Page 9 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
Oh, God. I’m ogling this woman without her consent. I need to look away! Why can’t I look away?
She makes it to the floor, sliding all the way into the splits in her heels, and then she finishes the routine by crawling on her hands and knees toward the wall-length mirror like some kind of irresistible succubus. Eyes smudged with kohl, plush lips that are the most breathtaking shade of red, and enough skin to fuel my fantasies for the rest of my life. She’s stunning. So stunning that the whole “she takes my breath away” statement people throw around is actually fucking true.
She’s the definition of gorgeous with curves in every squeezable place, and she has toned lines of muscle running along her flat stomach.
My heart’s struggling to pump in my chest, but maybe that’s because all the goddamn blood is rushing on a one-way trip south. My stretchy gym shorts are suddenly two sizes too small. Oh, shit. I need to chill out.
She’s just a girl, Gage. An attractive girl, but that’s all. Nothing new, and definitely not wank-worthy. Get yourself under control. This is sad. Sadder than the time you were going down on your crush and let one rip in the middle of it.
I want to die from embarrassment. I’d take myself out if there was a revolver sitting on the table next to me, because the longer I stand here like an idiot, the faster my dick thickens in my pants. I’m not going to be known as the sad dude with the limp hip. I’m gonna be known as the creepy dude with the not-so-limp dick.
And to make matters worse, the moment the instructor turns around to face me, I’m consumed by the ocean-blue of her eyes—ones that I’ve not only met before, but stared down as I told her off in front of an entire hockey arena.
It’s the girl from the rink.
Needless to say,I didn’t stay for the rest of class. I get that my shortcut to a quick recovery is royally screwed now, but I can’t even focus on my disappointment over the red-hot embarrassment still swishing through my veins. I should’ve taken the loss when I had the chance and called for the nearest Uber to get me the hell out of Dodge. Instead, my Neanderthal brain has compelled me to wait by Rink Girl’s car to talk to her after she finishes her class.
About what, you may ask? I have no idea. The truth is, I’m drawn to her in a way I can’t explain. And maybe it’s the lack ofoxygen in my brain, but a part of me foolishly thinks she can help me.
I lean against the side of her Honda, trying to suppress the weird jolt of nerves in my stomach. Not normal nerves, either. I’m sweating more than usual despite the night air cloaking me in goose bumps, and it feels like my heart’s about to croak and take me with it.
I don’t even realize I’ve been muttering to myself like a complete lunatic until her icy voice penetrates my brain bubble and derails my train of deprecating thoughts.
“You here to serve me papers?”
She’s taller than I remember—just a few inches below my eyeline—and her fire-toned hair has been thrown up into a high ponytail. With no coverage over her chest, my attention is painstakingly drawn to the plunging dip of her cleavage and the mist of sweat that accompanies it.
Jesus. It’s…I…this is weird. When I talked to her at the rink, I wasn’t this out of it. I was oozing charming machismo. Now, I’m oozing pathetic sadness. Maybe my fumes of anger were providing me with some kind of cock-blocking smokescreen that blurred my vision so I couldn’t see how drop-dead gorgeous she was.
“What?” I ask fearfully, feeling pinned beneath her glower like a lifeless butterfly mounted in a glass picture frame.
“Are. You. Here. To. Sue. Me?” she reiterates.
Sue her? She thinks I’m here to sue her? Seriously? I mean, yeah, I was contemplating it, but I’m not anymore. I can’t believe she thinks I’m a sad sack of shit who needs her money.
“I…um…” The words I want to say oscillate in my mouth, but I can’t get any of them to cooperate and form full sentences.
Her lips are screwed into a thin line, her cat-like eyes narrowed in expectancy, and the cerulean hue of her irises are even starker against the canvas of night. She’s got her armscrossed over her tits—thank God—and I’m pretty sure I can see steam hissing out of her ears under the gibbous moon.
I forgot how pissed she probably still is at me. That’s…great.
“I’m not here to sue you,” I finally get out, needing to table that very offended feeling curling through my chest.
“Then why the fuck are you here?”
Uh. Um. Fuck. I don’t even have a good answer for her—or at least an answer that would keep all my fingers intact.
She juts her chin out and gives me a look that says,Well?Or maybe more like,If you don’t hurry the fuck up, I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth and give you a real reason not to answer me.
Apparently my body doesn’t do well under stress—which is strange since I play a professional sport—because I blurt everything out in an attempt to rid myself of the shame plugging my throat. It’s the equivalent of sea cucumbers vomiting up their insides when they’re frightened as some kind of defense mechanism.
“I need your help,” I stammer, instantly feeling my cheeks warm with a blatant blush.
She stares at me.
I stare back.
An undefined—yet long enough—period of time passes between us, pulsing with the delicateness of a live wire, and then everything combusts. The silent murmurs of the night, the guilty ache in my chest, they all crash in a head-on collision with the hyena laughter that breaches her lips.
