Sucker Punched (23 page)

Oh my god, this hurts. More than when Nick Coughlin tried to use me, more than anything Jamie Beckett ever said to me. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to hurt you this much with just their actions. I always thought it took weapons to gut someone.

Blake said it himself—my poker face sucks. He must see every ounce of heartbreak trying to twist my features, but I steel myself, refusing to cry in front of either of them.

“Hi.” She stands there awkwardly when she reaches the bottom of the stairs. I’m not sure if she senses the tension between Blake and I, or if she’s just embarrassed to have strangers witness her walk of shame. 

Probably a little of both, I’d imagine.

Blake looks from her to me, like he’s not sure who to address first. The panic on his face would be funny if I didn’t want to strangle him with the cord of my earbuds right now. Serves him right to sweat a little, the bastard.

In fact, let’s see if we can turn up the heat on his hot seat.

I fake a bright, friendly smile. “Hi. I’m Macy, Blake’s sister. You must be his girlfriend—Regan, right? He’s told me so much about you.” I step forward and hug her before she can say anything. When I pull back, she’s wide-eyed and confused. “How far along are you now? Three months? It’s really starting to show!” I squeal in excitement and rub her belly.

She immediately steps back and raises her hands in a “whoa” gesture. In the blink of an eye, her confused expression turns to anger. “You cheated on your pregnant girlfriend with me? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Blake opens his mouth, probably to tell her I’m full of shit. But before he gets the chance, her palm connects with his cheek in a loud smack. My jaw drops, both of us frozen in place with shock. She storms out, the front door slamming behind her, and I bust out laughing.

He rubs his cheek. “I deserved that.”

I wipe my eyes, my laughter slowly fading. That could not have turned out better if I planned it myself. “Yeah, you did.”

“Macy. . .” With that one word, he says so much more than just my name. It’s an apology and precursor to whatever he’s about to say all rolled into one.

I put my hand up to stop him. I don’t want to hear it. I
can’t
hear it. “You’re not my boyfriend. You don’t owe me anything.”

He scowls, his voice coming out harsh. “I owe you better than that. I know it and you know it, so don’t fuckin’ sell yourself short.” He sighs and walks over to the couch, dropping down on it. “I didn’t want you to see this side of me.”

“You’re allowed to have a sex life, Blake.” I might not like it, but I can’t say so. We’re just friends, and friends don’t care who you sleep with. Friends don’t get jealous.

Maybe this is a good thing, in a roundabout, fucked-up way. Maybe seeing him with other girls will help me get over this stupid crush I’m secretly harboring.

Running a hand through his hair, he leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees. “That’s not what I mean. I didn’t want you to realize what a fuck-up I am.”

“You’re not a fuck-up.” I walk over to sit next to him.

“You’re right, I’m the
king
of fuck-ups. I turn it into an art form.” He shakes his head, the muscle along his jaw flexing. “Booze and cooze, that’s how I deal with things when shit gets real. I’m guessing you turned me down last night and I. . .dealt.”

“You seriously don’t remember? Like at all?” I knew Blake was drunk, but I didn’t think he was
that
drunk. He must’ve kept drinking after I went to bed.

Actually, now that I think about it, Blake drinks most nights. And by “most” nights, I mean every night. He always has a drink in his hand, whether it’s beer or something harder. 

Could Blake have a drinking problem?

He shakes his head. “I remember bits and pieces, but it’s mostly of you. I don’t remember sleeping with her. I don’t even remember meeting her.”

“Blake, that’s not good. What if—” God, it hurts to even think it. “What if you got her pregnant? If you can’t remember it, how can you be sure you were. . .you know,
safe
?”

Clearing his throat, he looks away. “We were.”

Okay.
Not
going to ask how he knows that.

“I actually thought it was you in my bed this morning when I woke up.” He laughs humorlessly. “I remembered dancing with you last night and the taste of your skin on my lips, and for about five seconds after I woke up, I was the happiest I’d been in a long time. I don’t know what felt worse—realizing it wasn’t you lying next to me, or realizing I’d ruined any shot I might’ve had with you.”

I shouldn’t feel bad for him, not after what he did. But it seems like I’m not the only one he hurt last night. “Blake—”

“I know, Duchess. We’re friends. All we’ll ever be is just friends.” His jaw tics as he stands and heads into the kitchen.

I’m starting to wonder if we were ever “just” friends.

The only good thing about living with Kelsey was that I got a lot of studying done. Any time her and Brandon started bumping uglies, I put my earbuds in and cracked open my notes.

I even tried to pick my songs based on the rhythm of their sex. That way the thumping of her headboard blended with the bass of my music. If I timed it
just
right, I could forget they were even there.

Sometimes I gave my ears a break and studied at my school’s library, which is what I’m doing now. Finals are next week, and I need to buckle down. Ironically enough, the only bad thing about living with Blake is that I never get any studying done.

Unless, of course, you count all the times I’ve studied his hotness. I’m practically majoring in Blake Whitmore’s hotness this semester.

Groaning, I close my book and shove it away, dropping my forehead to my arms. Blake’s not even
here
and I can’t stop thinking about him.

To make matters worse, he’s been weird all week. Ever since Slutty von Slaps-a-lot spent the night, he’s been quiet. Brooding. And he’s spent every night this week working on his car in the garage. No more watching Netflix with me. No more hanging out in my room. No laughing, no joking, no flirting.

I don’t like it. It seems like I lost one of my best friends overnight, and I don’t know how to get him back.

Ugh, maybe it’s me. Maybe
I’m
the one who’s acting weird, because I can’t stomach the fact that he moved on to the next girl in line so easily. Or maybe I’m just dumb for believing Blake every time he made me feel irreplaceable.

“Pre-law?”

I lift my head at the sound of a man’s voice and see a guy restocking books on the shelves to my left. 

Oh shit, he’s kind of cute.
I instinctively sit a little straighter as I watch him grab another stack from the cart beside him. 

He’s got this nerdy, hipster vibe going on with his skinny jeans and worn
Legend of Zelda
t-shirt. And I’ve got to say, I’m digging the glasses.

“What?” I don’t even remember what he just said to me. Get a cute guy around me and I instantly lose about fifty IQ points.

He points to my closed textbook. “American Judicial Behavior. With Davis, right?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

He winces. “I had him last year, so I feel your pain. Guy likes his essays, doesn’t he?”

“
Right?”
I’ve been bitching about his tests all semester. “It’s like he’s never heard of multiple choice.”

“I’d like to tell you the final’s pretty straightforward, but it’s not.” He laughs. “Be prepared to write a book.”

Groaning, I let my head fall to the table again. I knew law school would be a lot of work, but this is just an undergraduate degree. Shouldn’t it be, I don’t know,
easier
?

“I can help you study, if you want. Show you which areas to focus on.”

Trying not to look too eager, I lift my head. “Really?”

Davis’s class is my hardest one this semester. If he’s offering help, I’ll gladly take it. And if he’s joking. . .well, I think I might cry.

“Sure.” Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he taps the screen a couple times before sliding it over to me with a new “add contact” page pulled up. “I’m here till seven tonight but I’m off tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s good.” I save my name and number in his phone. “Is six okay? My place?” I hand it back and he types something into it quickly. A second later, my phone vibrates on the table.

I pick it up, seeing a text from an unknown number:

Text me an address and I’ll be there @ 6. I’m Hayden, by the way.

A tiny smile tugs at my lips as I stare down at my screen. And even though he’s standing two feet away, I type a response.

Nice to meet you, Hayden :)

After reading my text, he slips his phone in his pocket and smiles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Macy.” With a quick wave, the cute boy and his cart disappear. 

I think the library just became my favorite place to study.

The last thing I expected after a long day at work was to come home and find some guy sitting at my kitchen table with Macy. They have books and papers strewn about, but it doesn’t look like they’re studying.

It looks like they’re flirting. In
my
fucking house.

He leans in and murmurs something to her, and she laughs. Like full on throw-your-head-back, laugh-till-your-belly-aches laughter.

She used to laugh like that for me.

My jaw clenches at the way he watches her. He looks at her the same way I do—in complete fucking awe. I bet he feels like he won the goddamn lottery. My hands ball into fists the longer I watch them, and suddenly I can’t breathe. 

Who the hell is this guy? Does she like him? Is she going to fuck him, too?

Part of me knows I deserve this. Karma’s a bitch and all. But the other part wants to go over there and bash his brains all over my grandmother’s kitchen table.

“Blake, hi.” She finally notices me standing here in the entryway and straightens, her smile slipping so fast it’s like she got caught doing something wrong. It prompts Romeo here to finally turn around. “This is Hayden.”

Hayden?
Seriously? What the hell kind of a name is that?

“Hayden,” she continues, “this is my roommate, Blake.”

So I’m just her “roommate” now? Awesome. 

He smiles and opens his mouth, probably to say hello or some other bullshit I’m not interested in hearing. Instead of letting him speak, I head over to the fridge and pull out a beer, acting completely uninterested. 

Am I being rude? Probably.

Do I care? Fuck no.

It’s my house. If a guy can’t be an asshole in his own house, well, that’s a world I don’t want to live in.

Macy clears her throat and shuffles through her papers. “Hayden’s helping me study for finals.”

Now I don’t know a lot about studying—didn’t do much of it when I was in school—but that sure as hell didn’t look like it. I take a sip of my beer and stroll over to the table, lifting the cover of her book so I can read the title. “Didn’t know American Judicial Behavior was such a funny subject.” 

Shit, it might be. I don’t know what the fuck that is.

He grins at Macy. “We might’ve gotten a little off topic.”

I hate the way he says it, like it’s some inside joke I couldn’t possibly understand. It makes me feel dumb, and if it’s at all related to whatever the fuck American Judicial Behavior is, then I probably
wouldn’t
understand it.

This asshole might be smarter than me, but I can still kick his ass. He looks like he weighs a buck seventy, tops. I got a good three inches and forty pounds on him. 

He’d snap like a twig.

I stride out of the kitchen feeling marginally better, until he murmurs something to Macy and she giggles. She
giggles
, man, like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Scowling, I head out the back door. I can’t fucking listen to this. 

I set my beer down on the porch railing and pull out my cigarettes, popping one in my mouth. With a flick of my lighter I inhale, thinking karma’s not a bitch. 

She’s a fucking cunt.