Page 14 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
Gage pauses before adding, “And I’m paying you. Three hundred an hour. If you try any of that holier-than-thou shit with me again, I’ll just double it.”
If I was eating anything, I would’ve choked. Kind of wish I was so I could hunk a glob of cheeseburger right in his face. “Are you insane? I’m not some cha?—”
“Charity case,” he finishes, making some kind ofoffensivehand yapping gesture. “It’s not charity. I would’ve paid whoever got lucky enough to help me.”
Lucky isn’t the word I’d use, but there is three hundred an hour on the line, so I bite my tongue. If he’s so adamant that I take his money, then who am I to turn him down? I didn’t want to succumb to a monetary bribe, but if he’s just throwing it in there to clear his conscience, then it’s hardly a bribe.
A girl knows a good deal when she sees it, even if it’s smothered in arrogance and stupid cologne.
Gage holds his hand out so we can shake on our agreement, and I inch my hand out before hesitantly jerking it back.
“That’s all this is, though. A transaction,” I vocalize, hoping that the permanence of the words will serve as a reminder for me to keep my distance.
I can’t believe I’m even saying this—because I neverimagined this would be a problem—but I can’t fall for Gage. Whether that be an emotional fall or a physical fall…on his dick. Between taking care of my mom and my brother, there’s no room for me to have a love life. I just have to remember my responsibilities, my priorities, and that none of those include me getting up close and personal withanyhockey player’s spare stick.
It might be a trick of the light, but I swear Gage’s hand wavers.
“A transaction,” he repeats, stone-faced, his voice harboring a frigidity unlike the feather-softness it usually possesses.
And as I snuff out the last of the Gage fantasies feeding on my clearly delirious mindscape, my fingers clasp his, sealing our deal for the next three months.
6
HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER
GAGE
When I get home from the weirdest…dinner…I’ve ever had, all the guys are waiting for me in the living room, the vague, muffled noise of a video game rumbling through the house. I live in a two-story mansion with five of my hockey teammates, most of whom have a significant other that occupies a good portion of their time. Which brings me not only to the strangeness of them all sitting together, but to them allstaringat me as I half-drag myself through the door.
I feel like I just walked in on some weird secret meeting they were having. “Uh, hey, guys,” I greet warily.
“Hey, Gage. How was dance class?” Kit asks, and it would be convincing if not for the poorly stifled snicker tacked on at the end.
Dance class. Right.
A bead of sweat cascades down my temple as I look to Fulton for help, but judging by the sanguine blush warming his entire face, I’m looking at the fucking snitch who just cost me my now-tattered masculinity.
Bristol, our captain, is splitting his focus between the screenand my utter humiliation, while Hayes is stuffing his face with popcorn and Casen is very conspicuously whispering something into his ear.
I dig my thumb into the crease between my brows, massaging the oncoming headache threatening to skewer my brain. “You told them?”
Fulton’s gaze hopscotches around the room, and a nervous tick pesters his jawline. “They forced it out of me!” he squawks.
“He told us willingly,” Hayes corrects.
“I did tell them willingly,” Fulton sighs.
Kit raises his hand lazily, a pleased smirk curling up one side of his lip. “I’m the one who did the research, which I’m surprised youdidn’tdo before you went.”
My teeth barely act as a barricade for the growl in my throat. “I was busy.”
“Weren’t you late?” Casen chimes in.
Have I mentioned how much I hate my teammates sometimes? Because I do. Hate them. Sometimes.
I can’t believe I made that deal with Cali. I mean, I can believe it. I just can’t believe I agreed to it being purely…transactional. I was seconds away from sprouting a half-chub just by sitting across from her in that scrap of fabric she called a shirt. Fuck. She’s even more beautiful up close. Up close, I noticed that her hair isn’t just red, but that it’s highlighted with marmalade streaks, that she has eighteen freckles on the bridge of her nose and one hiding on the left side of her cheek, that she smells faintly of cinnamon, and that her eyes are such a deep blue that the ocean must’ve used her as inspiration.
But she barely looked at me. She was curt and weird and paler than usual. Did I just force a helpless girl into some negotiation with me? Does she feel indebted to me now that I promised to make her brother a champion? (I can, and I will, but maybe I was throwing promises around too carelessly.) I do needher help, but I also don’t want to make her uncomfortable. I mean, it’s clear she isn’t interested. I’m surprised we got through the conversation without her throwing her milkshake in my face.
