How to Date the Guy You Hate by Julie Kriss Page 0,29

I’d drop whatever the hell I was doing and go.

Her reply was immediate, and emphatic: NEVER.

That reminded me of the line about the lady protesting too much, so I’d replied: You sure about that? I can go all night, you know.

FORGET IT, she typed back. Then, a few seconds later: Also, that’s a lie!!

Try me, I wrote.

She didn’t answer that, so the next day I texted her again: Waiting.

Her reply, again, was immediate. NOPE.

I make you type in all caps, I wrote back. You like me.

I type in all caps because you make me INSANE.

I wrote: Megan, I still have nail marks on my ass. You can’t lie to me.

She didn’t answer that one, either.

I was just wondering what to say to her this time when the phone buzzed in my hand.

What are you doing right now? Megan wrote.

I suppressed a grin. Working, I typed. You missed your chance tonight.

That isn’t why I asked, she wrote after a minute.

And then: Really

It was my turn not to answer. I put the phone in my pocket.

It was Tuesday night, and as the club picked up I found I was looking forward to Thursday, when our trip started. Not just the potential for sex—I didn’t see how we’d keep our hands off each other for five days, but I’d play that by ear—but because I needed to get away. From this town, from my mother’s house, from this bar, from my life. I’d never taken a real vacation. I’d traveled while I was in the Marines, but the last thing deployment is is a fucking vacation. And since I’d been home, the slide of my life into the shitter had been grim. A weekend away was a bright spot, and despite everything, I found that Megan was the person I looked forward to seeing. Maybe it was because she didn’t know me as well as my friends and my family did, so I could be someone else with her. Maybe it was because, due to our screwed-up history, she expected basically nothing of me.

Plus, she was fucking gorgeous. And I wanted to know what the thing that was bothering her was. And she had that one spot, right below her ear, when I bit it just so she made this sound and rolled her hips up like she couldn’t help it, and I really did have nail marks on my ass.

Right. One time.

Edie hadn’t lied about the bachelorette party. They were stationed in the so-called VIP room, a lame spot in a corner that had soft sofas and cushions. I saw women dancing and brightly colored drinks coming in a steady stream from the bar, and when I crossed the room halfway through my shift to check on Edie, I got catcalled. They really were the type to stuff bills in my pants. Thank God, I thought, I didn’t recognize any of them.

But when I was back on Puke Patrol, while Shark was having a smoke, I heard a woman’s voice in the corridor say, “Jason?”

I turned. This woman, I recognized—short, curvy, her hair cut in a stylish bob. It took me a second to place her face, but a name bubbled out of my memory: “Deanna,” I said. And then I realized: I knew her because she was one of Charlotte’s friends.

I choked into silence, and she gave me a smile, though she obviously felt as uncomfortable as I did. “Yeah, hi,” she said. “I thought it was you when I saw you earlier. I’m with the, ah…” She waved toward the VIP room.

“The bachelorette party?” Oh, shit. Was it Charlotte’s bachelorette party? I couldn’t picture that, but I still prayed instinctively to the slimy gods of Zoot Bar. Please don’t let that be my ex-girlfriend’s bachelorette party.

Deanna nodded. As if she read my mind, she said, “It isn’t Charlotte’s. It’s some girl I know from work. I hate these things. Sort of embarrassing, really, but I can’t get out of it.” Her cheeks were red; she was probably remembering her friends catcalling me. “So, you work here, huh?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said, realizing that all of this—everything about me, how I looked, everything I said—was going to be transmitted back to Charlotte. Including the fading bruise on my cheek. That was just fucking great.

Deanna looked confused. “It’s weird. I thought you worked at the bank.”

I nodded. “I got fired,” I said. There, let her tell Charlotte that. The bank job had always been her idea.

“Oh. That’s too bad.” Deanna didn’t seem