If You Hate Me: Chapter 21

“What are you doing?” Tristan’s hands are on his hips. He’s blocking the ladder and thwarting my ability to toss shit into the bin at the bottom.

“Packing.” I load stuff into another empty bin, since he seems disinclined to move.

“But…why?”

“Because I’m moving out.”

“But…but…” He runs his hands through his hair. “We’re done if you move out.”

I stop packing to look at him. He’s anxious; that much is clear. His eyes are wild, there are circles under them, and his jaw keeps ticking.

“That was part of the deal,” I remind him.

His hands are on his hips again. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with them. They drop to his sides, and then he crosses them.

“Flip also wasn’t supposed to find out, and he did, so our sex pact is effectively dissolved. Also, we haven’t had sex in the past week, so me sticking around for more awkwardness seems pointless, don’t you think?”

I’m hurt that we still haven’t had an actual conversation since Flip found out. Tristan keeps coming up with elaborate ways for me to sneak into his bedroom, though. Which I’ve refused to do.

“I was away for three of those days.” He’s back to running his hands through his hair. “How can I make it better when you won’t let me do what I’m good at? Who’s going to fuck you like I do?”

I would laugh if every sentence out of his mouth wasn’t a punch to the heart. If Tristan replaced the word fuck with love or take care of or any combination of words with feelings attached to them, this would feel like an actual relationship. Which is a problem. Because he’s made it clear this is not a relationship. I might like having sex with him, and I might like him as a human being when he’s not being an emotionally stunted idiot, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned this week, it’s that Tristan and talking things through do not go hand in hand.

They had two back-to-back away games, and when they returned, Flip and I continued to ignore each other, and Tristan tried to get me back into bed via late-night texting. Sneaking into Tristan’s room before my brother found out was one thing. But I can’t do it when he’s here and he knows. And for whatever reason, Tristan doesn’t get that. Or doesn’t want to. Either way, it’s been horrifyingly awkward. I need space. So I’m getting out.

“Right now I’m packing, and honestly, I’m not in the mood to fuck.”

That’s not one hundred percent true.

Tristan looks damn well edible with his frustrated, furrowed brow and his low-slung gray jogging pants and team T-shirt. I could happily peel him out of his clothes and ride his face or his cock to multiple-orgasm bliss. But I don’t want to be just fucked by him. I want connection. I want him to rub his nose against mine and be all sweet and soft before he fucks me like a savage. And there’s also the whole matter of not dealing with the fallout of Flip finding out still hanging over our heads. Not to mention that Tristan refuses to acknowledge that what’s going on between us has escalated from hate-fucking, to fucking, to actually sort of maybe liking each other while also fucking. Throwing more sex on top of that slice of avoidance cake is a bad idea.

“When are you moving?”

“This afternoon.”

“This afternoon?” His eyes flare and the color drains from his face. “But that’s…how did you find a place so fast? Where are you moving? Is it even safe? Do you have roommates again? What if it’s the same situation you just got out of?”

My heart aches. I wish he could admit that he cares. But Tristan is a broken boy living inside an angry man, and I can’t fix that. “I’m moving in with Hammer. There’s a sublet in her dad’s building, and it’s a two bedroom.” Fates aligned yesterday when we were in the elevator on the way up to Hammer’s dad’s place. A woman a few floors down is moving to France for a year, and her tenant fell through at the last minute. We were in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. The apartment is fully furnished, and she left for France this morning, which means we can move in this afternoon.

“So you’re staying in Toronto?” Tristan asks.

“Yeah.” I glance at him, and my stupid heart clenches at his relieved expression. “I’m staying in Toronto.”

“And Hammer will be your roommate?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nods once. “I can drive you over.”

“Hammer and the girls are coming to pick me up.” Hammer has a truck. How she drives it in downtown Toronto amazes me, but it’s big, and all my stuff will easily fit in the back, and no one has to eat their knees, so it’s a win.

“Tell them you don’t need a ride.”

I cross my arms. “Why do you want to drive me?”

His jaw clenches. “Because I just do.”

“So we can fuck guilt free?” I press. I need him to meet me halfway here. I can’t be the only one admitting this turned into something else. “When this started, we agreed that Flip couldn’t know, and it would stop when I found an apartment. I’m moving, and Flip has found out.” Not to mention the whole part about no feelings, which I definitely have a lot of, some positive, some negative, but there are feelings, and they are real. “Based on those two factors alone, that means this has to stop.”

“Fine. It stops when you move. But you’re still here, and Flip is at some promo thing for the rest of the day, and you can’t just fucking leave with no warning.” He steps into my personal space.

His chest is heaving, he looks like he wants to break something, and he’s tenting his gray sweats. He has a point. My departure is sudden, and while it shouldn’t be entirely unexpected, I didn’t give him much in the way of a warning. But he hasn’t given me a reason to stay and fix this.

“When will the girls be here?” he grinds out.

“An hour.”

“A fucking hour? That’s all you’re giving me? One goddamn hour?” One hand wraps around my throat and the other snakes around my waist, dragging me against him. He crushes his mouth to mine in a punishing kiss.

I spear my hands in his hair, suddenly frantic. This is it. This is the last time. My chest aches in a way that’s become unpleasantly common this week, and my pussy throbs in a way that’s familiar and comforting. My heart, head, and vagina are all on separate pages, but my vagina is clearly winning this fight.

“You’re a fucking liar.” Tristan bites my lip, then sucks it before releasing it so he can bite his way across the edge of my jaw.

“What are you talking about?”

“You said you weren’t in the mood to fuck and you’re humping my goddamn leg.”

I realize I have one leg hooked around his and I’m grinding for all I’m worth. “My pussy wants to fuck, and apparently she’s in the driver’s seat.”

Besides, I’m not the only liar in the room. It annoys the hell out of me that Tristan maintains all we’re doing is fucking when it feels like more than that. But maybe that’s all this is for him. Maybe I’m the only one who feels anything other than lust. And if that’s the case, it’s good this is the last time.

He releases my throat, grabs the hem of my shirt, and yanks it over my head. I’m wearing a boring black bra. He pops the clasp and tosses it on the floor, groaning as he cups my breasts in his palms and pinches my nipples. And then we’re back to kissing, aggressively, desperately.

Like reality is finally setting in.

We tear at each other’s clothes, shove each other’s pants down. My thong doesn’t survive removal. And then he grips my ass and hoists me up. I wind my arms and legs around him, and his shaft glides over my clit. I wiggle around until the head nudges at my entrance.

“You don’t get my cock yet.” He shoves all my crap off the futon—I honestly won’t miss sleeping on it because it’s not particularly comfortable—lays me out on it, and grinds his hips, cock sliding through my folds. I’m wet and needy and there’s no barrier between me and the futon. We’ll probably make a mess, but I can’t find it in me to care.

He squeezes my ass. “This was supposed to be mine.”

“So take it now.” The words are out before I fully consider what I’m saying.

“I’m too pissed off to be nice about it,” he snaps.

“So take your anger out on my pussy, then.”

“Oh, I plan to.” His hand circles my throat, kneading gently as his nostrils flare. His gaze moves over my face like he’s trying to memorize this moment.

I know I am.

He shoves the coffee table out of the way with his foot, so aggressively that it bangs into the entertainment console and several things topple over and land on the floor. He grabs a pillow and drops it on the floor. Then he grips my ass and shifts, so he’s sitting on the couch with me in his lap.

I’m dizzy and disoriented as I grip his shoulders. But he doesn’t give me time to get my bearings. Instead, he tips me backwards, hand splayed between my shoulders to guide me until they hit the pillow on the floor, along with my head. I’m halfway to somersaulting backward off the couch, but he grips my thighs and pushes my knees over my head to the floor, so my ass is in the air. This is a position I’ve seen plenty of times in porn, but never experienced in real life. I’m completely at his mercy, exposed and on display. Unless I tell him I don’t want or like this. Then he’ll stop, adjust, and make sure I’m good before he keeps going.

His jaw tics, and his chest heaves. His hands glide up and down the backs of my thighs. “Okay?” he grinds out.

“Okay.” I nod as much as I can in this position, which is basically a modified plow in yoga, seeing as my knees are beside my freaking ears.

He slaps my ass, then bends and licks up the length of my pussy on a growl and latches onto my clit, sucking hard.

“Ah!” I shriek and grab his hair, but his fingers encircle my wrists and he plants my palms on my ass and covers them with his hands, keeping them in place.

“It’s my fucking pussy, and you’re taking it away from me.” It’s an accusation.

“I have to go.” My heart can’t handle staying.

He makes desperate sounds as he licks at me and fucks me with his tongue. His hot, angry gaze stays fixed on mine as he slides two fingers inside me, pumps several times, slaps my clit, then stuffs his fingers into my mouth.

He gets me close to an orgasm but doesn’t let me tip over the edge. I squirm and moan and beg, but I know better. I’m not getting what I want until he’s inside me.

“Please,” I rasp.

“Please, what?”

“Please fuck me. I want you in me. I need you in me.” And I do. I need the feel of him stretching me. I need to wake up tomorrow and remember what it felt like to be wanted so fiercely. To want just as desperately. “Please, Tristan. I need you.”

“Then why are you leaving me?” There’s real anguish in his expression.

But he doesn’t give me time to form a reply. Of course not. Tristan doesn’t want to talk, to figure things out, because that would mean admitting this is about more than sex.

One second I’m a pretzel on the floor, the next my legs are wrapped around his waist and my chest is pressed against his. I grip his shoulders, light-headed and disoriented all over again. And then he’s pushing inside, filling me up.

He wraps his arms tight around me, buries his face in my hair, stays deep, and rocks his hips. I come so hard the world turns black. And then I’m on my back on the futon again and he’s pumping into me, hips slapping, wet sounds accompanied by my high-pitched moans.

I search for his hand and try to move it to circle my throat, but he shakes his head. His lip is curled, almost in a snarl. His hands are splayed out on either side of me.

“Tristan, please.” My fingers brush over his.

“You gave me an hour fucking notice, Bea. A fucking hour.” He’s still pounding away.

I’m seconds away from another orgasm. “I can’t.” I can’t keep doing this without it becoming glaringly obvious that I have feelings for him. Big ones. Scary ones. I can’t let him convince me to stay when every conversation we have devolves into orgasms. I can’t watch him and Flip give each other nasty looks and refuse to talk. I can’t be the reason their friendship falls apart. I can’t let him see that he’ll break my heart if I don’t go.

I reach up and wrap my hand around his throat. My hand is comically small compared to the thickness of his neck. But I feel him swallow, feel his pulse hammering under my fingers. “Please,” I beg. “Please, please, please.”

His jaw clenches and tics. But he adjusts his position, dropping to his elbow. The fingers of his other hand drift down my cheek and then his palm rests against my throat and his thumb and finger press firmly into the hinge of my jaw. His lips hover above mine. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes. Thank you. Oh, God.” The orgasm slams into me with the force of a tidal wave. I cry out, back arching, body convulsing, contracting. I wrap my fingers around his wrist to keep him from taking his hand away. Not that I’m strong enough to stop him if he really wants to move it.

“Open your eyes and look at me, Bea.” His fingers flex against the side of my throat. “At least give me that.”

I pry them open and find his angry, fiery, forlorn gaze locked on my face. He’s hurting as much as me. But he can’t or won’t admit it. And I can’t force him to.

I shudder as the orgasm continues, wave after wave of intense pleasure. It keeps building, expanding. And as I’m about to hit the peak, he releases my throat, sits back on his heels, and pulls out. He fists his erection, stroking aggressively, and comes all over the inside of my thighs as I clench around nothing.

I scramble to grab his arm, but we’re both slick and sweaty. He’s still choking his cock and I’m still trying to figure out what the hell just happened. In one smooth motion, he stands up and puts distance between us. It’s not just physical, though.

“You don’t have to go.” His voice is a gritty whisper.

“I do, though.” Because staying will only make this harder in the end.

His expression flattens. “It’s been fun. See you when I see you.” He gives me his back and disappears down the ladder, still completely naked. He doesn’t even take his clothes with him.

I lie on the futon, trying to catch my breath, covered in sweat and an unreasonable amount of bodily fluids, and wonder how someone who can make me feel so damn good one second can also make me feel so damn bad the next. Until now, I always knew what I was getting with Tristan. Sure, he could be an asshole, but at least he was honest about what he wanted. Dealing with an honest dick was a hell of a lot better than a guy who broke it off with me, moved across the country, sent I-miss-you messages, and a few weeks later started dating someone else. But all that honesty is out the window now. And I can’t keep doing this to myself.

I don’t have time to wallow in self-loathing, or Tristan-loathing, because five minutes later, the girls show up. At least I’m dressed again.

Hemi and Hammer both wrinkle their noses when they see me. Tally just smiles because she’s still sweet and innocent.

“Oh, girl. The freshly fucked vibe is strong.” Hemi pats me on the shoulder.

“So is the freshly fucked scent,” Hammer mutters.

“One day, hopefully in the not-too-distant future, I’ll be able to personally identify the freshly fucked vibe and scent,” Tally announces.

“We’re all going to hell,” I say.

“At least we’re going together,” Hemi replies brightly.

“Where are your roommates?” Hammer asks.

“Tristan is in his bedroom, and Flip is at some promo thing?” I end on a question because I don’t really know where Flip is. He and I aren’t exchanging more than grunts and side-eyes.

“He’s with Dallas. They’re selling pierogis at a church bazaar. Dallas hates the smell of sauerkraut, so it’s perfect for him.” Hemi’s smile is downright evil.

“You’re a mean one, Miss Grinst.” I motion to my half-full bin at the bottom of the ladder. “I got distracted, but it shouldn’t take long to pack the rest of my stuff.”

“You and I can pass stuff down to Hemi and Tally,” Hammer offers.

“That’d be great.”

Hammer follows me up the ladder. She takes in the huge wet spot on the futon. “Needed one last round, eh?”

I nod. It sucks that we’ve ended on such a low note. That he pulled out in the middle of an orgasm and came on my thighs basically sums up the entirety of our messed-up non-relationship.

“Need a hug?” she asks quietly.

“Later. I’ll probably cry, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing or hearing me lose it,” I whisper.

“Fair. Let’s get your stuff and get out of here.”

I throw clothes into the bin at the bottom of the ladder, including Tristan’s shirt, boxers, and jogging pants. Finders keepers. When that bin is full, I toss my remaining clothes into another one, make sure I have all my things, and lower the other bins down.

I grab my stuff from the bathroom, fill a cooler bag with fridge items, and do one last check to make sure I have everything. Tally and Hemi both take a bin full of clothes, and Hammer and I each take one end of the heavier bin.

Tristan’s door remains closed as we file out into the hall. It’s not a surprise. But it hurts. A lot. We’re quiet as we trek down the hall to the elevator. Dred, the woman who lives across the hall, holds the elevator door for us and eyes the tote bins. “You find your own place?”

“Yeah.”

“Hopefully I’ll still see you around when you come visit,” she says with a smile.

“Yeah, for sure.” I lie, because I plan to be angry at Flip for a long time.

“Who was that?” Hammer asks once the doors close.

“Our next-door neighbor,” I explain. “Flip is friends with her.”

“Like friends with benefits, friends?” Hemi asks.

“Surprisingly no. They’re totally platonic.”

“I sort of expected Tristan to come running out and ask you to stay,” Tally says as we head for the lobby.

“Tristan doesn’t do vulnerable. He doesn’t even really do feelings.” I tip my chin up even as it trembles. Feelings are annoying and inconvenient. Especially when they’re not reciprocated.

“Are you okay?” Hemi asks softly.

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It was just sex. That’s all we were doing. Just fucking each other.” Which is why it feels like my heart has been ripped out of my chest, stomped on, and kicked into a meat grinder. “It’s better that it’s over.”

Two stupid tears leak out of the corners of my eyes.

Tally’s arms come around my waist first. Then Hammer’s and Hemi’s.

“Men are idiots,” Hemi says.

“Tristan’s a dick,” Hammer says.

“Maybe he’ll realize he’s in love with you, too,” Tally says. Bless her sweet, innocent, observant heart.

“Shit. How did that even happen? How did I fall in love with an emotionally unavailable asshole?” Because I did. I’m such an idiot. The elevator dings, and the group hug comes to an abrupt end.

We file out as my brother strides through the lobby. His brow furrows when he sees us. “Rix? What’s going on?”

I fire the bird at him. “I’m moving out, genius. You can go back to tag-teaming the bunnies like the good old days. Sorry for cramping your style.”

His gaze shifts to Tally for a second and he flinches, like my words have physically hurt him. Or maybe he realizes she’s the coach’s daughter and I’m over here calling him out about screwing bunnies with his best friend, who just robbed me of orgasm satisfaction because he’s mad that I’m taking my vagina away from him. It’s admittedly on brand for Tristan. At least he’s consistent.

“Rix, come on.”

“You suck, dude,” Hammer says.

“Come on, let’s get you out of this nightmare.” Hemi throws a glare my brother’s way.

Tally just looks at him like he’s a huge disappointment as we trudge through the lobby and out the door.

We lift my bins into the bed of Hammer’s truck and climb into the cab. Tally takes the passenger seat, and Hemi and I sit in the back. There’s enough room for three full-sized hockey players, even with the front seat slid all the way back. No one will recline their seat and make it impossible for me to breathe.

Even that thought makes my eyes prick with tears.

“How did this happen?” I throw my hands in the air and let them land in my lap. “How did I manage to fall for my brother’s asshole of a best friend?” I lean my head against the seat and bang it twice. “Ugh. What a cliché, stupid thing to do.”

“Eh, don’t beat yourself up over it. He’s hot. And we’ve all seen the way he looks at you. Yeah, there’s a lot of lust, but that guy has it bad. It’s not your fault he can’t tell you how he feels,” Hemi says.

“If Tristan doesn’t usually talk about feelings, or show them outside of safe ones, like lust and happiness and anger, then there’s a chance he’s not even aware of the depth of his feelings for you,” Hammer says.

Tally twists so she can give me an empathetic smile. “And Flip is his best friend. So that makes it even harder, because now two important people in his life are at risk.”

“These are all valid points,” I agree. But they don’t make me feel better about how things went down. As we drive toward my new apartment, I consider how blindsiding Tristan might not have been the best plan. Maybe him inviting me to his bed was his way of trying to smooth things over. Maybe sex is the only way he knows how to express himself. That’s its own problem and not something I can fix for him.

“We’re making a pit stop,” Hammer announces.

We stop at the LCBO and pick up all manner of tequila-based drinks and an unreasonable amount of wine while Tally waits in the truck. Then we make another stop at Hammer’s favorite Mexican restaurant, where we pick up an absurd number of tacos. She skips the refried beans, though, because she knows I already feel bad enough.

Twenty minutes later, we troop up to the new apartment with my bins and our Mexican fiesta. It’s a great apartment, and I have a bedroom with a door. And my own bathroom.

I try not to give in and eat too many tacos, but I’m weak, and they’re delicious. Besides, I don’t need to worry about any gastro distress coming my way later since I have a private bathroom.

It’s bittersweet. My heart hurts, but it’s better to get out now and let it heal than stay and have it smashed into smithereens.