P.S. I Hate You: A High School Bully Romance, page 7
“Pickin’ you up wasn’t part of the deal.”
I mirror his stance. “You want me to do two things.”
His lips twist, his hard gaze locking on mine. “Fine.” He pushes off the wall and makes a start for his room but chucks a quick look behind his back. “If you see any suspicious stains on my sheets, they’re what you think they are. And they ain’t all from the same woman.”
I scrunch my face in disgust. My main goal is to stay away from him, but for some reason, I keep finding myself at his beck and call. Haven’t I been dealt a shitty enough hand already?
Elbowing past him, I step onto the porch and pull in a lungful of air. It dribbles out slowly as I give myself a much-needed pep talk. Today will be a great day. I look and feel good, so I’m not going to let Jace bring me down.
We ride to town in silence, the radio filling in the gaps between us. He pulls into the lot and stops right in front of the store. “Come down to Mad Dog’s when you’re done.”
“You can’t just come get me?”
He turns his head, his expression stern. “I ain’t runnin’ an Uber.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. Thanks for the ride.”
He speeds off before I’m even settled on the sidewalk. I spin on my heels to face the next few hours of my life when I hear my alert message ding. Placid blue water fills my screen.
Troy: It’s a beautiful day for a swim.
My smile returns.
Me: Too bad I have to work.
I start to tuck my phone back into my bag, but it dings again before I get the chance.
Troy: You work? Where?
Me: Boots n’ Bangles, and you’re going to make me late if you keep messaging me!
Against my best intentions, I pause before moving, but he doesn’t message back. My gaze catches my reflection on the blackened crystal. For a split second, I see my mother staring up at me before it morphs back into my own face. I take it as a sign of a step in the right direction.
Jolene’s head is bowed over a stack of tee shirts as I enter. She looks up with a smile that quickly twists into a semi-scowl. “Is that couture?” she asks, pronouncing it “co-chure.”
I look down at my dress, then back at her. “It’s Calvin Klein.”
“It’s wrong for the store.” She steps out from behind the tall table of shirts to peruse the rack of dresses beside it. “You can wear what you want on your own time, but when you’re here, ya gotta represent the Boots n’ Bangles brand.”
“Oh.” My high hopes deflate like a balloon. I thought I’d made the perfect choice this morning. Simple and understated yet fun and flirty. But looking around, I realize I’ve made another mistake. I can’t be prettier than the clothes I’m trying to sell.
She slips a dress off the rack and holds it up, closing one eye as if trying to imagine it on me. “This is more like it.” A polyester rag with cut-out shoulders and a lace eyelet hem. It’s a tragedy on a plastic hanger. Then again, taking in her own choice of clothing for the day, I shouldn’t be surprised. She squeezed herself in denim from cleavage to knee, a sausage casing ready to burst at the seams.
“Um …” My desperate gaze searches the store for literally anything else, but a rack of accessories catches my eye. “Am I allowed to dress it up a bit?” My brain flips to outfit mode. I weave through the racks and choose a braided leather belt, a long gold necklace, a chunky bracelet, and a pair of brown boots.
Her brows lift. “Hmm. That might be a look.” She drapes the dress over my arm and shows me the dressing room.
I remind myself I’m playing a part. Like an actor, we wear different clothes to portray our characters. This is no different. Audrey Hepburn walks into the dressing room; Miranda Lambert walks out.
“Nice work,” Jolene says.
“Thank you.” A wave of pride washes over me. Fashion isn’t about the label. It’s about pulling together a look that works when no one else thinks it will. It’s about using the tools at your disposal and still managing to impress.
I set the clothes I wore in behind the register and follow Jolene to the front of the store. “Today, you’ll greet the customers and ensure the front of the store is clean and organized.” She runs through my list of duties: say hello to every customer who walks in the door, make sure the items on the shelves stay neatly folded, and return dressing room items to their racks. Once we’ve got it all squared away, she flips the sign to open, and the day begins.
Country music plays on the speaker overhead. I’ve never been a fan, but as the day progresses, I find myself humming along as I stack the shirts in color order. What started out as a simple enough job has turned into a monotonous task. I must have circled the store a thousand times. My voice is hoarse from repeating the phrase, “Welcome to Boots n’ Bangles. I’m Ellie. Let me know if you need anything.” I’ll no doubt be saying it in my sleep. For a podunk little store in the middle of nowhere, it gets more traffic than I anticipated.
“How ya doin’ over there?” Jolene saunters by with an armful of jeans.
“Feeling just like a girl in a country song,” I quip, but my legs are tired, and my feet are sore. I glance at the clock, relieved to see it’s near closing.
Jolene smiles. As far as bosses go, she’s pretty easygoing. If only I can get her to stop dressing like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag, she’d be perfect. I’m not sure of her exact age, but the few gray straggles in her otherwise dark hair tell me she must be over forty. And she’s still dressing like a teenager. She needs to learn there’s a way to look young without dressing so … young. She’s a beautiful woman, and it’s not doing her any favors.
With fifteen minutes left on the clock, I hear the telltale sound of bells. I step toward the door and begin my spiel, but the sight of Troy standing in the doorway steals the words from my lips. “Can I help you?”
“Nope. Just browsing.” He blows past as if we’ve never met.
I peek from the corner of my eye, trying my best not to watch him pretend to shop, but I catch his gaze more than once.
“Buying something for your girlfriend?” I ask, my lips pressed in a wry grin.
“My mom, actually.” He pulls a heather gray tank top from the rack and holds it up in front of him, the words Southern Cutie screen printed across it in neon pink. “Think she’ll like this?”
Playing into his hand, I keep my expression neutral. “That’s a very popular style with the older crowd.”
“Is it now?”
“Mm-hmm.” I nod. “Just today, I sold one to a grandma of four.”
Dimples sink into his cheeks when he smiles. “I’ll take it.”
“Excellent. Would you like me to bring it to the register for you?”
“No. I got it. Thanks.”
The minute he turns his back, I let out a silent laugh. He pays for his ridiculous purchase and says goodbye as he exits the store.
Jolene follows and flips the sign to closed. “That’s a wrap.”
A sigh blows from my chest. I sag against the wall, letting my head fall back. “What a day.”
“C’mon, child, I’m sure this was nothin’ compared to them big-city stores.”
I inwardly curse, remembering the lie I told to get this job. “Yeah, but a long day is still a long day, right?”
Her red lips press together.
“So…what do I do with this?” I hold up my open arms and look down at my borrowed outfit.
“Keep it. I’ll deduct it from your first paycheck with your employee discount.”
Jolene just said the magic words. “Employee discount?”
“Forty percent off anything in the store.”
“I like this job already.”
Jolene and I work together to close up, then tumble out to the sidewalk. A yellow Porsche sticks out like a sore thumb and, leaning on the hood, is Troy. “Need a lift?”
The word yes screams in my throat, but I clamp my mouth shut, keeping it inside. Some girls like a guy who won’t take no for an answer—they get off on the chase—but I am not one of those girls. I get the feeling it’s not a word Troy hears very often. “I have one, thanks.” I turn away to start my walk to Mad Dog’s, ignoring Troy as he calls after me.
The evening sky shines in watercolor shades of pink and purple as I cross the lot and go inside. I follow the sound of heavy grunts and slapping skin, approaching just in time to see Jace take down some guy in a red helmet. “Got a lotta rage tonight, Wilder,” the coach grumbles. “Keep it up.”
Jace spits his mouth piece into a bucket and sprays a direct shot of water straight into his mouth then squirts himself in the face with it. He shakes it off like a dog, letting droplets fly off his raven hair.
I clear my throat to announce my arrival. His gaze burns with fierce heat as he pins me with his stare. It sizzles my skin like the hot Texas sun. “I need a shower,” he says before ducking between the ropes.
I find a bench and sit, a small groan leaving my chest. Jesus, one day of work, and I sound like an old lady already. Casually scrolling through my phone, I wait for Jace to finish.
“You were the ring chick at the last fight, weren’t you?”
The gravelly baritone steals my attention. I look up to find Jace’s opponent, sans helmet, staring down at me from his towering height. “It was just a favor for Jace.”
“You his girlfriend?”
“No,” I say with a shy grin.
“Cool.” He sits on the other side and towel dries his shaved head. “Where’re you from?”
“New York.”
“Wow. City girl.”
I offer a polite grin and go back to my phone, hoping he takes the hint, but it seems my new friend has taken one too many punches to the head. “I’m Zeke.”
He offers his ham-hock hand, and I take it but get grossed out when I realize it’s wet. “Ellie.”
“What are you doing in Hell's Bend?”
“Don’tcha have someplace to be, Zeke?” Jace’s growl rumbles from behind.
Zeke turns toward the sound and rises to his feet. “I was just introducing myself to your friend.”
“She ain’t my friend,” he snaps, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t cause a puncture to my heart. “And she ain’t yours neither. Get the hell away from her.”
I stand. I had no interest in speaking to Zeke, but I’ll be damned if I let Jace dictate who I can and can’t talk to. He’s not my friend—he’s made that clear—and he’s certainly not my warden. “You don’t own me, Jace Wilder. I can talk to anyone I want.”
Jace’s jaw tightens. “Get in the truck, Ellie.”
My gaze narrows. “No.”
His chest expands. “If you want a ride, you’ll get your tiny ass in the truck right now.”
“I’ll ride her,” Zeke says.
Jace’s fist comes out of nowhere. Zeke’s head snaps back, and I gasp, but I have little time to react before Jace grips my bicep and drags me out the door. “What the hell was that?” My voice echoes through the open lot.
“Zeke is a piece of shit.”
“And you think I’m a piece of shit. What’s your point?”
Fury darkens his blue gaze to a deep navy. He steps toward me, his nostrils flaring. “I never called you a piece of shit,” he grits through his teeth.
I meet his stare, standing my ground. For the first time, Jace backs off first. He gets in the truck and fires up the engine, then waits until I join him. Silence stews between us, but the tension screams a full volume. I have no idea what all that was about, and I don’t care. Jace Wilder is an arrogant prick who hasn’t earned himself a say in my life.
Back at the house, I stomp into my room and slam the door. As usual, Jace finds a way to turn my good mood to shit just by being his asshole self. All I want to do right now is crawl into bed, watch Drag Race on my phone, and pass out. I pull off my clothes and change into a pair of mesh shorts and a tank top when I hear a knock on my door.
“What?” I call out without opening it.
Jace’s muffled baritone comes through the wooden pane. “We had a deal.”
I beat my fists against the air before yanking it open. My muscles quiver, heat flushing through my body when I see him standing there. “Go to hell.”
He cocks his head with a smirk. “I’m already there, princess.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “You want me to clean now? I’m liable to break all your shit.”
“I ain’t got shit to break.” He turns on his heel and storms off. I stand in the threshold, watching him go, but make no move to follow until he turns to face me again. “You comin’ or what? I assume you’ll want a ride to school tomorrow.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I flap my hands and push my way into his room.
The smell hits me square in the nose. Sweaty socks and dirty laundry, with a thread of delicious masculinity weaved within the foulness. It’s no wonder I’m still a virgin. Boys are gross.
“You actually live in this filth?” I ask.
He shoulders past me and flops on his bed. “Live, workout, and house my tools, thanks to you.”
I roll my eyes. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Laundry’s over there.” He points at an overflowing basket of dirty clothes. I consolidate it and pick up whatever’s on the floor, wishing I had a hazmat suit, then drag it to the laundry room and throw it all in the machine without bothering to separate the whites from the darks. We agreed I’d clean his room. We didn’t say I had to do a good job.
As the machine whirs in the background, I get to work scraping plates of congealed food, wiping away piles of cigarette ash, and vacuuming the crumbs off the indoor/outdoor area rug. All the while he watches as if I’m doing a seductive strip tease for his enjoyment instead of picking up his dirty drawers. He relishes my degradation.
Against my better judgment, I peek under his bed and find a sporadic mess of condom wrappers hidden beneath. I scrunch my face in disgust. What kind of girl would actually get naked in this pigsty of a room? “I’d think even Darla would have a little more class than this.”
He purses his lips. “I ain’t about to fuck Darla.”
Eyes wide, I turned toward him. “Isn’t she your girlfriend?”
“I don’t have girlfriends.”
“The condom wrappers would say otherwise.”
He shrugs. “I have girls I call on when I wanna have a good time.”
My lips part. “You don’t believe in one guy, one girl?”
His dark brows pull together. “Do you?”
“Yeah. That’s the way it should be.”
He blows out a humorless laugh, mumbling more to himself than to me, “You don’t know shit about real life, do ya?”
Ignoring his jab, I stand in the center of the room and survey my work. “I think I’m done here.”
“Well, there’s the door.”
“You’re welcome,” I snap. I don’t get him. Possessive one minute, aloof the next. The boy is giving me whiplash.
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“Asshole.”
“Bitch.” He jumps onto his nice clean bed and stretches his arms behind his head.
The hair on the back of my neck rises. The sharp tone of his voice sends a rumbling flutter right to my core. I rub my thighs together, turning away to hide the flush heating my cheeks. A single insult uttered from his lips affects me in ways compliments never have.
How is it that Jace Wilder could be such a prick, yet still makes me feel seen? Every look drips with frustration and hatred, his words drenched in disdain, but his realism gets me. He’s a dick, but he comes by it honestly. No sugarcoating, no lies. Just straight up fuckery as far as the eye can see.
Jace gives it to me straight, and for that, I almost give him a little respect.
Chapter eight
My history textbook rests face up on the coffee table as I curl on the floor in front of my laptop. The ceiling fan whirls at high speed. I’m trying to concentrate on Reaganomics and Gross Domestic Product, but when a yellow swath of color passes in my peripheral vision, record-high taxes are suddenly much less interesting.
I rise from the carpet, craning my neck as I peer through the window. The yellow Porsche makes my stomach do backflips. Did Troy track me down at my house? When is he going to get it through his head that I’m not interested?
I wrench the door open before he has a chance to knock. “Ellie,” he says with a double take.
“What the hell, Troy? You look me up online, you come to my job … I don’t appreciate you showing up at my house uninvited like some psycho stalker.”
Mouth agape for a full minute, he stares as I finish my tirade. “I’m actually here for Cindy.”
My stomach drops. “Oh.”
“I had no idea you lived here.”
The flush deepens my cheeks as I eek out another, “Oh.”
“Is she here?”
“Yeah. One sec.” Heat floods my face and ears. I find Cindy in the kitchen, then sulk away in shame, but this new occurrence is far more intriguing than eighties politics. Why is Troy suddenly showing up at the house asking for Cindy? How do they know each other?
I watch from the window, sure they can’t see me. They chat for a moment before Troy pulls an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans and hands it to Cindy. She takes it, then rises to her tiptoes to pull him in for a hug. When I see her turn back toward the house, I scramble away and pretend I’m back to doing homework.
“Everything okay?” I ask as casually as I can. Meanwhile, the curiosity is clawing from my skin like a cat in heat.
She sits on the couch and hooks her toes over the lip of the coffee table. “Yep. Everything’s right as rain.”
“How do you know Troy?”
She lifts a brow with a surprised grin. “You know Troy?”
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
“Sweet kid. I’ve known him since he was about this high.” She hovers her palm about two feet from the ground. “Jackson—my husband—used to work for his daddy over on the rig.”
The plot thickens. Forget homework. My interest is piqued with this family tale, and I need to know more. “The rig?”
