P s i hate you, p.6
P.S. I Hate You, page 6
Chapter six
The house rumbles as I pad into the kitchen, a rhythmic thwap-thwap, thwap-thwap coming from Jace’s room. I stop for a moment, my face pinched. What the hell is he doing in there? For all I know, he’s murdering someone. Probably best not to get involved.
But the sound beats against my brain. I prepare myself a cup of coffee and join Cindy on the porch. “Good morning,” she chimes.
I settle into the wooden rocker beside her. “Jace taking down walls or what?” I lift my steaming mug and blow away the heat before sucking a tentative sip through my teeth. Saturdays used to start with rich French roasted espresso and delicate Italian biscotti. If I were home, I’d be getting ready to meet my friends for Starbucks and shopping. Instead, I’m sitting on a giant splinter, drinking this hot bean water passed off as coffee. The commercials lie. Folgers in my cup is not the best part of waking up.
“Nah, he’s just hittin’ the bag.” I lift a brow, waiting for more information, but she doesn’t offer any. “Whatcha got planned for today?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll take the bike into town and check things out.”
“Jace’ll be headin’ in in a little while. Why don’t ya see if he’ll give ya a ride?”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “That’s alright. I’m better off learning the lay of the land myself. Can’t rely on you guys for everything.” Besides the fact that my urgency to take a burning bike ride has little to do with seeing the sights of town and more to do with wanting to get away from Jace. But I’m not about to say that to Cindy.
“Welp. Ima go in and get in the shower before Jace steals the bathroom right out from under me,” Cindy says, rising to her feet.
I offer a grin as she moseys past me and slips inside the house. A warm breeze blows through the porch. I close my eyes, letting the feeling take me to another place, if only for a second.
Swallowing the last of my coffee, I set the mug on the table and wander to the side of the house to find my bike. The thwap-thwap gets louder as I approach the garage. I catch a glimpse inside the wide-open bay door and do a double take.
A bed takes up most of the space with a dresser and a small fridge against the wall. On the opposite side, Jace stands with his back to the world, hitting a teardrop punching bag.
My chin falls. I stupidly assumed he’d taken another room in the house. It never occurred to me that there wasn’t enough space. No wonder he resents my presence. I’d be upset too if I were made to sleep in the garage like a dog.
Frozen in awe, I watch his glistening back flex. The bag swings to the beat, his fists taking it two punches at a time. My breath becomes a shallow pant. I can’t tear my eyes away from the hypnotic show happening right in front of me. His power and agility, the strength of his stance and control over the bag.
The sudden silence is deafening. When he drops his arms and takes a single step to the side, my heart lurches into my throat. The heavy rise and fall of his chest is almost more mesmerizing than his back. “Do you need something?”
“No. Just passing through,” I mutter, lowering my head as I turn away. The sound of his workout resumes as I turn the corner. Heat burns my cheeks. He caught me staring like a fool, probably drooling on my shirt. What the hell is wrong with me? Jace is the literal worst. Yet something about him draws me in like a magnet. The harder I fight it, the more I feel the pull.
My bike tires crunch on the gravel. I pump my legs, using the shot of adrenaline to pedal away as fast as I can. Thoughts of my mother keep me company as I coast into town. I wonder how she would have spent the day. Cooling off in the creek? Sneaking cigarettes behind the general store? Thinking about her wild days makes me smile. I imagine her skin tanned and young, the sun bringing out the freckles on her nose and highlighting the red streaks in her chestnut hair. We look so similar that I sometimes see her staring back at me in the mirror. Who could have guessed that I’d find myself back where she started all those years ago?
My legs burn as I ride through town. I zoom past Mad Dog’s and The Great Notch Inn. I survey Hell's Bend from the seat of my ten-speed, trying to put my mother anywhere on these streets, but I can’t. It’s impossible to think of her as anything but the controlled entrepreneur she was.
I slow to a stop as the strip mall comes into view. Shoppers weave in and out as I watch, wheezing on roasting air like a turkey in a convection oven. A gaggle of girls tumble out of Boots n’ Bangles—they can’t be more than fifteen or so—giggling as their purchases sway from their fingertips. I want to run up and tell them there’s a great big world outside of Hell's Bend, Texas. Places with buttery fabrics and gorgeous textiles; leather and silk and cashmere, sewn together with handmade pride. Boots n’ Bangles is not the place to be.
Yet my gaze hovers on the Help Wanted sign in the window. I walk my bike over to the door and park it out front. A blast of cool air welcomes me as I enter.
“Can I help you?” The same woman as before stands near the desk, her dark hair curled up around a bandana headband.
I smooth down the front of my oversized tank and stuff it into the front of my cutoffs—an outfit I literally bought in here two days ago. “Hi. Yeah … um … I’m here about the job.”
With a polite smile, she reaches behind the desk and pulls out a sheet of paper and a pen. “Here you go.”
I look down at the sheet of paper marked Application for Employment. I guess I’m supposed to fill this out? I lift the pen and start jotting my information on the lines. Prior employment… I chew my cheek and contemplate what to do. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve never worked a day in my life, but I know clothing. And what I don’t know about business, I can learn. I’m smart and ready if only someone is willing to take the chance on me.
A vision of my mother floats into my memory: she’s tucking the tag into the sleeve of a designer suit she intended to wear and return because we couldn’t afford it yet. Fake it till ya make it, Ellie my love. I couldn’t have been more than four, but that silly little recollection sticks in my brain as if it’s some monumental piece of advice. Maybe it is.
I scrawl in the first store I can think of and make up some dates of employment. Worst-case scenario, she calls for a reference, and I don’t get the job. Best case? She takes me at my word and hires me.
When I’m finished, I slide the application across the desk. Her dark eyes slowly move from left to right and back again in a typewriter motion as she looks over what I’ve written. “You worked for Gucci?”
My mouth goes dry. “Yes, ma’am.”
“In Manhattan.” Her gaze flicks up to meet mine. “Why would you want to work here?”
“I’m originally from the East Coast. I just moved here a couple of days ago, and I really need a job.”
Sweat forms on my palms as she scans the application a second time. “You know, we ain’t like those fancy stores in New York.”
“But I’m told this is the best store in town.”
Pride beams in her smile. “You’ve been told correct,” she says, her eyes crinkling in the corners. “Well, tell me something. What does Ellie Cartwright bring to the table?”
Lifting my chin, I stare right into her eyes before giving my honest answer. “A hard-working attitude and an insatiable hunger for fashion.”
She lifts a brow, the corner of her red-smeared mouth stretching higher. “That’s one I’ve never heard before.”
I spread my hands on the counter between us, laying it out on the line. “Look, I don’t know how many applicants you’ve gotten for this job, but I promise if you hire me, you will not be sorry.”
“Okay,” she says with a nod. “I like your spunk.”
“That’s just what they told me at Gucci.” I grin.
Her laughter jingles like the bells overhead. “I’m sure they did. Come in tomorrow, ten o’clock. Okay?”
My pulse picks up, making me light-headed. My first job! “Thank you so much, ma’am.”
She lifts her hand. “First things first, cut the ma’am nonsense. My name’s Jolene.”
“Thank you, Jolene.”
By the time I’m back on my bike, I’m floating on air. It isn’t long before I find myself crossing the town lines. The Welcome to Red Drum sign sits high on a wooden post, a fish tail hooking around the words. I stop my bike and set my foot down on the pavement for balance. The sun beats on my scalp and shoulders. I think about turning around and heading back, but I have nothing to go back to. I may as well keep going.
That’s exactly what I do.
I ride into Red Drum as if I’ve just dropped into Oz. Everything’s so clean and new. The parking lots boast shining sedans instead of pickup trucks, and the high peaks of large homes reach into the clouds. We aren’t in Hell's Bend anymore, I muse to myself as I take it all in. This must be the “rich part of town” Cindy was talking about.
Following the winding road around a golf course, I come up on the entrance of the Red Drum Country Club. The wheels turn in my head. This is it. The birthplace of Sarah Cartwright, entrepreneur. The turning point in her young life. I feel her blood thrashing in my veins. I want to see it firsthand and stand in the very place where she stood. I want to feel her presence here, if only for a second.
All seems quiet without a soul in sight. But the iron gates are closed with keypad entry. There must be another way inside. I stash my bike in the bushes and peek around. Wrought-iron fencing lines a side-by-side row of tall evergreens. I sneak between, hoping for a break. Jackpot. A small bend in a baluster just wide enough for me to push through. I squat down and slip in sideways, sucking my breath to make me thinner. The majority of my life has been spent in places like this. I know how to carry myself as if I belong. I strut around like I’m the Queen of Sheeba, laying it on thick to make up for the way I’m dressed. The few people I pass don’t even look up. My chest swells with old pride. I miss this life, the luxury of being able to sign for anything I want without a care. They say money can’t buy happiness. That may be true, but it can rent it for a little while.
The scent of chlorine pulls me forward, the undisturbed aqua crying to be agitated. The area is quiet, save for a few old ladies nestled in the shade of an oversized umbrella. I slip out of my sneaker and toe the cool water. Sweat slicks my shirt to my skin. I don’t have a suit, but my cotton bralette can pass as a bikini top. I think to myself, what would Sarah do?
She would go for it.
In one swift move, I pull off my shirt and dive in. The shocking cold envelops me whole. I kick my feet, allowing my body to acclimate to the temperature before bobbing to the surface. It’s not just a swim. It’s a plunge into liquid heaven, and I never want to get out.
But a shadow passes over me. I look up into the narrowed gaze of a man in a suit. “Are you a member here?”
I swallow hard, wading my arms and legs to keep from going under. “Of course.”
“Show me your badge.”
My heart slams against my ribs. The last thing I need is an escort off the property by Garson here. The rich bitch inside me bubbles to the surface. I could chew this guy up and spit him out. “I’ll have you know that my family has been a member of this club for decades, and my father won’t be happy to learn that a staff member is giving me a hard time for simply taking a swim. Do I have to ask to see your superior?”
“She’s okay,” a deep baritone floats in from behind. “I vouch for her.”
The man’s angry expression falls neutral. “Mr. McNamara, I didn’t see you there.”
I follow his stare. Troy stands at the edge of the pool with swim trunks and a polo shirt stretched across his slender chest. “Well, here I am.”
The man’s tune changes on a dime. “I’m sorry, miss. Please enjoy your stay.”
He trudges away as I make a beeline for the ladder. “Thanks.”
“No problem. I hate that guy.” He hands me the towel from around his neck. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Recreating family traditions,” I say with a shrug. I shake off the last of my swim and start collecting my things.
But Troy’s next question stops my flight. “You never responded to my friend request.”
I glance over my shoulder and slip my shirt over my damp bralette. “I’m not looking to make new friends.”
“You can stay. Use my pass, sign for anything you want.”
“All I want is to go home. Thank you for your help.” But as I duck through the fence to my freedom, it occurs to me that Troy McNamara has been my saving grace—not once but twice. He could have stood by and let me get hauled away like a common criminal, but he didn’t. That’s gotta count for something.
I pull my phone from my bag and hit accept on his friend request. A DM pops in immediately.
Troy: You look a lot like a girl I just saw at my country club. Except dry.
A smile tugs on my lips.
Me: LOL. Thanks again for helping me out back there. That would have been really embarrassing.
Troy: Don’t mind Craig. He likes to think he’s someone important.
My nose crinkles at the seemingly elitist reply, but I shrug it off, assuming he didn’t mean it the way it came out.
Troy: My offer to show you around still stands. Or we can just have dinner.
Butterflies dance in my stomach. I stare at the message, wondering how to reply. Dinner sounds wonderful, as does a night away from the house. A part of me wants to say yes, if only for the chance to get away, but for some reason, Jace pops into my mind. I swipe left on that mental image, but the damage is done. He’s infected my brain like an ear worm.
Me: Thank you for the offer, but no.
Troy: You know how to find me if you change your mind.
Without replying, I tuck the phone into my bag and climb onto my bike. Regret settles in when my stomach rumbles. It's a long ride home. I should have used his pass to get a Caesar salad or a turkey club instead of letting my pride get in the way, but it’s too late now. Besides, soon enough, I’ll be able to take myself out to a meal. My mother didn’t need a guy to pay her way and nor do I. I can take care of myself.
Chapter seven
Another ruckus morning with Jace on the bag. My insides stir from both the memory of his body and the fact that I start my new job today. The latter makes sense. The former makes me hate myself in tiny increments.
The menacing sound comes to a sudden halt as I saunter into the kitchen to ask Cindy for a ride into town, but all I find is Jace cooling his sweaty torso in the fridge. He brings the carton of juice to his lips and tips his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.
Did I say tiny increments? I meant leaps and bounds.
“Other people have to drink that, too, you know,” I snap.
I tear myself away from the view but not before Jace gets his jab. “Fuckin’ Barbie.”
I turn on my ballet flat, setting my hand on my hip. “Did you say something?”
He looks over at me with a scowl, then slams the door shut and leans against the counter. “I have no reason to talk to you.”
“Yet you can’t seem to help yourself, can you?”
He narrows his gaze. “Where’re you goin’ all fancy anyway? Brunch with Ken?”
My dress feels like a suit of armor weighing me down. I want to look nice, but maybe it’s too much? Either way, I’m not about to let Jace know his comment chipped away at my confidence. “For your information, I start my new job today.”
“Standing atop your high horse castin’ judgment ain’t exactly work, princess.”
“Ew.” I cross my arms over my chest. “That’s a bold statement coming from a guy who’s done nothing but judge me since the moment I arrived.”
“It ain’t a judgment. Just callin’ ’em like I see ’em.”
I throw my hands up in a huff. “I don’t know why I even bother.” He’s so fucking arrogant that I can’t even stand being in the same room with him. I stomp past and search the porch for a sign of Cindy, but there isn’t one.
His presence hovers behind me. It slithers down my spine and tingles my tailbone, his low baritone in my ear making it hard to breathe. “She ain’t here.”
This is not happening. I tilt my face to the sky in silent prayer. “I need a ride to work.” The sound of my voice is hollow and meek. I turn to face him, the taste of crow bitter on my tongue. “I can’t ride my bike. I’ll be a sweaty mess by the time I get there.”
The wicked smile on his face is poison. Asking Jace Wilder for a favor? I may as well give him a pint of blood and promise him my firstborn. “I missed the part where that’s my problem.”
I breathe out a heavy sigh. “Please, Jace. It’s my first day.”
“You’re a real fuckin’ piece of work, you know that? You come in here bitchin’ at me, then expect me to do you a favor for free?”
My lips press in a thin line. “What do you want?”
He presses his palms against the wall on either side of my head, caging me in with his arms. Goose bumps dapple my defiant skin. The smell of sweat and smoke swirls with the seductive scent that belongs to only him. I hate the effect it has on me. “I’m sure we can think of somethin’.”
Lust pools in my belly, but a layer of anger mixes in. I swat him away and duck beneath his bicep. “You’re disgusting. I’m not gonna fuck you for a ride.”
An aggravating rumble of obnoxious laughter echoes in his throat. “Please. Like I’d put my dick in that block of ice between them skinny legs. I’d get more heat from an air conditioner.” My jaw drops. He falls back against the opposite wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You gotta clean my room.”
My brows pull together. “You want me to clean your room?”
“Yep. Laundry, too.”
I offer him a sidelong glare. This feels much too easy. There must be a catch. “A clean room and laundry. That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“And you’ll drop me off and pick me up?”
“Pickin’ you up wasn’t part of the deal.”
I mirror his stance. “You want me to do two things.”
