Something Like Hate - Harloe Rae Page 0,27

the real winner.”

Jordan releases a hoot. “I’m gonna tell her you said that.”

Brance nods at his friend. “Please do. Her forms of punishment are more like my rewards.”

Bile churns in my gut, the bitter taste rising up my throat. I gag while attempting to swallow the putrid image he paints. “I didn’t order rancid cheese with my booze. Keep the sweet sentiments to yourself.”

Jordan nudges me with a laugh. “You have no idea, Winters.”

I scrub over my mouth, making sure there are no actual traces of vomit. “That was more than enough to turn me celibate.”

His shaking head denies my claims. “Nah, you’ve got it all wrong. Getting hitched is a blessing. Finding your optimal match makes you a better man.”

“That’s your opinion, love doctor. Leave my name out of it.”

“Fucking pussy,” Brance spits.

“I don’t need to hear about your dinner plans, but thanks for sharing.”

That earns me a smirk. “Cocky little shit, huh? I hope that woman trains you to behave better in public.”

I pin him with a glare of my own. “And how’s that working out for you? That collar around your neck looks uncomfortable.”

He tugs at his tie, entirely for my benefit. “It’s better than going off the deep-end from your own doing.”

“Barking up the wrong tree, man. Relying on others can be a real letdown. My condolences on your missing balls, though.”

His palm smacks the glossy counter with a thwack. “You better fix that chip on your shoulder before someone discovers the crack.”

“Oh, yeah?” I turn on my seat and posture like a douchebag dude-bro who just scored in beer pong. “How do you recommend we settle this? You look like the type to engage in an arm-wrestling match. Bet I can take you.”

In his defense, Brance barely blinks at my stupid boasting. I’ll admit, this isn’t my finest moment. “A bit childish for my taste. I typically save those games for my nine-year-old. There’s probably a college bar down the street where you can find a fuckboy to slap around, though.”

Damn, this guy is sharp. No wonder he made partner at his firm before hitting thirty. His shark mentality isn’t solely reserved for the courtroom. I could almost applaud his tenacity if he wasn’t aiming those ruthless barbs at me.

I raise my drink in a mock salute. “Nice burn, but too cheap for my palate.”

“I’m not your enemy, Winters. That’s all on you.”

“More words from the wise.”

If I didn’t know better, I might assume the furrow in his brow is from disappointment. “You’d be smart to listen. It’ll save you from making costly mistakes.”

“I’d say thanks, but lying at a professional level is your job. You get paid pretty handsomely for that, right? I have no interest in following your footsteps.”

“You couldn’t fill them.” His gaze bores into mine, willing me to back down.

I’m the least likely candidate to submit. “Whatever makes you feel better, pops. I’ll just let the chips fall as they will.”

The ferocity in his glare puts Vannah’s to shame. “That sounds an awful lot like fate.”

Or a poker match. Whatever. “Then peer into your crystal ball and tell me how to end this worthless conversation.”

“Fuck you too.” Brance tears his glare off me to focus straight ahead, ignoring me with a force I don’t plan to reckon with. “Good luck beating yourself up until clarity strikes.”

“All right, kids. Let’s reel it in. We’re supposed to be having fun.” Jordan sliding in as mediator has less impact than Brance’s transparent jabs to best me.

“Is this not how male bonding works?” I jut my chin while leaning against the bar.

He teeters a palm in a seesaw gesture. “Not quite so hostile.”

As if I’m capable of anything else. Jordan should expect no less from me when faced with a rival ready to bear arms. Why I remain plastered to this stool is anyone’s guess. Perhaps the whiskey is finally making a dent in my steely tolerance. But no, my vision isn’t swimming and I’m able to process the stupidity of this exchange without battling a fog. Dammit. This is a rare event that I curse my iron stomach. Maybe he’s right, but that doesn’t change the facts.

Piss and vinegar flow through my veins on the regular. Thanks to a certain redhead, that ire happens to be spiking to astronomical levels. This pointless bickering is pouring gasoline on the flames. Rather than losing my temper on the man determined to belittle me, I resign myself to stew in silence.

Directing my frustration to Vannah is a

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