Page 8 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
His lower lip quivers, and that’s enough warning before he collapses into a crying fit and flings his arms around my neck. “They make fun of me,” he bawls into my shoulder, scrunching my crop top up in his little fists.
Shock sparks my stomach, and then flammable barrels of rage light inside of me. “What?”
He’s getting bullied at practice? Why didn’t he tell me sooner? Why didn’t Irealizeit sooner? I’m going to confront those eight-year-old pieces of shit and demand that they apologize to him. Can I punch a child? Is that legal? Or…ethical? Fuck it. I don’t care.
He pulls away from me, his skin slathered in wetness, his eyes red and puffy, and his nose bubbling. “I’m…so b-bad at hockey…and they…p-pick on m-me!”
“Oh, Squirt,” I console, bringing him back into an embrace, fully accepting that my shirt will be decorated in stains by the time I get to class. His small frame shakes as he wails, awakening that mama bear instinct within me as I stroke his hair and simultaneously plot total-world destruction.
“I’m so sorry that’s happening, Teague. But you have to know that you’re an amazing hockey player.”
“You’re just saying that!”
He’s right. A part of me is just saying that. I’ve never really seen Teague play before. I’ve just been so busy—so absent.
“I…” My voice dies on a crack.
“Please don’t make me go, Cali. I don’t want to see them. Please, please, please,” he begs, stomping his foot while more tears stream out of his eyes, splotching the ring of his jersey’s neckline.
Guilt corkscrews deep into the flesh of my heart, and my apology doesn’t need to be written out in big, bold letters for him to understand the tug-of-war position he has me in. “If Icould bring you to my class with me, I would in a heartbeat. But it’s not appropriate. I’m sorry, kiddo.”
The shallow bursts of breath from his mouth descend into somewhat controlled sniffles. “I-I understand…”
I rub my hands up and down his arms. “Okay, here’s what we’re gonna do. All I ask is that you go for today’s practice, and then we can talk about the next steps. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave today, Teague?” I ask.
“I think I can,” he replies, and although uncertainty colors his tone, he puts on the bravest face he can muster.
His agreement dissolves my fleeting panic, but I know he can only keep the anxiety at bay for so long. “I promise I’ll fix this.”
Iwillfix this. I’ll do right by my brother. I have to. I have to be better. A better sister, a better daughter, a better…everything.
So, now running the estimated thirty minutes behind, I get Teague buckled into the car, and I drive as fast as I can to the rink, glancing back every minute or so to see if the nervous twist of his face has straightened out.
I feel like I’m walking my brother to the goddamn gallows. Each intersection we fly through, each building we pass, each number that changes on the digital clock—they all contribute to the growing distress hatching marks on every inch of my body.
And when I pull up to the mouth of the rink, I watch helplessly as Teague straggles his way to practice, every atom of life drained from his once-happy spirit.
4
DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
GAGE
Imust have the wrong address. There’s no way I’m seriously standing in front of a dance studio called Sexy Stilettos. I got the address from Fulton, who got it from Aeris, but she didnotdisclose that it would have such an…interesting…name.
Please, God. Let this be a shoe store and the real dance studio is a few blocks down the street. The only dance studios within fifteen minutes from the house are this one and one called Xtreme Xplosions, and that one is a strictly competitive studio. The dancers there would probably eat my sad, pathetic corpse up like a family of crazed, bloodthirsty river otters.
With my new hip brace (which is surprisingly not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be), I hobble through the double doors, immediately stumbling across a giant wooden dance floor, which pretty much interrupts the choreography that’s currently taking place.
Did I, uh, mention that I might’ve been like an hour late?
But none of that is even occupying the tiniest floorspace of my brain because what greets me isn’t just a bunch of floundering beginners in workout gear—no. It’s worse than that. So much worse.
Instead, about fifteen girls in scantily clad outfits are writhing around on the ground, complete with six-inch heels and a sultry soundtrack. It’s like a strip club in the best way. Except I’m on the fucking stage with them.
I freeze. I freeze and full-on lose control over my brain and motor functions. I’m a guy. A red-blooded, simple-minded guy, and when in the midst of girls with their ass and tits out, I can guarantee that guys like me will almost always get a boner. A dance class is not an appropriate place to be parading your man pole around. And I’m not going back to jail—even though it was only for one night.
Every girl on the floor seems to stop and stare at me except for the instructor, who’s giving it her all like she’s performing at the Super Bowl Halftime Show. She sways her hips back and forth to the beat, her long, red hair whipping behind her, hands coming up to cup her overflowing tits. Then she slowly rolls her body halfway to the ground, all while arching her back and sticking her ass out. And it’s the sexiest ass I’ve ever seen. Two giant globes hanging out of her nanoscopic shorts, recoiling with each jiggle.
