Page 22 of Hate Me Like You Mean It
Loch Ness has opened the window.
Loch Ness is not pleased.
Loch Ness is flashing a laser pointer into my room from across the garden.
It knows.
I can’t stop laughing.
I can’t.
It hurts.
Heeelp.
I startedawake to my alarm at the asscrack of dawn the next morning with a kink in my neck, another budding migraine, and an insatiable craving to put my fist through the nearest wall.
I was sore, famished, and utterly exhausted. It’d taken me six hours to clean Dominic’s kitchen and another seven to vacuum and mop the whole first floor, organize the massive shopping haul I’d had delivered, make a list of everything else the house still needed, and whip together another inedible dish for dinner.
I’d finally finished at eleven thirty and was so drained by the time I got home that I’d collapsed onto my bed and fallen asleep without eating or getting changed. And the absolute last thing I wanted to do now was roll out of it.
Still, I pushed myself upright with a whiny grunt and staggered into the shower.
The hot water helped. Barely, but it helped. As did the ibuprofen and banana I all but deep-throated on my way out the door to catch the early bus.
The house was blissfully silent when I got there, and I let out a sigh of relief when my initial scan of the first floor didn’t reveal any signs of another spite-fueled disaster.
One day down, twenty-nine more to go.
I could do this. If I stuck to my plan, allowed him to believe I was too clueless and incompetent to be a threat, his defenses would eventually start to lower. Then I couldreallymess with him.
I just had to bide my time and be patient, which wouldn’t be a problem. If there was one thing I’d grown extremely practiced at over the last eight years, it was waiting.
I sauntered into the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and opened the binder so I could review my task list for the day. There was a note tucked inside.
Your uniform is in the coatroom.
Plus a little thank-you gift. For the dye.
I beelined for the coatroom, too curious to hold off. I didn’t care what the uniform looked like, how many neon sequins it had, or how much it jingled, just as long as it didn’t physically hinder my ability to get my work done.
Or so I thought.
There was a full five-second delay from when my eyes landed on the tall, maroon block of metal sitting in the middle of the coatroom to when my brain managed to comprehend what it was—a locker.
My molars clamped together, black tar churning in the pit of my stomach. I stepped into the room, reached for the silver lock.
Eight. One. Zero. Eight.
Click.
It was empty, save for a navy blue hoodie folded neatly on the middle shelf and the small, hauntingly beautiful bouquet lying on top of it: dead roses, thorned, and wrapped generously in poison ivy.
My vision snapped red.
I slammed the locker shut.
I didn’t like losing control of my emotions.
