If You Hate Me (The Toronto Terror Series)

Every muscle in my body aches. Tristan wasn’t kidding when he said he wasn’t done with me, or that he planned to fuck me raw, because that’s exactly how I feel. Raw. If there was more than one bathroom, I’d soak in Epsom salts. I’ve also been avoiding him since I left his bedroom this afternoon. It hasn’t been all that difficult.

He went to work out with Flip and didn’t come home until after dinner. And Flip left again almost immediately for one of his many “dates.”

I promptly disappeared to the coffee shop down the street, and now I’m nursing a decaf tea while trying and failing to read a book. My vagina has a pulse and sitting down is a challenge.

Rob tries to call me, and I send it to voicemail. He’s the last person I want to talk to—especially now that I realize our sex was meh.

At nine thirty I stop at the grocery store, pick up a few items, and splurge on a pint of my very favorite ice cream before I go home. Flip’s bedroom door is open. That means I’m alone in the condo with Tristan.

I quickly put away the groceries and hide my ice cream under a bag of frozen peas. I rush to the bathroom. My plan is to continue avoiding Tristan, but he’s in the kitchen when I open the door.

He’s eating a fresh peach. This seems purposeful. “Regretting your decision this morning?” His voice is apathetic, like his fucks-to-give meter is at zero. But his shoulders are tight, and he can barely look at me.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. He looks both delicious and like guilt personified.

“Of course I am,” I mumble. Now I know what all the hype is about. Tristan is a filthy fucker, and I loved every goddamn minute of it. Especially when he kept shoving his fingers in my mouth and holding me by the throat. Not hard. I never felt unsafe. It was possessive, and dirty, and hot. And he spat on my pussy. Who does that?

I was today years old when I realized my previous long-term boyfriends have all been totally vanilla. But not Tristan. He leans into the filthy and wallows in it. Not that I want Tristan to be my boyfriend. Because I definitely don’t. I’m a serial monogamist, but even I know where to draw the line with a fuckboy like him. We can’t even have a conversation without shitting all over each other. But that was the dirtiest, hottest sex of my life. And he probably knows it.

I throw the question back at him. “How’s your self-loathing meter?”

He shrugs, like he’s unaffected. He still won’t look at me. “Did you think you were special, Beat? That I’d buy you flowers and sneak up to the loft, looking for more?”

I don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it. I shoot an arrow before he can. “I’m not stupid enough to believe I’m more than another warm hole you got to fill. Did you actually think I’d want you again?”

His gaze is flat, expression unreadable as he leans in, lips at my ear. “You were right about one thing, though. You choking on my cock is a great way to get you to shut up.”

It’s the sucker punch I was waiting for, but it still hurts. “Fuck you,” I spit.

“Been there. Done that. Once was enough.” He disappears into his bedroom, leaving me fuming in a steaming pile of regret.

For the next two days I successfully avoid Tristan. It’s too awkward. I can’t look at him without thinking about the sex, or the way he cut me off at the knees after. I’m angry at myself for letting him make me feel anything at all. But my mind keeps going back to when he said he wouldn’t hurt me. That if I didn’t like it, all I had to do was tell him and he’d stop. Even though the sex was filthy and rough, he was tender in that moment. That’s the Tristan I had glimpses of as a teen. The one who would steal a peony from his neighbor’s garden and leave it on my dresser because he knew I loved them. That was the Tristan who reassured me. Then fucked the living hell out of me. It’s confusing. And frustrating. I don’t know how to be around him now. I still hate him, but something shifted between us the minute he kissed me. And I feel as transparent as a jellyfish. Especially when Flip is here.

So when Tristan is home, I go out. Thankfully, they’re in training camp now, so they’re up and out early, and they spend hours on the ice. It doesn’t do much to slow Flip’s sex life, but at least the three a.m. marathons seem to be over.

Four days post fuck-a-thon, I’m in the kitchen, prepping their food for the next couple of days. The amount of groceries Tristan and Flip go through is unreal. I bought fresh pasta and made marinara sauce and meatballs, because they need to carb load after long practices. Each serving goes in a microwavable container with reheating instructions. I’ve been out at dinnertime lately for obvious reasons. I also haven’t told anyone what happened. Not even Essie—not purposely, but because every time we’ve talked, my brother has been around.

My phone rings as I seal the fourth container of pasta, meatballs, and sauce. My stomach flips when I see Dean and Sons flash across the screen. “Oh my God. Okay. Take a breath, Rix.” I look toward the ceiling. “Please let me be employed. Sorry for always taking your name in vain. And for screaming it a lot earlier in the week.” I shake my head, erasing memories before they surface, and answer on the third ring.

Three minutes later, I have a new job. And I start in two days.

“I have a job!” I dance around the kitchen, then remember the meals sitting on the counter and put them in the fridge. I call my mom right away to tell her the good news.

“That’s wonderful, sweetheart. Is it a good firm? Tell me all about it.”

I fill her in on the job, which isn’t a whole lot different than my last one, just different clientele. “I’ll start looking for my own place now that I have a steady paycheck again.”

“That’s good. You and Phillip are getting along okay? He must be busy with the season starting so soon.”

“Oh yeah, we get along fine.” His best friend is a different story, though.

We chat for a few more minutes, Mom filling me in on what her and Dad have been up to lately before we end the call.

With that task done, I decide a new work outfit is a reasonable splurge and a good reason to go shopping. I’m making a to-do list when the condo door opens. “I have some awesome n—” I turn to find Tristan toeing off his shoes. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. He looks delicious and gorgeous, and for a second he actually looks happy to see me, which doesn’t make sense.

“Oh. It’s you.” Every part of me wants to run away. But I have nowhere to go.

The right side of his mouth curls up in a mean smile. “Thinking about how I won’t fuck you again?”

I give him back his own words. “Once was enough.” Lie, lie, lie.

He chuckles, but it’s a flat, humorless sound. “Is that why you’ve been moaning my name in your sleep?”

The ache in my chest is infuriating. He said I would regret it, and when he acts like this, I do. What we did crossed so many lines. I ignore him and pick up my phone, giving him my back as I call Hemi. “Hey! Guess who got that job?”

“Ahhh! That’s such great news! We need to celebrate. Are you free for drinks? Or dinner? You can come to my place. Hammer and I are working on a project, but we’ll be done in about an hour.”

I need to get out of here. “That sounds great. Can I bring anything?”

“Just your sexy self. Are you so excited?”

“Super excited. Thank you so much for the recommendation.”

“No problem. Does this mean you get to move out soon?”

“Not soon enough, but yeah. I’d like a place within walking distance, but at this point I’ll take just about anything. The sooner, the better. Living with my brother and his asshole best friend is a nightmare I want out of.”

The heavy click of Tristan’s bedroom door closing startles me.

At least I’m getting under his skin the same way he gets under mine.

Over the next two days I go shopping for a few new work outfits, manage the grocery situation, meal prep for Flip and Tristan, and make sure I have food for lunches before I start my new job.

When that happens, on day one I can tell for sure that this firm is a much better fit. I have several female-identifying coworkers around my age, and everyone is so much kinder and friendlier here. But there’s a lot to take in as the newest hire, and at the end of the day, I’m exhausted. I’m looking forward to vegging out to some cheesy reality TV and digging into my pint of special ice cream. Unless the TV room-slash-my-bedroom is occupied. Now that I have a job, finding an apartment is at the top of my priority list.

Flip’s bedroom door is open when I get home. His wallet is on the counter, though, so I assume he’s at Dred’s. Tristan’s shoes are on the mat, but his door is closed, and hopefully it stays that way. There’s a half pint of perfection waiting for me. I practically skip to the fridge and pull open the freezer drawer. I’ve been eating the ice cream a few spoonfuls at a time, keeping it hidden under the frozen peas. I move the bag aside, but the container isn’t there. Maybe it sank to the bottom. I empty the entire freezer, but I can’t find it. Which means someone ate it and didn’t leave even a little behind.

Disappointment and frustration weigh me down as I climb to the loft. My comforter is heaped on the floor, and my pillow has been used as a footrest. Sitting on the coffee table is the empty ice cream container. All that remains is a swipe of chocolate fudge at the bottom.

“That fucker.” I grab the empty container and climb down the ladder. My anger isn’t entirely rational and doesn’t quite match the crime, but Tristan’s clearly done this on purpose. Between his snide comments and making me feel like trash, this is the icing on the shit cake he’s served me since we had sex. He’s taking up way too much real estate in my head lately, and I’m pissed. I slam my fist against his door.

It flies open a few seconds later. His gorgeous brows are furrowed, and his nostrils flare. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I shove the empty container in his face. “Did you eat this?”

He bats it away, and it lands on the floor at our feet. Residual chocolate splatters my foot. “Yeah. So what?”

My voice rises. “What do you mean so what? Fuck you!” I hate how irrational I am. How out of control I feel. But all my hurt and anger is spilling out, and I’m powerless to stop it.

He flinches, but his eyes darken. “It’s just ice cream, Beat.”

He does this on purpose. Calls me Beat to hurt me. And it works. I try to defend myself, though I’m already overreacting. “It was on sale this week.” I grew up in a house where treats were exceedingly rare. Every splurge is a big deal even now.

His jaw tics. “It was almost empty.”

I clench my fists and bite back another irrational accusation. I hate that we can’t stop being assholes to each other, that I crave a glimpse of the other version of Tristan. I wonder what it would be like if we didn’t fight all the time.

He takes a small step backward. But he doesn’t shut the door in my face or raise his voice. Instead, he lowers it to a near whisper. He appears calm, but there’s a barely there tremor in his hand. “You’re being unreasonable about ice cream, Beat. Just buy more.”

“That’s not the point!” I feel so stupid that I’m reacting this way, but my emotions are all over the place.

He throws his hands in the air, exasperated. “Then what is?”

I open my mouth, but then close it. “Nothing. Never mind.” If I keep going at him, I’ll make it worse. I’m already past the point of no return.

His eyes narrow. “Are you seriously getting in my face and making a big deal out of nothing just to get my attention? I’ve done my time handling tantrums. I don’t need to baby you over something ridiculous.”

“God, you’re such an asshole!” I snap.

His nostrils flare again, but instead of matching my volume, his drops low, that tremor in his hand making its way to his voice. “Are you disappointed I won’t spank your meltdown out of you?” He slices a hand through the air, the only aggressive action he’s made during this entire heated exchange. “I don’t have time for this drama. You’re getting on my last damn nerve. I had a peaceful place before you moved in and took over with all your shit. How is it possible that you are more annoying now than you were at fourteen?”

My jaw drops, and my chest constricts. I feel like I’ve been slapped across the face, which is probably the point, I realize. “Fuck you, Tristan.” To my horror, my voice cracks and my eyes prick with tears.

I spin around, wishing for the thousandth time that I could escape to a room with a door I can lock. Instead, I have to jump up to reach the bottom rung of the ladder so I can pull it down.

“Bea.” Tristan grabs my shoulders and spins me around, his grip gentle but firm. His expression shifts from anger to confusion to horror. “Are you crying?”

I try to push his hands away, but he gathers both of mine in one of his and brings them to his chest. His expression is fierce as he cups my cheek and brushes away a traitorous tear that’s escaped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean⁠—”

I try to turn my head away, but he’s still cupping my cheek. “Don’t you dare be nice to me now.”

“Fuck, Bea. Don’t cry. I don’t want to make you cry.” His voice is soft and sad.

“Then why are you so fucking mean?” I hate how desperately I want this to be different.

His eyes slide closed for a moment, and he shakes his head. “You’re just here. Flip invited you into my space. And I get it, even though I don’t want to. I’m glad you’re not living with those fucking creeps anymore. But I never wanted anyone else to take care of, especially not here. I’ve done my time taking care of other people.” His throat bobs, and his voice is soft as his thumb traces the contour of my bottom lip. “And the next thing I know, you’re going off on me, and I don’t understand why. It’s one thing when we’re assholes to each other, but it’s another when you start yelling.”

Memories surface from our childhood. Tristan always got agitated when Flip and I freaked out on each other. He’d tell us to stop, or he’d threaten to leave. Sometimes he would walk away. He used to spend a lot of time at our place when his parents were still together. And he jumped at loud noises. Flip told me once that his parents yelled and slammed a lot of doors.

This suddenly explains a lot.

“I didn’t mean to yell,” I whisper.

“I’m sorry for being a dick. You didn’t do anything to deserve my bullshit expectations. Frankly, your brother did.” He drops his head and brushes his nose against mine. “I really didn’t mean to make you cry.”

It’s charmingly tender and unexpected.

“Hey, hey! Where my roomies at!” Flip calls.

My stomach drops. I didn’t even hear the door open.

Tristan startles, steps back in a rush and rounds the corner. “Right here, my man.”

“Well, get changed. We’re going to the bar. Dallas is picking us up in half an hour.”

Tristan runs his hand through his hair and kneads the back of his neck, all that softness disappearing. “Sounds like exactly what I need.”

He leaves me standing there, wondering what would have happened if Flip hadn’t shown up.