Page 3 of He Hate Me

“There are my friends,” I say gesturing. “Lorelei, Shelby and Mackenzie.”

“So you’re from Italy?” Lorelei asks. “Whereabouts? We were there last summer.”

“Oh, really?” Georgio asks, perching himself on the edge of the sofa. “Where…”

“Excuse me,” I say, rising. The handoff worked—Lorelei’s already asking him what part of Italy he’s from, and he’s happily answering.

I wend my way across the room toward the back patio, figuring I’ll grab a drink and take a minute before rejoining the chaos. Perry’s house is too too much. There is a lavish garden with topiaries, fountains, and statues of Greek gods. A couple of people are hanging out on the back steps that look like they should be attached to a museum. The scent of roses drifts in with a warm breeze. I breathe it in deeply, feeling my body relax.

Now where were the drinks again? I head for the sunroom, remembering Perry coming from this part of the house when he was bringing us drinks earlier. When I step inside, Brandon stands in the shadows at the end of the hall, just past the sunroom door. If anything, it’s creepier than when he was in the living room. His face is in shadow. Since I’m entering through the side door, I have to pass him to get to the drinks. His hand lashes out, capturing my wrist. In the low light, I don’t know if he can see the confused expression on my face. His hand is cold, and I feel the impression of each finger on my skin.

“Moving fast, I see,” he says. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Shelby walks past the door at the other end of the hallway, sparing us a mildly curious glance, but there’s nothing odd about me talking to him.

“That Italian guy. He’s most wanted, and you’ve got your claws in him already.”

“Jealous?” I drawl, trying to free my wrist, but he doesn’t let go.

“Never,” he says, scanning my body almost the way Gio did. The effect this time is most definitely sleazy. I’m wearing a tube top and paper bag shorts; my outfit’s not even that sexy. There’s a strange sensation in my stomach. I can feel his eyes on my skin like a physical touch. His upper lip curls; no words, yet his disdain for me is clear.

“Let me go, Brandon,” I say, tugging at my wrist again. “What is your problem?”

“And you going to pretend you don’t know what you did to me in grade school? Remember the time you pushed me in the mud and ruined my clothes?”

“Are you seriously mad at me about stuff that happened when we were ten? It’s time to move on, bruh.”

“You’re going to be sorry you messed with me,” he says. I yank my wrist out of his hand and put some space between us.

“You need a hobby, Brandon. I think the community college has a class in get the fuck over it and leave me alone.”

I give him the finger as I back away and take another exit outside.

Our house is by far not the biggest or fanciest house in the neighborhood. For one, we only have five bedrooms, and the style is Mediterranean. There’s probably not a single piece of furniture that costs over five grand and while I have an ensuite, my walk-in closet is minuscule by comparison with most of my friends. Do I sound like a spoiled bitch? I know I do, but this is just how it is. At least I’m more self-aware than my friends, most of whom think $1,000 sneakers and cashmere sweatpants are normal. For teenagers. My dad was a doctor, and I grew up here in Twin Oaks, but we were never that out of touch.

I really do like a lot of things about Devin’s house. It has one of those entrances in the front with a dramatic double staircase above a marble entry. Everything looks whiter or shinier or grander than it needs to. The house I used to live in was a well-maintained mid-century modern, with no pretensions of grandeur. My dad wasn’t as flashy of a person as Devin, though I think Devin wants people to think he isn’t either.

I like coming into this house and feeling like I’m walking onto the set of a soap opera or a reality show. There are these two padded chairs on either side of it that no one ever sits in and a giant skylight that faces the driveway.

My very favorite thing about the house, aside from the gourmet kitchen and my room, is the pool. It’s an in-ground heated pool with a built-in water slide and hot tub. Because I don’t really like lying in the sun, I had my mom buy enough cantilevered umbrellas so I’m always in the shade no matter the time of day. I’m lounging next to the pool in a bikini the Friday after the party when Brandon comes out of the house, rips off his T-shirt and goes diving into the pool. It isn’t exactly graceful, and water splashes on my legs. I don’t know what his deal is, but I ignore him while he does laps.

Brandon’s been galumphing around the house like a morose moose for the last week. I think he found out I didn’t want him at that party, but he hasn’t confronted me. It’s more of stare down, lots of flared nostrils, and snide comments over dinner. This kid must think I’ve been living in a fairy castle all my life. I may be queen of the school now, but I wasn’t always. Kids have been mean to me since I was the only dark-skinned first grader in my class. I didn’t know the words “suck my dick,” back then, but I found my own six-year-old way of saying it. Brandon simply does not know who he’s trying to fuck with.

I text back and forth with my friends for a while and then I go check the hot tub. I really need a soak. Cheerleading practice, after taking it a bit easier over the summer, has been brutal. I need to lose about ten pounds by the first game, which is only a couple of weeks away, so I’m living off whey powder and pulverized vegetables. Lean protein and steamed carrots at dinner are the closest thing I get to a treat right now. Put that together with an aggressive training regimen and I’m both sore and exhausted.

The water is perfect, and I climb into the hot tub and set the jets. This is just what I need. I can feel some of the ache easing right away. I sink lower and let my head fall back against the edge of the tub. Where did I put my sunglasses? Usually, I do this after evening practice, but we had an afternoon practice today so it’s still sun out instead of being dark like I’m used to. I close my eyes and try to ignore how bright it still is. Slow breath in. Slow breath out.

“Get out of the fucking hot tub,” Brandon growls from much too close. I open my eyes and he’s standing right above me, looming really. He’s got the same pissed expression he’s worn for the past two weeks.

“Keep dreaming,” I respond. This guy has got to be nuts. His lips thin and he looks ready to spit. I’m cracking up on the inside. What a douche.

“This is my time, Deja,” he says, stabbing his index finger towards the floor. “I always use the hot tub around now. Get the fuck out and come back when it’s your turn.”

“Well, change with the times motherfucker,” I respond. “I’m not going anywhere. Why don’t you go hit Devin’s gym some more? I’m sure you could use the extra conditioning.”

His chest expands with rage, and I have to admit that dig was uncalled for. He is so cut it’s ridiculous. Every muscle in his chest and abdomen is clearly visible under his lightly tanned skin. He must have 0% body fat, and if I’m not mistaken his chest is bigger than it was at the beginning of the summer. Just going off of looks, he’s been killing himself in the gym. I know how those training schedules work, the hours of precise exercises and drills, the careful diet, and the regular routines that keep it all together. Using the hot tub right now might not seem like a big deal, but I bet he can’t stand any disruption to his usual schedule. It must be driving him crazy. If only I cared.

His eyes narrow and I think I’ve won for a second, but I’ve underestimated him. Instead of stalking off like I expect, he climbs into the tub and sits next to me. Something about the way he moves has made me think of him as lanky, but with him right up next to me I realize he’s actually pretty big. I’m not tiny, but he’s got several inches on me and at least sixty pounds of muscle. I’m not going to say I’m intimidated, but I have to fight the urge to scoot away from him. He raises his arms and spreads them across the back of the seat. His right arm is resting behind my head and lying on the long braids I draped outside the water.

“Get off my hair, you jerk,” I say, sitting up higher and twisting around to pull the waist-length braids out from under his biceps. Instead of letting up, he grabs a handful of my hair and yanks on it, forcing me closer to him until our thighs touch. He pulls downward, and my head tips back, our eyes locking in silent battle. His face is way too close to mine and a quick glance at my lips betrays him.