The Hating Game

“Let’s go.”

I want to sprint away but my legs won’t hold me up.

“Don’t even think about it,” he tells me.

I slide into his car and nearly fall unconscious. His scent is intensified in here perfectly, baked by summer, preserved by snow, sealed and pressurized inside glass and metal. I inhale like a professional perfumer. Top notes of mint, bitter coffee, and cotton. Mid notes of black pepper and pine. Base notes of leather and cedar. Luxurious as cashmere. If this is what his car smells like, imagine his bed. Good idea. Imagine his bed.

He gets in, tosses my coat on the backseat, and I look sideways at his lap. Holy shit. I avert my eyes. Whatever he’s got there is impressive enough to make my eyes slide back again.

“You’ve died of shock,” he chides like a schoolteacher.

My breath is shaking out of me, and he turns to look at me, eyes poison-black. He raises his hand and I flinch back. He frowns, pauses, then twists my closest earring carefully back into position.

“I thought you were going to kill me.”

“I still want to.” He reaches for the other earring, and his inner wrist is close enough t

o bite. Painstakingly, he tugs the caught strands of hair until my earring hangs properly again.

“I want to. So bad, you have no idea.”

He turns the car on, backs out, and drives as though nothing happened.

“We need to talk about this.” My voice is rough and dirty. His fingers flex on the steering wheel.

“It seemed like the right moment.”

“But you kissed me. Why would you do that?”

“I needed to test a theory I’ve had for a while. And you really, really kissed me back.”

I twist in my seat and the lights ahead go red. He slows to a stop and looks at my mouth and legs.

“You had a theory? More like, you were trying to mess me up before my date.” Cars behind us are beeping and I look over my shoulder. “Go.”

“Oh, that’s right, your date. Your imaginary fake date.”

“It’s not imaginary. I’m meeting Danny Fletcher from design.”

The look of shocked surprise on his face is magnificent. I want to commission a portrait artist to capture it in oils, so I can pass it down to future generations. It. Is. Priceless.

Cars begin to pull out from either side behind us, horns bleating and wailing. A string of road-rage obscenities manage to jerk him from his stupor.

“What?” He finally notices the green light and accelerates sharply, braking to avoid hitting a car swerving in front. He wipes one hand over his mouth. I’ve never seen Joshua so flustered.

“Danny Fletcher. I’m meeting him in ten minutes. That’s where you’re driving me. What is wrong with you?”

He says nothing for several blocks. I stare stubbornly at my hands and all I can think about is his tongue in my mouth. In my mouth. I estimate there’s probably been about ten billion elevator kisses in the history of mankind. I hate us for the cliché.

“Did you think I was lying?” Well, technically I was lying, but only at first.

“I always assume you’re lying.” He changes lanes in an angry swerve, an ominous black thundercloud of temper settling over him.

Here’s a fact. Hating someone is exhausting. Each pulse of blood in my veins takes me closer to death. I waste these ending minutes with someone who genuinely despises me.

I drop my lids so I can remember it again. I’m shimmering with nerves, heaving a box onto my desk at the newly minted B&G building, tenth floor. There is a man by the window, looking out at the early-morning traffic. He turns and we make eye contact for the first time.

I’m never getting another kiss like that again, not for the rest of my life.