HATE CRUSH Read online

  Initially, I thought Stella had created the whole elaborate tuition charade to force my hand. It wouldn’t be the first time one of my students had tested their powers of seduction on me. In my time at Loyola, I’d seen every trick in the book—requests for office hours, batting eyelashes, cloyingly sweet perfume, short skirts and blouses too low to be decent—and I’d never had an issue turning them away. I’ve never considered myself a weak man, and immaturity doesn’t fall on my list of desirable attributes in a partner. But Stella is neither immature nor is she the type to willfully pursue an illicit affair for the sake of boredom. What Stella craves is security and attention, and for that reason, I should have known there was more to the story.

  As a teacher, I don’t typically have access to the financial records at Loyola, but I do have access to Stella’s file, and when I saw a note regarding her father leaving the country, it prompted me to do a little digging. That digging turned into a complete archeological excavation into her family. And one by one, the skeletons presented themselves, completing a shattered picture of Stella’s not so perfect family. It seems father dearest ran into some financial difficulties and decided to help himself to the company pot at the Arthur Group before skipping town and abandoning his wife and daughter. The word sleazebag doesn’t do him justice.

  So far, I haven’t been able to gather any information on Lila Monroe’s whereabouts in the aftermath. According to the notes in Stella’s file, the school’s calls to her have also gone unreturned. There is also the small matter of the family’s assets and bank accounts being caught up in the scandal, which means it’s unlikely Lila is still in Greenwich. She probably left town in the wake of her humiliation, but regardless, Stella is eighteen now, and therefore, she’s legally responsible for herself. Which would explain why it would fall upon her to come up with the remainder of the tuition on her account. A fact I only became privy to after schmoozing Marcy in the office with my concerns over Stella’s family situation.

  Marcy was all too happy to divulge that Lila Monroe is a gold-digging social climber and Stella’s father is no better. She laid bare her opinions for a solid twenty minutes, adding in tidbits of gossip she’d picked up from other faculty members along the way. She also speculated on how Stella came up with the tuition, adding that a federal agent had been poking around in her files as well but had ultimately found nothing useful. They asked about the fundraising campaign for tuition, of which the school had no knowledge, and determined it was legitimate. Though Marcy couldn’t fathom who would want to help a girl like Stella, which was where our conversation came to an abrupt end. She immediately retracted her statement once she realized we were, in fact, not on the same side. But thanks to Marcy’s big mouth and nosy ways, I have a much better understanding of Stella’s actions last week. That being said, it doesn’t make it any easier to swallow what happened between us.

  She sold herself to the highest bidder to keep a roof over her head. And being the prick that I am, I exploited that opportunity under the guise of keeping her safe. There was no other man in this world who could take what she was offering. I never would have allowed her to put herself in real danger. It would be a noble justification, if I hadn’t fucked her and blown my load in her like a goddamn caveman without a single logical thought in his head. What’s worse is now that I know Stella’s situation, I still want to do it again and again. I want to manipulate and degrade her and use her for the high that she gives me. A high I haven’t experienced since my soccer career ended. When I’m inside her, or toying with her, or even stalking her like a fiend, it makes me feel alive again. And while I don’t claim to be a morally superior man, there are some things that even I take issue with. Without a doubt, fucking Stella again is out of the question.

  ROUTINE IS the death of joy.

  Katie once told me that while she was drunk on wine coolers and high on life. She could be oddly prophetic when she drank, and I lost track of how many times she rattled off something that made perfect sense. They were always simple but enlightened truths. I wonder what she’d have to say to me now, watching as I repeat the same sequence every week with little chance of deviation.

  I am a creature of habit. Shopping at the same stores, eating at the same restaurants, summers in Nantucket, and winters at Loyola. I sleep very little and maintain my fitness by running, even though it hurts like a motherfucker with my reconstructed knee. I enjoy the pain, and up until now, I have enjoyed the comfort of my routine. But when Friday rolls around, I know that if I spend one more goddamned day around Stella, I’m going to do something stupid, like shove my cock down her throat.

  So instead, I leave after third period and venture into the city. I don’t particularly know why. It isn’t a place I’m fond of visiting, and I have no good memories here. But at one point in time, this was my routine. Walking down the streets of New York. Staring up at the steel and glass monstrosity of Carter Holdings as I considered what my future would be like. Now, I can just imagine my father up there, ruling his empire with an iron fist even as the cancer eats away at his body.

  I don’t step inside. That was never the intent of my trip. My father and I said everything we had to say to each other during his last visit. We both know I’ll never forgive him for what happened to Katie, just as I’ll never forgive myself. There will be no Kumbaya moments between us, and I accept that as I move along to one of my favorite haunts a few blocks away. It’s a specialty bar where rich douchebags like me drink exquisitely overpriced and exotic whiskys. In particular, I’m fond their Japanese selection, and I used to sample them often when I lived here.

  Like everything else in New York, the place is already crowded, but I manage to find a secluded booth in the back. It isn’t taken because it’s not trendy to sit alone and drink, which is evident by the number of patrons standing at the bar, scanning the sea of potential for the night. Among them, I’m not even really surprised to see a familiar face. He recognizes me too before I can look away, and I immediately regret my decision to come here as he cuts through the crowd. The waitress appears before he does, offering me a disinterested glance as she requests my order.

  “He’ll take a double Yamazaki 12,” Remington answers for me as he slides into the opposite seat. “And so will I.”

  Efficiently, she files away the order in her memory and leaves, and then I’m left alone with Remington Moncrief. He’s now widely known as the goalkeeper for MLS New England, but at one stretch of time, he was a friend and fellow teammate at Harvard.

  “Sebastian Carter.” He shakes his head and grins. “Has it been a minute or what?”

  “Indeed, it has,” I answer dryly.

  Remington is up to speed on my past, my family, and even my current situation. I can only assume that he’s keeping the atmosphere neutral because I’ve been anything but welcoming to his presence over the past five years. It has nothing do with him and everything to do with the reminder of the night I lost everything. I’ve always been too chicken shit to tell him that, but then again, I’ve never needed to.

  “How are you, friend?” He leans back against the booth and scrubs a hand over his chin as he examines me.

  “Surviving.” I shrug. “I would ask how you are, but I already know from reading about you in the papers.”

  His lips tilt up at the corners and he shakes his head. “Can’t believe everything you read in those.”

  “Never do,” I answer. “But regardless, I’m glad that life is treating you well.”

  Silence descends over us, and I regret the bitterness that still colors my voice. Remington deserves everything he’s accomplished and more, and I don’t begrudge him for that. But this was never how things were supposed to play out. We weren’t supposed to meet in a bar and discuss our lives like two strangers. I was meant to be right there beside him, chasing a ball across the field and living my dream while Katie cheered us on in the stands.

  Life is a bitch.

  “I heard about your father.” Remington waits until the waitress delivers our drinks to drop the bomb. “I’m sorry, Sebastian.”

  “I’m not.” I take a long pull of the smooth whisky. “I think that’s what the new age types like to call Karma doing her job.”

  Remington sighs, and I’m certain he’s probably second-guessing his decision to come sit down here with me. But he doesn’t leave.

  “He said you’re still teaching at Loyola,” he adds. “I hear you’re even coaching the soccer team up there. They’re lucky to have you.”

  “It’s more of a recreational sport at the Academy,” I reply. “They enjoy it, but it’s all about competitive resume stuffing.”

  “Ahh, yes.” He nods. “I remember those days.”

  My eyes drift to his hand, noting the ringless finger. “I see one of your crazy fans hasn’t tied you down yet.”

  Tension creeps into his face, an obvious sign this is a conversation he’d rather avoid, but he answers, nonetheless. Remington has always been honest to a fault. “No, but I am dating someone. It’s starting to get serious.”

  He waits for my rebuttal, probably expecting that I’ll leap across the table and bust his kneecaps. But I’ve lost the will to make anyone else suffer in misery beside me. “That’s good, Rem. Katie would have wanted you to move on.”

  He visibly flinches at the reference, even though it was meant sincerely. His fingers tighten around the glass and he stares into the amber liquid, swirling it around in circles.

  “It’s been hard. I’m not going to say otherwise. It’s taken me a long time to get to a place where I felt like I could really date again. And this might sound weird, but I think Katie would actually like her.”

  “No, she wouldn’t.” I snort. “She would have ripped her throat out.”

  Remington laughs, and the humor helps to dissolve some of the lingering tension between us, but only a little. For a split second, it feels good to be around him again. To laugh and talk about the good old days like both of our lives weren’t torn apart.

  “She probably would have,” he agrees. “You Carters always did run hot tempered.”

  “Fire and ice,” I correct. That’s what Katie used to say.

  “That’s right.” He smirks. “She was the fire, and you were the ice.”

  “At least some things don’t change.” I shrug.

  The waitress returns with two more drinks, which quickly turns into three. Remington and I fall into comfortable conversation, bullshitting about life and skirting around anything too delicate. Eventually, he checks his watch and calls time on our blast from the past.

  “My girl’s meeting me here soon,” he says. “But I’d love to catch up again.”

  “Sure.” I nod in my half-intoxicated haze. “We can make that happen.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me. “You know, in order for that to work, you actually need to return my phone calls.”

  “Oh, right. That’s how it works.”

  He leans back and pulls out his wallet, unaware that I already slipped the waitress my card. “That is how it works.” When he looks up at me again, his eyes are cloudy and emotional. A trait that hasn’t changed over time. “I get why you avoid me, Sebastian, and I know what you’re doing. Withdrawing from life, taking yourself out of the game. It all makes sense. But maybe it’s time to stop and consider how long you can reasonably stay on this path of self-destruction.”

  “Why change what works?” I challenge bitterly.

  “Because Katie wouldn’t want this for you.” He stares into the vacant void of my soul. “This isn’t you, man. You’re better than this. I know you wanted to play soccer. I know you had a dream. But you can do so much more with your life, and she would want that for you.”

  “She isn’t here to tell me what she wants,” I remind him. “So, I think I have to call bullshit on your theories.”

  He shakes his head, but luckily, his girlfriend has arrived to save me from the therapy session. When she approaches the table, I notice that she’s the opposite of Katie, and I wonder if that was intentional. I already know nobody will ever compare to her. Rem knows it too, but I meant it when I said I was happy for him. I just wish she wasn’t looking at me right now with that pitiful expression on her face when he introduces us.

  “Carrie, this is Sebastian Carter.”

  “Right,” she murmurs as if she isn’t quite sure how to act around me. “Nice to meet you, Sebastian.”

  “Uh-huh.” I dismiss her with a nod and gesture to Remington’s wallet. “I already squared us up. Go enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  He hesitates before he gets up and slaps me on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. And just think about what I said, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He takes his leave with his girlfriend in tow, and I drain the rest of my drink, trying to wipe that entire conversation from my mind. As I’m seeking out a distraction, I notice the hot blonde at the bar sizing me up. She’s reed thin and stick straight with bleached hair and fake tits. Stella’s opposite in every way. And maybe for tonight, that’s exactly what the doctor ordered.

  I gesture her over because I look exactly like the rest of these douchebags, and she’d expect nothing less from our kind. She toddles over on sky-high heels that probably cost more than her monthly rent and sits down across from me.

  “Hey there.” She offers me a dazzling smiling with perfect veneers. “I was hoping you might call me over. I’ve had my eye on you all night.”

  I’ll bet she did. It doesn’t take a genius to deduce that whoever she is, she’s in the market of give and take. It wouldn’t be the first time I ran across a woman like her, and it certainly won’t be the last. But I decide to humor myself and ask a few probing questions just to see if I’m right.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Alana,” she answers coyly. “And you?”

  “Sebastian.”

  “Sebastian.” She drags a polished finger across the edge of the table, trying to draw my attention toward her cleavage. “You look like a Sebastian.”

  “Do I?” I ask dumbly.

  “You have a certain… je ne sais quoi about you,” she answers, and I have to admit, she knows how to play the game. She’s well acquainted with men and their fragile egos.

  “May I ask, Sebastian, what you do for a living?”

  What she’s really asking is how much I make. Am I worth her time? I pause for dramatic effect before I offer a vague answer, just to make her work a little harder.

  “I have eggs in a few baskets. What about you, Alana?”

  “I do some modeling,” she replies, and by modeling, she probably means webcam. She’s got the sweetheart act down, anyway. “But can I tell you a secret, Sebastian?”

  “Only if you trust me to keep it.”

  She leans forward with a predatory smile and slides her fingers over to stroke mine. “What I really like is sex. And excuse me for being blunt, but how would you like to take me to a hotel and fuck my brains out tonight? I can make you forget all of your problems.”

  Her claim is bold. Not so much the sex, but the promise to make me forget my problems. Though I highly suspect that nothing will cleanse Stella from my mind at this point, I consider it anyway. Then I wonder dryly if there’s a money back guarantee.

  I imagine myself shoving Alana face down onto a bed and squeezing her hips while I jam my dick inside her. But try as I might, Stella manages to pollute this fantasy for me too. Because it’s her face in my dream. Her body. Her sounds. But I already decided Stella is off-limits. And Alana is right here, willing and ready. She would be the appropriate choice, and the best part is, I won’t give a fuck when it’s done. I could fuck her into oblivion all night long with no qualms about it.

  The only problem is… that isn’t what I want.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  STELLA

  “ARE you sure you want to stay in tonight?” Sybil asks for the third time. “I know the last gathering didn’t exactly go as planned—”

  “I’ll be fine,” I assure her. “I have chocolate and Netflix. I promise I’ll survive.”

  She doesn’t look so sure, but I’m really not in the mood to be the third wheel. As much as she wants to convince me the small group will be different this time, I have no desire to join the festivities. Maybe I’m just ancient for my time, or maybe it’s everything that’s been happening in my life, but those things don’t hold the same appeal for me as they used to.

  “Go have fun with your boyfriend.” I shoo her toward the door. “Just be safe.”

  “I will,” she promises. “You too, okay?”

  I nod, and she tiptoes down the hall toward freedom. It’s already past midnight, and it will likely be morning before she sneaks back in. While I told Sybil that I had a date with some chocolate and Netflix, the truth is, I really just want to curl up in my bed and sleep. So, after I brush my teeth and throw on my pajamas, that’s exactly what I try to do. But sleep doesn’t come.

  As I stare up at the ceiling, green eyes continue to haunt me. Ironic, considering Sebastian managed to avoid direct eye contact all week. Maybe he took what I said to him as a personal challenge. He keeps telling himself he doesn’t want this to happen while he pushes me away, and I guess he’s a lot stronger than I am.

  The truth is, I’ve never felt more alone in my life. I have no idea where my father is or even my mother, for that matter. Apart from Sybil, Sebastian is the only constant in my life. And if the only thing I have to rely on are his mercurial mood changes, then at least I can count on those.

  What Sebastian doesn’t know is that he doesn’t have to be an active participant in my obsession. When I close my eyes, he’s right here with me. I’ve studied his lines and curves. The way he moves. I’ve committed them all to memory, and I recall them every chance I get. To make matters worse, I’m wearing his stolen tee shirt to bed every night, just so I can smell him on my skin. I wonder if he thinks of me too, while he’s so busy trying to avoid me.