Page 10 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“Oh my God,” she cackles, the dimpled swells of her cheeks rising. “What?”
“I need your help,” I repeat, losing the shy, shaky modulation in my voice and replacing it with a cut of indignation. My muscles tense as the air in my lungs decompresses like I’ve been punched in the diaphragm. That tiny ember that’s been sittingin the pit of my belly has finally caught flame, and it has the destructive capacity of a Molotov cocktail.
I can’t believe this. I should be the one with the upper hand, not the other way around. I was the one who was wronged here.
Her shoulders stop shaking with laughter. “And why do you think I’d ever help someone like you?” she muses, her tone laden with a bitterness that tastes sour in my own mouth.
“Do I have to remind you that you’re the one who fucked up my car?” I spit, muscles roiling into a near-painful strain, my hands absentmindedly forming fists that have nothing to cushion their rage.
“I only did that because you couldn’t wait two seconds for me to move!”
“Sweetheart, it took you a lot longer than two seconds.”
She doesn’t back down. Not that I expect her to. She inches closer to me, thrusting her finger into my chest, the unrestrained flicker in her eyes practically searing my very soul. “Youhad no right to box me in.Youhad no idea what kind of day I was having.Youcouldn’t have any human decency even for a split second,” she growls.
I push her hand aside. “Andyouhad no idea what kind of day I was having. Your argument goes both ways. You do realize that, right?”
“Is that why you stalked me at my place of work? Then waited out here like a fucking psycho? Just so you could keep arguing with me over something that happened a week ago?”
“I didn’t stalk you!” I exclaim, though I realize that to an outsider’s eye, it definitely looks like I stalked her. She’s seriously giving herself some credit if she thinks I’d be obsessed enough with her to resort to stalking.
“Whatever.” She presses her key fob and her headlights flash.
“Wait!” I splay myself over her car, hoping that it’ll give her enough incentive to hear me out.
Surprise settles over her face like an early-morning mist, but it doesn’t temper the irritation rolling off her in waves. “Move out of the way, or I’ll break your foot when my car backs over it.”
Dear God. This woman is probably the most terrifying person I’ve ever met. I admire that, though. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t somewhat turn me on. And I may be a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them.
“Please don’t.”
“Then unstick your crusty body from my car.”
She moves toward me, and panic jumbles the words in the back of my throat. “I need you to teach me how to dance!” I half-shriek, fully preparing myself for the bone-crushing treatment my left foot is about to get.
This time, she doesn’t laugh. Dark shadows contour the sculpted edges of her face, carving the softness from her cheeks and the suppleness of her cupid’s bow. Her eyes seem to muddy to a deeper shade of blue as she contemplates me. And once she deduces that I’m not joking, the hold of her shoulders loosens incrementally.
“You want me toteachyou how to dance?” she echoes, a muscle in her jaw fluttering.
“No. Ah, I mean, I just need some dance lessons. Or…some flexibility lessons?” Every sensible word seems to dodge the runway of my tongue, so I point frantically at the brace on my hip. “I got into an accident, and my PT told me that dancing can help with my flexibility.”
She nods slowly, condescendingly, like I’m a mush-brained toddler spewing out gibberish.
“Look, I know I’m in no position to ask you for your help, but your dance studio is the only one close to my house. You’re pretty much my only hope at this point. I’m, uh, I’m a hockeygoalie if you didn’t know. And Ineedto be better to play again in three months.”
She straightens, allowing me a glimpse at the tightened cords of her neck. “I know who you are,” she deadpans.
“Right, uh…” The gravity of the situation—and her obvious lack of interest in helping me—batters my solar plexus, nearly swiping my balance on the rickety exterior of her car.
She quirks her head, and her bobbing ponytail follows suit. “You can’t, I don’t know, practice yoga instead? Preferably in the comfort of your own home? Preferably abstaining from hogging all the air in my presence and burning my retinas with your hobgoblin physique?”
Excuse me? Hobgoblin? Normally, I’d be quick to correct her because one, my body is a temple and my rock-hard abs can put Channing Tatum’s to shame, and two, she’s clearly a visually impaired woman with terrible taste.
But I digress.
“Yoga seems a lot more dangerous than dance. Plus, dancing is super easy. I’ll get the hang of it in no time, and then I’ll be out of your hair,” I tell her confidently with a wave of my hand.
“Oh, you think dancing is easy?” A deadly dose of hostility leaks from her tone.
