Hate
Authors: Laurel Curtis
Hate: A Love Story
Published by Laurel Ulen Curtis
© 2014, Laurel Ulen Curtis
Cover Design by Stephanie White of
Steph’s Cover Design
Formatting by
Champagne Formats
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 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.
Warning: The following standalone novel contains explicit language, sexual content, and potential triggers.
Table of Contents
Laurel’s Social Media & Other Books
September 1996
LOOKING DOWN AT MY BOOKS strewn across the crowded hallway floor, I cursed the ban on backpacks during school hours for the millionth time that year.
“Ugh. You stood no chance against that forty-five pound stack of books, gangly arms. It’s not your fault,” I muttered to myself as I squatted down to gather my runaway books among the dangerous flutter of hundreds of sets of awkward, preteen legs.
“No, this wasn’t a fair fight,” I continued on for my own benefit.
“Here,” I heard at the same time that my heavy science book was shoved right under my nose. “This one was all the way across the hall. You’d have never made it there on your hands and knees in this traffic.”
Taking my book from his outstretched hand, I looked up into the blue eyes of what was surely an eighth grader. He was too big to be my age, and eighth grade was the oldest this building had to offer.
“Thanks, I guess. But I can promise you I would have managed just fine on my own,” I argued in defense of my abilities, smarting just a little at his insinuation that the busy hallway was too much for me to handle.
He seemed surprised, his eyebrows eating up half the expanse of his forehead as he tried to defend himself. “I didn’t mean anything by it, you know. I was just trying to help. I’m Blane. I’m new here.”
“Whitney. I’ve been here forever. And the only person I rely on for help is myself.”
I wasn’t the type of girl who needed a man. And I never would be.
I worked hard enough not to need one.
His face relaxed, the corner of his mouth curving ever-so-slightly into a grin. “I like that. But how about, from now on, we rely on each other. You’d be doing me a favor. See, I could use someone like you to help me out every once in a while.”
Glaring boldly with skepticism, I asked, “No tough guy act? Seems abnormal for around here.”
Every last guy in this school was a phony. They all thought they were tough and badass. What a joke.
“Even the strongest of men need somebody to lean on every once in a while,” he explained. “That’s what my dad always says. And I’m pretty sure it applies to strong women too.”
Simultaneously, my heart stood up and took notice and my eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Why did this kid think he wanted to be friends with me? He knew next to nothing about me.
“Why do you think I’m the type of person you’d want to be friends with?”
This time, he didn’t grin.
He smiled.
“Because you’re the type of person who asks that question.”
October 1998
“TELL ME AGAIN HOW YOU convinced me to come here,” I instructed while looking down below at the spandex-clad butts of some of our most popular male classmates and the skirt-wearing peppy girls in front of them.
“I’m pretty sure it has something to do with my good looks and charm,” Blane answered on a smirk.
The crowd raged around us, moving and swaying and screaming as a unit.
“Ha!” I huffed, turning to look at him pointedly as he tossed more of his favorite gum into the confines of his mouth. “You wish.”
His smile only grew as he leaned back onto the empty bleacher bench behind him and spread out as men tended to do. Fourteen years old (as it turned out, he
was
the same age as me), and he already had it down. “You know, you’ve got the look of a cheerleader, but you’re somewhat lacking in disposition.”
“That’s because I’m
not
a cheerleader,” I pointed out.
Laughing, he winked. “No kidding.”
“Whatever. What are we doing at the football game?” I asked, scrunching my face against the onslaught of cheers. “I really thought you strong, broody types stayed away from organized sports.”
“Broody?” he questioned and sat forward. Pointing at me, he corrected, “You’re broody. I’m light and sunshine.”
“Pfff! What?! You’re totally dark. Intense. The whole bad boy package,” I argued.
“Ah,” Blane breathed, running his hand down his age-inappropriate chest. “The package, yes. But the inside is all gooey. Like a chocolate chip cookie. You like cookies, don’t you?”
“Of course I like cookies. Not liking cookies is un-American.”
“Good. You can bake me some later.”
“As-fucking-if.”
“Exactly. Which brings me to why we’re at the football game. We need another friend. One with a kinder heart. One who will bake us cookies just because she wants to.”
“She? Why does it have to be a she?” I shrieked, feeling my sexism-detecting motor start to rev.
“Because ‘shes’ are pretty, and ‘hes’ are not.”
“Not true.”
“True for me.”
“Don’t be such a pig.”
“What pig? I heard no oinks, I rolled in no mud.” Shaking his head he leaned back on the bleacher once more. “I’ll tell you what, Elbow. Girls like you make life hard. We say you’re pretty, and that makes us an asshole. But we don’t, and hey, that makes us an even
bigger
asshole.”
I know what you’re wondering. Elbow?
Yeah, tell me about it.
Sometime during the summer between eighth and ninth grade, Blane started calling me Elbow when he wanted to annoy me. I was, of course, perplexed. I didn’t know what kind of a nickname Elbow was or where he got it, but I knew it did the job he intended. It aggravated the shit out of me, and with the frequency he used it, it did it often.
“Yeah, and?” I asked and then added, “You should probably get used to it. Hate to break it to you but some lucky girl will probably be calling you an asshole for the rest of your life. She won’t really mean it though.” Raising my eyebrows and pursing my lips, I finished, “Most of the time, anyway.”
“Well. It’s a good thing I like hard work.” His thick eyebrows waggled.
“Pshh. If you liked hard work so much, you’d make your own cookies.”
His smile took over his face effortlessly—just like all of his other expressions. Blane was a simple guy, but at the same time, I’d never seen someone more honestly demonstrative. If he let you in, he showed you
everything
.
With a wink, he confirmed my assertion. “You’ve got me there.”
Standing to full height with no warning, he reached down to ease my ascent. “Come on. We’ve got a new friend to meet.”
“Ughhh,” I grumbled half-heartedly as he pulled me up from the cold metal and dragged me out of our row to the stairs.
When he made a straight path down, keeping his eyes forward and focused, an ugly realization started to settle into place. “Why am I getting the feeling that you already picked our new friend out? Perhaps even already befriended her? Told her I’m nicer than I am?”
Pausing only briefly to watch his step as he reached the ground, he turned back to me and praised me with both a smile and his words. “That’s because you’re smart. And you’d be right. About all of the above.”
Dark night sky and the smattering of stars among it filled my vision as my head rolled back in exasperation. “You become more of a pain in my ass every day.”
“See, Elbow?” He asked as he lifted my distracted body to the ground by lifting at my hips. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. No gratitude. You’re upset that I’m complimenting you.
Again
.”
My head came forward, and I bit my lip to lessen my smile. It was times like this that reminded me how boring my life was before Blane steamrolled his way in and infused it with our banter.
If he’d already picked out a friend he deemed worthy of this—of this special place we had found with each other—then she must have been pretty special herself.
“There it is,” he celebrated, staring at my traitorous lips.
Playing along, I innocently questioned, “There what is?”
“An indication that you like me. I know I’ll get one every once in a while if I just keep wading through the superficial bitchiness.”
