Page 12 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
He blinks as if he hadn’t realized he was doing it, discreetly rubbing the redness smudging his cheeks. “Maybe it’s because you’re manhandling your food like some kind of he-man.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was aproperdinner. Would you like me to eat my burger with a fork and a knife?”
“You can start by slowing down and closing your mouth when you chew.”
I pointedly stuff a few more fries past my lips, chewing even louder. “If you’d stop interrupting my dinner, I wouldn’t need to open my mouth and talk. Sue me for being hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
For some big, bad hockey player, Gage looks particularly small in the booth, or maybe that’s just because his stupidly big head has deflated since our spat in the rink. Realistically, he has to be between six one and six two, and yes, I may have called him a hobgoblin, but I’m not blind. I can acknowledge a man’s attractiveness without being attracted to him. And in no universe would I ever consider swapping spit with Gage Arlington. I’m guessing it’s a cesspool of STDs in there.
I hate that I know his last name. I hate that I hate-stalked him after our fight. I hate that he’s shoved his way back into my life even though I’ve tried to squash his memory like the loathsome little cockroach he is.
It’s a cruel kind of hate too. Maybe even the cruelest.
Annoyance looms over his features, though I’m not sure if it’s because of my disagreeableness or my messed-up eating schedule. “Maybe you should take better care of your body.”
I pick up the half-wedge of my burger as grease splashes onto the stained wrapper. “Didn’t hear any complaints when you were staring at my tits earlier.”
This endless tug-of-war seems to be awakening some malevolent side of me that I never realized I had. If dancing doesn’t work out, maybe I should become a dominatrix so I can humiliate men for a living.
Gage rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss the way he evades my laser beam stare. “Don’t flatter yourself. I have a lazy eye.”
To my utter horror, I laugh. Not in a derisive way. Like a…joyful…way. I don’t like that reaction.
I scarf down the last bites of my burger, relishing the sharp tang of the cheddar and the charred edges of the perfectly cooked patty. Ugh, and the Thousand Island dressing is fucking orgasmic. I feel like I’m in heaven. Minus Gage. So maybe like…lukewarm hell?
“Do you have a contract or something?” Although these pleasantries have been oh-so enlightening, I really don’t need to spend extra time talking to him. This is an arrangement—if I even agree to it.
His gaze finally washes over me, and my heart does this weird thump in my chest. Not a heartburn thump, either.
He scoffs. “Why would we need a contract?”
“So you can’t go back on your word.”
“I’m the one who approached you. I’m the one who needs your help more than you need mine. And I don’t go back on my word, though I’m not surprised you’d think that.”
I’m not surprised you’d think that, my head voice mimics in an eerily accurate, shrill impression of Gage.
“What’s your offer, Gage? What’s the incredible offer that’ll make metolerateyou for the next three months?” I hedge, waiting for him to bait me with money or a full-paid vacation or something else materialistic that he probably has an abundance of.
I know money could be useful in my situation. It’d let me cut back on my hours at the studio, and I’d be able to buy more than just the bare necessities every month. I wouldn’t have to worry about making rent or the cost of my mother’s medication. But I’m not going to be some girl indebted to Gage because he has a flashy car and waves his black card around.
He steals one of my fries and throws it down his gullet beforeI can slap his hand away. “I’m assuming a woman such as yourself couldn’tpossiblybe paid for her services?”
A smile, purely curated from the instructions of the shriveled, black heart in my chest, contorts my lips. “Even if I could, you couldn’t afford me.”
Gage’s chuckle isn’t some regularha-ha; it’s this deep, guttural noise that rumbles through his chest and shakes his shoulders only slightly enough to convey merriment. So, in short, a cool guy laugh. A cool guy laugh that, for some reason, agitates a zoo full of butterflies in my belly.
Why the hell are those there? I don’t remember those ever being there.
And to hammer the last nail into my coffin, he leans forward on his elbows—which makes his shirt sleeves ruck up over his bulging biceps—and stares me dead in the eyes with enough intensity to blot out the movement of the outside world. “I would never need money to get a girl to like me. And I certainly won’t need it when it comes to you. You’ll like me all on your own when we’re finished.”
I swallow the ball of nerves rooted in my esophagus. “Yeah, no. There’s no chance in hell you’ll ever get me to like you.”
Although the table permits enough distance, Gage’s inclining body allows me the briefest glimpse at the forelock that tumbles against his brow bone, the tiny pockmarks on his cheeks, the plumpness of his bottom lip, and the minuscule flecks of moss scattered throughout his irises. His whole face is strangely symmetrical, with angles and ridges that would put a Michelangelo sculpture to shame.
“It’s already working,” he whispers, drawing out the syllables to imitate a spooky, hushed tone.
I falter, shake off the Gage pheromones trying to invade my body, then fling a French fry at his forehead. “It’s not,” I assert, still wrestling with the weird flutters in my stomach.
