Page 68 of Say You Hate Me
It gets stronger.
On Friday night, I tell Anderson that I’m having a girls’ night, which is true. Samantha, Kira, and I are headed to my favorite bar, Laurel Tavern. I promised Samantha that we could discuss the agency, and Kira is itching to go out, so I oblige her and figure I can kill two birds with one stone. The tavern is a short walk from our duplex, and once I change into black jeans, heeled booties, and a denim blouse, Kira and I walk arm in arm down the street to Ventura Blvd.
It’s a chilly November night, and the forecast keeps predicting rain even though it doesn’t actually show up. I pull my pleather jacket tighter as we cross the busy boulevard, and once inside the crowded bar, Kira finds us a seat. I quickly text Samantha that we’re here and order some drinks for the table. The bartender is quick to pour them, and when I walk to the back table, I see that Kira and Samantha are chatting animatedly.
“Look at my two favorite people getting along,” I say, setting the drinks down before taking my jacket off. I take a seat next to Samantha. “Hi!” I squeal, pulling her into a hug. “I’m glad you two have already introduced yourselves.”
“Kira said she’s been your roommate for years—why have we never met before?” Samantha asks, giving me an exaggerated frown. Her dark hair is long and straight tonight, and she looks like a model, as always.
I shrug. “I have no idea.” I shoot Kira a quick smile, and she reaches for my hand, giving it a quick squeeze. I feel silly now whenever I think about it—about the times I wanted to talk to her about things other than TV shows or what to order from our favorite Chinese place. And then I think about how Anderson said our mind controls everything—how my conviction that I had bad luck, that I didn’t deserve happiness, was all in my head.
The bad luck in love was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Keeping Kira out of my life was a way of protecting my heart. The only person I trusted until two weeks ago was Luca, and that’s saying something since he’s my brother. I was so quick to shut people out, so quick to look the other way and ignore what was right in front of me.
Not anymore.
My parent’s death took a huge toll on me, and I pushed people away on purpose—I never let anyone in because I was so afraid of losing them. But what’s the point of living if you don’t form connections?
I hold up three shot glasses, and we all clink them together. Something akin to sheer happiness fills me, and I shoot back the alcohol before dissolving into a fit of laughter as we all gag.
“What the hell wasthat?” Kira asks, her red lips wet from the shot. “Never again,” she declares, pushing the shot glass away and pretending to gag.
I shrug. “I got the special. I think it’s called a Vegas Bomb?”
“Fine,” Kira says, sighing dramatically. “I’ll have another one.”
We all laugh as Samantha offers to get the next round, and by the time she returns and we clink glasses again, thoughts of the agency are far from our minds.
Around one in the morning,the three of us stumble out, and Samantha’s husband offers to drive Kira and me home. When I get in the car, I give Kira a drunken kiss.
“I don’t want to go home yet,” I declare, my voice petulant.
Kira groans. “Oh my god, haven’t you had enough of the big D?”
I give Samantha’s husband, Marc, directions to Anderson’s house. He snorts. “Big D?”
Samantha twists around to face me. “Her boss,” she says slyly.
“That she’s screwing,” Kira adds.
“We heardallabout it,” Samantha chides, giggling.
I groan, covering my face in my hands. “I really like him, despite the fact that he started out as such an asshole,” I admit sheepishly.
“Sometimes those are the best ones,” Samantha purrs, giving Marc a salacious smile. “This one was a total jerk to me.”
Marc—who is extremely good-looking and very distracting to look at—just smirks.
“But you brought me to my knees.”
“Now I want someone,” Kira whines, leaning back and closing her eyes.
We’re quiet for the rest of the drive. It doesn’t occur to me to let Anderson know that I’m stopping by, so when Marc drops me off and waits for Anderson to open the door, I pause. The porch light is on, but the lights inside are off. I reach up to the door and knock three times. I hear him walk through the house, and my heart races. Fisting my hands, I bounce from foot to foot nervously. When he opens the door, he smiles groggily and pulls me in.
“Get in here.” The second he closes the door, his lips are on me, and then he takes a step back, holding his fingers to his mouth.
I stumble backwards, watching him with a smile—in all of his shirtless, boxer brief glory.
Holy.
