Page 37 of He Hate Me

“Weed…”

“No,” I say. “You have never seen me smoke.”

He edges closer, grasping one of the braids that has slipped loose from my silk scarf between his thumb and forefinger. I move to swat his hand away, but he’s faster, dodging my blow with a chuckle.

“I get it,” he says, opening the tea bags and dropping them into the cups. “You do drugs, you just don’t smoke them.”

I look towards the stairs, paranoid that one of my parents will overhear, even though logically I know they’re probably fast asleep and Brandon spoke pretty softly.

“I take my sport seriously,” I say, tartly. The pitch of the kettle is getting higher. I don’t want to wait for it to start screaming. Just a few more seconds now.

“Your sport?” He laughs more loudly this time, the sound echoing in the quiet of the night. I shoot him a quelling look.

“Go ahead and wake Devin,” I say.

The water is just about there, and I snatch it off the stove using an oven mitt. The water in the cups begins to change color as the tea steeps into it. Brandon’s is a brighter green, while mine remains paler and slightly yellow. The smell is warming.

His body gets much too close to mine when he picks up his cup. He wraps his long fingers around it, the heat not seeming to bother him. I hold mine by the handle and sip. It’s grassy and bland. The heat spreads through me, not quite overcoming the cold of the room. I stifle a yawn. We don’t speak to each other, but I feel his eyes on me. His expression is inscrutable.

I look down at my cup to avoid looking at his face. In my head, I run through the things I have to do before homecoming. I’ll need a dress, maybe shoes, and to get my nails done. I’ll need to call Jayden. I think of anything I can to distract myself from how close Brandon is to me. My cup is still half-full, and I should stay here and finish it, but I feel trapped. Brandon takes the cup from me and places it on the kitchen island. The granite ledge presses into my back. His other hand, still warm from the tea, wraps around my waist. I want to say something cutting, remind him that I’m not a toy, that position of strength notwithstanding, he can’t just do whatever he wants to me, but I know it’s a lie.

“Why do I want you?” he asks, searching my face. I should tell him it’s because I’m that irresistible, that amazing, but I can’t bring myself to say those words—the ones that would turn this into the fight it ought to be.

“You shouldn’t,” I respond softly.

“I shouldn’t,” he agrees, then his lips are on mine, hot and seeking. I want to hate it so much, as much as I hate him, but Lord knows I don’t. His lips are soft and supple, his tongue agile. He tastes of peppermint and even the trace of bitterness from the tobacco doesn’t turn me off. I want to open myself to him, wrap my arms and legs around him, and kiss him forever. He shudders, his free hand sliding into the braids at the back of my head. His nails press into my scalp.

“Fuck, Deja,” he says. He bites down sharply on my earlobe. I moan, grasping a fistful of his t-shirt and trying to pull his body against mine, but he resists. I reach for his waistband with my other hand, my hand contacting something long and angular, like a calculator or a pencil case in his pocket. He stops me, holding my wrist against my hip. The bulge at his crotch is impossible to miss. Our harsh breathing fills the room.

“We can’t,” he says, roughly. He’s holding our bodies apart, but his hand is still gripping my hair.

“Why not?” What am I saying? What is wrong with you, Deja?

He pushes me down until my butt makes contact with one of the counter stools and drags my hair, pulling my head back so my face points at the ceiling. His other hand grips my throat, holding my head in place. I can’t move it. His lips crush mine until they’re flat against my teeth. His tongue forces its way inside, licking and tasting me like I’m a dish laid out for him to sample. His tongue thrusts deep into my mouth almost like he’s trying to choke me on it. It’s overwhelming, and my clit throbs in response. I press my hands to his chest, feeling the thick muscles of a body that could literally break me. I start sliding my hands lower and he pulls back, his eyes hooded. He squeezes my neck to remind me how easily he could cut off my breath and kisses my forehead gently.

“We need to stop unless you’re ready for me to pop your cherry,” he says, his eyes as dark as I’ve ever seen them. “I don’t have a lot of self-control right now.”

“Fine.” I forgot for a moment what kind of creature I’m dealing with. I’m honestly surprised at his sudden attack of morality, but calling it ‘popping my cherry’ definitely put a damper on my libido. Why does he have to be so crude?

He loosens his grip and I breathe in deeply. My scalp stings but I don’t massage it. Pride, or maybe I like the pain and the way it makes me feel alive. Brandon rubs his hand over his face, his features tense. He moves to the end of the kitchen island, putting some space between us.

“Do you know when their next date night is?”

“It’ll be on the board,” I tell him, “On the fridge.” I point at the whiteboard calendar, each date labeled with my mother’s neat handwriting. For both this and next Friday I see the name of a restaurant and a time.

“Two weeks in a row?”

“Next Friday is the homecoming game, so they’re probably taking us to dinner. This week might be a date night. Or some business thing.”

“Are you busy?”

“Kind of. I can’t keep skipping out on social obligations. People are going to think something’s wrong.”

“That’s okay,” he says, still perusing the board. “I don’t think I’ll need you.”

I pick up my still warm cup of chamomile tea and take a sip. My hands are shaking slightly as I set it down, trying to ignore the strange buzz in my limbs and the heaviness in my pelvis. I don’t know how far I would have let things go, but it’s scary that Brandon had to be the one to stop us from going further than we did. He’s staring at me now, his expression almost hostile. I shrug as if to say, ‘What?’

“I kinda wanted to study down here,” he says, running his hand through his night-black hair.