Page 64 of What If I Hate You
"I should probably go," I say, but make no move to actually leave. "Work and…things," I finish lamely, the words hanging between us like smoke.
Barrett's expression shifts, something guarded flickering across his features. "Right. Work." He sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Of course."
The distance that suddenly opens between us feels like a chasm, and I hate how much it bothers me. Last night felt like something real, something that mattered. But in the cold light of morning, with my phone buzzing with questions I can't answer and the weight of professional complications pressing down on me, reality crashes back in.
"Bear, I?—"
"Don't." He swings his legs over the side of the bed, his back to me. "You don't owe me explanations, Rivers."
The use of my last name stings more than it should. We're back to that, apparently. The walls are already rebuilding themselves, brick by brick, and I can feel him retreating behind them with every passing second.
"That's not—" I start, but my phone buzzes again, and I want to throw the damn thing across the room. "Can we just?—"
Barrett stands, gloriously naked and unashamed, muscles shifting under his skin as he stretches. Even now, with tensioncrackling between us, I can't help but stare. The scratches I left on his back are vivid red against his tan skin, and something possessive flares inside me at the sight.
"Bathroom's all yours," he says, voice carefully neutral. "I'll make coffee."
He grabs a pair of sweatpants from a drawer and pulls them on, not bothering with a shirt before he disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the lingering scent of his cologne and the weight of everything unsaid.
I sit for a moment, clutching the sheet to my chest, feeling like I've just watched something beautiful crumble in real time. My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it, staring at the empty doorway.
This is exactly what I was afraid of. The morning after awkwardness, the retreat into familiar territory where we're adversaries instead of… whatever we were last night. I can already feel him pulling away, putting distance between us like he's protecting himself from something.
Or protecting himself from me.
I force myself out of bed, my body protesting with every movement. Barrett wasn't kidding about making it hard to walk. Every step reminds me of exactly what we did and how thoroughly he wrecked me. The bathroom mirror shows the evidence: purple bruises
blooming along my collarbone, bite marks scattered across my throat, and my hair looking like I've been thoroughly ravaged. Which, I suppose, I have.
We had sex.
On his kitchen floor.
After I cried in a bathroom stall at the arena and he…he found me. Held me.
I should feel humiliated. Ashamed, maybe. But mostly I feel…sore.
In all the best ways, of course, but also I’m completely and unequivocally confused.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shake off the weird emotional vertigo that's taken hold of me. This is exactly why I don't do this, the messy complications of sleeping with someone I have to work with. Someone who's already proven he can hurt me with words alone.
But as I stare at my reflection, I can't bring myself to regret it. Not the way he touched me like I was something precious, not the way he showed me his vulnerabilities, not even the way he made me feel completely owned and cherished at the same time.
My phone buzzes from the bedroom again, and I know I can't avoid my friends forever. I walk back into the bedroom and grab my phone, steeling myself for whatever chaos my friends have unleashed in my absence.
Marlee
Blake? You went quiet. Are you okay?
Ella
Did we scare her off?
Layken
Or is she busy getting her world rocked again?
Me
