“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, confused. I’ve never called the cops in my life; quite the opposite, actually, since I was born on the wrong side of town and therefore destined to walk a thin line with the law—and, thanks to Jake, my life has been a living hell because of police presence, so no, I don’t “like” calling the cops.
Ignoring my question, he grabs me by the hips and spins me so my cheek is plastered against the wall. I feel a pang of excitement, but I squash that little spark as if it was a bug, hoping it will freakin' die because I will not allow myself to be turned on by this.
“Justin,” I ask in a calm voice despite my insides going crazy, “what are you doing?”
“Are you feeling it too?” He presses his body into my back, and I can feel every warm inch of him. His hot breath caresses my ear. “Do you want me to fuck you as much as I do?” He grinds his pelvis into the curve of my ass. He’s hard. Another sparkle of excitement trickles through my traitorous body. It clearly didn’t get a memo from my brain that said we should be angry and disgusted. He licks the shell of my ear, and liquid heat pools between my legs, coaxing me to give up. Just a little.C’mon.
I have a problem. I officially need to see a shrink.
Justin continues to grind into me and bites my earlobe again. I keep my palms plastered on the wall, scared that if I let go, they’ll be wandering all over whatever body parts of his they’d be able to reach. His hands rest flat on the wall on either side of my face as he touches me with this whole body—everything but his hands, and I want them on me the most. I wiggle until I can turn in place to face him. He doesn’t give me space, instead pushing me back with his frame again.
His mouth is so close to me that I can taste his warm, minty breath. He’s hovering over my lips, making it his purpose to torture me before the kiss. And I know it's torture; we both do. When I finally can't take it any longer, I lift my face closer to his, hoping for a kiss. Instead, he laughs abruptly and steps back, the sudden distance jolting me.
“What—you didn’t think I’d kiss that lying mouth, did you? In the dark, maybe, so I don’t have to see you.” He laughs again, and this time, it has no humor. It’s cruel. And evil. And aiming to kill.
“Seemed like you were singing a different tune just a few weeks ago.” I feel a vein begin throbbing on my neck, and my face heats up, probably turning bright red.
“Yeah.” He smirks. The motherfuckersmirks! “Wanted to see your reaction.”
If he slapped me, I’d feel less pain. My eyes begin to water. I step toward him and push against his chest. He stops laughing and steps back. I push harder. And harder. If he wanted, I’d never move him from the spot, but he lets me. My cheeks are getting wet—I didn’t even notice when the tears began pouring down—and I push harder. He stumbles over a storage bin on the floor and looks down.
I hate him.
I hate you.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” I wail. He looks up, and his eyes don’t hold even a bit of laughter anymore. They’re laced with… regret? Pity? Sadness? I don’t give a fuck anymore. “Go!”
He walks out without a word and peels off. When I’m sure he’s left, I throw myself on my wonderful, cozy, worn-out loveseat I bought at a yard sale for fifty bucks and let myself drown in sorrow.
All the feelings I ever held for Justin Attleborough have died.
ChapterEleven
KAYLA
The next day, I get to my morning shift at Marina’s a little late. When I woke up with a puffy face after a whole night of good, cleansing crying, I knew I’d have to spend a little time fixing my appearance. I couldn't show up looking like that, or I'd have to find murder-charge-grade bail money for Marina, so I called her to say that I got some food poisoning and would be late. She didn’t believe me, of course, but told me to come in whenever.
I’ve been wiping my face with ice cubes all morning, trying to remove the redness and swelling, but as I look in the mirror, it seems like I only made it worse. So I put some concealer on, my most distractingly large glasses, and go on my not-so-merry way.
Of course, Marina knows right away that something's wrong. One look at my face, and she pours me a massive cup of coffee with cream and grabs some Bailey's from her stash. She splashes some into my cup, looks at me, and pours three times more. Without a word, she pushes the cup over the counter toward me. I take it with a silent thank you and gulp down half in one go.
“Does your swollen face have anything to do with that asshole?” Her Russian accent is thicker than usual as she says this, nodding toward the door. I turn my head and freeze. Justin fucking Attleborough. I grit my teeth and groan. “Want me to get rid of him?” she asks, cracking her knuckles, and I chuckle. Shesocould—which is why I waited as long as I did to come in, because I wouldn’t want her to get arrested on my behalf. I’ve seen this woman make grown men tremble in their boots and cry real tears. I’m glad she’s on my side.
“No, I got it,” I sigh.
“You sure? ‘Cause I can’t wait to teach this pretty boy a lesson.” She finds my eyes and holds them. She usually doesn’t show her emotions much, but she’s loyal and fierce when protecting her family. And I got lucky that she considers me hers.
Justin walks inside and looks around. There are twenty tables in the diner, and half are already occupied despite the relatively early hour of nine in the morning. Marina makes the best breakfast on the coast, I swear, and in a few minutes, everything will be busy, and people will be calling for orders to go. We should have expanded while remodeling. And more staff—wedefinitelyneed more staff. Marina promised to hire more but never did; she's so scared of change, just like most of the locals.
Justin’s still standing by the door, looking unsure. He never comes here unless he has to, and for a very specific reason: me and his mysterious hatred for me.Now the feeling is mutual, motherfucker.He takes a tentative step toward us. “The shotgun’s in its usual place, should you need it," Marina informs me, only half-joking, before grabbing her Baileys and scurrying to the kitchen. "I'll get the shovel," I whisper after her, nearly choking on air.
Justin stops in front of me. His hands are in his back pockets, and he rocks back and forth on his heels.
“Can I have a table?” he asks cautiously, his voice nearly pleading.
My own is curt. “No tables available.”
“I can sit at the bar,” he suggests with a coy smile I’d like to smack off his face.
