Page 6 of Between Hate and Desire

“Shut up! And hurry your ass up, Lennon!” Hunter shouts, beating his fist on the door, which only encourages me to sing louder. I’m practically belting out the words by the time I’m rinsing the conditioner from my hair. I honestly don’t know how Brandon sleeps through this every morning, or maybe he’s immune to it. At this point, Hunter and I argue worse than a brother and sister.

After I scream out the Broadway-worthy grand finale of my vocal performance, I turn off the water and hold back my laughter. Hunter hates it when I sing, especially early in the morning. He’s always a grump before eight, and getting a rise out of him is fun. It’s payback for all the times he purposely annoys the shit out of me. I’ve sung in the shower since I was a little girl, so I’m not changing that for anyone, especially not him.

Stepping out of the shower, I grab a towel and dry off. Hunter pounds on the door again, startling me, and demands I hurry for the thousandth time. As I brush my teeth, I think back to when we first met. Most assume we met after Brandon and I started dating, but that’s not the case. Hunter was bartending that same night, and we’d shared a moment at the bar before Brandon and I started talking.

At first glance, he gave me heart palpitations, but he was a total sweetheart and the cute way he flirted made me comfortable ordering from him. I remember his tattoos and how they intricately covered his forearm and wondered if he had more. I was in a different town on spring break and wanted to let loose and be reckless. We exchanged side glances and smiles, and as he poured different liquors into my glass, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. But neither could every other woman in the bar. Nervous exhilaration coursed through me when he spoke. Hunter’s charismatic and charming vibe lured me right into his web.

I went back to my friends and kept the electrifying moment to myself as I tried to find the courage to go back to the bar and get his number. When I looked at Hunter, a handful of women desperately vying for his attention surrounded him. He happily obliged, smiling and flirting with them just the same. They were all gorgeous, leaning over the bar to touch his muscular arms and laughing as if he’d told the best joke. Though I didn’t have much experience with men, I still wanted a week of fun and spontaneity. However, my insecurities got the best of me, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to satisfy a guy like that, not even for one night.

My fears and self-doubt kept me from going back to the bar alone for the rest of the night. I played it safe, staying within my comfort zone, and kept my friends nearby. After seeing the way he bantered with other women and they clawed at him, I convinced myself what we shared was nothing more than him working hard for his money. Considering the bad attitude and rude comments he continues to throw at me, I know with certainty there wasn’t anything special between us that night.

The first summer after Brandon and I started dating, Hunter had a different woman over every other weekend I was there. He couldn’t even remember their names half the time and had no qualms about openly bragging to his guy friends for being able to “bag and shag” any girl he wanted. If he wasn’t bragging about his conquests, then he’d go on about how hot or how built he was. Hunter’s muscular, there’s no denying that, but his appeal was lost after hearing him talk about it for the tenth time.

Since he no longer works at the bar, the number of women he brings home has slowed down, though he’s still superficial and still acts like a womanizer. “Bartender Hunter” was nothing more than a façade, a made-up gentleman my imagination created. “Real-life Hunter” is a smart-ass jerk who complains about my singing, lives like a slob, and has a revolving bedroom door.

Once my hair is dry and I’m happy with my appearance, I go to my bedroom where Brandon is still sleeping.

I look through the closet and slip on a skirt and a comfortable blouse. Before leaving, I carefully lean over the bed to give Brandon a kiss goodbye when he suddenly grabs me and pulls me on top of him.

“Sure you don’t have time for a quickie?” he playfully asks as I straddle him, feeling his thickness beneath me. Brandon sits up, palms my breast, and releases a small groan of desperation. I slightly rock on him as he arches his hips, feeling his arousal but knowing we can’t start something right now.

“Babe, if you make me late—” I start as he moves his hands to my ass and squeezes, pushing me harder against him.

“Then I’ll get to fuck you for the next hour?” The morning sunshine barely lights the room, but I see his cocky smirk.

“You’re the ultimate tease. You know I’m gonna be thinking about this all day now,” I admonish as I climb off, squeezing my legs together. He knows damn well I have to get going.

Brandon chuckles. “Have a good day, my little sex kitten.”

“Shut up,” I mock before telling him goodbye for real this time.

As I walk down the hallway, I spot a pair of red lacy panties on the floor thataren’tmine. I look down at them, and my nostrils flare. I try to ignore it until I walk into the kitchen to find cabinets open, half-full beer bottles on the counter, and dirty dishes piled high. A loud groan releases from my throat when I notice a bowl in the sink with dried cereal on the bottom.

Goddamn him.

I turn the water to a scalding temperature to soak the bowl. He knows I hate this because the cereal becomes rock hard and essentially superglued to the glass, which makes it nearly impossible to clean without scrubbing. Hunter walks past me to place another dirty-ass bowl in the sink that’s full of what looks like old macaroni and cheese. When I see the random noodles stuck to the bottom of the bowl that’s clearly been in his room for days, maybe even weeks, I almost lose my shit.

I turn around and glare. He’s shirtless, wearing pants that hang off his hips, and has his normal no-fucks-given attitude. If he weren’t such an asshole, maybe he’d be able to find a woman to help take care of him because he’s obviously unable to do it himself.

“Are you serious?” I ask, trying to keep my tone level. “Are you incapable of using the dishwasher?”

He shrugs, opens the fridge, and lifts the gallon of milk to his lips, taking a drink directly from it.

My eyes widen, and my mouth falls open as I gag. I make a mental note not to have any milk until we buy more or maybe not ever. “What the fuck, Hunter? Have you lost your damn mind?”

He places the jug back in the fridge and slams the door shut. Glaring at me with deep brown eyes, he finally responds, “I lost my mind when you moved in.”

I growl, unable to keep my frustration buried inside. “God, you’re such a freakin’ slob!”

Hunter walks away and then his door closes. My heart gallops in my chest as I look at the mess, and it angers me to no end. Each night before I go to bed, I clean the kitchen until it’s spotless. Then I wake up and find different articles of women’s underwear scattered on the floor and dirty dishes filling the sink. I’m no one’s maid or babysitter, especially not his.

More empty beer bottles and chip bags litter the coffee table in the living room. The cushions are haphazardly thrown around, which I hate. It looks like a fucking tornado went through here last night. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath, hoping I find the restraint not to walk into Hunter’s room and strangle him to death because he deserves it right now.

Before I leave for work, though I don’t have time for this shit, I have to clean up the mess, or it will bother me all day. I quickly throw the random trash away, situate the couch cushions, and pick up until the place looks semi-normal. Hunter enters the kitchen, fully dressed this time, and places two slices of bread in the toaster.

“It’s a new year. Think you can start cleaning up after yourself? New year, new you?” I ask, hopeful, but the sarcasm isn’t lost on him.

“That’s what we keep you around for.” He shoots me a snarky smile, and I’m two seconds away from slapping it right off his smug face.

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