The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)

CALISTA

I slurp on my well-earned vanilla milkshake, purposefully cranking up the noisiness as Gage stares at me from across the table. A double cheeseburger, two large fries, a twenty-piece box of chicken nuggets, and a stack of chocolate chip cookies all sit in front of me, which isn’t my usual go-to dinner after class, but hey, the idiot was paying.

Even though I doubt I’d want anything Gage has to offer me, I couldn’t say no to a free meal. I can’t believe he found my studio and wants my help. None of this feels real. And no, not because he’s some “world-famous” hockey player, but because I was expecting the next time I saw him to be from behind a glass partition in prison.

I’m surprised he didn’t sue me—and even more surprised that now he’s trying to be buddy-buddy with me.

I pluck a fry from my basket and swirl it around in the frothy layer of my shake before popping it in my mouth. “Why are you staring at me?”

He blinks as if he hadn’t realized he was doing it, discreetly rubbing the redness smudging his cheeks. “Maybe it’s because you’re manhandling your food like some kind of he-man.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize this was a proper dinner. Would you like me to eat my burger with a fork and a knife?”

“You can start by slowing down and closing your mouth when you chew.”

I pointedly stuff a few more fries past my lips, chewing even louder. “If you’d stop interrupting my dinner, I wouldn’t need to open my mouth and talk. Sue me for being hungry. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

For some big, bad hockey player, Gage looks particularly small in the booth, or maybe that’s just because his stupidly big head has deflated since our spat in the rink. Realistically, he has to be between six one and six two, and yes, I may have called him a hobgoblin, but I’m not blind. I can acknowledge a man’s attractiveness without being attracted to him. And in no universe would I ever consider swapping spit with Gage Arlington. I’m guessing it’s a cesspool of STDs in there.

I hate that I know his last name. I hate that I hate-stalked him after our fight. I hate that he’s shoved his way back into my life even though I’ve tried to squash his memory like the loathsome little cockroach he is.

It’s a cruel kind of hate too. Maybe even the cruelest.

Annoyance looms over his features, though I’m not sure if it’s because of my disagreeableness or my messed-up eating schedule. “Maybe you should take better care of your body.”

I pick up the half-wedge of my burger as grease splashes onto the stained wrapper. “Didn’t hear any complaints when you were staring at my tits earlier.”

This endless tug-of-war seems to be awakening some malevolent side of me that I never realized I had. If dancing doesn’t work out, maybe I should become a dominatrix so I can humiliate men for a living.

Gage rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss the way he evades my laser beam stare. “Don’t flatter yourself. I have a lazy eye.”

To my utter horror, I laugh. Not in a derisive way. Like a…joyful…way. I don’t like that reaction.

I scarf down the last bites of my burger, relishing the sharp tang of the cheddar and the charred edges of the perfectly cooked patty. Ugh, and the Thousand Island dressing is fucking orgasmic. I feel like I’m in heaven. Minus Gage. So maybe like…lukewarm hell?

“Do you have a contract or something?” Although these pleasantries have been oh-so enlightening, I really don’t need to spend extra time talking to him. This is an arrangement—if I even agree to it.

His gaze finally washes over me, and my heart does this weird thump in my chest. Not a heartburn thump, either.

He scoffs. “Why would we need a contract?”

“So you can’t go back on your word.”

“I’m the one who approached you. I’m the one who needs your help more than you need mine. And I don’t go back on my word, though I’m not surprised you’d think that.”

I’m not surprised you’d think that, my head voice mimics in an eerily accurate, shrill impression of Gage.

“What’s your offer, Gage? What’s the incredible offer that’ll make me tolerate you for the next three months?” I hedge, waiting for him to bait me with money or a full-paid vacation or something else materialistic that he probably has an abundance of.

I know money could be useful in my situation. It’d let me cut back on my hours at the studio, and I’d be able to buy more than just the bare necessities every month. I wouldn’t have to worry about making rent or the cost of my mother’s medication. But I’m not going to be some girl indebted to Gage because he has a flashy car and waves his black card around.

He steals one of my fries and throws it down his gullet before I can slap his hand away. “I’m assuming a woman such as yourself couldn’t possibly be paid for her services?”

A smile, purely curated from the instructions of the shriveled, black heart in my chest, contorts my lips. “Even if I could, you couldn’t afford me.”

Gage’s chuckle isn’t some regular ha-ha; it’s this deep, guttural noise that rumbles through his chest and shakes his shoulders only slightly enough to convey merriment. So, in short, a cool guy laugh. A cool guy laugh that, for some reason, agitates a zoo full of butterflies in my belly.

Why the hell are those there? I don’t remember those ever being there.

And to hammer the last nail into my coffin, he leans forward on his elbows—which makes his shirt sleeves ruck up over his bulging biceps—and stares me dead in the eyes with enough intensity to blot out the movement of the outside world. “I would never need money to get a girl to like me. And I certainly won’t need it when it comes to you. You’ll like me all on your own when we’re finished.”

I swallow the ball of nerves rooted in my esophagus. “Yeah, no. There’s no chance in hell you’ll ever get me to like you.”

Although the table permits enough distance, Gage’s inclining body allows me the briefest glimpse at the forelock that tumbles against his brow bone, the tiny pockmarks on his cheeks, the plumpness of his bottom lip, and the minuscule flecks of moss scattered throughout his irises. His whole face is strangely symmetrical, with angles and ridges that would put a Michelangelo sculpture to shame.

“It’s already working,” he whispers, drawing out the syllables to imitate a spooky, hushed tone.

I falter, shake off the Gage pheromones trying to invade my body, then fling a French fry at his forehead. “It’s not,” I assert, still wrestling with the weird flutters in my stomach.

It’s not.

Exasperated, hot air puffs out my nostrils. “Can you just get to the proposal already?”

Thankfully, without having to endure whatever witchcraft entranced me in my moment of weakness, Gage acquiesces with an apathetic shrug. “You were at the rink for a reason that day, right? I’m guessing you have a sibling who plays hockey? Or skates?”

“Brother. Hockey.”

“Does he want to go pro?” he inquires.

I wish I could answer him. But the truth is, I don’t know. Teague’s never told me. Or I haven’t asked him. I’m so focused on getting him from point A to point B that I don’t even spend the time in between talking to him. Everything else in my life consumes me so much that I don’t remember the last time I hung out with him…just to hang out with him.

“Yeah, maybe,” I lie.

Either I’m great at compartmentalizing or Gage does, in fact, only have one brain cell, because he doesn’t pick up on my dejection. I scratch my fingernail against the chipped wood of the table as shame wiggles its way beneath my skin and burrows into my bone marrow.

“I don’t know if you know this, Spitfire, but I’m a professional hockey player. Professional with a capital P. I could totally help your little scoundrel work on his hockey skills. Maybe take him under my wing if I’m feeling generous. Maybe even shape him into one of the greatest players the NHL has ever seen,” he proposes, prodding the tip of his incisor with his tongue. “And then the crowd will be like, ‘Ahh, Gage. You’re my hero. You’re so talented and insanely hot. And you’re good with kids!’ And I’ll be like, ‘No need to thank me, half-naked ladies. I’m just doing my job.’”

I throw up in my mouth a little. “Okay, first off, that’s the most terrifying imagery to ever exist. Second off, why do you call me Spitfire?”

A half-cocked, arrogant grin winds his lips upward. “You didn’t tell me your name,” he points out.

“Maybe I didn’t want you to know my name,” I shoot back, resisting him with equal amounts of infuriating egotism. I can feel it sear the previous shame coursing through my veins, eating away at my last remnants of humility and reducing them to nothing but ash.

“You do know what Google is, right?”

Shit.

Just swallow your pride, Cali. Pray you don’t choke on it.

“It’s Cali.”

Gage lowers his brows, studies me, and seems to do some kind of full-body scan with his eyes. “That makes sense,” he eventually comments.

I chew on the tip of my straw to relieve what I can only assume is some feverish ailment that’s attacked my vulnerable body. It’s the only conceivable explanation as to why I’m not remotely feeling any violence toward Gage. “What makes sense?”

He tears a chocolate chunk off one of my cookies, and my gaze gravitates to the callouses on his large hands, the contrasting slenderness of his fingers, and the goddamn valley of veins snaking up his equally impressive forearms. For a split second, flashes overrun my mind—flashes of his hand bruising my throat, flashes of his hard body pressing me against a wall, flashes of him grinding his heavy cock into my thigh as he ushers my tongue into his mouth. And the worst part of it all is that the flashes or premonitions or whatever they are don’t evoke feelings of disgust within me.

The opposite, in fact.

That sardonic tone of his bleeds into full-throttle flirtation. “A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” he says, staring at me through his long, thick lashes, all while his fingers bring the melted chocolate to his lips and his tongue flicks out to lick the pads.

Realistically, I know he just stuck his fingers in his mouth instead of wiping them with a napkin because he’s disgusting. Imaginatively, he was tongue-fucking his fingers in slow motion as a breeze came out of nowhere and blew his luscious hair back.

My heart begins to thrash in my chest, the lower half of me swelling with a warmth that usually only presents itself in the presence of Henry Cavill films or a high-pressure shower head. I squeeze my legs together to dull the ache between my thighs, but now I’m self-consciously wondering if Gage can detect how flustered I am. Sweaty? Check. Darting eyes? Check. Might’ve just soiled my panties? AGH.

What is wrong with me? I hate him. I hate his cockiness and his entitlement. I hate his… his body! His totally ugly, not-at-all-fit body.

I can hear him talking, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. It’s like I’m trapped in lusty limbo, and I’m about to get dragged into the underworld by the claws of my sex-starved subconscious.

“—a trade. Hockey lessons in return for dance lessons,” he finishes.

Disjointed, I blink a few times to right my wobbling brain, my mouth filling with an influx of saliva. “But you don’t really want me to teach you how to dance…right?”

“Right. Just…like…teach me some flexibility exercises. Help me strengthen my hip, and I’ll help your brother hone his hockey skills. If you get me playing in three months, I’ll make your brother the best player in the minor league.”

It’s obvious what I have to do. Yeah, three months is a bit of a long time, but I’d do anything for my brother, even if that means making a deal with the devil. And, I mean, Teague could definitely benefit from some hockey lessons. It’s obvious he loves it so much. I saw how upset he was after those nose-picking nimrods teased him for not being good enough. I want him to be able to prove them wrong—to show them not to underestimate an underdog. I certainly can’t help him, and commercial lessons will burn another hole in my already-scorched wallet.

As much as Gage’s cockiness irks me, he has a right to be arrogant. He’s a famous NHL player, which means he’s a talented hockey player. And I bet Teague’s teammates aren’t getting one-on-one lessons with a Riverside Reaper.

Gage pauses before adding, “And I’m paying you. Three hundred an hour. If you try any of that holier-than-thou shit with me again, I’ll just double it.”

If I was eating anything, I would’ve choked. Kind of wish I was so I could hunk a glob of cheeseburger right in his face. “Are you insane? I’m not some cha⁠—”

“Charity case,” he finishes, making some kind of offensive hand yapping gesture. “It’s not charity. I would’ve paid whoever got lucky enough to help me.”

Lucky isn’t the word I’d use, but there is three hundred an hour on the line, so I bite my tongue. If he’s so adamant that I take his money, then who am I to turn him down? I didn’t want to succumb to a monetary bribe, but if he’s just throwing it in there to clear his conscience, then it’s hardly a bribe.

A girl knows a good deal when she sees it, even if it’s smothered in arrogance and stupid cologne.

Gage holds his hand out so we can shake on our agreement, and I inch my hand out before hesitantly jerking it back.

“That’s all this is, though. A transaction,” I vocalize, hoping that the permanence of the words will serve as a reminder for me to keep my distance.

I can’t believe I’m even saying this—because I never imagined this would be a problem—but I can’t fall for Gage. Whether that be an emotional fall or a physical fall…on his dick. Between taking care of my mom and my brother, there’s no room for me to have a love life. I just have to remember my responsibilities, my priorities, and that none of those include me getting up close and personal with any hockey player’s spare stick.

It might be a trick of the light, but I swear Gage’s hand wavers.

“A transaction,” he repeats, stone-faced, his voice harboring a frigidity unlike the feather-softness it usually possesses.

And as I snuff out the last of the Gage fantasies feeding on my clearly delirious mindscape, my fingers clasp his, sealing our deal for the next three months.