Dare You to Hate Me

“I’m not a child!”

He blinks.

My nostrils flare.

He opens his door, looking over his shoulder at me. “You’re not a bitch either. Come on. I haven’t eaten yet.”

“It’s almost eleven.” I pause. “Where even were you? Aren’t football players on curfew so they don’t royally screw up on the field?”

His responding snort is all I get as he climbs out of the truck. I freeze when he says the words I haven’t heard in a long time. “Out of your head, Underwood.”

Unlike the past, he doesn’t wait until I give him the typical response of ‘head in the game’, he just closes his door until I have no other option but to follow when I see him walking around the side of the house. He throws a wave to the guys who call out his name and I can feel their curious eyes move to me. I ignore their stares and quicken my steps to match his fast strides until we stop at a side door.

“My room is in the basement. It was fully renovated after we moved in since so many people live here,” he explains, unlocking the door and holding it open for me.

Hesitantly, I walk inside.

“It’s only me down here right now. The guys mentioned moving someone else in. Newbie on the team who’s known to party. Better to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t mess up his chances.” His voice echoes slightly behind me as I descend the brightly lit staircase, and I can’t help but hear the roughness in his tone. As I reach the bottom, cinnamon and pine needles fill my senses and goosebumps pimple my arms. It’s the same scent that always surrounded his house growing up.

If he knows what I’m thinking, he doesn’t say anything. He passes my still body and waves me forward with his hand, hooking into a large room with a couch, a few chairs, a huge flat screen TV, and doors on the back wall.

Trying to keep my face neutral even though I’m both impressed and jealous that this is where he lives, I examine the rest of the room. The wood paneling reminds me of the design in my old childhood home—the bottom half of our living room walls were paneled the same way, and the top half was a pale yellow that my mother always asked my dad to help her repaint. To my knowledge, it never happened. Trailing my fingers along the wood crevices, I shake myself from the thought.

When I glance down at the beige carpet, I notice mud stains from my sandals and cringe. Sliding them off my feet, I pick up my dirty shoes and let them dangle from my fingers. “Sorry. If you let it dry, vacuuming it should take out most of the mud and then mix dish detergent and warm water to help get out any stain left.”

It isn’t until I look up when I notice him staring at me. I move my weight from one foot to the other. “Quit it, Aiden.” He doesn’t. “Stop looking at me. I mean it.”

I walk around the communal space, running my fingers along everything. “How long have you lived here?”

At first, he doesn’t answer. I can feel his eyes on me as I slide my fingertips along the walls. Eventually, he answers, “A couple years. Transferred here after freshman year, moved in my second semester of sophomore once I got to know the guys better.”

He’s a year older than me, yet here I am a twenty-year-old freshman. “Fresh meat” as a group of guys yelled after my orientation group during a campus tour. A few of the boys in my group rolled their eyes, others grumbled. All the girls blushed and avoided their gazes. But not me. I kept my head held high and cast them the nastiest glare I could conjure, then flipped them off with a little extra swivel in my step knowing their gazes wouldn’t last long on my finger as soon we passed.

I’ve come too far, been through too much, to feel lesser because of other people. Screw them and their ridiculous words. I shouldn’t have made it this far after what I’d done, yet here I am. Nobody is taking away my chance to prove I can become something.

“Why did you bring me here?” Turning around, I finally meet his distant eyes. “You could have brought me anywhere or ignored me and took me home since your spies told you where that was.”

He evades my eyes for a moment before sighing and walking over to the couch, dropping onto the furthest cushion, and draping a long arm over the back. “That isn’t what you wanted.”

“Who cares what I want?”

Aiden stays silent, but his gaze pierces mine like he’s trying to figure me out. I always hated how blue those orbs are—how they captured everybody’s interest in school, especially the girls. Growing up, I’d always get approached by them because they thought I was their in with Aiden. Be nice to me, get information about the boy they wanted, and make their move.

I walk over to the couch, studying the many open spaces. Instead of sitting on one of them, I stop in front of Aiden’s slightly parted legs. “Why did you bring me here?” I repeat.

“I already told you.” His eyes pin me to my spot before they leisurely slide down the length of me. I’ve changed since the last time he saw me that’s for sure. Gone is my too-lean sixteen-year-old body, gangly limbs, and blemished face. Now I have curves in mostly all the right places, legs that fill out my clothes nicely, and when I’m not too stressed, clear skin.

There’s a lot of uncertainties in life that I tend to question. What I do know is that Aiden Griffith is looking at me with that look. Hunger. It’s a long way from the friendly way he’d watch me with his huge smile and dorky laugh.

Without thinking, I drop my dirty shoes onto the floor and move to straddle his lap. His body tenses under me as I rest my hands on either side of his head, gripping the top of the couch cushions behind him. Despite his tense frame, I can feel him harden under me when I purr, “Is this why you brought me here? Two old friends reuniting after so long.”

He bites back a groan when I settle deeper onto his lap, his obvious erection pressing against the center of me. Still, he says nothing.

“Most guys,” I press, “would give me a sign. It’s usually the way they look at me. I stayed with a guy once whose eyes were plastered to my ass more than my face. But it was somewhere to sleep.”

His hands fall to my hips, whether consciously or subconsciously. I feel his fingertips dig into the fleshy part of my legs, but I don’t make a move to get off him and he doesn’t say a word.

I shift again, rubbing our bottom halves together until his lips press together in a firm line, while mine curl upward. “Not going to say anything? How very unlike you.”