coming with me today,” I finally say, breaking the awkward silence between us.

  She looks up at me, giving me a smile—and for some reason, it seems sad. “You kind of kidnapped me.”

  “You kind of let me.”

  Her lips pull up even more. “True.” She folds her arms over her chest, her back leaning back to rest against the wall next to her door.

  Aspen’s footsteps echo above us as he moves around his room. We both look to the ceiling before looking back at each other.

  “Tonight…” I start, rubbing my hands against my pants. “Tonight, can you just allow yourself to look at me the way you want to? Can we just explore this thing that’s happening between us, for at least tonight?” My hand gestures between the two of us before I continue on, too chickenshit to look at her. “We don’t need to decide if we want to date, or put any label on it. But for the last few hours, all I could think about was your body against mine. And by the way you reacted to my touch, I think you were thinking the same thing.”

  I step closer to her, pleading with her with my eyes for her to agree. “Just one night. Can we allow ourselves one night?”

  I’m desperate. My heart beats so fast in my chest as I wait for her answer.

  And then it plummets.

  Because I know the look in her eyes as she looks back up at me, and it’s not one that holds the answer I want. The walls she had slowly started to let down raise back up in an instant.

  “Maverick, you need to go back to Selma,” she states.

  What the actual fuck?

  The look on my face must give me away because she continues to try and fill in the blanks. I feel the muscle in my jaw tighten. My jaw clenches, trying not to spew everything going through my head right now.

  She lifts her chin in a defiant way, so defiant I can almost hear her walls click back into place. The same unreachable height around her heart they were when we first met.

  “I’m not the girl you want,” Veronica says. “Selma was good for you. You want me because I’m a challenge. It’ll wear off, I promise. Go back to her. You were meant for each other.”

  I laugh—a bitter, self-deprecating laugh—because oh my god, she hasn’t listened to anything I’ve said.

  My feet step back from her, my hands going to the top of my head and resting there. I make sure to take a deep breath before I respond. A million things go through my head. I want to lash out at her. I want to yell, scream, do something dramatic to let her know that no matter what happens between her and I that Selma and I won’t be getting back together—ever.

  Three, two, one…

  “Okay, first of all, this has nothing to do with my breakup with Selma. I told you, we aren’t—and weren’t—meant to be together. Simple as that. So, please don’t try and push me away because you think you’re the thing that’s standing between me and her. You’re a lot of things to me, Veronica, but the one thing you aren’t is the reason Selma and I won’t get back together.”

  My chest heaves as I try to pull air into my lungs. “And second of all, yes, I want you. I probably want you more than I have ever wanted anything. But I’m not standing here asking for anything more than a night. Because I’m not used to this feeling. I don’t understand it and I’m just trying to work through it by allowing us to figure it out—together.”

  “I can’t,” she mutters. With those two words, a tear runs down her cheek.

  I want to wipe it away, to give her a hug or do something to console her. But I’m not perfect, and I can only take rejection so many times before giving up. My feet stay planted in their spot on the basement floor. I can still hear Aspen walking around upstairs, but I don’t let my eyes wander to the ceiling again. I’m solely focused on her, trying to read everything her body is telling me—the things her mouth refuses to speak.

  “You can’t, or you won’t?” The words are quiet when they come out of my mouth, but they apparently still hit home by the way her head viciously starts to shake.

  “Does it matter?” The blue in her eyes is crystal-clear when she looks at me.

  I pull in air through my nose, my fingers threading through the top of my hair. I take a few steps away from her.

  Space.

  I need space.

  I didn’t realize she had the power to break me yet, but here I stand with a gut-wrenching feeling in my chest and a sinking feeling in my stomach that feels a lot like breaking.

  “No, Veronica. I guess it doesn’t.” I stare her down, giving her the opportunity to say something else—to argue, to change her mind—but she doesn’t.

  She just stares at me, her cheeks wet with tears, not relenting.

  I nod, coming to understand that maybe she’ll always be a what if for me. I slowly start to retreat to the basement stairs. I finally look away from her, unable to see her pain for another second.

  This is where I normally give up whatever I want, just to make sure the other person is happy.

  But here? I can’t do it.

  I can’t be the white knight in this scenario—her savior. There’s too much at stake for me to risk in order to save her. My heart, namely.

  So, I walk away from her.

  I walk away even though it breaks me a little more to hear the quiet sob breaking from her throat as my feet hit the first stair.

  I’m halfway up them when her voice fills the basement.

  “I’ve already given my heart away once,” she says. “After pulling Connor’s lifeless body out of the water, I vowed I would never do it again.”

  It’s quiet, so quiet I almost don’t hear it, but I do hear the emotion in her voice that sneaks through. The way it scratches with her words, the way the words drag out—painfully.

  My forehead hits the basement door as I reach the top, trying to pull myself together enough to actually walk away.

  My hand is on the doorknob when I respond to her. “I didn’t demand your heart. I just asked for a night.”

  With that, I barrel through the door and rush to my room, where I slam my door behind me.

  30

  Maverick

  Four days.

  Four days since Veronica and I have uttered a word to each other.

  She barely even looks at me when we share the same space, which isn’t often because she’s been doing her best to completely avoid me.

  However, it’s not all on her. I don’t want to say anything to her either.

  I’ve said everything I wanted to say.

  She didn’t want it, she didn’t want to try. I’m exhausted by
her.

  When she avoids me, I make sure to avoid her back. If I hear those boots coming up the stairs, I retreat to my bedroom. It feels childish, but it’s how I’m coping with the rejection, with the lack of even wanting to try.

  Poor Aspen is stuck in the middle of our drama. He shifts between spending time with me in the living room and spending time with Veronica in the basement. His constant pestering about what happened has almost driven me to insanity. I understand he just wants to know how and why things changed between Veronica and I so quickly, but I don’t have it in me to try to explain.

  Now, I sit on my bed, gazing at the self-portrait Veronica painted of herself. My finger runs over the oil paint. It dried long ago, but it still has a bumpy texture that makes her brushstrokes obvious.

  I stare at the girl in the painting. I want to know how Veronica felt when she painted this piece. If it helped her, or if it just reminded her of everything she hates about herself.

  I wish she could see the image through my eyes. The way the curves of her inward shoulders don’t show defeat, but a battle that she refused to lose. How the blurred and smeared edges don’t mean her life is out of focus, but instead, coming into it—day by day.

  I wish she could see all of her and her past through my eyes. Because when I look at her, I don’t see someone worthy of feeling guilt, I see someone who survived hell.

  I find myself once again thinking back to the day I first met her, the way she looked so dejected and hateful while staring at that innocent self-help quote.

  Her pain was so clear from the beginning—if only I’d paid closer attention to the warnings.

  I can’t blame her for where things stand between us now. She never made any false promises to me. She wasn’t cold because she was playing hard to get; she was cold because she didn’t want to be caught.

  But I’ve been wearing rose-colored glasses when it comes to her.

  It’s hilarious, because I truly thought I could have been the one to change her mind about love. About relationships. What a naïve asshole I was.

  Of course I couldn’t change her.

  No one could change her but herself.

  And she doesn’t want to change.

  It’s still a sad realization, because the only thing that needs to change about her is her own opinion of herself. Everything else about her is flawed but beautiful—just like those imperfections she likes to paint so much.

  I wish she’d realize that Connor’s death wasn’t her fault. That she’d stop viewing herself as the villain and realize she’s just another human being who’s been dealt a shitty hand in life.

  As I stare at the girl in the painting, I wonder what could have happened with us if she hadn’t completely shut down after the death of her first love. If, instead of closing everyone out like she said she had, she’d allowed herself to grieve.

  What would she have been like if someone had looked her in the eye and told her it was just an accident?

  Would she have held onto the guilt no matter what anyone said?

  Or would she have been able to forgive herself, maybe even tolerate herself after some time?

  My finger’s still tracing over the curves of her brushstrokes when I realize it doesn’t matter.

  It’s something she needs to realize on her own. And for her sake, I hope she finds that peace within herself one day.

  Just as my mind continues to wander while I look down at her self-created image, encompassed by oil paints, the artist herself flings my bedroom door wide open.

  31

  Veronica

  “What the fuck, Maverick!” I plow through his door, not paying any attention to the fact that he may have had it shut for a reason. I push it open to find a shirtless Maverick sitting on his bed.

  He tosses something to the ground as I barge through the door. His body flies off the bed so fast he’s basically a blur of motion—a blur with a pretty damn good six-pack. I haven’t laid eyes on those muscles on him for a bit now.

  But I shove that out of my mind as I inch my way closer to him, not even worrying about hiding my fury. “You bought my paintings?” I’m so angry I see red. When I took my pieces to Clementine’s gallery, I didn’t expect anyone I know to buy one of them—let alone all of them.

  He wasn’t supposed to intervene. They were my imperfections. Mine.

  Even though some of them weren’t my own, I painted them. Labored over them.

  Hell, I even cried over them.

  He wasn’t supposed to freaking buy them.

  His hands go up defensively. “You took them to a gallery to sell.”

  I sigh, the air leaving my body in a blast that both of us can hear. “To sell to a stranger. Not to you, Maverick! It can’t be you.” My hands are on my hips, adrenaline pumping through my body. I haven’t been this pissed in a long time. It seems like a betrayal that he bought those paintings without telling me, though I can’t tell why.

  “Well, I now own them, Veronica. So, you can be pissed at me, but that won’t change the fact that they’re mine.”

  I want to slap him.

  God, do I want to fucking slap him.

  My fingers itch to strike that perfectly chiseled cheek of his. “I’m so mad at you right now! They weren’t yours to buy! How dare you come in and buy something so personal to me?!” My foot stomps and I know I look like a fucking child—but I don’t care. I don’t know what else to do with all the rage filling my body right now.

  “What would you have rather had happen, Veronica? Have some random person hang them up in their house as a fucking talking piece at some boring dinner they’re hosting with their asshole country club friends? The price tags were high. I wasn’t about to let some pretentious asshole who didn’t know anything about you hang those up on their wall as a fucking accent piece.”

  My eyes focus on the vein pulsing at his neck—an indicator that his anger is also escalating.

  “It wasn’t your decision to make!” I seethe, taking a step closer to him. A step that puts me so close to him I could reach out and run my hand over his abdominal muscles if I dared.

  But right now, the only touch I crave to give him is a slap on that infuriatingly perfect sculpted cheek.

  I feel violated. Violated that he took it upon himself to buy things so personal to me.

  It doesn’t matter that some of the paintings were of him; it matters that he knew how personal they were to me.

  He must have been able to tell the morning I put them in my trunk that I never wanted to see them again.

  It’s violating, because part of me woke up when Clementine told me who bought them.

  If I’m being honest with myself, I’m not pissed that he bought them. I’m pissed at how my heart did an odd, disgusting flutter in my chest when I found out the buyer—of all of them—was him. I’m well aware of the price tags that were on each of them. And now that I know he has them in his possession, it makes me feel completely unhinged.

  “Half of them were my god damn face. What do you mean it wasn’t my place?” he yells back.

  I can tell he’s pissed now. His dark eyebrows are drawn together on his face, those long fingers of his tap against his thigh so quick they’re almost a blur.

  “I never wanted to see them again!” I take a step closer to him, one that would have put me chest-to-chest to him if he hadn’t just taken a step back.

  “Then don’t see them again.” His voice is condescending. As if it’s such an obvious answer. He keeps taking steps backward until his back makes a soft thump against the wall.

  “I can’t just pretend you don’t have them, Maverick. They are mine. Mine—and only mine! They aren’t something that you come in and buy because you’re trying to save me from myself or help me with money or whatever the hell your motives were behind it.” I put my hands on my hips, focusing on taking deep breaths in and out because the thumping in my chest is too erratic right now. I scan around his bedroom—a room I’ve never been in until now.


  It’s surprisingly clean. Boring, but clean.

  “I’m not trying to save you, Veronica!” His hands fly up and he yanks at his hair in frustration. His chest dives in and out, over and over again. “Jesus Christ, if you could get out of your own head for two seconds you would realize I didn’t do this for you. I did it for me. Me.” His knuckles pound against his bare chest. “I was being fucking selfish because the thought of some asshole hanging those up on their wall drove me insane. After I saw the emotion on your face after you spent all night painting them, I couldn’t see them end up somewhere random. Something about the way you looked at me when you allowed me to see your work broke me in half, okay? I didn’t buy them for you. I bought them for me. Because I wanted to look at them and remember the moment I saw a piece of you that you kept hidden from the rest of the world. Are you happy now?” His shoulders sag in defeat.

  I don’t breathe a word at first. My head spins with his confession. I want him to look at me right now, so I can read the emotion in the depths of his eyes.

  But he stares at something across the room. His eyes look in any direction but mine. He hasn’t looked at me for days now. I’m not the only one that’s been playing the cold shoulder game.

  My mind races for a few moments longer before I make a mistake. A mistake I’m willing to face the consequences for because there’s nothing else I can think of at the moment.

  “You don’t even know the definition of selfish.” And with that I close the distance between us. I push him against the wall and kiss him, attacking him with my mouth. I’m still so angry, but I take it out on his lips.

  I expect him not to kiss me back, to push me away and say something to make me feel guilty for wanting him like this.

  But he doesn’t do that.

  As soon as my lips assault his, he’s ready, as if he’s been waiting for this longer than I have.

  We attack each other in a frenzy I can’t explain. Our chests collide together. My teeth bang against his. Neither one of us can decide where we want our hands to land. I thread my fingers through that dark hair at the top of his head and yank him closer to me, pulling him down so he arches over me. I rub my body against his as our lips move together in a crashing symphony.