Hate at First Sight Page 6

  “You seem to have misunderstood the situation. You don’t get to haggle with me, Gardener Girl. This is blackmail, not a garage sale. You’ll take the terms or you’ll wish you had. Simple as that. And, come to think of it, the terms have changed. You’ll be paid two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Once when you sign the contract, and once when it’s completed. You won’t have any “free” time. You’ll be working for me. You will be given privacy to sleep and sometimes to eat, but otherwise you’ll be on call. And dating?” He scoffed. “Even if I was going to tolerate you slobbering over some idiot while you were on my payroll, you won’t have time. We’re in a new city every night. On the road almost every day. There’s no dating.”

  I saw where this was going. It was a dominance play. It irked him that I dared challenge his rules, so now he was making them harsher to teach me a lesson. Call me stubborn or call me stupid, but I wasn’t going to let him intimidate me. I knew he wanted me to come with him, and badly. He’d cave if I kept pushing.

  “My normal wage. A few hours off every day to do what I want,” I said firmly.

  His eyes narrowed, and for a few moments, I thought he was going to shout at me or throw something. When he did speak, his voice was controlled and deadly quiet. “Two hundred fifty thousand when the contract is complete. Two hours off per day, but only at the times I approve. And one meal a day with me.”

  “What?” I asked incredulously.

  “Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Brunch. You eat with me once per day. I need some time with my muse if this is going to be worth the investment. Don’t I?”

  I glared at him, wishing I had laser eyes like Superman, even just if it was for long enough to give him a sting and scare the confident expression off his bleeding face. Or maybe to draw something inappropriate on his forehead that would leave a scar. How could he look so confident and composed when he was cut up and probably had a broken ankle?

  “First of all, you’re the one insisting this is an investment. You’re the one insisting this happens in the first place.”

  “Not insisting,” he corrected. “Blackmailing.”

  I had to pause to blow a controlled breath out and count to three. Screaming at him and throwing things wouldn’t accomplish anything, so I made a Herculean effort to calm myself down. “Second of all,” I continued, pretending I couldn’t notice he was enjoying this. “You have no idea if I’ll be your muse. Who says I would inspire your songwriting anyway?”

  “So you’ll do it?” he asked.

  I wanted to strangle him. “Do I even have a choice?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “Then write up a contract, and sleep with one eye open, Zach.” It was an empty threat, and he knew it. The most infuriating thing about him was that he obviously enjoyed it when he provoked me into losing my temper, which pissed me off even more and gave him more of what he wanted. Eight years had gone by and it felt like nothing had changed. He could still manipulate me with ease.

  I didn’t even manage to talk him out of paying me, but at least the money wasn’t due until the end of this twisted little arrangement. That meant I had six months to figure out how to keep his dirty money from ever touching my account.

  8

  Zach

  Eight Years Ago

  It was an unseasonably chilly night and we were a few miles outside of town, where you could actually see some of the stars. When two guys wanted to fight—or sometimes even two girls—we’d sometimes set up a sort of makeshift party out here in the hills. Everyone was here, and the rugged hillside was lined with expensive cars. Music played from Ronnie’s car, because he had one of those sound systems so intense that you have to take out the back seats just to fit everything inside the car. Supposedly, he could crank it up so loud that it would’ve actually destroyed his car just from the power of the soundwaves. I wasn’t sure if I believed that, or saw the point. Music wasn’t supposed to be a sledgehammer, just like fucking wasn’t about doing it as hard and fast as you could. Either way, I didn’t recognize the song. It was some kind of Spanish rap song with just enough English mixed in to know it was explicit as hell.

  The fight wasn't between Brent and me, surprisingly. My face was still bruised and sore from a couple nights ago at my party. This was just between Colton and Vince, two kids on the football team who had some kind of on-field drama. I forgot the story, but all that anyone really cared about was that they were going to show up in a few minutes and beat the living shit out of each other.

  I doubt anyone actually remembered who first decided to settle our beefs out here in the middle of nowhere. Most kids in Belvedere cared about sullying their father's political image, or making their mother look bad when she was the CEO of some mega-corporation. They wouldn't fight at school or even at parties, usually. We all came out here where no one got suspended and no news stories ever surfaced about senator so-and-so's rebellious son getting into trouble. Everyone else got a show and an excuse to go somewhere for a night. It was win-win.

  “You betting tonight?” asked Taylor. “I put a hundred on the linebacker. They’re always the nastiest. The other guy is just a wide receiver or something.”

  “Nah,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. The bastard was so obnoxiously tall, I looked away from him out of spite for making me crane my neck. Girls loved Taylor. He had a kind of surfer boy look and the easy-going attitude aided by the fact that he was never far from his last hit on a blunt. I didn’t mind him, which was about as ringing an endorsement anyone could hope to get from me. Before Gardener Girl came along, I could’ve said the same for Brent.

  Now though…

  “I got two hundred on the wide receiver,” said Brent.

  I wasn't sure if he was talking to Taylor or to me, but I grunted in acknowledgment. We had fought. I'd fucked up his relationship. But we were bandmates. We ruled the school, each in our own ways, and that was enough to keep us together. For now.

  It helped that Gardener Girl hadn't shown her face at any social gatherings since the fight. I gave Brent a black eye and chipped his tooth, which he'd already had fixed by his dad, who was a dentist. In most places, having a dentist for a dad would probably put you in the upper percentiles as far as wealth went. Here, it meant he was a step away from being seen as the poor kid. His ties with Taylor and me helped keep him from getting the usual cold shoulder that would've brought.

  Everyone knew my parents had billions, with a capital "B," and Taylor's dad was some international business guru, perpetually disappointed in his stoner son who was a professional underachiever. They didn't know I'd probably never see even a fraction of a percent of that money, but who gave a shit?

  “Hey,” Brent said, just as the two football players made their way to the center of a messy circle of cars and viewers. They started throwing punches and it quickly devolved into a wrestling match, where the wide receiver realized his forehead was a better weapon than his fists. “Are we cool?”

  I glanced at him. “Are you and Gardener Girl done?”

  His eyes hardened. “She broke up with me.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  People cheered when some of the football players’ burly teammates had to come in and split them up. The linebacker was laying on the ground with his arms splayed out and his nose bloodied and crooked.

  “Shit,” muttered Taylor.

  “She liked me, asshole,” spat Brent, who I now realized was barely controlling his calm. “I really liked her, and you had to fuck it up because you were jealous.”

  “She liked you so much that all I had to do was sing one song to her to break you up,” I said dryly. I was an ass, and I knew it. I crafted every word and even the delivery to sting. To hurt. For no other reason than because I’d never admit how much it pissed me off to see him with her. I could’ve taken her for myself, seduced her over a few days, maybe fucked her or even just kissed her. It wouldn’t have mattered. All I needed was to prove to her she wasn’t better than me. Bre
nt fucked that up.

  Because of him, I had to turn petty. I had to lower myself to split them up. No one who cared to notice would believe I didn’t care about her now, and I was even having a hard time convincing myself.

  Brent turned to face me. He was a little taller than me and a little wider. More muscular and thick where I was lean and ripped. He shoved a meaty hand into my chest, knocking me back a few steps. My face still ached from his fist the other night, but if he wanted to fight again, I wasn’t going to complain.

  Taylor put his huge body between the two of us, separating us with his basketball player wingspan. “Dude,” he said, as if to himself. “We need to get you two neutered or something. Come on, man.”

  “We can neuter Brent so he stops sniffing around the wrong girls,” I suggest.

  Brent knocked Taylor’s arm away and came for me. Taylor wasn’t strong enough to hold Brent back, but he shifted, putting his body between us so that Brent would have to throw him to the ground or hit him to get to me. “Come on,” he said, still sounding almost bored in his usual way. “You two hotheads already beat the shit out of each other this week. Just think of the band. You don’t have to be friends. You just need to play nice so we can keep making sick fucking music. Right?”

  “Drummers are a dime a dozen,” I said. “I don’t need him.”

  Brent glared.

  "Yeah?" Taylor asked. "Well, I do. So fuck off with it already. Okay? It's the three of us or none of us."

  I shoved his arm away and stalked off toward my car. I knew Taylor was right, in some way, but that didn’t stop me from wanting to see the imprint of my fist in Brent’s face again.

  Gardener Girl was already driving a rift between the three of us. Between the band. Maybe I’d broken her and Brent up, but that was letting her off too easy.

  Dad was home. That meant Tammy would be around, too. My dad was passed out on the couch next to a half-drained bottle of Jack. I looked down at him, feeling the hatred boil in me. He was good looking once. Sharp features. The classic picture of wealth and good breeding, as people around here liked to say. I’d seen pictures. The dad I’d known had mostly been a ruin of his former self with jowls hanging below a once-strong jaw and nose flushed red from too much liquor. He was even starting to get curly, gray hairs that sprouted from his ears.

  He was pathetic. He was born with more money than he could ever earn in a thousand lifetimes of honest work, so he chose the easiest road. He paid accountants to manage the money, and he collected the ridiculous sums of money that came from his safe investments. Earn five percent a year on a few billion and you’re pulling in a salary that dwarfs what a CEO at a Fortune 500 would make. His only skills were a short temper, a completely unjustified sense of accomplishment, and the ability to look down his nose at anyone with a pulse. When he and my mom had gotten together, he was different. Supposedly. He was carefree and liked boats and parties. He liked music and dancing. Those were all sides of him I’d never seen. Mom would talk about it sometimes when she was really drugged up on painkillers or whatever the cocktail was for her treatment that week.

  Tammy clicked her way into the living room then. She looked every bit like the stepmom from hell she was. She descended the spiraling staircases leading from the second floor with her manicured nails draped over the handrail like she was in a fashion show. Dad had never admitted her age, but I was fairly sure she wasn’t older than twenty-five. Meanwhile, he was turning sixty in a couple months.

  She walked up to me, still a few inches shorter than I was even with her heels. She was wearing a white dress that showed off her saline-filled boobs, so high and tight I was willing to bet a boxer could use them for speed bags.

  “It’s nearly midnight,” she said. Tammy had a way of using a tone with me that I was pretty sure she thought sounded motherly.

  “She can tell time,” I said, voice edged with lazy sarcasm. I couldn’t even bother to give it an honest effort with her. “Dad really knows how to pick winners.”

  Her nostrils flared. So easy to piss off. She leaned in close, smelling like cigarette smoke and lipstick. The woman reapplied lipstick several times a day, obsessed with looking like a Marilyn Monroe impersonator you might see on the Vegas strip. The smell always made me want to curl up into myself and break something at the same time. It was a reminder of how fucking weak I had been and how much shame I carried around every day, like a lead anchor tied to my neck. I pushed it down like I always did. Deeper and deeper where it could spread its roots and corrupt me more fully than it already had. “Good thing your opinion doesn’t matter.” She reached to squeeze my ass, fingernails raking my side before I slapped her hand away and shoved her back.

  White hot rage boiled up to the surface, and it was a wonder I didn’t shove her through the wall, but the old familiar shame swirled in me, choking down any resistance. I still remembered that night last Christmas. The eggnog. The way my head had gone fuzzy. Waking up in the wrong bed. The smell of lipstick clinging to my pillow. To me.

  “I hope you die,” I said. My voice was weak when I wanted it to be strong. I meant every word of it, though. She could die right here. Fall and break her neck. I’d just watch her struggle to suck in her last breaths and my phone would stay off.

  She snorted, unimpressed. She clutched my jaw like I was a child, squishing my lips together and managing to make it seem like she was looking down on me even though she had to crane her neck to see me. “Everyone in this town thinks you’re the hot little shit. You love it, too. You let them think it. But you and I know the truth, don’t we, sweetie?”

  I gripped her wrist, squeezing tight enough that I hoped she’d yelp or wince, but she only glared back at me, red lips still twisted in amusement. “Go ahead. Leave a bruise,” she taunted. “I’ll have until morning to think of a wickedly creative story to tell your father. I can tell him about that little tattoo on your hip if he needs any more proof that you forced yourself on me.”

  Disgusted, I let go of her hand like it had suddenly burned me. I ran then, from my own house, from my own life, even if it was just for a night. I needed to escape it all. When Tammy was around, I could feel the weight of reality crashing in on me. She reached straight through the smoke clouds I put up around me. The mirrors and the games. She saw the weak parts of me, knew how to cut through my strength, and she made me feel just as pathetic as my dad.

  I took my guitar out to the overlook, where I could park my car and watch the city from up high. I wrote some of my best songs there, on nights like tonight, when my walls were broken down and the real shit could just seep out of me. Me and my guitar. The music was my medicine, and eventually, I’d strum my way back to my normal self.

  When I’d finished, I set my guitar down and watched the way the distant light of the city seemed to twinkle if I stared long enough. The sheer number of people I could see down there always had a way of making me feel more alone, but I relished in the sting of it. When a mosquito bit me, I’d scratch the bump until it bled, gladly accepting a few seconds of pain to avoid a few days of annoyance. No matter how many times I confronted myself—really thought about who I was behind the mask—it never changed. I wasn’t going to make some kind of pussy promise to change or start being nicer to people. There was a blackness that had crawled into my heart and made itself comfortable years ago. It would never matter how many people I knew or how many thought they loved me, because there was a part of myself I’d never open up. I’d be a puzzle with missing pieces. Incomplete. I’d never make sense to them, so they’d keep filling in the blanks for themselves. They’d say I’m an asshole because I was over-confident. They’d think I treated people like shit because I didn’t care.

  I thought about Gardener Girl then. Aribella. I’d seen it in her eyes that first day. She saw the version of me they all saw, but she saw something else, too. Maybe it was only a glimpse, but she saw something of the real me, and it made the part of me I thought was gone want to reach out to her. I hated her fo
r that.

  But there was a cure for it.

  I’d fuck her. Prove she didn’t know more than any of the rest. Prove she was just like them. I’d show her I was exactly the guy they said I was. Callous. Cold. An asshole.

  9

  Aribella

  Eight Years Ago

  Brent wouldn’t give me the time of day anymore. I broke up with him after the party almost two weeks ago, and since then, I could count the people who had made eye contact with me at school on one hand. Just like I had suspected, Brent was my golden ticket. My excuse note. Please excuse Aribella for being poor and for having parents who work outside tending your gardens. She promises she’ll marry a guy with money and her relationship with Brent is good for a temporary pardon.

  Meanwhile, Zach continued to look every bit like the reigning king of the school. Except he was the kind of king who would sit on a throne made of the bones of everyone who had dared to cross him. He’d drink wine from the hollowed out skull of his greatest enemy. The most infuriating part was that even in my dumb fantasy, I imagined he wouldn’t have added my bones to that throne. It was like he thought I was too far beneath his place to even acknowledge that he hated me, in his weird and twisted way.