The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)

CALISTA

“Two scoops of fudge! No, three! No, maybe two,” Teague debates with himself, standing on his tiptoes to peek over the counter.

He looks to me for permission, popping his lower lip out in that cute kid pout, and I ruffle his helmet hair. “You can get as many scoops as you want, Squirt,” I tell him.

Gage squats down—which seems to be less strenuous for him after all the sessions we’ve done together—and nearly explodes my ovaries with one of his famous, dimple-popping smiles. “Little Man, if you want an ice cream cake, I’ll buy you an ice cream cake,” he says to Teague.

Teague’s eyes turn into saucers. “Really??? Cali, can I pleeeaaaseee have an ice cream cake! Please, please, please.”

I frown. “Let’s just stick to one cup, okay? That’s a lot of sugar for someone as little as you.”

“I’m not little! I’m five feet tall!” he counters, huffing and turning his nose up.

“You’re four feet and seven inches.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you’re a big poopy face!”

This little shit’s going to send me to an early grave, I swear. I lunge forward and dive my hands into his ticklish sides, scratching my fingers over his ribs as he collapses into a fit of screams and giggles.

“He’ll have three scoops!” I yell over the commotion, dodging an incoming elbow while he flails his limbs like he’s being kidnapped in broad daylight.

I’m so proud of how hard Teague’s worked over these past few months. He scored the winning shot! Granted, it’ll cost me a stupid tattoo—which I’m definitely not getting—but if that empty promise tricked Gage into bargaining with him to score the last goal, then it was a sacrifice well made.

Gage rises to a stance and leans against the counter. “And two scoops of vanilla and two of rocky road,” he orders, fishing his wallet out from his pocket.

Teague squirms under my hands, trying to retaliate with a tickle strategy of his own, but his adorable, stubby little arms can’t reach me. I eventually grant him mercy and haul him up by his underarms, plopping him back on his feet.

“We don’t call others poopy faces in public,” I mock-chastise.

Nobody else is in the shop since it’s a little past five on a weekday, which gives us some much-needed quiet after the maelstrom of hockey that’s been ravaging the household this past week. Teague needed me to read him an extra story every night because he was so worried for the game today. And in the end, there was nothing for him to worry about. Gage has been telling me that scoring a winning shot is a very hard thing to do. I still don’t understand hockey. I don’t know if I ever will, but I’m pretty sure I can count on Gage to give me the CliffsNotes version of it.

The server deposits three cups onto the counter, all overflowing with miniature mountains of sugary decadence, and her ponytail bobs as she waits for Gage’s payment to go through.

“Fine. But can I call them cunts instead? That’s what Gage said I can call them!” Teague exclaims in his outdoor voice.

Oh my God.

My hand slaps instantly over Teague’s mouth as Gage chokes on his own spit, all while under the unamused eye of the girl slowly pushing buttons on the cash register.

“On second thought, poopy face is fine,” I rush out, still muzzling him in case a plethora of new curse words find their way out.

Gage quickly apologizes to the server before scooping our ice creams up in his arms and making a brisk walk toward the exit. Teague, like the little devil he is, runs ahead of us to a small knoll just outside of the quaint ice cream shop, plodding through fallen autumn leaves that cover the once-green grass.

“I can’t believe you said that in front of him!” I reprimand, and not in a mocking tone this time.

“I didn’t think he actually listened to me!” Gage defends, albeit poorly.

“You better hope he doesn’t say that out on the ice.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve heard far worse insults out there.”

I stubbornly take my ice cream from him, but I’ve gotten far worse at hiding my smile whenever he does something remotely stupid. I used to be so good about it too. He’s finally achieved his tireless venture in making me soft. Now I’m like, goo-puddle soft.

As we climb up the knoll, I bump my shoulder with his. “Thank you. For the ice cream.”

“My dad was never around to buy me ice cream after games. I don’t want Teague growing up thinking his accomplishments aren’t acknowledged.”

It tears me up inside that Gage’s parents will never realize how amazing he’s turned out, despite their obvious lack of parenting. That’s every parent’s dream—for them to roll out a decent kid. I’d never tell Gage to his face, but I hope Teague grows up to be just like him one day. Caring, ambitious, courageous. Maybe minus the annoying part. But I’m pretty sure that’s just some deformed gene specific to Gage himself that won’t be passed down to anyone other than his offspring.

Ugh. Imagine having miniature Gages running around. Hold on a second. Why am I imagining that? And why, in my imagination, am I dressed in an apron and setting the dinner table like some kind of domestic housewife? Oh, God. I don’t want kids. Not even when I’m pushing fifty. Get me out of here, brain!

“He appreciates it, even if he doesn’t say it,” I assure Gage. “You’re spoiling him, you know.”

Gage sits down on the desiccating land, brushing away some of the crisp leaves and making a poke-free seat for me. He hands Teague his tower of fudge ice cream, but he keeps his eyes firmly set on me.

“I like spoiling the people I care about.”

My entire body heats up, undoubtedly saturating my cheeks in a bold blush. The sun sags just beneath the shingled roof of the ice cream shop, pouring shades of orange and pink over the tinted sky. I can see glimpses of it through the sparse, flaxen-colored foliage hanging above us, attached to a grand oak that sways in the autumn breeze, lending its rustling susurrations to the background of our conversation. The weather is still warm, not yet warranting the need for a sweater or a cardigan, and I let myself bask in it like a heated, golden-painted caress.

Teague digs into his treat right away, somehow getting chocolate all over his face within the first few bites. Gage volunteers to run back to grab some napkins, and I attempt to rub some of the filth off my brother’s face with a wet thumb.

“You know we’re helping Mom move into her new house tomorrow, right?” I remind him, surprised at how steady my voice sounds.

Teague continues to make a dent in his ice cream, unfazed like his usual self. “Yep! I hope she likes it. I heard they have a pool. That’s so cool! I wish we had a pool.”

I brush my hand down his head and chuckle. “You know, if you’re nice enough, I’ll put in a good word for you. Ask the nurses if you can go for a swim.”

“Really?”

“Of course, Squirt. But you have to promise to come visit Mom with me every Sunday, got it?” I stick my pinky out for a Cadwell pinky promise, wiggling it like that’ll entice him more.

I think I’ve been looking at this new chapter in our lives all wrong. This is a new beginning for my mother—a beginning that I could never offer her on my own. This is another chance at who knows how many years this place will gift her, giving her a life full of laughter and love and less pain. This is a good thing. It’s scary and different, but it’s good.

My brother eagerly hooks our pinkies together. “Deal!”

Teague’s suddenly wrangled into Gage’s arms as Gage fruitlessly starts to wipe the fudge from my brother’s sticky skin with a napkin. “Hold still, bud.”

Teague kicks and squeals, moving his head around so that Gage’s efforts to clean him are useless, and he darts out of his grasp, choosing to barrel-roll down the small hill. His shirt and pants are covered in fragmented chunks of leaves, and he stays close by us as he runs aimlessly around and does whatever weird ritual eight-year-olds do when they experience a giant sugar high.

“If he pukes, I’m blaming you,” I growl, wiping my chocolate-stained fingers on the napkin.

Gage snorts. “He’ll be fine. Look at him! Kid’s on cloud nine.”

My brother does like to run around in circles when he’s happy. He even has his tongue lolling out of his mouth like a dog.

I take my ice cream cup in my hands and start to prod at the ice cream with my spoon before realizing that it’s completely white, save for a single, red gummy bear sitting in the drooping middle. Vanilla. Of course.

Gage pops a loaded spoonful of chocolate and marshmallow into his mouth. “The gummy bear’s me, obviously. And you’re the vanilla.”

“Boring, bland, white?”

“Reliable, well-liked, comforting, sweet, revolutionary, timeless. Need I go on?”

A smile turns up my lips, my blush probably still in full force. I abandon my spoon and begin to lick a groove through the slowly liquifying mound, immediately relaxing when the sugar clings to my tongue.

Gage and I eat for maybe a minute of uninterrupted silence, but then he clears his throat and takes a break from his demolished ice cream. “I wanted to ask you⁠—”

I turn to give him my full attention, but instead of focusing on whatever it is that he’s saying—which I’m sure is important—I’m distracted by the drips of chocolate sliding down his knuckles.

Either my brain cells have deteriorated after my sugar consumption or my judgment has been heavily impaired by the freakishly good-looking man sitting next to me, but I don’t grab him a napkin. I don’t even remember that there’s an unused stack in arm’s reach.

“Gage, you’re dripping.” I grab his hand—which is still wrapped around his now-drenched cup—and lick the melted ice cream off his knuckles, cleaning his skin like some unspayed house cat.

It’s not until I’ve gotten every last drop that I fully realize what I’ve just done, and we both stare at each other, waiting silently for the other to say something.

Hey, Cali. Why did you do that? Why couldn’t you, I don’t know, just give him a napkin? Or better yet, don’t mention it at all! It clearly wasn’t bothering him. He would’ve cleaned it eventually.

I pick up the corner of a napkin and drape it over his knee, which is barely blocking the…um…situation taking place in his pants, and I avert my eyes out of…respect? My sincerest condolences?

“Sorry. That was…weird,” I apologize, my nerves sticking like a burr to the inside of my throat.

Gage blinks, the gravel in his voice splintering into glass. “I, uh, it’s fine. You’re fine.”

He sets down his cup, but he doesn’t cross his legs or bring his knees into his chest. Nope, his giant erection just kinda sits there, and I’ve never been more grateful for Teague’s situational unawareness.

My mouth waters, and it’s not some aftereffect of the ice cream. Fuck, I would give anything—and I mean anything—for him to take me right here, in public, while he splits me on his fat cock doggy-style, sliding so deep I can feel him in my guts. The first time we fucked, it was everything I’d ever fantasized about. It was sweet and gentle with just the right number of rough touches in between. But I need him. Again. Uncensored and unrestrained. Mounting me on that pierced monster between his legs until I’m crying and screaming and clawing at him for release.

I open my mouth—maybe to defuse the awkward tension with some out-of-pocket comment—but Gage beats me to it.

He fully struggles to get it out, neck thickly corded, eyes darkening in a lust-filled haze. “Calista, if Teague wasn’t with us, I’d bend your pretty little ass over my lap and slide my fingers down your pants until I get to that delicious fucking cunt.” He leans into me, whispering under his breath, “And ask you again like I did that night at your apartment, how wet would you be?”

He runs his nose along my jawline, and my breath snags in my throat. I don’t have some witty remark poised on the tip of my tongue. All that exists inside me is pure hunger, and it responds to every touch and every tease that Gage dangles in front of my helpless body.

“Dripping,” I admit quietly, feeling arousal leak into the gusset of my panties.

Jesus Christ. I need him. Right now. Need every inch of him filling me up, pounding into me until I’m so sore I can’t walk for days. I don’t want to make passionate love. I want to fuck like primal animals, taste his flesh between my teeth, selfishly chase after that all-consuming satisfaction. I crave him like flowers long for sunlight, like deserts yearn for rainfall.

“Good girl,” he rumbles, sliding his hand over my thigh, just skirting along the denim seam that borders my wet center, and my pussy clenches at the phantom fullness of his fingers lodged inside me.

It’s been too long. God, I’m going to come in my underwear if he keeps touching me, be forced to sit in my sticky filth the whole ride home until I can make a beeline for the bathroom and wash the embarrassing residue from my legs. This son of a bitch knows how sensitive I am.

In my head, I’m a badass who makes men beg on their knees for the tiniest scrap of attention. In reality—at least right now—I’m the one begging for his attention, whimpering for Gage to punish me for my smart mouth, to stuff it shut with his leaking cock.

“Not so hard to admit, was it?”

I shake my head, desire clawing at the depths of my stomach, urging me to align my hips with his fingers, to feel him cup my cunt through my jeans.

“Gage…” I whine, using superwoman levels of power to refrain from bucking against the air.

I’m ashamed. Trust me.

“When we get home, I’m going to fuck your throat, Spitfire. Gonna make you choke on my dick until there are tears in your eyes, and then I’m going to watch as you swallow down every last drop of my cum. We’re not stopping until you’ve milked me dry and I’ve bruised that jaw of yours.”

I’m shivering and shaking and seconds away from unraveling like a spool of thread when Teague bounds into my peripheral, sweaty faced with the faintest hint of brown still smudged over his lips.

“Cali, I’m tired,” he says, yawning and stretching his arms.

Gage scoots away from me immediately, ineffectively blocking his boner with his inadequately sized ice cream cup.

“Okay, Squirt. We’ll head home soon. Just…give Gage a minute.”

I glance at Gage, my confidence reappearing in the form of a coy grin. “Or more like five.”