Hated (Hearts of Stone #3) Read online

  Or maybe they’d heard the same rumors about Jared that we had and thought he’d gotten what he deserved.

  Unfortunately, Jared wasn’t stuffed into one of the holding cells. He wasn’t even at the police station. He’d been taken to the hospital, along with an officer to watch over him, because he needed stitches from where Frankie had hit him in the head with the bottle. The paramedics who showed up said he also had at least two broken ribs and a busted nose thanks to yours truly.

  I clenched my fist and then released it, wishing Huck and Drew hadn’t pulled me off of the dipshit so quickly. I hadn’t done nearly as much damage as I’d wanted to. The pain that shot through my right hand when I moved it was a good sign that playing my cello would be a painful endeavor for a while. But it had been worth it.

  Honestly, not being able to play was probably for the best anyway. With Frankie invading my thoughts, dreams, and every waking moment, playing was making me even more surly than usual. The cello was the last thing I needed. It stirred up too many bad thoughts.

  “You didn’t have to do that, you know. I had everything under control.”

  I glanced to the side to look at Frankie fully. Her dark brown hair was tangled and messy, strands hanging across her face, but her gray eyes were like chips of a stormy sky, tempestuous and focused on me. The shirt she was wearing was torn and hanging off her shoulder, but she didn’t seem to care. I tried to feign a look of indifference, but when my gaze fell on the red, hand-shaped bruises around her neck, I couldn’t stop the fury from rising. I wanted to kill Jared Bennett.

  “I didn’t do it for you.” I blinked and then turned to stare at the wall in front of me. I couldn’t stand to look at those handprints another second, or I just might find myself trashing the desk I was chained to. That would get me a trip to the overcrowded holding cells.

  “Right,” Frankie said brightly. “You were protecting Cat’s virtue.” She chuckled and kicked her feet up onto the desk next to her. The officer nearby gave her a disapproving look but didn’t discipline her. “I hate to tell you, but it was a wasted effort. I think Cat can hold her own just fine.”

  I didn’t answer her because I’d been telling the truth. I hadn’t attacked Jared for Frankie’s sake, but I also hadn’t done it for Cat. I’d done it for me. I’d done it for all the times Jared had hurt Frankie, or anyone else, and I’d done nothing. Maybe if someone had stood up to him back then, really stood up to him, he wouldn’t have left such a trail of destruction in his wake. He wouldn’t have hurt that girl at Penn State. He would have thought twice about wrapping his hands around Frankie’s neck tonight.

  There were too many times I’d stayed quiet and done the safe thing. Too many times I did what others wanted—my mother, my brother, and even Frankie. I’d let other people tell me what was right for my life. What I wanted. What I should do. And where had it gotten me?

  I’d given up what I thought was only a moment in my life. Instead, I’d lost everything. I’d lost my brother, the girl I loved, and myself.

  Against my will, my eyes found Frankie again, but she was staring at a pile of papers on the desk beside her, trying to decipher things she had no business reading.

  Looking at her, I felt a yawning cavity inside. I wondered if it was possible to heal a heart if it was ripped out of your chest and then torn to shreds. How could I ever feel right again when things could never be fixed?

  I shifted in the chair, attempting to get comfortable. Frankie had been right. The lack of boxers was causing a serious amount of chafing, and with my hands chained behind my back, there wasn’t much I could do to remedy the situation. As I tried to shift my position using my foot, the strap on my fucking too-small flip flop busted, and the piece of shit shoe flew off my foot and slid under the desk.

  A short burst of laughter caught my attention, and I looked up to see that Frankie’s expression was amused.

  “All right over there?” she asked, biting her lip and nodding at the spot where the flip flop had disappeared.

  My chest flared with heat, and I wanted to bite her lip myself, whether in anger or lust I couldn’t say. It was probably a little bit of both. All I knew for sure was that I was irritated, and I didn’t know if it was because of her current good humor despite our situation, or because of the prank she’d pulled on me earlier. Most likely it was because I was chained to a chair with nothing between my dick and the rough denim of my jeans.

  Fucking Frankie. Stealing all my goddamn underwear. She even took the dirty ones and the ones in the dryer. If I wasn’t so uncomfortable, I probably could have admitted just how brilliant of a prank it was.

  I should at least be grateful she took it all instead of covering it in Icy Hot.

  My mind wandered to all of the trouble we’d avoided and gotten in together. There was so much history between us. Some of it was perfect and most of it pleasant, but for the last few years, the tiny part of it that was painful was stronger than anything else. When I thought about that empty chair four years ago, none of the rest of it seemed to matter.

  When I’d wanted her most, she’d left, and when I’d needed her most, she was nowhere to be found.

  “So what do you think Dallas will say about this?” she asked, using her head to gesture at our surroundings. Frankie laughed and the sound sliced through me as if she was stabbing me right through the heart. “He’ll never believe you broke Bennett’s nose. I can’t wait to see his face when—“

  I couldn’t bear to hear her talk about Dallas. I blurted out, “Why didn’t you come to Vegas?” interrupting her.

  Frankie’s smirk disappeared, and she had the decency to look away. “I don’t want to talk about that here.”

  “Why not? It’s not like we have anything else to do. Besides, whatever the reason, it can’t be any worse than the things I’ve already imagined,” I challenged.

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head, refusing to look at me.

  I huffed. “Pleading the fifth? Coward. After all this time, you can’t just give me an explanation? A reason? I deserve that much at least.”

  Her head turned in my direction, and her expression was anguished. “I know. And I will. But not here. Not like this. Just…” she paused and licked her lips, taking a deep breath. “I came to Vegas. I swear I did. But I left…I left because I love you.”

  My body went rigid and still.

  Love. Not past tense. Not loved, love.

  “Don’t,” I warned. “If nothing else, you owe me the truth, Frankie. Don’t tell me you did it for me. You knew not showing up would break me. How is that supposed to be love?”

  Frankie took a few rough breaths and suddenly looked as broken as I felt. She blinked, and I was furious to see her eyes were clouded with sadness. She didn’t deserve to act sad over what she’d done. She had no right to act like she was the one who’d been hurt.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but an officer walked up behind me and slid the key into the cuffs to undo them. “Your ride is here, Stone. Time to go home.”

  He finished removing the metal, and I stood up, massaging my wrists as he motioned for me to walk toward the other end of the room. After only a few steps, Frankie cleared her throat.

  “Don’t forget your flop,” she said. I looked over my shoulder to see that Frankie had blinked away the tears and heartbreak that had shadowed her face only moments before. She was sitting up taller—confidence had straightened her spine.

  “I don’t need it anymore.” I kicked the other shoe off and picked it up. “And just so you know, this isn’t over yet, sweetheart,” I threatened, holding the shoe up so she could see it before I tossed it in the can.

  “I was hoping you would say that.” Her lip quivered a bit, but she managed to quirk it into a half smile. “Do your worst.”

  — FRANKIE —

  8. #SHOWMEYOURWOOKIE

  There are a lot of stories hidden in the scratched and battered surface of a kitchen table. A table, more than any other
piece of furniture in a house, has seen the full gamut when it comes to the ordinary and extraordinary events of a family and the people in their lives. Especially the table in Nana’s kitchen.

  Dinners, arguments, celebrations, big decisions, late night discussions—our table had always been the heart of our family, the place where we came together whether the reasons were good or bad. There had been a lot of meals shared at the DiGorgio house, and I treasured every one. Sometimes that meal resulted in raised voices and slammed doors, but in the end, love always won out no matter how heated things got. The dining room was for special occasions, but my favorite gatherings were the ones at the kitchen table.

  I could still remember the time when we were gathered around the table after school, eating fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies with tall glasses of milk. My brothers, as usual, were rough housing and pushing each other around, yelling and arguing as they always did. I remember Nana releasing an annoyed breath as she stood at the counter cutting vegetables for soup, telling them that she was going to “cancel their birth certificates” if they didn’t settle down and behave like they “got some raisin’.”

  Of course my brothers didn’t listen, and the moment that Pauly sent a cookie flying across the table nailing Tommy in the forehead, all common sense was forgotten. Tommy launched out of his chair, knocking it to the floor as he tried to wrestle with Pauly across the old wooden top.

  Without a word, Nana calmly strode across the kitchen and drove her fancy chef’s knife into the middle of the table like an assassin, barely missing my brothers. She’d plunged that blade so deep in the wood that when she let go, it remained upright, vibrating with the force of her anger. My brothers immediately went still, staring in shock at the knife wedged into the wood.

  “I’ve seen tree stumps in a Louisiana swamp with higher IQ’s,” Nana snapped, glaring at them. “Get out of here before I knock you three into next week looking both ways for Sunday!”

  With her angry expression and the knife still embedded in the table, my brothers had scattered like roaches, knowing better than to stick around. Once the boys had run out the back door, Nana turned and smiled at me, shaking her head.

  “Those three are about as useful as a steering wheel on a mule sometimes. But with a few good ass whoopings, we’ll get them into shape.” She winked at me and then asked, “Want another cookie?”

  My brothers didn’t dare show their faces again until dinner was ready, and by then, the argument was forgotten, and peace had settled over the worn wood once more.

  But it wasn’t just that deep gouge marring the table that gave it its character. There were circular ring marks forged into the wood from icy lemonades in the summer and hot cocoas in the winter. There were marker and glue stains from the many school projects the table had birthed, not to mention the scratches from the old sewing machine Nana had sometimes used. It was mind boggling how many memories—happy, sad, angry, and comforting—that one table had seen. Every dent and mark was a badge of honor, a moment in the life of our family.

  I ran my hand along the rough top thinking about how I had just as many scars as that old table top did, even though the effects of my past weren’t as evident. Unlike the table, I’d buried my scars a long time ago.

  Lifting the steaming cup of tea to my lips, I glanced at the clock. It was almost noon, and I was still in my pajamas. After the events of last night that led to an early morning return home, I hadn’t planned to do much work today. It was Saturday, so I indulged in a late morning.

  I was grateful that Drew had come to my rescue last night. He showed up at the station and bailed me out about ten minutes after Austin was released. I tried not to be hurt that Austin had walked away without a backward glance or concern that I was still handcuffed to the chair, but I knew I honestly couldn’t blame him. Not only was our past and friendship in tatters, but I had stolen all of his underwear and shoes just hours before. He had every right to walk away and leave me rotting on that old desk chair. At least for the night.

  A knock rattled the back door, and I looked up in surprise as Drew let himself in. He had a Dunkin Donuts box propped against his side, and I had to resist the urge to jump up and hug him. I was desperately hoping he’d brought it to share.

  “Hungry?” he asked.

  “Starving.” I gestured at one of the empty seats, and he sat down, pushing the box across the table to me as he took a sip from a Styrofoam coffee cup. The smell of sugar was strong as I used my finger to lift the top of the box. Inside, was a mix of donuts, but my eyes zoned in on the six chocolate iced ones… the kind that were filled with something delicious. My favorite.

  “You are an angel,” I said in complete adoration as I grabbed the nearest cream-filled donut.

  I took a huge bite and was a good half dozen chews in when the taste finally hit me. My shoulders collapsed inward as I gagged and did my best not to vomit all over myself. I dropped the half-eaten donut back into the box and stood up quickly, the force of my disgust knocking my chair backward. The loud crack of the chair hitting the floor was like a gunshot. But I didn’t care about the noise or that my carelessness had probably damaged the hardwood because my body was in the midst of a massive revolt.

  I rushed to the sink and spat out the half-chewed food, retching while I did so. The water blasted into the sink when I raised the lever, and I cupped my hand under the stream to frantically wash out my mouth. My body was heaving and gagging over the taste I couldn’t seem to wash away.

  Once I’d scrubbed my tongue clean, I turned off the water with an irritated slap of my hand and turned around to fix Drew with an icy glare. He was looking at me with his coffee poised midway to his mouth, an incredulous expression on his face as if I’d gone absolutely mad.

  “What the hell, Weatherby? Are you trying to poison me?” I snapped. I wasn’t sure if I was angrier about the disgusting taste or that I might never be able to eat a donut again thanks to the last several minutes. And not being able to eat a donut again? That was a fucking crime in my opinion.

  Drew’s eyebrows furrowed together as he looked at me and then the box on the table. He picked up the discarded donut and inspected it carefully. Gingerly, he brought it to his nose to sniff and then he recoiled in disgust.

  “Ugh. It smells like mayonnaise.” With the defiled pastry pinched between his fingers, he tilted it from side to side as he scrunched up his face in distaste, his mouth pulled into a grimace like he was holding a dead animal.

  “Mayonnaise?” My shoulders jerked up, and I blanched, my stomach clenching in response. “What kind of moron accidentally mistakes mayonnaise for icing? Wherever you got these, you should take them back. Someone needs firing. Or maiming.”

  “Take them back?” Drew’s expression suddenly smoothed out, and he closed his eyes as he chuckled.

  “You think this is funny?” I asked. Drew was a big guy, but if he’d ruined my ability to ever eat a donut again, I would still attempt to kick his ass. Nobody messed with me and my fried dough. “You don’t fuck with someone’s baked goods,” I warned.

  He leaned back in his chair, laughter shaking his burly frame. “It wasn’t me,” he said, holding his hands up in defense. “I didn’t even buy them.”

  I crossed my arms, still a little stick to my stomach. “What do you mean you didn’t buy them? Where’d they come from?” If he’d fished them out of a dumpster or something, it was going to be like Pulp Fiction up in this kitchen. Like that scene where Samuel L. Jackson went all biblical on those idiots in the apartment. I felt like I might need to strike down upon someone with some furious vengeance.

  Drew arched an eyebrow at me. “I found two duffle bags full of boxers and shoes shoved under my seat this morning. I put two and two together and figured they belonged to Austin since he was bitching about it last night. I had planned to check on you this morning anyway, so I decided to drop his stuff off first.” He lifted his cup of coffee and extended one finger to point next door. “Austin was on his w
ay over here with the donuts and saw me. Asked me to save him a trip.”

  I rolled my eyes. Of course. Austin knew those icing filled donuts were my weakness. He knew I would dive face first into one without a thought. Jesus, I’m stupid. And I still felt like I was going to barf all over the place.

  I walked over to the table and tore apart the other filled donuts just to be sure. Yup. There were six, and every one was filled with mayonnaise.

  “So wrong,” I muttered. “If I wasn’t so disgusted, I’d be impressed. This is pretty evil.”

  I flung the remnants of the defiled donuts back in the box. The time he must have spent removing the icing and filling the donuts with mayonnaise? That was some seriously messed up premeditated revenge. Especially after he’d spent most of the night in jail with me. Knowing perfect Austin, he’d probably even gotten up early and went for a run before putting his plan into action.

  “Wait.” Realization dawned on Drew’s face, and his expression suddenly went from amused to offended as he pointed at the box. “How did he know I wasn’t going to eat one of those fucking things?”

  I laughed. “Because he knows me well. I would have scarfed down half the box before you even took one bite. And if I hadn’t… Well, every good prank has collateral damage.” Shrugging, I gave him a wry smile.

  Drew huffed and stood up. “You two need to work this shit out before someone else gets caught in the line of fire.” He yawned as he lifted his arm and examined his watch. “Well, I’m out of here. I have to go to a birthday party for my niece, and if I don’t leave now I’m going to be late.”

  “Wait,” I said, grabbing his arm. “Before you go. I need to pay you back for last night.”

  “For what?” He fished his keys out of his pocket and twirled them around a finger once before catching them in his fist.