Page 13 of Love Hate

Chapter Eight

~Trevor~

It was stupid. Risky. Completely insane. But I couldn’t help myself. The moment I’d seen Andy walking toward me in the hallway, I knew I had to get him alone again. Had to talk to him.

He was consuming far too much of my headspace and I had to…I didn’t even know…get him out of my system or something. Get good and truly mad at him again so I could remember why obsessing over him in any sort of sexual way was, well, completely insane.

“Simpson!” I called, loud enough that a dozen heads turned to look at me, Andy included. “Come here.”

I was actually kind of surprised when he didn’t even hesitate. He just walked straight for me and followed me into a classroom that was thankfully empty.

“How’s my paper going?” I asked him.

“I’m not writing your paper,” he insisted, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at me. “I said I’d help you, not do your work for you.”

“Right.” I let out a humorless laugh. “Princess, you’re going to fucking do what you’re told or I’m just going to put my fist in that pretty little face of yours.”

“Why do you fucking hate me so much?” he spat, throwing his arms up in the air in clear frustration.

“Are you kidding me right now?” I asked.

“No. I never did anything to you and you made high school a living hell for me and now you think you can just keep treating me like this?”

“Never did anything?” I stared at him incredulously. “You’re seriously going to gloss over Delia Carmichael?”

“Who the fuck is Delia Carmichael?”

There was actual confusion on his face and I felt anger flare in my chest again. Which was good. Anger was safe. Attraction, or curiosity, or whatever, was not.

“Wow,” I said, dragging the word out slowly. “You steal so many fucking girls you can’t even keep track of them?”

“Are you out of your mind?” he asked, his brow furrowing, revealing a deep line in the center of his forehead. “Seriously. Are you fucking mental?”

And then he laughed in my face.

I cocked my fist back, throwing it forward toward his stupid open mouth as hard as I could. Unfortunately he saw it coming and dove sideways before I could adjust and my hand slammed into the wall. Pain radiated up my arm as blood pooled over my knuckles.

“You dumb fuck,” he growled.

Turning toward him again, I brought the same fist up, but he caught my hand in his, his fingers digging into the cuts on my hand before he shoved me backward a step. He kept his gaze locked on mine as he dragged his blood-covered hand over his jeans.

“Stop it!” he yelled.

I froze, the shock of him raising his voice at me so strong I couldn’t do anything but obey. He’d never yelled at me before. No matter how much I pushed him, taunted him, hurt him.

“Christ, Trevor,” he hissed, shaking his head. “I’ve never stolen anyone’s girlfriend and I swear to you that I don’t remember anyone named Delia. I don’t know who told you that, but it never happened.”

“I don’t believe you,” I told him.

“I’m fucking gay, you twat waffle.”

I stared at him, my brain not wanting to reconcile what he’d said against what I’d believed about him for years. It didn’t make any sense.

“Why would she lie about it?”

“Gee, I don’t know you violent fuck,” he shot back. “Maybe she was afraid of breaking it off with you and thought she could take the heat off of herself by blaming me. Knowing you’d come for me and leave her out of it.”

“I would never hurt a woman!” I snapped, furious that he’d even think something like that about me.