Insta-Hate (Instant Gratification #1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  INSTA-HATE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  INSTA-HATE

  an Instant Gratification novel

  C.L. Bond

  Insta-Hate

  Copyright © 2016 by Casey L. Bond. All rights reserved.

  First Edition.

  This author supports copyright law, because stealing is wrong and she has bills to pay and a family to feed. Please don’t pirate. For the official spiel regarding copyright infringement, please continue.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise without the prior express permission of the author except as provided by USA Copyright Law. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of a copyrighted work is illegal. Copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by fines and federal imprisonment.

  This book is a work of fiction and does not represent any individual, living or dead. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Book cover designed by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design and Photography.

  Cover Models: Nathan Weller and Layla Hill

  Cover Photography by Dark Feather Photography

  Professionally Edited by Stacy Sanford, Girl with the Red Pen

  Paperback and E-book formatted by Allyson Gottlieb of Athena Interior Book Design.

  Published in the United States of America.

  ISBN-13: 978-1532818950

  ISBN-10: 1532818955

  To those who have tasted hatred, but believe in love.

  ONE

  Nucking Futs

  Alexandria

  Most women would say they got butterflies in their stomachs because of a man; his touch, his gaze, or his lips upon theirs. I’d never felt those tickling wings before, but I did feel nausea. My stomach ached as the acid churned, ebbed, and flowed. I wasn’t sick or hungover. I was nervous, and it wasn’t because of the thousands of people moving around me like I was sitting still in the center of a merry-go-round. It was because I was walking straight toward a future I didn’t want and felt powerless to change. But sometimes, life changes a person’s circumstances. Sometimes, the circumstances of a person’s life change them forever.

  The tips of my heels clicked along the crowded sidewalk. Between the clicks, the beeps, the buzzing and pings of cell phones, honking horns, chatter and catcalls, the people of New York City sounded like an angry pod of whales. My cell rang in my bag and I hit the button on my earpiece to answer it.

  “Did you get my text, babe?” Ren asked in the Australian accent that first lured me into his bed. Like most things, the initial attraction phase ended long ago, but old habits were hard to break and Ren was comfortable. He was safe. The thought of dating in this city gave me hives, and I only had to see Ren a few times a year. Gritting my teeth to stop my tongue from telling him for the millionth time that I hated being called ‘babe’, I adjusted the strap on my Italian leather crossbody bag instead. It tended to slide toward my neck as I moved, and I needed my hands free to clutch my freshly brewed latte like it was the Holy Grail and I was the last Knight standing to defend her. In reality, she was warm and a new habit I was actively trying to form. I was so tired that only caffeine could help at this point, and coffee was the best way to consume it, or so I’d read.

  Although it was technically spring it was still frigid, and I was cloaked in layers of sweaters held in place with a red leather skinny belt. A chunky infinity scarf kept my chest warm, but my legs, even in thick tights, were frozen into Popsicle sticks. Commuting anywhere in this city was nothing less than a mad dash. Ren chose that moment, during the melee, to call me. After how many weeks? I hit the volume button on my earpiece, dodging a man hell-bent on running through the rest of foot traffic.

  He always sent pictures from the locations he photographed. That was one perk to our…arrangement. Ren was a traveler. It was who he was. Somehow he managed to make a living doing it while taking photographs of the beautiful people and landscapes along the way, and then selling those photographs to magazines and publishing companies. It was how we met. He shot the cover for one of my books. We met at a publisher-sponsored event and the rest was history.

  Searching the depths and unknown objects of my bag, I found the small, familiar rectangle of my cell and rescued it from the bottom. Ren’s message was at the top of the text message list, and the most recent, despite my bestie and my sister’s incessant messaging habit. Didn’t anyone pick up the phone anymore? Anyone but Ren, that is. “The Ren-egade,” he’d dubbed himself in my cell. I clicked a button on the side of my earpiece to turn up the volume.

  “I got it. It looks like something stepped into the picture right when you took it, though. Where are you this week?”

  “Provence,” he answered, chuckling. “I know how much you love the place. You could come meet me, you know. Take some time away.”

  Shoving my way through an intersection packed with the masses, I could almost smell the lavender fields; the rich earth and warm sunshine. I loved Provence. I loved all of France. It was one of my happy places. Everything was fresh there, despite the fact that the region was draped in rich history. I remembered the smell of the rich soil, the bustling marketplaces, and the fields of lavender. Not to mention the kind smiles of the residents who, despite popular opinion, were not snooty at all. I could almost smell the pain au chocolate. Mmmm. Maybe a trip was in the foreseeable future. Forgetting about Ren and the phone, I moaned, picturing it all.

  Ren chuckled. “Babe, I’m a little insulted that you didn’t recognize what was at the top of the photograph.”

  “What?” I asked, expertly weaving past a nun.

  “The shadow at the top is my ball sack. Do ya miss it?”

  “Come again?” Damn it. Scalding liquid burned the tops of my feet. I spilled my nine-dollar caramel vanilla cappuccino on my Manolo’s. Threading through the swarm of pedestrians, I ducked into the alcove of a storefront, dug a tissue from my bag, and polished the patent leather back to its original shine. I bet my pasty white skin under my layer of tights was still redder than a monkey’s butt. Perfect.

  Wait—I know I didn’t hear that right. No way. “Your balls? As in testicles?”

  “Yeah,” he answered nonchalantly.

  “In the picture? On purpose?” Surely not. But then again… Ren loved himself more than anything, even more than travel and photography. His social media accounts were full of bathroom selfies, baring his abs for the world to ogle. Every time I saw him he would
steal my phone and snap a pic of himself to update his contact picture. The latest one was a picture of his sculpted torso.

  I clicked on the picture again, easing my fingers across the screen to enlarge the image. Sure enough, what I thought was a shadow was the blur of a hairy ball sack marring the otherwise tranquil beauty of a Provencal lavender field. I thought it was a shadow, but scraggly pubic hair could be seen standing against light blue sky now that I looked at it closely. Ick! And how’d he even physically take it?

  “Yeah, babe. It’s called nut-scaping. All the rage in Europe. Like dick pics in the states.”

  “No! No more dick pics, Ren,” I warned. Oh, hell no. Not going through that phase with him again. He’d sent one a day for almost six months before I threatened to remove the appendage. The worst part was that they’d pop up on my screen while I was in public—in line at the store, in meetings—and in the presence of strangers and family alike. My young nephew almost saw one materialize onto the screen once. “And stop taking pictures of your sack or having someone else take them. I don’t care if it’s trending or not—it’s creepy and gross.”

  I sipped my drink, trying to enjoy the taste of coffee that was mostly not coffee. If I poured enough sweet stuff I did like into the cup, it almost masked the bitter flavor of the bean. It almost erased bad memories of male genitalia. Almost. Ren’s laugh filled my ear way too loudly for eight o’clock in the morning. I eased the volume down. I’d heard him right, anyway; it wasn’t the decibel level that was the problem. It was him. Not least of which was his intense love of his own body.

  “You loved my sack the last time I visited. Loved my cock, too.” Wow, thanks for reminding me of the five-second ride, Ren.

  I was a Gemini, and my dual personalities showed themselves at the most inopportune times. Most often they conflicted during stressful times—like today. Sometimes I was a bitch. Sometimes I was a people-pleaser. Today, I’d be the former, I decided. This simply wasn’t working anymore. And who sent pictures of their saggy, hair-infested sacks to people? In all honesty, Ren wasn’t that great of a lover anyway. And that was all he’d been for the past year and a half. Occasional lover, not even a friend. Everything was always on his timetable, on his schedule, about him and his needs and wants. I was tired.

  “Yeah, I don’t think that’ll be happening again.” He ruined my shoes. He ruined my morning and my commute, which was bad enough in this effing city. I paced back and forth, aggravating every New Yorker trying to nudge by me. But I was pissed off too, and this was my moment. I could feel rage-fueled warmth flooding my body. “Don’t call me anymore. Don’t send me pictures of your dick, your sack, or any other disgusting part of your anatomy. I’m done. I can’t deal with you anymore.”

  He scoffed. “Deal with me?”

  “Yes, deal with you. It’s over. We—whatever this is—is over. I’m done.”

  “Babe, I’m sorry about the pic. I thought it would turn you on.” Eww. No. It most certainly did not turn me on.

  “I need space, Ren.” Not that three thousand miles was far enough, since technology was able to connect people in an instant. And then he said it again. I gritted my teeth and closed my eyes.

  “Babe—”

  I snapped. “I’m not your babe! When you say that, it makes me think you’re calling me a good pig! And you should seriously consider man-scaping before you nut-scape and send nasty pictures to anyone else. You have sasquatch balls!”

  Satisfied, I clicked the red button and hung up on his sorry, far-too-hairy ass. Pictures of fuzzy ball sacks were floating in my head as I made my way back into the fray, some members of which were staring at me strangely. Hey—people talked to themselves. Come on. And trauma worsened the ranty condition in some of us.

  I jogged down the concrete steps into the underground. The subway waited for no one.

  Catching the train at any station in the city was like training for an MMA fight. The subway was an underground melting pot of pushing, shoving, and cursing; a mixture of people stretched too thin to care about manners and pleasantries. Finally finding a square foot to call my own on the platform, I guzzled the last half of the caffeine and sugar like a drunk with a fifth of whiskey. Now no one else could further ruin my shoes with my own coffee.

  Ren called me back, but I ignored him. I wouldn’t get good reception down here anyway. My finger hovered over Ren’s contact information, over the red delete button. I should have pushed it. I should have deleted him right there, but I was a coward. Ren was safe. Maybe he would stop being stupid and this would blow over. Maybe I wouldn’t be angry the next time he came to New York. And maybe if he did drop in, I wouldn’t cave like I always did because the thought of anything but casual and occasional wouldn’t work for me.

  From the depths of the tunnel, the train’s light appeared and the grating sound of metal against metal screeched into the passage. Subway cars stopped, their doors opened, and people exited while others shoved their way inside every available space. The beep sounded and the door closed with a whoosh.

  People-watching had fueled more than a few of my books, and I was certainly watching this morning. Some sat, some stood, some were polished, and some stank. All kinds could be found here. Just step below the streets and a whole new world emerged. It was like a dystopian movie—the genre every literary agent in America hated to be pitched, and yet fans of books-to-film filled theatres each season to see. My agent shot down my dystopian world before she even heard my pitch. “No. I can’t sell it. Publishers don’t want it. It’s a dead genre. Don’t waste your time,” she said. I might still be bitter.

  Two more missed calls and eight stops later, I was in Midtown and making my way toward the sunlight. I was no vampire; I was a kitten who loved curling up in the sun, even if only in front of a window. But my preference was a secluded, sandy beach.

  My phone rang again. Margaret’s scratchy voice filled my ear, each word punctuating the fact that she’d smoked twenty cigarettes a day for the past thirty years. “You’re late.”

  “Good morning, Margaret. How nice to hear from you so early.”

  “The meeting is at nine.” She was never one for small talk, which bothered me for some reason. Everyone in this city lacked manners. What happened to greetings and holding doors open for people? I checked my phone. It was eight-thirty.

  “I have thirty minutes.”

  “You were supposed to meet with me fifteen minutes before the meeting.” Shit. I forgot about that. I really needed a personal assistant. The calendar on my phone was no help at all. I actually had to input the events and times, and yeah—not so great at that.

  “Then I’ll see you in fifteen.” I plastered on a fake smile for some unknown reason. It wasn’t like she could see me.

  “Fifteen minutes, Alexandria. Don’t waste my time.” I hated when she said that and she said that a lot, as if her time was more valuable than every other person’s on this planet, and certainly more valuable than mine.

  “I won’t. I’m almost there.” Shoot. I wasn’t almost there. Throwing my hand up, I begged the taxicab gods to throw me a Hail Mary. Just as I was about to tug off the Manolo’s and run for it, one pulled up to the curb. “You need ride?” Double shit. No habla English, and I didn’t habla any other damn thing. I needed to take classes on some of the basics of other languages. I was an asshole. I hated assholes.

  “Please.” I huffed out the address and the man took off so fast, my back and head slammed against the seat and headrest behind me. Holy mother of crazy cabbies and pine scented air fresheners! Luckily, traffic flowed reasonably well for rush hour and as the cabbie pulled up to the Hansel Publishing building, which was actually a chic townhome turned office, I slid my credit card, added a tip, and was out the door with exactly one minute to spare.

  Margaret Yotter was checking her watch as I entered the door, smoothing my hair back into some semblance of the style I’d left my apartment with this morning. “Good morning,” I chirped.

&nbs
p; She frowned, deep wrinkles pursing her lips together. “Are you ready for this?”

  “To discuss the deal? Yes.” I combed my hair out of my face and caught my breath.

  “To accept the deal. It’s the biggest you’ve ever had. Hansel Publishing is the best in the publishing industry. They have a ton of money to back up their chosen books, and they don’t choose very many each year. They’ll promote you like you’ve never been promoted before. They’ll want that dollar as much as you do, and you’ll be swimming in cash before you know it.”

  “Promotion and money. Pimps and whores.”

  She nodded as she took in the shelves of books lining every available wall, muttering, “Pimps and whores.”

  When did this become all about the money? Hansel was offering a huge advance on a twelve-book deal and better royalty percentages than anyone had ever given me in a contract. I knew about their exclusive parties and signings. They took care of their authors, and if I signed on the dotted line, I’d be among them. It would take my career to a new level. But twelve novels was like signing away the next five years of my life, and though I would technically be writing the story, they already had the plots detailed in the contract. There would be little room for creativity or deviation from what they demanded.

  I’d been nauseated since Margaret called with the details. She was my agent, and as such, was supposed to look out for what was best for me and my work. Margaret sold my writing abilities to Hansel, who was looking to make the career of the next mega-author, and we were both going to get a huge chunk of money up front if this went down today, not to mention the royalties from sales after the books were released. Their publicity team was far better than those at any of the smaller presses I currently had books listed with. They could do more than I could as an indie author. But twelve. Twelve.

  A fine sheen of sweat formed on my forehead. I tucked my phone into my bag and watched as Margaret settled into one of the red leather loungers, pecking on her tablet’s screen like a rabid chicken.