my throat, my gaze skittered away from him. Maddox tended to make me feel on edge, like I was about to jump off the cliff. He irritated me, non-stop. But as bad as it sounded when I admitted it, I had grown used to him being a jerk. The ongoing battle between us was exhausting, but it had been something I started looking forward to. Our pranks and verbal sparring had become something I had grown used to.
The realization had me taking a step back.
I had always been competitive, but I had never found a proper opponent.
Not until Maddox.
His gaze shifted behind me, and his smile slid off his face. “Your bus is here,” he said, breaking through my muddling thoughts.
The bus came to stop in front of us, and I started forward, leaving him behind. My hands were shaking as I tried to take off his jacket. He held my hands in place, over the buttons. “Keep it. You can give it back later,” he said, his voice gruff and thick.
“Have a good night,” I breathed, stepping into the bus.
“Oh, Lila?”
I peeked at him over my shoulder. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants, a few stubborn strands of hair falling over his eyes. “You don’t hate me,” he stated firmly before cracking a smile. “Sweet dreams, Lila. I might visit you there.”
My lips twitched, and I turned away before he could see it. If you google Maddox's name, Cocky will be his definition. Maybe that should be his middle name. Maddox 'Cocky' Coulter.
I swiped my card and took a seat at the back of the bus. As it drove past where we had been, I saw Maddox still standing there, staring at the bus as I left him behind.
He was right.
We were at war, two very fierce opponents.
But…
I didn’t hate him.
Realization dawned on me that I didn’t loathe Maddox as much as I thought I did. Things just turned out to be a bit more complicated because it would have been easier if I hated him.
14
Maddox
Hate is a strong word.
It’s a bitter but sweet fucking poison. It’s like cocaine, and once you’ve had a taste, it’s damn addictive. It becomes something more. It infiltrates your system, running through your veins, until you can’t see anything other than red rage.
Hate kept me going.
Rage kept me alive. It became the oxygen I breathed.
See, I didn’t hate my parents.
I loathed them.
I wasn’t angry at them. No, it was something more. The rage festered over the years. I tended to it, watered it and watched it grow into something nasty and ugly.
Years ago, I found out it was easy to hate but so damn difficult to love.
But no matter how deep my hatred ran for them; I still looked into their eyes and hoped to see something more. Love for the child they brought into this messed up world and forgot to look after. Me.
My mother and I stood opposite of each other in the hallway of our home. She had a cashmere shawl wrapped around her shoulders and the moonlight shone through the window, casting a glow on her face. I was the carbon copy of my father, but I had my mother’s eyes. I waited for her to acknowledge me, I waited for her to smile and say a few words. I waited to see if she’d ask me if I ate today or if she wondered how school was. Something simple, something small… but something other than silence.
It had been two weeks since we saw each other. We lived in the same goddamn house, but my parents were never here.
She clenched her shawl tighter to her body and walked toward me. It was way past midnight; I had come home late, yet again, after partying with Colton and the boys. I smelled of alcohol, weed and the scent of cigarette was heavy in the air, clinging to my clothes.
Her eyes met mine for a half second before she averted her gaze. Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, and my heart thudded so hard in my chest as I waited.
The look on her face told me she didn’t hate me, maybe she even cared… but when she closed her mouth and walked past me, I realized… she didn’t care enough.
My heart plummeted to my feet, bloody and weeping, as mommy dearest walked over it and walked away from me.
I marched to my bedroom and slammed the door close, knowing full well my parents