Page 4 of Meet Hate Love
“No. It’s practical.” Especially when your skirt gets ripped off in Grand Central Station.
Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned her butt against my desk. “Practical doesn’t get you fucked against a wall by a man named Pierre while he whisperstittie tittie croissantin your ear.”
I opened a drawer and crammed the bag of panties inside before closing it. “I’m not making plans to shack up with any French men on my trip, but if a man whisperedtittie tittie croissantin my ear, I would definitely not fuck him.” Just like if a man whispered, I heard you were easy.
A loud bang came from the other side of the cubicle. Vance’s way of telling us to be quiet.
Margot frowned, then leaned over my desk and banged right back. “To you, too!” Her attention drifted back to me. “What do you mean you wouldn’t fuck a guy who whispered sweetnu-teengsinurrear? You only live once, Blake. Wear the thongs. Fuck a French man before it’s too late.”
“Before it’s too late? You act like I have one foot in the grave.”
“One could only wish,” Vance’s voice came from behind the divider. Eavesdropping bastard!
I snatched the paper clip container from my desk, took off the lid, and chucked it over to his side. The tinker of a hundred mini clips raining down on his workspace was like music to my ears. The guy had such a stick up his butt that there was no way a little bit of office supply chaos wouldn’t send him into a tailspin. And just for good measure… I took the hole punch from my drawer, opened it, and emptied copy-paper confetti over the wall.
“I seriously hate you.” From the slight grunt in his voice, it sounded like he was already on the floor cleaning up the mess.
“And my antipathy for you is unmatched,” I said with a smile.
Margot grabbed the top of the divider, pushed onto her tiptoes, and peeked over. “Oh, he’s gone. How much do you want to bet he’s going to get the vacuum?”
Heaven forbid, bits of paper lay sprinkled over his tidy floor space.
Margot sighed. “He had such promise when he first started. All muscley and uptight—it’s always the tense ones that end up making you call them Daddy.”
“Margot…”
“Seriously, Blake. Think about his deep voice telling you to call him Daddy right before he railed you.”
The problem was, I had. More times than I wanted to admit.
* * *
It wasn’t enoughthat I’d silenced my phone. The screen had stayed lit up all morning thanks to the family chat. Thirty minutes after I’d turned off notifications from the group, my mother had texted.
Think of how your sister will feel.
Just like how Kate was so worried about how I’d feel while she was riding my boyfriend’s dick?
Blake Leigh Brentley!
That name should have been hint number one that I was her least-favorite child.
Blake Leigh Brentley?It rhymed. Like Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater.
It was the least offensive of the fifteen reasons I’d moved in with my dad when my parents had divorced. The most offensive was my mother’s magnet board. The board she used to rank my three siblings and me from one to four based on how much she liked us at any given moment.
If you can’t even send a present to your sister, I guess I’ll just have to move your magnet down again.
My name being in last place had stopped affecting me by the time I’d turned thirteen. Hence why the next text I sent was a GIF of Willy Wonka looking utterly unamused, the phrase, “Don’t. Stop.” At the bottom of the clip. Like she’d pick up on the sarcasm… Then I silenced my phone, grabbed my keyboard, and Googled “How to Disappear Completely and Never Be Found.”
The persuasive article had me at bullet point number eight,Legally change your name. And it sank its claws in at bullet point number nine,Cut all ties with family.
I’d just asked myself if the universe was trying to send me subliminal messages when the overwhelming rose-petal scent of my boss’s perfume drifted over my shoulder.
I spun in my chair, my gaze trailing over the pantyhose that were four shades darker than Amanda’s Edwin Cullen skin, past her too-sensible business suit and her stiff, blunt, blond bob. The woman wasThe Devil Wears Prada, cross-bred with Cruella Deville and a splash of Ebenezer Scrooge.
Her bright-red lips curled into an unsettling Joker-esque smile. “I need to see you in my office for a minute.” She’d barely finished the sentence before she turned on her heel, whistling “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” as she tromped off.
