The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)
The Cruelest Kind of Hate: Chapter 4

GAGE

I must have the wrong address. There’s no way I’m seriously standing in front of a dance studio called Sexy Stilettos. I got the address from Fulton, who got it from Aeris, but she did not disclose that it would have such an…interesting…name.

Please, God. Let this be a shoe store and the real dance studio is a few blocks down the street. The only dance studios within fifteen minutes from the house are this one and one called Xtreme Xplosions, and that one is a strictly competitive studio. The dancers there would probably eat my sad, pathetic corpse up like a family of crazed, bloodthirsty river otters.

With my new hip brace (which is surprisingly not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be), I hobble through the double doors, immediately stumbling across a giant wooden dance floor, which pretty much interrupts the choreography that’s currently taking place.

Did I, uh, mention that I might’ve been like an hour late?

But none of that is even occupying the tiniest floorspace of my brain because what greets me isn’t just a bunch of floundering beginners in workout gear—no. It’s worse than that. So much worse.

Instead, about fifteen girls in scantily clad outfits are writhing around on the ground, complete with six-inch heels and a sultry soundtrack. It’s like a strip club in the best way. Except I’m on the fucking stage with them.

I freeze. I freeze and full-on lose control over my brain and motor functions. I’m a guy. A red-blooded, simple-minded guy, and when in the midst of girls with their ass and tits out, I can guarantee that guys like me will almost always get a boner. A dance class is not an appropriate place to be parading your man pole around. And I’m not going back to jail—even though it was only for one night.

Every girl on the floor seems to stop and stare at me except for the instructor, who’s giving it her all like she’s performing at the Super Bowl Halftime Show. She sways her hips back and forth to the beat, her long, red hair whipping behind her, hands coming up to cup her overflowing tits. Then she slowly rolls her body halfway to the ground, all while arching her back and sticking her ass out. And it’s the sexiest ass I’ve ever seen. Two giant globes hanging out of her nanoscopic shorts, recoiling with each jiggle.

Oh, God. I’m ogling this woman without her consent. I need to look away! Why can’t I look away?

She makes it to the floor, sliding all the way into the splits in her heels, and then she finishes the routine by crawling on her hands and knees toward the wall-length mirror like some kind of irresistible succubus. Eyes smudged with kohl, plush lips that are the most breathtaking shade of red, and enough skin to fuel my fantasies for the rest of my life. She’s stunning. So stunning that the whole “she takes my breath away” statement people throw around is actually fucking true.

She’s the definition of gorgeous with curves in every squeezable place, and she has toned lines of muscle running along her flat stomach.

My heart’s struggling to pump in my chest, but maybe that’s because all the goddamn blood is rushing on a one-way trip south. My stretchy gym shorts are suddenly two sizes too small. Oh, shit. I need to chill out.

She’s just a girl, Gage. An attractive girl, but that’s all. Nothing new, and definitely not wank-worthy. Get yourself under control. This is sad. Sadder than the time you were going down on your crush and let one rip in the middle of it.

I want to die from embarrassment. I’d take myself out if there was a revolver sitting on the table next to me, because the longer I stand here like an idiot, the faster my dick thickens in my pants. I’m not going to be known as the sad dude with the limp hip. I’m gonna be known as the creepy dude with the not-so-limp dick.

And to make matters worse, the moment the instructor turns around to face me, I’m consumed by the ocean-blue of her eyes—ones that I’ve not only met before, but stared down as I told her off in front of an entire hockey arena.

It’s the girl from the rink.

Needless to say, I didn’t stay for the rest of class. I get that my shortcut to a quick recovery is royally screwed now, but I can’t even focus on my disappointment over the red-hot embarrassment still swishing through my veins. I should’ve taken the loss when I had the chance and called for the nearest Uber to get me the hell out of Dodge. Instead, my Neanderthal brain has compelled me to wait by Rink Girl’s car to talk to her after she finishes her class.

About what, you may ask? I have no idea. The truth is, I’m drawn to her in a way I can’t explain. And maybe it’s the lack of oxygen in my brain, but a part of me foolishly thinks she can help me.

I lean against the side of her Honda, trying to suppress the weird jolt of nerves in my stomach. Not normal nerves, either. I’m sweating more than usual despite the night air cloaking me in goose bumps, and it feels like my heart’s about to croak and take me with it.

I don’t even realize I’ve been muttering to myself like a complete lunatic until her icy voice penetrates my brain bubble and derails my train of deprecating thoughts.

“You here to serve me papers?”

She’s taller than I remember—just a few inches below my eyeline—and her fire-toned hair has been thrown up into a high ponytail. With no coverage over her chest, my attention is painstakingly drawn to the plunging dip of her cleavage and the mist of sweat that accompanies it.

Jesus. It’s…I…this is weird. When I talked to her at the rink, I wasn’t this out of it. I was oozing charming machismo. Now, I’m oozing pathetic sadness. Maybe my fumes of anger were providing me with some kind of cock-blocking smokescreen that blurred my vision so I couldn’t see how drop-dead gorgeous she was.

“What?” I ask fearfully, feeling pinned beneath her glower like a lifeless butterfly mounted in a glass picture frame.

“Are. You. Here. To. Sue. Me?” she reiterates.

Sue her? She thinks I’m here to sue her? Seriously? I mean, yeah, I was contemplating it, but I’m not anymore. I can’t believe she thinks I’m a sad sack of shit who needs her money.

“I…um…” The words I want to say oscillate in my mouth, but I can’t get any of them to cooperate and form full sentences.

Her lips are screwed into a thin line, her cat-like eyes narrowed in expectancy, and the cerulean hue of her irises are even starker against the canvas of night. She’s got her arms crossed over her tits—thank God—and I’m pretty sure I can see steam hissing out of her ears under the gibbous moon.

I forgot how pissed she probably still is at me. That’s…great.

“I’m not here to sue you,” I finally get out, needing to table that very offended feeling curling through my chest.

“Then why the fuck are you here?”

Uh. Um. Fuck. I don’t even have a good answer for her—or at least an answer that would keep all my fingers intact.

She juts her chin out and gives me a look that says, Well? Or maybe more like, If you don’t hurry the fuck up, I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth and give you a real reason not to answer me.

Apparently my body doesn’t do well under stress—which is strange since I play a professional sport—because I blurt everything out in an attempt to rid myself of the shame plugging my throat. It’s the equivalent of sea cucumbers vomiting up their insides when they’re frightened as some kind of defense mechanism.

“I need your help,” I stammer, instantly feeling my cheeks warm with a blatant blush.

She stares at me.

I stare back.

An undefined—yet long enough—period of time passes between us, pulsing with the delicateness of a live wire, and then everything combusts. The silent murmurs of the night, the guilty ache in my chest, they all crash in a head-on collision with the hyena laughter that breaches her lips.

“Oh my God,” she cackles, the dimpled swells of her cheeks rising. “What?”

“I need your help,” I repeat, losing the shy, shaky modulation in my voice and replacing it with a cut of indignation. My muscles tense as the air in my lungs decompresses like I’ve been punched in the diaphragm. That tiny ember that’s been sitting in the pit of my belly has finally caught flame, and it has the destructive capacity of a Molotov cocktail.

I can’t believe this. I should be the one with the upper hand, not the other way around. I was the one who was wronged here.

Her shoulders stop shaking with laughter. “And why do you think I’d ever help someone like you?” she muses, her tone laden with a bitterness that tastes sour in my own mouth.

“Do I have to remind you that you’re the one who fucked up my car?” I spit, muscles roiling into a near-painful strain, my hands absentmindedly forming fists that have nothing to cushion their rage.

“I only did that because you couldn’t wait two seconds for me to move!”

“Sweetheart, it took you a lot longer than two seconds.”

She doesn’t back down. Not that I expect her to. She inches closer to me, thrusting her finger into my chest, the unrestrained flicker in her eyes practically searing my very soul. “You had no right to box me in. You had no idea what kind of day I was having. You couldn’t have any human decency even for a split second,” she growls.

I push her hand aside. “And you had no idea what kind of day I was having. Your argument goes both ways. You do realize that, right?”

“Is that why you stalked me at my place of work? Then waited out here like a fucking psycho? Just so you could keep arguing with me over something that happened a week ago?”

“I didn’t stalk you!” I exclaim, though I realize that to an outsider’s eye, it definitely looks like I stalked her. She’s seriously giving herself some credit if she thinks I’d be obsessed enough with her to resort to stalking.

“Whatever.” She presses her key fob and her headlights flash.

“Wait!” I splay myself over her car, hoping that it’ll give her enough incentive to hear me out.

Surprise settles over her face like an early-morning mist, but it doesn’t temper the irritation rolling off her in waves. “Move out of the way, or I’ll break your foot when my car backs over it.”

Dear God. This woman is probably the most terrifying person I’ve ever met. I admire that, though. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t somewhat turn me on. And I may be a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them.

“Please don’t.”

“Then unstick your crusty body from my car.”

She moves toward me, and panic jumbles the words in the back of my throat. “I need you to teach me how to dance!” I half-shriek, fully preparing myself for the bone-crushing treatment my left foot is about to get.

This time, she doesn’t laugh. Dark shadows contour the sculpted edges of her face, carving the softness from her cheeks and the suppleness of her cupid’s bow. Her eyes seem to muddy to a deeper shade of blue as she contemplates me. And once she deduces that I’m not joking, the hold of her shoulders loosens incrementally.

“You want me to teach you how to dance?” she echoes, a muscle in her jaw fluttering.

“No. Ah, I mean, I just need some dance lessons. Or…some flexibility lessons?” Every sensible word seems to dodge the runway of my tongue, so I point frantically at the brace on my hip. “I got into an accident, and my PT told me that dancing can help with my flexibility.”

She nods slowly, condescendingly, like I’m a mush-brained toddler spewing out gibberish.

“Look, I know I’m in no position to ask you for your help, but your dance studio is the only one close to my house. You’re pretty much my only hope at this point. I’m, uh, I’m a hockey goalie if you didn’t know. And I need to be better to play again in three months.”

She straightens, allowing me a glimpse at the tightened cords of her neck. “I know who you are,” she deadpans.

“Right, uh…” The gravity of the situation—and her obvious lack of interest in helping me—batters my solar plexus, nearly swiping my balance on the rickety exterior of her car.

She quirks her head, and her bobbing ponytail follows suit. “You can’t, I don’t know, practice yoga instead? Preferably in the comfort of your own home? Preferably abstaining from hogging all the air in my presence and burning my retinas with your hobgoblin physique?”

Excuse me? Hobgoblin? Normally, I’d be quick to correct her because one, my body is a temple and my rock-hard abs can put Channing Tatum’s to shame, and two, she’s clearly a visually impaired woman with terrible taste.

But I digress.

“Yoga seems a lot more dangerous than dance. Plus, dancing is super easy. I’ll get the hang of it in no time, and then I’ll be out of your hair,” I tell her confidently with a wave of my hand.

“Oh, you think dancing is easy?” A deadly dose of hostility leaks from her tone.

“Yuh-huh. All you have to do is move your feet in time with the music. It’s nothing compared to hockey. Hockey requires discipline, strength, coordination.”

“Seriously? You know dancers are just as disciplined, strong, and coordinated as hockey players, right?

I blow air out of my cheeks. “You can’t compare dancers and hockey players. They’re simply not on the same playing field.”

“Wow. That’s—you know what? I don’t have time to tell you how fucking wrong you are, and I definitely don’t have time to give you private dance lessons.”

How have I gotten on her nerves again? I was just being honest. Jesus fuck. Pulling teeth would be easier than getting this chick to set down her pitchfork for one second.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be,” she snaps, knotting the strap of her dance bag in her hand—probably in some valiant effort to keep from punching me in the face.

As indignant and stubborn as I want to be, I know that butting heads with her isn’t going to get me anywhere. So I shed that strong-man guise of mine as desperation unfurls between the tight spaces in my ribs. I don’t grab her wrist or her arm when she shoulders past me, but I don’t need to, because what I say next carries enough ammunition to pique her interest.

“What if I offer you something in return?”

That reels her attention instantly, and for the first time during our entire conversation, she fails to rein in the curiosity cracking across her expression.

I’m going to admit that it never crossed my mind to just hire a personal trainer or dance instructor to help me with my hip. And now, standing in front of the one girl I know I won’t be able to dislodge from my mind, I don’t want to resort to those options. I want her to help me.

Call me a masochist, but I like that she’s the first girl to ever challenge me—to call me out on my bullshit. I’m surrounded by yes men all the time. It’s a breath of fresh air to meet someone uninfluenced by the media’s portrayal of me.

I hold my hands up in surrender. “Just hear me out. I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but I think we can help each other. Let me plead my case. We can even do it over dinner if it makes you more comfortable. There’s a burger joint just a few blocks from here.”

“You’re seriously asking me to dinner? After I rammed into your car?”

“Trust me, I’m just as surprised as you are,” I mutter, mentally rifling through all the possibilities of what I could offer the girl who wants nothing to do with me. I’d probably be more cognizant if it weren’t for the nerves jackhammering into my weakly beating heart.

Spitfire—since I still don’t know her name—is looking at me like I just proposed we break into the Pentagon, her brows furrowed, and her crimson-tinted mouth gnarled into a frown.

So I continue, attempting to dredge up some of my good ol’ bachelor charm that usually results in bras being thrown at my face. “It’s half past eight. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that you haven’t had dinner yet.”

As if on cue, her stomach lets loose an audible growl, but she doesn’t say anything.

Fishing blindly into my short’s pocket, I pull out my wallet and slide out my black card, waving it in front of her. Even though she keeps her lips sealed, her wide-eyed gawking betrays her.

“I’ll pay.”

Two words that usually make any girl’s pussy leak like Niagara Falls. In fact, it’s common courtesy for said girl to fling her arms around me and praise me with thanks. Though I’d be lucky to receive a grunt of acknowledgment from her.

Her pink-tipped tongue swipes along her bottom lip as if she can taste the possible residue of fast-food grease there, and it takes her a full minute to ponder my offer, eventually relenting with a—surprise, surprise—grunt of acknowledgement.

“Just because I’m going with you doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she grumbles, tightening her bag’s strap on her shoulder, a fallen tress of sunset hair unraveling over her temple.

A strange sensation swoops in my gut, akin to what I think butterflies might feel like if I’d ever experienced them before. Or maybe it’s my gut telling me that this is a bad idea. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Spitfire.”