Insta-Hate (Instant Gratification #1) Page 10

  Alexandria handed me a cup of steaming black coffee, but it was the mug that caught my attention. In girly, cursive font were the words: ‘Hakuna Ma Vodka’.

  I smiled. “What is this?”

  Her cheeks turned red and she shrugged one shoulder. “I have a thing with mugs.”

  “A thing with mugs?”

  “I’m trying to like coffee, and the funny mugs make it easier to swallow. So do the copious amounts of sugar.”

  I nodded to hers. She was throwing so much sugar into it that I thought the coffee would splash over the sides. She stirred gently and then turned around. Hers read: ‘Male Tears’.

  “Male tears? You drink them a lot?” I grinned.

  “Every day,” she deadpanned.

  We sat in silence, her standing across the kitchen bar from me, both of us sipping and blowing over the surfaces of our coffees. Hers was barely brown from all the junk she poured in.

  She blew out a long breath and stared at me. “Want to have sex?”

  ***

  Alexandria

  Coffee. Sex. Coffee. Sex. My mind was on repeat. I needed both. I had one. I wanted the other. So, I took a deep breath and blew it out. “Want to have sex?” I threw out into the space between him and me.

  His eyes widened and then narrowed. Arsen stood up from his barstool, walked slowly around the bar, and stood in front of me. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Yes,” I breathed, gripping the edge of the counter.

  “This’ll change things. People say it won’t, but they lie. Sex changes everything, even if it only happens once. And in our case, it won’t.”

  I bristled at his confidence. “Why are you so sure about that?”

  “Trust me, Lex. One taste of whatever the hell this is between us will not be enough. Not by a fucking long shot.” He threaded his fingers into my hair and tugged my head backward. “So you’d better be absolutely sure about what you’re asking.”

  “I’m sure,” I said against his lips.

  “Good.” He lifted me up onto the bar and laced my legs around his waist. “Now, where’s your bedroom?”

  “Down the hall, second on the right,” was all I could manage as he kissed a warm, heavenly trail up the column of my throat to my ear and then claimed my mouth again. His hands dug into my thighs and he lifted again. I held on for dear life, afraid of what lay ahead but too frightened to let go. I wanted him. I wanted this. But more? No. I didn’t want or need more than a sexual relationship with Arsen Daniel. And despite his arrogant ass, which was very firm beneath my fingers, once would be enough.

  “I hate it that you look like her,” he growled, biting my neck where it met my shoulder. I didn’t hate that at all right now. I loved it. I loved that he hated it. He should punish me for it.

  He found the bedroom door and paused. I couldn’t help but giggle. “What are you laughing about?” he asked crossly.

  “You. You’re so grouchy!” I laughed.

  “I’m not grouchy. I’m wound so tight I’m about to fucking explode.”

  “That makes you grouchy.”

  His eyes darkened and he released his grip on my thighs. I slid down him like he was a stripper pole and it was amateur night. Graceful wasn’t something I could pull off. Ever. “I will give you to the count of three.”

  “To do what?” My heart thundered and I pressed against my chest to hold it inside.

  “To run. If I catch you, I’ll punish you.”

  “For what?”

  “For looking like her, for smelling like her...for fucking tasting like her. I bet you do. I bet you taste just like her and I’m about to find out.”

  I swallowed, gripping the door handle. There were only eight steps to my bed, and ten to the bathroom door behind which I could hide.

  “One,” he said on a growl.

  Was he serious about this?

  “Two.”

  I guessed so. I turned to run, squealing as he said, “Three!”

  He caught me three steps in. I didn’t have a prayer. I expected him to be rough, to tear my dress off and throw me on the bed. Instead, he was the opposite. He eased the dress off my shoulders with gentle, shaking fingers. I could see them tremble, feel the underlying tension beneath his skin. When the fabric pooled at my feet, his eyes combed over every curve and swell as he slowly unbuttoned his shirt. The sexy, angry Arsen was taking his time. I’d expected him to bury himself in me, pound the hell out of me, and leave as fast as he came. But, oh no. Arsen sparked a slow burn between the two of us.

  Another button, a flash of skin and muscle.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  Ren never stared at me. He never lingered. He came fast and hard and then was gone in a flash. Arsen wasn’t Ren. This was bad. I still couldn’t breathe. My heart beat wildly in my chest.

  Two more buttons.

  Almost finished.

  I pushed the shirt off his shoulders and looked at him. Over his heart, in simple script, three words were inked: Tu Me Manques.

  My mouth gaped open wide as a tear splashed onto the top of my breast. I covered my mouth with the quivering fingers of my left hand and traced his tattoo with the tips of my right.

  His brows furrowed. “You don’t like my tattoo?”

  I shook my head fervently and reached around to unclasp my bra. Covering myself, I turned to expose my left side to him. My tattoo was written in cursive, and though I didn’t remember getting it, my words mirrored his.

  He grabbed his shirt from beside me as I silently cried. Fuming, he pushed each button through the holes. “I don’t know what sick fucking game you’re playing, Trin, but I’m done. You asked to sleep with me but didn’t think I’d see the tattoo? What the fuck is this?” He reached into his pocket and pulled a paper out, tossing it at my face. His shoes echoed through the apartment as he left, slamming the door behind him.

  I sat there for a moment, shivering and confused and afraid. When I picked the paper off the floor and turned it around, I could barely stifle the scream that came out of my mouth. It was me. He brought me a picture of Trinity, but it was really me and him as younger versions of ourselves. She was in a white and blue cheerleading uniform. He was in a matching football jersey. There were four pictures in a row, photo booth quality and worn with time. One corner was torn off and there were creases all across the paper from time and hands that held it too often.

  My high school was red and white, not blue and white. Her hair was blonde but her roots were dark. It was in a long ponytail and she smiled so brightly up at him and he smiled back at her. She was happy. So was Arsen.

  None of this made sense.

  SIXTEEN

  Run of Shame

  Alexandria

  My phone’s alarm woke me up. I’d fallen asleep in the floor where Arsen left me, where I’d spent most of the night crying, clutching the four pictures and trying to figure out what the hell everything meant. I needed answers, but first coffee and a run. I told Curtis I would meet him and I was going to do it.

  Maybe he was a good listener.

  I brewed a K-cup, smothered the dark fluid in sugar crystals, and downed it while throwing on my running pants, a t-shirt, and tennis shoes. My hair was in a messy bun and last night’s mascara was settled beneath my eyes. Screw it.

  Strapping my phone onto my arm and my key in the little pocket at the small of my back, I was out of there. Five-thirty a.m. sucked. So did my life.

  Curtis was waiting for me at the Transverse. “Hey!” he greeted me with a smile. “You came.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay?” he said, concern lacing his voice.

  “No I’m not. Can I tell you a really long story and ask for your advice?”

  He smiled. “Of course.”

  “And if I fall over at any time, please don’t leave me in the park. Bad people lurk here.”

  “I would never leave you to the lurkers,” he scoffed.

  After I stretched a little – okay, a lot – I gave h
im the entire story. I told him about the accident, or at least what I remembered when I woke up, about Doc’s help and how I started writing, about the entire shit storm that led me to Columbia, and about Arsen. He asked questions, most of which I didn’t have the answers to. But mostly, Curtis listened.

  We slowed because I had a side stitch. Sharp. Effing. Pain. I held my ribs until it eased up. “I wish I could see the picture,” he said.

  I pulled the cell from my armband and opened my pictures. It just so happened I’d snapped them this morning. Shoving my phone at him, he appraised each one, swiping across the screen from photo to photo. He let out a whistle. “Looks exactly like you.”

  “I know, but how can this be possible?”

  “You need to ask your sister or your mom about it. It’s as simple as that. Maybe you just have a doppelganger, but maybe it’s more. They would know though, right?”

  “But if they lied to me about it...”

  He hugged my shoulders. “They might not be truthful now?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Private Investigator?” he suggested.

  It sounded just crazy enough to work. “Maybe that would help,” I said, squeezing my bottom lip.

  “I’d still confront your sister first. See if she sweats.” Curtis wiped his forehead. “And if you and Arsen were together once, maybe it could work again. Who knows?”

  I gave a psychotic laugh. “I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m out of my mind or playing some sort of game—that’s what he said.”

  “Give it time. Guys say stupid things when it comes to love.”

  That was the problem…time. And I was tired of wasting it. “It’s not love, but I appreciate you listening to me ramble and giving me advice. And for the run, of course.”

  “No prob. I run every day, same time.” He stretched, touching his toes one more time.

  I nodded and told him I’d see him later. He was going to run for another hour and I couldn’t hang. This girl was out of shape.

  Leaving the park, I texted Meg: Showering and then I’m coming over.

  Her reply? Fine. Bring breakfast.

  Oh, I would. It just might be served with a side of whoop ass.

  ***

  Showers are overrated, I decided as I crossed the street, discreetly sniffing myself. I asked the cabbie to stop at a doughnuts shop and then drive me to Meg’s, which he did, reminding me four different times along the way that the meter would keep running while I ran in to get a dozen of Hoboken’s best. When we pulled to the curb in front of her house, his eyes lit up as I paid the fare. “You want me to wait again?”

  I mulled it over, but in the end decided that if I needed an escape I could always call for another, or else steal my sister’s car. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you, though.”

  The doughnuts box in one hand and my coffee in another, I walked on Jell-O legs up her sidewalk and nudged the doorbell with my elbow. Excited small voices shouted from the other side of the wood. The curtain in the window was pulled back and Tally waved happily from the other side. I wiggled my free fingers at her. How could I justify killing her mommy in front of her?

  Evan’s car was in the driveway. “Open the door, Will,” I yelled. I could hear him fighting Chase to reach the lock. When it disengaged, they both wrenched the door open and started toward me. “Whoa! I have hot coffee and you do not want me to spill breakfast. I brought doughnuts,” I told them in a sing-song voice.

  “Doughnuts!” they shouted in unison, running down the hallway toward the kitchen. “Mom, Aunt Lexie brought doughnuts!”

  Meg poked her head out the kitchen doorway and waved me in. She wasn’t a morning person either. She sipped her coffee and held her robe at the neck. “Why are you up so early?” she croaked.

  “Just felt like a jog in the park,” I bit at her.

  “Mhmmm.”

  Evan came down the stairs wearing a t-shirt and long, plaid pajama pants. “Hey Lexie. Did someone say doughnuts?” He took the box from me and held it above the jumping children. Tally joined the fray, and as the tallest, she had the most legit chance of besting her dad.

  While they fought over sweet pastries, I looked at my sister. “I need to talk to you in private for a sec.”

  Her brows crinkled. “Okay. Sure.” She followed me into the living room and sat in her favorite chair. It was orange and padded and worn in the cushions in the best of ways. “What’s up?”

  “What were our high school colors?”

  “Red and white. You know that.” She paused. “Don’t you? Are you having trouble again?”

  “Where did we go to school?”

  “Eastern Heights, back in South Carolina... What is going on?”

  I pulled my phone out, brought up the pictures and slammed it onto the arm rest of her chair. “Then how do you explain this?”

  She sat her mug on the coffee table; the liquid top vibrating from her own trembling. “Where did you get this? It looks fake.” The only fake thing was her smile.

  I shook my head, curling my lip up. “The only thing that looks fake right now is you.”

  “I don’t know who that girl is, but it’s not you. We didn’t go to a high school with blue and white,” she squinted at the image. “Looks like the wolves or something. We were the Braves. Do you remember anything at all from before? Not even flashes of color?”

  My sister had a tell. She wrinkled her nose when she lied and right now, the skin on the bridge of her nose looked like foreskin. Because my sister was a lying dick.

  “If you won’t tell me the truth, maybe mom will.”

  “Don’t,” she pleaded, shaking her head. “I saw her yesterday and she’s not doing well.”

  “You’ve been begging me to call her, to go see her. Why not now? And what do you mean ‘not doing well’?” I snatched my phone from her hand. “What’s wrong with her? Is she sick?”

  “She has cancer, Lexie. She’s been trying to tell you for months, but you’re so wrapped up in yourself that you can’t see anything that’s right in front of you!” Meg stood up, pacing the floor in front of the coffee table, “You are so selfish, that you think everything in this world turns because of you! You! It’s always about what’s best for you! What about everyone else? Grow up, Lexie.”

  “I’m trying to! If you guys would stop lying and tell me what the fuck is going on, maybe I could!”

  Her eyes hardened and she pointed toward the kitchen, tugging at her ear.

  “I know your children can hear us! Don’t pretend they don’t hear you say ‘fuck’ eight times a day. You’re no saint, Meg! And you can pretend that you don’t know about these pictures, but I can see clearly that you do!”

  “Fine. You want the truth? Go to mom. It’s up to her, not me. I’m done with you.” She stomped toward the door, jerked it open and held it. “Get out, Alexandria.”

  Evan and the kids stood in the hallway, mouths agape.

  I walked out the door and didn’t flinch when Meg slammed it behind me and screamed from the other side of the wood. I pulled my phone out and called a cab, and then walked to the nearest park where I asked the service to have a driver meet me.

  When he pulled up and asked where to go, I told him the last address I wanted to go to, but the only one I knew had answers inside its walls. I gave him my mother’s address.

  Every mile was excruciating.

  Every mile I cried.

  Every mile I contemplated texting him, but wouldn’t let myself.

  SEVENTEEN

  The Shoebox

  Alexandria

  By the time we arrived in Newark and wound through the streets, through the throngs headed to church, I had terrified the cab driver. At least once a mile he asked if I was okay, offering me tissues and once even offering to stop and get me some chocolate, to let the meter run while I ran in to get some. I almost took him up on that one.

  I swiped my credit card and thanked him for the ride. The hiccups wouldn’t stop. They started on Meg
’s sidewalk and now my chest contracted hard every few seconds. As he pulled away, I regretted not having him wait for me. Every ounce of me wanted to leave and I hadn’t even rang the doorbell yet. My palms were cool and sticky and I felt sick to my stomach. The feeling grew with each step I took up her walkway and each stair I climbed toward her door. I pressed the doorbell button and stared at the small brick home, trimmed in white with rose bushes in every available space. Most of them were overgrown, and dried petals in every shade littered the fresh-cut grass. I wondered if Mom still paid the neighbor’s kids to cut it.

  “Coming,” came a frail voice from behind the door. I looked back toward the road longingly. I needed to buy a damn car and pay the fee to park and store it. I needed it in case...

  The door swung open and Mom stared at me. In one hand was a wooden cane and she used the other to brace herself against the door. “Lexie? I’m so glad you came.”

  I stood there, shivers crawling up my spine. There was too much tension, too much emotion. Mom’s eyes filled with tears as she stepped back to let me inside. Her legs had bowed and her back was bent, too.

  My hiccups were frightened away and now I was just tired. I wanted to ask her what happened to her, but she’d been ravaged by time and, according to my sister, disease. Stepping up into the foyer, I eased the door closed behind me.

  “Please come in,” she said. Her voice wobbled.

  She settled in the living room where the floral couch still smelled of cinnamon and sounded like giggles. Hand-made doilies were draped over every piece of furniture: arm rests, end tables, the coffee table and mantle. They were delicate and painstakingly detailed. It was something my mother had learned while I was in the hospital recovering. It seemed she never stopped making them.

  Mom settled into a chair that was easy to get in and out of. The arm rests were solid wood and she sat with a pained wince. “What kind of cancer do you have?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

  “Pancreatic.”

  That singular word was a blow to my stomach. “Is it treatable?”