Page 28 of Hate Mates

First to Last by A.L. Woods

ONE

Damien

Icould smell her before the sedan she’d rented had even crossed the canopied bend in the long, meandering gravel driveway leading up to the farmhouse.

Warm, spicy amber.

Sweet, calming, floral throws of lavender.

The faintest hint of vanilla.

Singed flesh.

Rain hailed down on the rental car, gravel sputtering under the weight of its tires, and the thick limbs of the sentinel trees lining the drive were no match for the deluge. From the single-hung casement window in my bedroom overlooking the front yard, I watched her and took a long pull of my dad’s home-brewed whiskey.

It was the only thing to slow the thrum of anticipation swimming in my veins. Even through the smoky notes invading my palate, she was so close now I could almost taste her. In the distance, thunder rumbled, my grip around the crystal eight-ball glass straining.

How long had I been waiting for this moment?

She wasn’t in a hurry to exit the idling vehicle. It was a shame there was no sunroof. I would have enjoyed watching her choke the steering wheel.

As it was, I was surprised they’d coaxed her back to this hellhole.

Autumnal leaves tore themselves from the trees, swirling in the cruel gust, adorning the shale and gravel in a flurry of wet spun hues of gold, brilliant shades of red, and rusted browns. A lull in the torrent afforded the object of my disdain the opportunity she needed. My inhalations grew scarce as the engine cut, and her car door flung open indelicately.

I followed the path of her endless nylon-ensconced legs, crawling higher and higher to the hemline of her short black miniskirt and a cream-colored cable-knit sweater atop a white-collared shirt peaking at her neckline.

My teeth sawed together at the obstruction seated on top of her head, chin deliberately tipped down, depriving me of the one thing I longed to see most. Her weight shifted right and then left, waffling, before she reached back into the car and pulled out an oversized coat, clutched it to her chest, and retrieved a small weekend bag from the backseat that looked brand new.

She didn’t leave her house often. That much I knew.

Testing her grip on her belongings, she took an uneasy step toward the farmhouse’s porch, stopping at the lip of the steps, assessing the historical edifice, her shoulders stiff.

She’d told me she wanted to grow old with me in this house.

But we all said things we didn’t mean to get what we wanted.

Sutton Rohr was no exception. She was the rule.

Tipping her head back, expressive midnight blue eyes riveted to mine, stealing the oxygen from my lungs, forcing me to look at what I’d done.

TWO

Sutton

“Sutton!” I held my breath as my Aunt Poppy wound her reedy arms around me, jerking me into a fierce hug that surprised me and knocked my hat—my proverbial security blanket—from my head with a thump I swore vibrated through the old floorboards.

It was two days. I could handle this. I’d endured worse.

“Oh, my darling girl,” she cooed, the tears constricting her voice, fingers stroking the frizzing ends of my hair the rain had its way with. “I have missed you something fierce.” Aunt Poppy framed my face, and I trapped the wince when I caught the slight twitch in her mouth as my scar registered under her warm palm. “You are a spitting image of Hannah.”

Was I?

I couldn’t remember my mom or my dad, my Aunt Poppy’s brother-in-law. Aunt Poppy took me in after my parents had died in a car accident when I was six. She’d already been a widow for two years at that point.

But I hadn’t seen a photo of my parents since I’d left, and I took nothing with me. Some part of me hadn’t wanted reminders of my old life.

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