Cheater's Regret

  And I realized, just sitting near her was causing paranoia. I didn’t want her to have my drink or put anything in it, so I decided to what? Get drunk off my ass?

  “I see what you did there,” I whispered. “Clever.”

  “Just wait.” She bit down on her bottom lip in a way that drove me insane—and she knew it. My blood heated as my hands balled into fists. The waitress came and went, and I was thankful I wasn’t sporting spandex shorts anymore.

  Because it would be impossible to hide how much Austin affected me—how much she always would.

  Suddenly she glanced at her phone and then at the door; her smile grew and I didn’t like it. It gave me that funny feeling in my gut again—like all hell was about to break loose, and I was going to be the unlucky target of whatever scheme she’d thought up in that gorgeous head of hers.

  “Dad!” she shouted.

  “Oh, freaking hell.” I closed my eyes briefly before opening them and standing.

  Her dad was a pompous ass.

  A protective, pompous ass.

  So the fact that I had broken his baby girl’s heart? Well . . . let’s just say I was suddenly really thankful he was a Democrat and voted for gun control.

  “Bradley.” I held out my hand.

  He stared at it, then slowly gripped my hand viciously hard, pumping it a bit too hard for my liking before releasing it. “So, I hear you’re going to race with us?”

  “Us?” I repeated.

  “Daddy!” Austin giggled. “I told you it was a surprise, but oh well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag!”

  I forced a smile.

  “Team Rogers!” Bradley nodded and slapped me hard on the shoulder. “Why, we’ve taken first place every year.”

  Well. Shit.

  “First, you say?” I struggled to find my breath. I couldn’t even ride a bike let alone beat someone else on it! Maybe they’d still count me if I carried a ten-speed over the finish line? No? “That’s really impressive.”

  “We don’t lose.” His eyes narrowed as he jabbed a finger against my collarbone. “But one of the guys is out, and when Austin mentioned how much you enjoyed cycling, I figured what the hell, you know? Bury the hatchet and all.”

  There was a hatchet?

  Just how big was this hatchet?

  “That’s very big of you, Daddy.” Austin stood up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “You here meeting someone?”

  His eyes darted between the two of us. “A work friend.” His easy smile was back. “Thatch, we ride this Friday at six a.m.! We’ll meet at Gas Works Park.”

  He shook my hand again and walked off.

  Six. Freaking. A.m.

  Austin turned to me with a triumphant grin. “Do you want me to tell him? Or should you?”

  Thankfully, the waitress had returned with another drink. I downed half of it and sat in the hard wooden chair while Lucas and Avery both stared at me with laughter written all over their amused faces.

  “Laugh all you want.” I shook my head and grabbed my glass again. “But I don’t back down from a challenge!” Why the hell was I shouting?

  “Dude.” Lucas cleared his throat and wiped a tear from under his eye. “Last time you tried—”

  “Not now!” I roared. “Damn it, man, do you keep any secrets?”

  “No,” Avery piped up.

  “Do any of you have any idea how traumatizing it is to just get back on the bike after—”

  “Stop overreacting.” Lucas waved his hand in front of my face. “That ice cream truck missed you by a mile at least.”

  All heads turned toward him.

  “Thanks, man. Thanks a lot,” I grumbled, sipping the rest of my drink, well on my way to committing to a constant state of drunkenness.

  Damn Austin.

  “Ice cream truck?” Avery just had to point out as she whipped her head in my direction, humor gleaming in her green eyes. “How old were you?”

  “Lucas, I swear to all that is holy, if you open your mouth, I will punch you in the face.”

  “I guess that explains number twenty, ‘Hates ice cream.’” Austin sighed and twirled her two straws around in her drink. “I’m pretty sure hating ice cream is right up there with hating children.”

  “Which really explains so much, don’t you think?” I countered in a condescending tone as I eyed her up and down. It was a low blow. It was mean. It was also necessary to get her the hell off my back.

  God, I didn’t want this.

  Though a part of me knew I deserved it.

  I should have never, ever, ever, allowed her in.

  Because as much as I’d like to think I’d pushed her off the relationship cliff, she was pretty damn good at clawing her way back to the top just so she could be the one to shove me off it.

  “Once an asshole, always an asshole,” she sang, and then glanced at her phone. “Well, kids, it’s been fun, but I have a professor who hates me and a final project I haven’t even started.” She stood and gave me a pitiful glance. “Which is too bad, since I’d love to teach you how to ride sometime.”

  I felt that look all the way down to my toes.

  But mainly I felt that look where I sure as hell shouldn’t have.

  Between my legs.

  It took every ounce of strength I had to level her with a glare and say, “I guess turnabout’s fair play, since I taught you to ride first.”

  Lucas spit out his drink while Avery groaned into her hands.

  Austin tilted her head. “Did you, though?”

  “Okay!” Avery waved her hands between us. “So, this social media class and hateful professor? What’s that all about?”

  Austin seemed to deflate as she grabbed her keys out of her purse and snarled in Avery’s direction. “My professor’s just looking for a way to fail me—apparently, he hates any girl student who doesn’t have giant boobs. He passes the girls with the big boobs and the guys who salivate over his ability to get his own students into bed. Disgusting, really.”

  I frowned at Austin’s chest. She had a great rack, a gorgeous rack, I would know, I’d seen it. What the hell kind of professor wouldn’t pass her?

  “I’m late enough to gain his unwanted attention and probably the only student who doesn’t fall all over herself for him. Anyways”—she grabbed her leather jacket and shrugged into it, pulling her pretty, dark brown hair with golden highlights over the soft black material—“for my final project, I have to start either a blog or a YouTube channel and gain a following of more than a hundred people to pass the class, which may sound easy, but I’ve been procrastinating, and it’s due in three weeks.” Her shoulders slumped forward. “I still don’t have any ideas.”

  I snorted. “Shocking, since when it comes to payback, you’re the Queen Bitch.” Okay, yeah, I was more than buzzed. It slipped out. All of it. The nasty words and the hurtful way my voice echoed them, like she was really getting to me.

  Maybe because she was.

  “That’s it!” Avery shouted, slamming her hand down on the table and scaring the shit out of Lucas enough for him to choke on a peanut and almost need the Heimlich.

  “What?” Austin frowned. “What’s it?”

  “Thatch!” Avery shouted gleefully.

  And I was waving down the waitress for a third time.

  I was going to kick Lucas’s ass if I ended up in AA.

  “What about Thatch?” Lucas looked as confused as I felt.

  “Austin.” I hated the way Avery’s eyes lit up like she’d just found a way to solve world hunger—and I was the answer. “Start a blog about hating your ex!”

  My mouth dropped open. “I’m sorry, start a what blog?”

  Avery was rubbing her hands together as Austin’s smile grew wider and wider.

  “So, document how to hate an ex?” Austin asked. “I think I’ve got that down.”

  I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

  Hate was a strong word, too strong. Did she really hate me? And wasn’t that the plan
all along? Use her hate, use her anger?

  “Yes!” Avery held up her hand for a high five. “You can do weekly blog posts on how to break up with your cheating boyfriend, share your story.” Avery glanced over at me. “Sorry, Thatch.” And then she looked back at Austin. “It’s perfect!”

  “But what would I call it?”

  “Cheated.” This from Lucas.

  “Thanks, man.” I saluted him with my middle finger. “Oh also, you’re dead to me.”

  “Ah, you said that a few hours ago, and look, still friends.”

  He lifted his beer in acknowledgment of our ended friendship and smirked.

  “Don’t be so dramatic.” Austin narrowed her eyes at me. “It’s not like I’m going to air all your dirty, skanky laundry. This will totally be from the scorned person’s point of view! I can add in articles from different women’s magazines and BuzzFeed, and post quizzes!”

  “Yes!” Avery giggled. “Quizzes like ‘Is Your Man Faithful?’ ‘Does He Have a Small Wiener?’”

  All eyes fell to me.

  “I’m a plastic surgeon,” I said evenly. “If it started small, it sure as hell isn’t that way now.” I grinned tightly at Austin. “Right, sweetheart?”

  She blinked slowly and then narrowed her gaze at my crotch. “You know? I can’t really remember.”

  I smirked and leaned in close. “The hell you can’t.”

  “Okay.” Lucas stood and put a hand on my chest. “Maybe I should cut you off.”

  “Thanks for the idea, Avery!” Austin waved at us. “I’ll think about it.” She hugged Lucas and then gave me a chilly glare before turning on her heel and walking away.

  Lucas whistled. “You couldn’t just listen to your best friend when he first told you to leave her the hell alone. No, you had to go and show her your bedroom and then your cock. I warned you, man.”

  I didn’t respond as my eyes followed Austin’s body until the door to the bar slammed behind her.

  I had nothing in my defense.

  Because men like me, men like my father, we didn’t understand commitment—something he reminded me of on a daily basis.

  The minute he moved back to Seattle.

  And into the same building as me.

  Chapter Seven

  AUSTIN

  It was going to be a late night.

  Like really late.

  Not only did I have an assignment to finish, but there was no chance in hell I could actually sleep after that run-in with Thatch. Why? Why did he have to be so cruel? And why was I like a dog with a bone? I wanted to let it go.

  I wanted to let him go.

  I wanted to be free from whatever emotional bondage he still used on me.

  But every time I saw his face, I was torn between wanting to knock out his perfect teeth and wanting to kiss him with reckless abandon.

  Maybe it was because no one had ever broken up with me before? Probably because I’d never had a serious relationship—until Thatch had given me a key.

  A freaking key to his apartment!

  “He doesn’t want you, Austin,” I mumbled to myself. I mean he made that clear the minute I walked in on him with his tongue down another girl’s throat.

  Taking a deep breath, I tossed my keys onto the kitchen table and pulled out a wineglass, filling it to the rim before opening my laptop and waiting for it to power up.

  My mom wasn’t home. Then again, she was rarely home at night—she was always out with her girlfriends doing wine dates and dinner parties. It was her thing—actually it was more my dad’s thing, since all of the women she hung out with were capable voters.

  And my dad was going to be out late—he had made that much clear earlier.

  I shivered. The only light illuminating our massive house was from the computer and the TV in the family room.

  Moments like these reminded me just how lonely I really was. Yes, my house was huge, yes, we had a ton of money.

  But I’d have traded all of it for a chance to have a conversation longer than five minutes with either of my parents and not revolving around politics or my MBA.

  They checked in once a day to make sure I was alive and breathing, and that was about it—unless I got a bad grade, which was probably why I was so stressed about my current class.

  So when Thatch broke my heart and ran it over with his stupid car, I was left to sob alone in my room until Avery rescued me.

  Loneliness sucked.

  I gulped back the wine, clicked on a free website builder, and started to slowly pick out themes.

  A minimum of one hundred followers.

  I had to make my content interesting.

  I drank more wine.

  And three hours later, when I was well on my way to finishing the bottle, a smile spread across my face as my hands hovered over the keyboard.

  “Eat shit, Thatch,” I slurred, and began to type.

  My head felt like someone had run it over with a semitruck and then decided to beat me with my cell phone. “Ugh.” My mouth tasted like bad decisions.

  And a sense of panic had started to swell in the center of my chest.

  The details of the night before were a bit fuzzy.

  I slowly lifted my head from its spot facedown on the kitchen table right next to my computer, and blinked up at the black screen.

  What happened last night?

  I remembered Thatch in all his Thatchness.

  The bar.

  And my assignment—yeah, that’s why I’d left early.

  The panic in my chest grew until a jarring paranoia had me clicking the return key on my computer as if my life depended on it.

  Two empty wine bottles stared me down.

  Oh no.

  Oh no, no, no.

  My computer woke up a few seconds later to the website I’d started to build, but I couldn’t remember the password.

  I tried every single one I could think of.

  And then ran into the bathroom to puke my guts out.

  This, this was what it felt like when you finally hit rock bottom.

  I washed my hands, then braced myself against the sink, slowly gaining enough courage to glance into the mirror and see the damage.

  I let out a gasp and covered my mouth.

  My forehead said “erohw.”

  And the letters were in marker.

  What the hell?

  Erohw?

  Oh hell. My forehead spelled “whore” backward.

  I scrubbed with my hands, only to probably push the ink farther into my skin.

  With sloppy movements, I grabbed a washcloth and ran it vigorously over my forehead, only succeeding in making my skin angry and pink.

  “Think!” I took deep breaths and closed my eyes. How had I written that on my forehead anyway? Furthermore. WHY?

  Wine.

  More wine.

  Giggling.

  “He’s a whore.” Yup, pretty sure I yelled that at my computer and then registered the account to my email and . . . I let out a little groan and slowly made my way over to my computer and typed in “erohw.”

  Bingo.

  My password.

  I’d written my password on my forehead. Well done, Austin. Well freaking done.

  Well, at least I hadn’t done anything worse, right? I mean, it could be worse—it could always be worse. Look at the bright side! I got my assignment done and—

  “Holy shit,” I gasped for the second time that morning, and hoped that I was hallucinating.

  But every time I hit “Refresh” . . .

  There it was.

  In all its glory.

  The Cheated website.

  With the title of the first post: “A Single Girl’s Guide to Getting Even.”

  It would have been fine.

  Except for right underneath it, I’d uploaded a picture of Thatch, on which I’d drawn a mustache along with a pitchfork and red eyes—compliments of Photoshop.

  And beneath that?

  A video.

  I was seri
ously afraid to press “Play.”

  What the hell had I been thinking?

  I covered part of my face with one hand while clicking on the “Play” button with the other. Gulping, I turned the sound up.

  “Are you filming me right now?” Thatch slurred drunkenly into the camera.

  “No.”

  “Liar.” His smile was easy, gorgeous, albeit extremely drunk. “Give me the phone, Austin.”

  “Nope.”

  “Austin!” He started chasing me around the bedroom, stumbling all over the furniture as if straight lines were foreign to him. It was his birthday, and I’d gotten him well and drunk so I could have my way with him, or at least that’s what I’d said—because the truth of his birthday made me sad. According to him, his birthday had always been full of loads of gifts and empty promises. He wanted for nothing, but something told me that all he really wanted was attention. I knew that feeling well, so I figured it was better to help him forget.

  His knee collided with the bed, and he went sailing to the ground and stayed on his knees. “Um, Thatch?”

  “Baby.” His eyes were so unfocused, it was comical. “There’s something I gotta say.” He swallowed, then pressed his hands to his chest and started to sing Enrique Iglesias’s “Hero,” completely and totally off-key, not to mention wrong. “I kiss tears of pain.” Yeah, those so weren’t even the words. He paused way longer than necessary. “Pain!” he said again, his large body swaying from left to right. The last part was more shouting than singing. “You always take breaths away.” I waited as he leaned forward and then collapsed on the ground and whispered, “Away.” Then he yawned and fell asleep.

  Oh hell. He was going to kill me.

  Why? Why did I get drunk?

  See! Drunkenness leads to bad choices. His drunkenness made him sing Enrique Iglesias, and my drunkenness forced me to share it!

  Maybe nobody had seen it yet?

  Maybe I’d get lucky and could delete it before it got out of hand, or—my face fell—maybe, like a loser, I’d linked the web page to my Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

  And already I had over two hundred comments on the post.

  My phone buzzed.

  I stared at the screen as Avery’s name lit up.

  The phone stopped buzzing.