Hate Story

  * * * *

  Hate Story

  Copyright © 2016 by Nicole Williams

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  I didn’t know anything about the man other than his last name. That, and what his last name meant.

  Storm.

  As a noun, storm was defined as a violent disturbance of the atmosphere. As a verb, it meant to move forcefully in a specified direction.

  He came into my life just like that.

  Maybe I should have anticipated that, given our situation. Maybe I was naïve to assume anything less than a storm could ensue between two people as different as he and I were. I should have known, and maybe if I had, I would have done things differently.

  Maybe I would have done everything differently.

  Maybe I would have done nothing differently.

  This story wasn’t about the maybes and the what-ifs. This story was about the details and the destruction that came.

  This wasn’t a love story. Nothing close to a romance. A happily-ever-after knocked on its ass. True love bashed on its fragile head. A fairy tale no one tells their children.

  This was the other kind of story. The kind not punctuated with contented sighs and skipping hearts.

  This was a story of a storm—the storm that eviscerated everything in my whole entire world.

  This wasn’t the story of how I grew to love him—it’s the account of how I came to hate him.

  That was where this story leads. The path I found myself on which wound down many trails until it came to an abrupt end.

  This is our hate story.

  Second thoughts. I was having them.

  Experiencing these any time before stepping into the lobby of the swanky hotel I was meeting him at would have been helpful.

  “Sure you’re ready for this?” my best friend, Kate, asked, surveying the lobby like he was going to be lurking there with a sign hanging above his head.

  “I’m sure.”

  It was a lie. I wasn’t sure I was ready, but I didn’t have a choice. The bills had gone from a pile to a pillar, and if I didn’t do something soon, I would lose the house. I couldn’t lose the house. Not ever. It was the only home I’d ever known.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know? There are other options. When I mentioned this a few months ago, it was just a far-off suggestion, not one I thought you’d actually run with.” Kate slowed down as we got closer to the hotel lounge where he was supposed to be waiting.

  “There are no other options that include me keeping the house. At least not ones that are any less illicit than this one.” I licked my lips out of nervousness. With the way things had been lately, it was a miracle they hadn’t turned into sandpaper.

  “You know you could go to jail, right?”

  My tongue touched my lips again. “Only if I get caught.”

  Kate shook her head, and her light hair whipped across her shoulders. She was everything I wasn’t. Tall, rail-thin, straight blond hair that cooperated, skin that looked like she’d been gilded in something ethereal, and dressed like life was one endless party. Our personalities were a stark contrast as well. She was effervescent, where I fell somewhere closer to the jaded end of the scale. She wrung the life out of each day, loved like she’d never been hurt, and laughed like she’d never known sorrow.

  What she saw in me that kept our friendship enduring, I didn’t know. I just hoped she hadn’t hung around when others bailed because she felt obligated. I didn’t want to be anyone’s pity penance.

  She snagged my arm when I walked in front of her, braking me to a stop when I was a few steps from the lounge’s entrance. “Do you know what he looks like?”

  I tempered my irritation before glancing at her. She was coming from a place of concern, but I was committed. I just needed to get this over with already. “No.”

  “About how old he is?”

  My armpits were starting to sweat. I hadn’t even seen him yet and I was already pitting out. “No,” I answered, lifting my arms a little for ventilation.

  “Do you know what he’s going to be wearing tonight?” Kate glanced over my shoulder, almost glaring into the lounge.

  “No.” I twisted from side to side to create as much of a breeze as I could. I so should have splurged for the clinical strength deodorant instead of this cheap dollar-store junk that was probably going to give me cancer one day. If my budget hadn’t been worked out to the last quarter, I would have.

  “Do you know anything about him?” Kate sighed, motioning at me like I was the lamb who’d just brayed as the first volunteer for the slaughter. “Other than, you know . . .” She swallowed. “What he wants?”

  My stomach rolled. I definitely knew what he wanted. “I know his name.”

  Kate waited a moment. “And his name is . . .?”

  “Sturm.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “What kind of a name is that?”

  “Sturm’s his last name. I don’t know what his first is.”

  Kate’s nose went back to normal, but a high eyebrow took over its job of disapproving. She was especially expressive. That was another way we were different. Kate seemed to have no desire or inclination to hide what she felt, whereas I had every desire and inclination to hide.

  “So what is he expecting you to call him? Mister Sturm? Because this twenty-first-century feminist is so not okay with one of her best friends addressing this guy like that.”

  “Yeah, neither is this twenty-first-century fe
minist.” I flapped air in the direction of my armpits because they were only getting worse.

  “The same feminist agreeing to marry a man for money?” Kate drew her hand up to her hip and stretched into every inch of her nearly-six-foot frame.

  The word still sucked the air out of my lungs, but it had lost some of its potency. “Exactly—agreeing to marry him for money instead of lame reasons like love or feelings or to grow old together. How much more feminist does it get?”

  Kate looked down at me. “Eh, how about instead of marrying him for money, you could turn him into the authorities for trying to commit green card fraud?” She peeked over my shoulder and craned her neck to look into the lounge. “Besides, what is a million dollars really? That chick in that Indecent Proposal movie got a million and she only had to spend one night with him. Plus if you factor in inflation, since that movie’s almost as old as I am, you are getting the proverbial and literal shaft. In the ass.”

  I gave up the armpit sweat battle and hung my arms at my sides. Why did I care if this guy’s first impression of me was as a profuse sweater? I wasn’t asking for his approval or even expecting it. He was a business transaction to me. I was a means to an end to him.

  A case of two people embracing the capitalist spirit of America.

  “Yeah, but she had to sleep with the guy. That’s not part of our deal,” I argued. “But if it was part of the fine print, believe me, I’d ask for a hell of a lot more.”

  We had an agreement. Kind of. It was more a rough draft that had just as many amendments as it had bullet points, but I preferred having everything ironed out in advance. I wanted to know exactly what I was getting into before sinking up to my neck in it, which I was minutes away from doing.

  “So you’re saying you would sleep with him if the price was right?” Kate’s other hand flew to her hip.

  I gave her the most indifferent face I could. I might have been able to look the part, but I certainly didn’t feel the part. “Hey, Morality Police, I’m already agreeing to marry a guy so he can get a green card. Give me a break.”

  Kate’s phone chimed in her clutch. She’d wrangled up a couple of friends to meet her at this lounge tonight so she could keep an eye on me. I guessed she was worried the guy might not be on the up-and-up and might be using a green card as a cover for wanting to sell me off for internal organs or into the sex trade. I wasn’t worried about that, but I was thankful she was here for support if nothing else.

  After punching in a quick text, Kate circled her phone at me. “And what are you wearing? Did you think there was going to be a ribbon handed out at the end of the night for the most colorful outfit?”

  I glanced down at myself. I liked color. Lots of it. Living in a place like Portland, Oregon, a person had to find a way to fight off the perpetual gray. This was my chosen method.

  “I wanted to make sure he knew who I was,” I said, just barely peeking inside the lounge. Dozens of bodies, all of them different shapes, sizes, and colors, and all of them were dressed like they’d conspired to match. “If I’d known everyone would be in some shade of gray or blue, I wouldn’t have dressed in a green polka-dot dress, fuchsia shoes, and a blue checked scarf.”

  Kate bit her lip to keep from laughing. “You’re a fashion intervention begging to happen.”

  I stopped rubbing at a wrinkle in my dress. If an iron hadn’t been up to the challenge of smoothing it out, my thumb wasn’t going to do it. “I don’t care. I’m not here to impress him or earn his approval.”

  “Yeah, that’s obvious,” she mumbled just loud enough for me to hear. When I went to give her a little shove, she slid out of the way. “And if you’re not trying to impress him, why are you wearing the first dress I’ve seen you in since, god, probably when you wore that very one at spring fling of our senior year?” Kate was looking inside the lounge now, her gaze skimming the space like she was looking for something. Her friends must have already been there because she waved at someone before lifting her finger in a just-a-minute kind of way.

  “Because I didn’t think this place was a holey jeans and sneakers kind of place,” I argued, wondering why I was defending my wardrobe choices to someone who dressed by the less-is-more standard.

  “Let’s hope Mister Sturm is fashion blind.” The way she said it earned her another little shove.

  “He’s a single, foreign man who’s paying someone a hell of a lot of money to marry him.” I crossed my arms at her as she kept peeking into the lounge. “I think it’s safe to say I’m not about to come face-to-face with a guy who spends his nights flipping the pages of GQ. And if you call him Mister Sturm again, I’m going to pull your hair.”

  Kate winked at me. “My scalp’s a little sensitive from the hair pulling last night.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Alexander?” The last man du jour she’d mentioned to me.

  “Trenton.” She kind of sighed his name. Actually, it held the hint of a moan. God. I could never imagine sighing-slash-moaning some guy’s name. Ever. The closest I’d ever gotten to a sigh-moan was over the peanut butter pie my grandma had made for my last birthday.

  “Fine,” I said, interrupting the last notes of her moan. “Then I’ll slap your ass if you say it again.”

  She flashed a wicked smile my direction before giving her hips a shake. “Just as sensitive.”

  “God, fine,” I groaned. “Just stop. Your sex life nauseates me.”

  “Jealous is not a good look for you. Besides, someone needs to make up for your lack of it.” Kate waved at me like my sex life was visible for all to read.

  “At your rate, you’re making up for the entire city’s lack of sex life.”

  She nodded solemnly. “You’re welcome.”

  “Besides, sex is not all it’s cracked up to be.” At this point, I was stalling, but I was nervous.

  “Believe me, with the right person who knows what they’re doing, it is all, and more, it’s cracked up to be.” Kate bounced her brows. “Some guys just know how to use their dick better than others.”

  I frowned. “Wow. I’m about to orgasm all over the place.”

  Kate laughed as she slid in front of me and teased my hair with her fingers.

  “Oww,” I whined as she ripped and pulled at my hair. “And I hope you washed your hands with bleach after the last dick you touched.”

  She responded by smearing her hands down the sides of my face. “Most action you’ve ever seen.” She scrubbed them down my face one more time. “You’re welcome.”

  I stepped out of the reach of her filthy little paws and waved her toward the lounge.

  “I’ll be right there. Just give the signal if the guy turns out to be a serious creeper, okay?” She waited for me to nod, then she kissed the air in my direction. “Go get him, tomcat.”

  I didn’t know how to reply to that, so I went with an okay signal.

  I waited a minute after Kate had disappeared into the lounge. Then I waited one more before forcing my feet forward. It wasn’t like my dwindling courage was going to find its way back the longer I stalled.

  Taking in a slow breath, I pictured my house. The one I’d grown up in. The one that had housed a Burton for sixty years. The one that would probably be gutted or ripped down and replaced by whatever rich a-hole bought it at the foreclosure sale. I pictured relief from the stack of bills, the freedom to have choices, and a future that wasn’t already painted with bleak hues and dark strokes.

  Then I moved inside the lounge and took my first step toward my future husband.

  I couldn’t stand out more even if I’d stripped naked and dipped myself in hot pink paint.

  The lounge kept in the hotel’s theme of being expensive-looking and meant for an upper echelon I was not a member of. I didn’t belong there. I felt it as much as I sensed the few stares from people thinking the same thing. There might not have been a list of rules stapled outside the door, but it was clear there were plenty of unsaid ones.

  Like one shall not step foot into
this space unless their net worth tips the seven-figure boundary. Or one shall not breathe this air unless they drive a car that costs as much as a modest house. Or one shall not rub elbows with the rest of the inhabitants unless they have so many prospects, they’ve become an inconvenience of their own.

  But since no one was guarding the entrance or about to toss me out for forcing my presence on the place, I moved deeper into the room.

  It wasn’t as large as I’d expected it would be, but that could be due to the number of bodies already filling the lounge. It was early by a Friday night’s standards, but this place seemed like the kind of spot a person needed to make an early claim on. Above the bar was a giant stained glass window of a peacock, and the rest of the room followed the same theme. Rich colors, showy accents.

  It wasn’t my kind of place at all. I preferred the local hole-in-the-wall or dive. If this pretentious space was his kind of place, then this marriage wouldn’t just be difficult because of our illegal arrangement. If this was the kind of place he felt comfortable in—the type of people he fit in with—then we were polar opposites.

  Because this whole thing needed to be more complicated . . .

  I scanned the room for someone flagging me over. He knew what I’d be wearing tonight, but I didn’t know what he would be in. If the room was any indication, he was probably parading around in a suit that cost more to dry-clean than anything in my wardrobe had cost brand new.

  I continued to just stand there, doing another room scan. I didn’t know what he looked like. How old he was. What nationality he was. His hair color. Height. Skin color. Nothing. I knew his last name and that he was willing to pay me a million dollars to marry him. That was all I needed to know to say I do.

  Some people exchanged sex for money. I was exchanging marriage. Go ahead and judge me. God knew I’d done plenty of it on my own.

  Okay, still nothing. How much longer was he going to keep me standing here feeling like an outcast in my kaleidoscope of colors and cotton?

  Kate was at a table with her friends, trying not to make it obvious she was watching me as though she was waiting for this Sturm guy to come stick a knife in my back like she’d convinced herself he’d already done in figurative terms.