Hate the Game - Winter Renshaw Page 0,16
less.” He glances up at one of the lit windows on the second floor. The shadows of two people behind the sheer curtain leave very little to the imagination.
The last time I hooked up with anyone was almost a year ago, when I briefly dated this theater major who unironically turned out to be a bit too dramatic for my liking in the end. I’d never seen a man cry so much over everything. Sex with him was slow and meticulous, and I swear he tried to make it look the way it does in film and on television—like softcore porn. But it got to the point where it was distracting, and sometimes all I wanted was to fuck and to be fucked.
But those slow and sensual Oscar-worthy kisses …
I miss the hell out of those.
“So your mom is into interior design?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation neutral and non-sexual in any way possible.
“Yeah, she actually used to have her own design firm,” he says. “Back before she met Mark anyway. He’s a builder and real estate developer and after they got married, she closed her freelance firm and worked with him on all his projects.”
“Nice,” I say.
“I swear every time I go home the house looks different. Hell, she even changes up my bedroom at least once a year.”
I shrug. “I get it. Sometimes it gets old looking at the same things all the time. It’s fun to switch things up.”
“Yeah, but my room?”
“Maybe it reminds her of something she doesn’t want to be reminded of?”
“Such as?” he asks.
“I don’t know … maybe when she looks at it, she thinks about her baby boy who’s all grown up and maybe that makes her sad?”
Talon chuffs through his nose. “Pretty sure my mom hasn’t felt a damn thing in at least fifteen years. Woman’s got a whole cabinet full of shit that helps her not be sad.”
He’s quiet for a second, contemplative almost.
And then the door behind us creaks open.
The footsteps that follow are lighter. I don’t have to turn around to know it isn’t one of his linebacker buddies this time.
“Talon? Oh my God! Hey,” a girl says. He turns to face her. I stare ahead as her over-the-top energy invades the crisp night air. “Coley said I’d find you out here. You should come in and do a shot with me for old times’ sake!”
From my periphery, I see her manicured hand curl around his rounded shoulder as she crouches down.
The silence between the two of them is cringeworthy—at least for her—and I can almost feel her flittering glittery mood fading in real time.
“Y … your friend can come too?” she offers, voice broken and confidence dashed.
“I’m good,” I say, keeping my attention on the blackness ahead.
“Yeah, I’m good too,” Talon says.
“You sure?” the girl asks.
The weight of Talon’s attention blankets me. “Positive.”
Without saying another word the girl traipses inside, her heels clunking across the wobbly deck boards. The door creaks open and slams a second later. I almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.
“You didn’t have to do that for me,” I tell him.
He scoffs, taking a sip of his beer.
“These are your glory days,” I add. “You should enjoy them. Take full advantage. You shouldn’t be pretending to be annoyed by all this attention all because you’re trying to impress some girl who doesn’t even want to be impressed.”
“Not trying to impress you.”
“Bullshit,” I say, laughing. “You’re a liar.”
“All right.” He nudges his shoulder against mine. “Maybe I am. Just a little.”
“Well it ends here, tonight,” I say.
“Just like that?” he asks. “And just because you say it does?”
“Pretty much.” I stand, stretching my legs. A small shiver works its way through me and from here, the house looks warm and glowing and a million times more inviting than it did before.
Talon rises, towering over me with his eyes locked on mine. “Why do you hate me, Irie?”
“Just because you’re not my type and I don’t want to date you doesn’t mean that I hate you, Talon. I don’t even know you—how can I hate someone I don’t know?”
“How do you know I’m not your type if you won’t take the time to get to know me?” he asks.
Fair enough. “Maybe I don’t know you, but I know enough about you to know you’re not my type.”
“Fuck types.”
“Says the guy who’s fucked half the school.” I fold my arms and glance down. That was a little harsh even if it’s true.
“That’s what you think?” he asks.
I