Page 5 of Hate Game

“Sure thing, Emma.”

The girl beams when I say her name. Emma is a regular at day camp. Like me, her parents are gone a lot for their work. Hers are gone so much that her default parents are her parents’ hired help. Their gardener and the housekeeper came with Emma to the school’s science fair, for fuck’s sake.

Who leaves the parenting to hired help? Jesus H. Christ. If I ever have children, I plan on being there for them, whether it’s the Spelling Bee, field day, or a championship game.

I straddle the bike and grab my riding gloves and helmet from my backpack before strapping it to my back. The kids back up. I put on my helmet, and with my hands on the handlebars, I tip forward and stare at the open road. The kids snap a side view. I turn and look straight at their cell phones. More pictures are taken.

“Video next,” Emma says. “But first, I want a picture.” She hands her phone to one of her friends. I curve my fingers into a half-heart on my helmet. Emma does the same on her face. Her friends squeal with delight, and massive amounts of pictures are taken.

I’m smiling wide beneath my helmet. These girls and their infatuation with guys on motorcycles. Emma steps away, and her friend returns her phone to her.

“Video, video, video,” the kids chant.

I laugh. These kids are insatiable with their need to capture and post everything to their social media accounts. There’s no harm in indulging them. It’s been a long time since I garnered this much attention—the good kind—and I am all in for the fanfare.

I take a lap in the parking lot before driving onto the main road with both hands on the handlebars and the tires on the pavement. I won't set a bad example by doing tricks with the bike—not that I would. This bike is something special, and special things should be well taken care of and protected from damage.

As though the universe heard my thoughts of something special, well taken care of, and protected from damage, a blacked-out Escalade drives past me, going in the opposite direction.

The back passenger-side window is down. A girl with long black hair is leaning out. Her beautiful face is tipped to the sky, and a smile spans her face. She is out, catching the wind.

I look at her. Her gaze holds mine. Her smile doesn’t slip. In fact, she blows me a kiss. For a moment, I forget the bad blood between me and Rue Lee.

I catch her kiss, bring my hand to my helmet, and release her kiss on the spot over my mouth. She clasps her hands to her heart and smiles wider. I shake my head and smile back, unable to help myself.

Rue is one of those girls that can pull off adorableandsexy as fuck simultaneously. She’s adorable blowing that sexy-as-fuck kiss that drew my attention to the sparkle in her dark eyes, so dark they’re almost black. And don’t get me started on her lips, the top one fuller than the bottom one. I still dream of sucking her top lip into my mouth as she begged me to help her come using my fingers.

I shake away the memories and rest my palm on my hip. It’s in my best interest to get over Rue before graduation. Otherwise, how will I leave this town behind when she still owns pieces of my heart?

3

RUE

The day started out extraordinary with target practice, a few laps on the track (Winslow had an older bike he let me ride), and helping my friends spend money on junk we’ll use when we build our junk garden next spring. But it ended in a disaster not of my making, for a change.

The guys and I are seated around the bonfire. Leigh is MIA, but I understand why she skipped the party. She’s hanging out with her boyfriend, Seven Shanahan.

What is it like to have a boyfriend? Someone who doesn’t know of my messed-up past and who accepts me for me? My friends like me, but they would never date me. I’m one of the guys, and I am okay with that. I wouldn’t date them either.

Friendship is comfortable. Love should be something different. It should be heart-racing, breathlessness, and fluttering in the stomach.

While the guys talk about the crazy things they’ll do the moment they move into the college dorms next year, I study Malice over the rim of my red Solo cup.

Imagine my surprise when he showed up an hour after we did.

Six foot two. Tousled dark hair. A gold chain around his neck. Black shirt under his black motorcycle jacket. Is he going for the hot biker look? I don’t blame him for dressing the part.

His new ride, a black and white Suzuki motorcycle, is parked near the kegs. Dangling from the handlebar is a helmet. Strapped to the underside of the raised back seat is another helmet.

Why did I blow him a kiss, knowing full well it was him? Why did he bring his bike to the party when he rarely takes it for a ride, according to Red? Is Malice planning on taking a lucky girl for a ride?

Lucky? Pfft. What girl wants to spend time with a moody guy who grunts and mumbles and calls it a conversation? Not me. Then why can’t I look away?

Is it his face? He is beautiful with his chiseled jawline, well-defined cheekbones, and full, kissable lips with an enviable Cupid’s bow. He would ream me out if he heard his name and “beautiful” in the same sentence.

Or is it the vibe he gives off, this dangerous, standoffish energy that draws a curious girl like me in? I find dangerous to be a challenge. What will calm the danger in him? What will shed light on his dark mood?

I shift my focus to his mouth. His mouth isn’t moving. Malice doesn’t speak much, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t paying attention. He’s interested. Especially when one of the girls laughs. His blue eyes light up, and my mood sours.

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