Hated (Hearts of Stone #3) Page 4

  Even after all these years, the memory of that night was just as vivid as ever. I had been nervous and excited, but mostly I was hopeful. The show was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but Frankie was a once-in-a-lifetime girl, and I couldn’t wait to have the best of both worlds. She was my best friend, my future. I knew that once she was in Vegas with me, everything would fall into place. Life would be perfect. How could it not be with her by my side?

  When Frankie didn’t show, I was heartbroken. When I called back home, Nana Ruth promised me that Frankie was okay and that she would contact me when she was ready. But months went by, and the only thing I got from my best friend was silence. No apology, no explanation, not even a farewell. My mother tried to tell me that I was better off without her, that it was in Frankie’s blood to abandon those who loved her, but I refused to accept it.

  I searched for Frankie as best I could, but she was like a ghost. Her social media accounts disappeared, no one back home knew where she had gone, and Nana Ruth and Pauly wouldn’t tell me anything.

  It had taken me two years to stop scouring the online motocross sites in the hopes of finding a mention of her. It had taken three years for me to stop hoping she’d show up unannounced at one of my shows. It wasn’t until the show went on hiatus this past January that I truly gave up on her.

  For four years I’d been heartbroken. Now? I was just angry.

  I’d finally given up on her, and she decided to show up on my doorstep. And instead of giving me an explanation or begging for forgiveness, she had the balls to be pissed at me—to pick a fight.

  I stared at the key chain’s black, white, and red logo and thought of all the times Frankie and I argued over the lyrics of songs and what they truly meant. If there was one thing I could depend on Frankie to do, it was disagree or argue.

  Having a verbal battle with Frankie was what I needed right now. I needed to rage and yell. I needed to release the pain—my pain over her and Dallas, and the future that was stolen from me. I was angry at everything, and Frankie DiGorgio was the only one who could do anything about it. She was the only one I could rightfully take it out on. She was the one who deserved it.

  I clutched the key in my hand, the jagged edges digging into my palm just like Frankie’s appearance was digging into my ruined heart.

  Hopefully, Nana Ruth had never gotten around to changing the locks because I was tired of feeling empty.

  ***

  The key slipped easily into the lock just like it always had. Pushing open the door as quietly as I could, I peeked around the side of it and into the dark empty house. Everything looked the same. It even smelled the same despite not having been lived in for a while. There was dust all over the wooden floor, and I could see footprints shining in the moonlight from the open window.

  Clearly, Frankie hadn’t gotten around to cleaning yet and knowing her, I couldn’t imagine it would happen anytime soon. I still didn’t know why she was back in her grandmother’s old house, but I knew for sure it wasn’t to do housekeeping.

  I bent over to pick up my supplies and then entered the foyer, shutting the door behind me. On my left, I could barely make out the old family room, the familiar shadows of the couches and television reminding me of all the slasher films that Frankie and I watched when Nana Ruth wasn’t around to scold us for getting popcorn stuck between the couch cushions.

  To my right was the sitting room filled with Nana Ruth’s formal sofas and collectibles. This was the room where she hosted the Canasta games with her friends, and it had that old lady vibe to it, complete with lace doilies on the end tables and sofas that were covered in floral fabric.

  Beyond the sitting room was the dining room where Nana Ruth hosted holiday dinners, and I was sure if I listened hard enough, I might be able to hear the echoes of laughter from Thanksgivings past.

  There was a hallway between the staircase and the sitting room that led toward the back of the house where the large country kitchen was located. I had the urge to walk back there and see if it still smelled like Nana Ruth’s chocolate chip cookies, but I didn’t think I could bear to discover that it was just as dusty and unused as the rest of the house.

  Instead, I turned to the staircase to my left, and reached for the worn handrail that Frankie, Pauly, and I had slid down more times than I could count. All of the bedrooms were located on the second floor, except for the one that Frankie’s brothers had shared on the third floor.

  Making my way up the stairs, I was careful to avoid the spots that I knew would make the wood groan and give me away. However, if Frankie was anything like she’d been four years ago, I could probably stomp my way up the steps, and she’d never hear me coming. That girl could have slept through World War III.

  Once I reached the second floor, I prowled down the hall, peering for a few seconds through each open doorway—Nana Ruth’s room, her mother’s old room, the hall bathroom, and finally the room that had a window that faced mine.

  Maybe I should have been surprised to find Frankie in her old room instead of the master bedroom, but I wasn’t. She’d never been the type of girl that wanted more than she needed, and despite my anger toward her, there was a bit of satisfaction in knowing she hadn’t changed completely. She might have traded in her lanky tomboy physique for killer curves that would make any Vegas showgirl jealous, but that attitude? That was still the Frankie I remembered.

  I also couldn’t deny that it pleased me to know that she’d chosen the room that looked directly across the yard toward mine. We’d spent many nights talking to each other by walkie-talkie, plotting our futures and arguing over song lyrics, as we hung out of our windows. She dreamed of racing dirt bikes and being the first woman to do a back flip on one. I wanted to own a comic book store. It used to irritate her that I thought “Scar Tissue” was the best song the Chili Peppers had ever written. She insisted it was “Californication.” Looking back, it was clear that we rarely agreed on anything.

  I stepped quietly into her room to find her sprawled out on the bed, her blanket and sheet kicked to the floor. She was wearing a tight tank top that had ridden up to her ribs, showing off her tight, flat stomach. The straight, lanky lines of her tomboy days were long gone. They were now transformed into curves that were all woman.

  And as if all the exposed, muscular skin wasn’t enough to make me pause, the delicate lacy panties did the trick. They were so feminine and fragile and un-Frankie that my eyes darted up to her face just to assure myself I was in the right room.

  Her face, even in rest, was familiar though. Her rich mahogany hair was splayed over the pillow in dark tangles. Thick lashes rested across the curve of her cheek, and I knew that if she opened her eyes, I’d see the calculating silver gaze I’d memorized. Her mouth, which could deliver the sweetest kisses one moment, and a biting remark the next, was still and smooth. Her lips were open slightly, almost expectantly, as if she was waiting for a kiss. Like Sleeping Beauty.

  Only I knew that this Sleeping Beauty could be as beastly as she could be charming. To most people at least. To me, she’d always been perfect.

  As I stared at her long hair blowing across her face, jostled by the hot air that the old metal fan was pushing around the room, I wondered if she knew that when it came time to meld a Chili Peppers song into our act, I had chosen “Californication” instead of “Scar Tissue.” I also wondered how she felt that Jolene Van Vugt beat her to female back flip infamy. Knowing Frankie, she wouldn’t care. She’d just adjust her dream and vow to be the first woman to do a double back flip on a dirt bike.

  If there was one good thing I could say about Frankie after everything that had happened, it was that she always managed to find a way to turn things in her favor.

  I grinned to myself as I approached the bed, wondering how she would react. The anticipation was like a drug. For the first time in a month, the smile on my face wasn’t forced.

  I held my left hand out over her torso, balancing the paper plate with my fingers, mentally calc
ulating just the right angle. Lifting my right hand, I gripped the canister and moved my finger to the button on top as I gazed at her again.

  Even though her room was so hot it was hard to breathe, she looked peaceful. Almost content. Despite only wearing a tank top and a pair of panties, sweat glistened across her hairline and along the curve of her throat. For a moment, I let my eyes wander over the slick surface of her skin, vividly remembering when it was more than just my eyes that ran along the shape of her body.

  I shook my head to erase my errant thoughts. I wasn’t here for that. I was here for retaliation. There was paint all over my goddamn patio, my brand-new speakers were trashed, and I’d had to listen to Cassidy Wells whining and crying over her paintball welt for half an hour last night. Frankie DiGorgio deserved a little payback for her prank...and the last four years.

  Before I could change my mind, I tore my eyes away from her exposed skin and pressed the button on the top of the canister I was holding.

  Even though I was ready for it, my body jolted at the sound of the air horn as its wail pierced the near-silence of the room. Frankie bolted upright in sudden fear, her arms and legs flailing as her scream joined that of the air horn. Her scream, however, died almost as quickly as it started when her face buried itself in the paper plate of whipped cream I was holding in front of her. It had happened in only a few seconds, but the sight of her smashing that smart ass mouth into a mound of whipped cream was just about the best thing I’d seen in years.

  Instinctively, she scrambled backward across the bed as her sleepy brain struggled to catch up to reality.

  I let the plate fall into her lap, and she sat still for a moment as the echoes of the air horn faded into silence again. The only sounds were the fan groaning as it spun, the whipped cream plopping into her lap from her face, and my laughter.

  She turned to face me, her eyes the only thing I could see out of the white, fluffy mess on her face. “What the actual fuck, Austin?” she snapped.

  If I were in my right mind, the deadly tone in her voice would have made my balls shrivel up and die. This was Frankie, and I knew better than anyone else that her bite was even worse than her bark.

  But her bite was exactly what I was hoping for. What I needed. I wanted all of Frankie’s fury. If she was angry at me, I wouldn’t notice her pain or my own. I could continue to hate her for leaving me and stop wanting her now that she’d come back.

  “You said you needed to get up early,” I explained. “Just thought I’d be a good neighbor and help you out with a friendly wake up call.” I honked the horn twice more in short bursts and she flinched both times. Frankie’s involuntary cringes were icing on the cake of my perfect prank.

  Slowly, she reached for her sheet and then brought it up to her face to wipe away the cream, never letting her eyes stray from mine. Just when I thought she was going to give free reign to the typical Frankie rage and lash out at me, she fixed her expression into a pleasant look and smiled at me.

  That look made me want to take a few steps back. Anger I could handle, but this expression? This was the Frankie from ninth grade. The girl who walked away from an insult with her shoulders pulled back, and a tub of Icy Hot tucked in her bag for later.

  “How thoughtful of you, neighbor.” The corners of her smile twitched a little higher as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll have to think of some special way to thank you for the trouble you’ve gone through.” She hoisted the plate out of her lap as she stood up, jostling it in the palm of her hand.

  I stepped back with my hands in front of me, as if that would somehow stop her. “No need for that, darlin’. I’m all good.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she tilted her head and I couldn’t decide what was pissing her off more—the dickish nicknames I kept giving her, or the face full of desert topping she’d just been wearing.

  I expected her to throw the remnants at my head or threaten me, but she merely swiped her fingers through the cream before bringing her fingertips to her mouth and wrapping her lips around them. She took her time sucking them clean, dragging them slowly and sensually across her lips. I swore I even heard her moan low in her throat.

  Fuck. Now my body was the one flinching in response. It took all my willpower not to imagine that cream smeared all over my dick and her licking it off. Or better yet, sucking it off.

  She watched me with knowing eyes, and then tossed the paper plate on top of her bed. “Thanks for helping me get my day started so early. And for breakfast,” she said sweetly, winking for effect. “Guess I should shower before Drew gets here.”

  She wasn’t going to scream or yell? Not even a single curse word for me? What the hell? Her reaction was so disappointing.

  Wait.

  Drew? Who the fuck is Drew?

  I clenched my jaw and felt it pop in annoyance as I stared at her.

  Drew. So what? Why did I care who the fuck he was? I don’t.

  Frankie strutted across her room before picking up the cutoff denim shorts she’d been wearing the night before. She was bent over at the waist, her perfect ass on display for a few glorious seconds before she grabbed the shorts and a discarded shirt and stood back up.

  Frankie turned to face me, and I had a hard time forcing my eyes back up to hers. “You can see yourself out, right Beethoven?” she asked sarcastically.

  I furrowed my brows in confusion. She was going to let me off this easily? No way. “That’s it?” I asked, urging her to scream and yell, to tell me I was an asshole. I needed her to hate me. I wanted her to lash out at me.

  Her answering smile was anything but sweet. “I’m sure we’ll see each other around. I’ll have to think of just the right way to thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

  As I stared at her back, she padded her way down the hall. I was still standing in her room pondering what I’d started when I heard the shower turn on and clothes hit the floor.

  She didn’t even bother to shut the door.

  Fuck me. I needed to get out of here.

  ***

  After leaving Frankie’s house, I went for a run to wear out my frustration. I should have known it would have taken more than whipped cream to the face to get a reaction out of her. The few seconds immediately after she was hit had been perfect. And then her calm, calculating personality took over and robbed me of my satisfaction in the space of a single breath. What a fucking let down.

  The sun had barely risen, and I’d already clocked in five miles around town trying to punish my body and burn away my irritation.

  Not much had changed since I’d left. Rose Britton still had the best landscaping around, Barbara Massie had a yard full of barking wiener dogs chasing free range chickens, and JD Brown was constructing yet another outbuilding behind his house.

  When my family first moved to town, JD was in the middle of building a bomb shelter, and we were obsessed with his stash of canned goods and water. If Dallas were here, he’d wrangle JD into a conversation about his conspiracy theories so we could laugh about his toilet paper hoarding later.

  But Dallas wasn’t here, and JD was humming a jaunty tune as he carried boards out to the half-finished structure in his yard. Rose’s garden, Barbara’s insane pets, JD’s new project—it was all proof that life in this little town went on with or without us.

  As I turned the corner, my house came into view, the sun’s rays coating the front of it in the morning light, and giving the windows a warm glow that looked out of place. My house hadn’t been a place of warmth when we lived here. It had been more like living in a museum. My mother expected perfection and made it clear she would settle for nothing less. She only knew how to nurture our talents, not our hearts. If I wanted warmth and acceptance, I’d quickly discovered that I had to find it next door.

  I jogged up the steps and was just about to open the front door when I heard a noise coming from the back yard. Worried about a possible act of retaliation from Frankie, I quietly crept through the morning shadows at the edge of th
e house in the direction of the noise.

  I passed through the side yard to find an unfamiliar man struggling as he leaned a ladder against the roof of the porch that ran along the back of the old DiGorgio house. My muscles tightened in a surge of protectiveness as I realized access to that roof would give him the ability to climb into Frankie’s open bedroom window.

  I hurried across the dewy grass and grabbed the collar of the man’s shirt in one hand and his arm in the other as I yanked him off the bottom rung of the ladder and flung him facedown into the dirt. He grunted in surprise, and I forced my knee into his back as I gripped his neck and pushed his head into the wet ground.

  “What do you think you’re doing, asshole?” I growled.

  “Wh-what?” he stammered, spitting blades of grass out of his mouth.

  “What are you doing breaking into the DiGorgio house?”

  He huffed out a strained chuckle. “You got this all wrong.” He struggled a little against me, but I held him firmly. When he still didn’t answer, I grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm higher behind his back until he grunted in pain.

  “I’m doing work for Frankie,” he sputtered. “Ask her yourself.” I loosened my grip a little, and he tried to jerk his hand away, but I wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth.

  “Work?” I echoed, my forehead creasing in confusion.

  “Let him up, Austin,” a voice said with exasperation from above.

  I lifted my gaze to see Frankie standing in front of me, her arms crossed over her chest. Instead of looking angry, though, she looked amused. When I didn’t do as she asked right away, she rolled her eyes and gestured at the guy on the ground. “This is Drew Weatherby. He’s helping me with some work on the house. Why don’t you let him up before the cops have to make another trip out here, yeah?”

  Releasing my grip on him, I pushed to standing and backed away, allowing Drew to get to his feet. My mind raced to make sense of what she was saying. What kind of work was he doing?

  Drew turned warily to face me and ran a hand through his hair, knocking away the dirt and grass. “We’ve met before,” he said, holding out his hand for me to shake. “Andrew Weatherby. I go by Drew now.”