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  Hate: A Love Story

  Published by Laurel Ulen Curtis

  © 2014, Laurel Ulen Curtis

  Cover Design by Stephanie White of Steph’s Cover Design

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Warning: The following standalone novel contains explicit language, sexual content, and potential triggers.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part 2

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Part 3

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Laurel’s Social Media & Other Books

  September 1996

  LOOKING DOWN AT MY BOOKS strewn across the crowded hallway floor, I cursed the ban on backpacks during school hours for the millionth time that year.

  “Ugh. You stood no chance against that forty-five pound stack of books, gangly arms. It’s not your fault,” I muttered to myself as I squatted down to gather my runaway books among the dangerous flutter of hundreds of sets of awkward, preteen legs.

  “No, this wasn’t a fair fight,” I continued on for my own benefit.

  “Here,” I heard at the same time that my heavy science book was shoved right under my nose. “This one was all the way across the hall. You’d have never made it there on your hands and knees in this traffic.”

  Taking my book from his outstretched hand, I looked up into the blue eyes of what was surely an eighth grader. He was too big to be my age, and eighth grade was the oldest this building had to offer.

  “Thanks, I guess. But I can promise you I would have managed just fine on my own,” I argued in defense of my abilities, smarting just a little at his insinuation that the busy hallway was too much for me to handle.

  He seemed surprised, his eyebrows eating up half the expanse of his forehead as he tried to defend himself. “I didn’t mean anything by it, you know. I was just trying to help. I’m Blane. I’m new here.”

  “Whitney. I’ve been here forever. And the only person I rely on for help is myself.”

  I wasn’t the type of girl who needed a man. And I never would be.

  I worked hard enough not to need one.

  His face relaxed, the corner of his mouth curving ever-so-slightly into a grin. “I like that. But how about, from now on, we rely on each other. You’d be doing me a favor. See, I could use someone like you to help me out every once in a while.”

  Glaring boldly with skepticism, I asked, “No tough guy act? Seems abnormal for around here.”

  Every last guy in this school was a phony. They all thought they were tough and badass. What a joke.

  “Even the strongest of men need somebody to lean on every once in a while,” he explained. “That’s what my dad always says. And I’m pretty sure it applies to strong women too.”

  Simultaneously, my heart stood up and took notice and my eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  Why did this kid think he wanted to be friends with me? He knew next to nothing about me.

  “Why do you think I’m the type of person you’d want to be friends with?”

  This time, he didn’t grin.

  He smiled.

  “Because you’re the type of person who asks that question.”

  October 1998

  “TELL ME AGAIN HOW YOU convinced me to come here,” I instructed while looking down below at the spandex-clad butts of some of our most popular male classmates and the skirt-wearing peppy girls in front of them.

  “I’m pretty sure it has something to do with my good looks and charm,” Blane answered on a smirk.

  The crowd raged around us, moving and swaying and screaming as a unit.

  “Ha!” I huffed, turning to look at him pointedly as he tossed more of his favorite gum into the confines of his mouth. “You wish.”

  His smile only grew as he leaned back onto the empty bleacher bench behind him and spread out as men tended to do. Fourteen years old (as it turned out, he was the same age as me), and he already had it down. “You know, you’ve got the look of a cheerleader, but you’re somewhat lacking in disposition.”

  “That’s because I’m not a cheerleader,” I pointed out.

  Laughing, he winked. “No kidding.”

  “Whatever. What are we doing at the football game?” I asked, scrunching my face against the onslaught of cheers. “I really thought you strong, broody types stayed away from organized sports.”

  “Broody?” he questioned and sat forward. Pointing at me, he corrected, “You’re broody. I’m light and sunshine.”

  “Pfff! What?! You’re totally dark. Intense. The whole bad boy package,” I argued.

  “Ah,” Blane breathed, running his hand down his age-inappropriate chest. “The package, yes. But the inside is all gooey. Like a chocolate chip cookie. You like cookies, don’t you?”

  “Of course I like cookies. Not liking cookies is un-American.”

  “Good. You can bake me some later.”

  “As-fucking-if.”

  “Exactly. Which brings me to why we’re at the football game. We need another friend. One with a kinder heart. One who will bake us cookies just because she wants to.”

  “She? Why does it have to be a she?” I shrieked, feeling my sexism-detecting motor start to rev.

  “Because ‘shes’ are pretty, and ‘hes’ are not.”

  “Not true.”

  “True for me.”

  “Don’t be such a pig.”

  “What pig? I heard no oinks, I rolled in no mud.” Shaking his head he leaned back on the bleacher once more. “I’ll tell you what, Elbow. Girls like you make life hard. We say you’re pretty, and that makes us an asshole. But we don’t, and hey, that makes us an even bigger asshole.”

  I know what you’re wondering. Elbow?

  Yeah, tell me about it.

  Sometime during the summer between eighth and ninth grade, Blane started calling me Elbow when he wanted to annoy me. I was, of course, perplexed. I didn’t know what kind of a nickname Elbow was or where he got it, but I knew it did the job he intended. It aggravated the shit
out of me, and with the frequency he used it, it did it often.

  “Yeah, and?” I asked and then added, “You should probably get used to it. Hate to break it to you but some lucky girl will probably be calling you an asshole for the rest of your life. She won’t really mean it though.” Raising my eyebrows and pursing my lips, I finished, “Most of the time, anyway.”

  “Well. It’s a good thing I like hard work.” His thick eyebrows waggled.

  “Pshh. If you liked hard work so much, you’d make your own cookies.”

  His smile took over his face effortlessly—just like all of his other expressions. Blane was a simple guy, but at the same time, I’d never seen someone more honestly demonstrative. If he let you in, he showed you everything.

  With a wink, he confirmed my assertion. “You’ve got me there.”

  Standing to full height with no warning, he reached down to ease my ascent. “Come on. We’ve got a new friend to meet.”

  “Ughhh,” I grumbled half-heartedly as he pulled me up from the cold metal and dragged me out of our row to the stairs.

  When he made a straight path down, keeping his eyes forward and focused, an ugly realization started to settle into place. “Why am I getting the feeling that you already picked our new friend out? Perhaps even already befriended her? Told her I’m nicer than I am?”

  Pausing only briefly to watch his step as he reached the ground, he turned back to me and praised me with both a smile and his words. “That’s because you’re smart. And you’d be right. About all of the above.”

  Dark night sky and the smattering of stars among it filled my vision as my head rolled back in exasperation. “You become more of a pain in my ass every day.”

  “See, Elbow?” He asked as he lifted my distracted body to the ground by lifting at my hips. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. No gratitude. You’re upset that I’m complimenting you. Again.”

  My head came forward, and I bit my lip to lessen my smile. It was times like this that reminded me how boring my life was before Blane steamrolled his way in and infused it with our banter.

  If he’d already picked out a friend he deemed worthy of this—of this special place we had found with each other—then she must have been pretty special herself.

  “There it is,” he celebrated, staring at my traitorous lips.

  Playing along, I innocently questioned, “There what is?”

  “An indication that you like me. I know I’ll get one every once in a while if I just keep wading through the superficial bitchiness.”

  He threw his warm arm around my shoulders and turned me, heading in the direction of no one. Darkness settled around us so heavily that it cloaked even the shadows.

  “I thought we were meeting this new, perfect friend.”

  “We are,” he confirmed, pushing my uncooperative legs forward with the pressure of his hand.

  “But the people are back that way,” I gestured, looking back over my shoulder.

  “Not all of the people,” he corrected, grasping my chin and turning it back to the stretch of fence in front of us.

  When my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I finally saw it.

  One lone girl, wearing loose jeans and a jacket a size too large. Her appearance wasn’t disheveled in a dirty or misfortunate sort of way. She just looked like she wasn’t trying at all.

  I had to admit, that was a good sign.

  “Hey Franny,” Blane called out in greeting, taking his arm from around me and wrapping it around her in a friendly hug.

  She embraced him in return, but it was a touch more timid.

  “Franny, huh?” I asked immediately as Blane stepped back to lean against the fence between us, one booted foot bowing the links with its presence. “Is that short for Francesca?”

  “Nope,” she responded with a shake of her head. “Just Franny.” A shrug lifted the long dark hair into a curve on top of her shoulders. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but I swear my parents love me.”

  A girl who mocks her own name? Another positive sign.

  “It just turns out they love my Great Aunt Franny more.”

  Laughing, I turned to Blane and raised my eyebrows in consent. Maybe he was right about this girl. Though still on probation, he didn’t seem worried.

  “So why are we at the football game? Are your loving parents making you come to this too?” I joked as I turned back.

  “No.” Her answer was absolute. “I wanted to come.”

  Shit.

  I cut my eyes to Blane sharply, a deep shade of accusation shifting my normally dull blue to midnight, but all he gave me was a teasing wink.

  “You wanted to come?” I asked again. For some reason, I wasn’t willing to accept that a girl who looked like her and wanted to be friends with people like us could want to run with this crowd too.

  “Yeah,” she confirmed. But this time, she looked unsure, glancing at Blane for reassurance.

  Obviously, he gave it.

  “I’m not really interested in being involved, but, well, I like to watch.” Looking from me to the group of people behind me, she continued, “I like the idea that all of these people can come together to do this one thing. That there’s an entire group of girls who’ve dedicated their time to doing nothing but encouraging the players and crowd to come together and be more powerful.”

  When I just stared at her, dumbfounded, she shrugged. “I know, it’s cheesy.”

  Looking from her to Blane, I tilted my head at his smug smile. “Seems more like the inside of a gooey cookie to me.”

  Blane just laughed, pulling each of us under one of his long, muscular arms. But his eyes came to me, and they were unbelievably fond. “I knew you were a patriot.”

  May 1999

  “HEY GUYS,” I GREETED AS I looked up from my peanut butter and jelly sandwich to see Blane and Franny bearing down on our lunch table.

  “Hey, Whitney,” Franny responded at the same time that Blane gave me his usual, “Hey, pretty girl.”

  “I can’t believe you guys keep taking your chances with the mystery meat. Ugh,” I shivered. “That’s what peanut butter is for.”

  When nobody said anything for several seconds, I peeled my eyes away from my sandwich and chips and found two nervous faces in front of me.

  Their eyes were wide and the set of their mouths was alarmingly grim.

  “What’s the deal, Thing 1 and Thing 2? Your expressions are eerily similar.”

  After looking at each other, the silent communication of a a well-oiled, longstanding friendship working at its finest, Blane wrapped his arm around Franny’s shoulders, turned back to me, and spoke. “I asked Franny to be my girlfriend.”

  “And I said yes,” she added quickly but quietly.

  I felt a sharp stab in my chest, but it was gone just as quickly as it came.

  Their posture slouched in anticipation, the space between us narrowing as a result.

  “Um, okay? I’m failing to see what about that is making you guys look like you’re one socket short of a set. This is happy news, is it not?”

  “Well, yeah,” Blane confirmed, a flash of surprise seeming to overcome his features as he rocked them back as a unit.

  “So, what? You guys want me to leave so you can make boom boom right here on the cafeteria table?”

  “God, no!” Franny protested with a dark, rosy blush.

  “I’m not sure you should be that opposed to the idea of that, sweetheart,” Blane joked under his breath. She tucked her face into her hand.

  But still, they looked unsure.

  “Then what? I’m the third wheel now?”

  “You know that would never happen, Elbow,” Blane stated, his face serious.

  “Then turn those frowns upside down for cripes sake.” Aiming a pointed index finger directly at his unusually unsure face, I ordered, “And can it with that Elbow shit already.”

  “Never,” he disagreed on a smile. Leaning forward, he placed one gentle kiss on the very a
pple of my cheek.

  The warmth of it lingered.

  Sinking back to his seat and wrapping Franny in his embrace once more, he repeated, “Never.”

  Late July 2001

  EASING OPEN THE WALK-THROUGH gate at the side of Blane’s house, I was surprised by the absence of noise on the other side.

  Peaking beyond the wooden barrier between me and the yard, I cringed at the creak of the hinges and, when I spotted no one, started to get nervous.

  How could I have gotten this wrong? I could have sworn I had the date and time right.

  “Whitney?” I heard called softly, just as I was about to turn around, head down the block a little ways, and sit and wait to see if anyone else showed up.

  Figuring I was caught, I stepped the rest of the way through the gate and let it click closed behind me.

  “Hey, Mr. Hunt,” I greeted. “Um, I’m sorry to bother you. Blane told me there was a barbecue today, but I must have gotten it wrong.”

  He chuckled easily, a friendly smile transforming his sometimes intimidating face. Clearly, he had been the genetic source for Blane’s intensity. Still, his jaw wasn’t quite as harsh as his son’s, and while Blane’s hair leaned toward a medium brown, his father’s perfectly defined dark. And his eyes were an emerald green. Beautiful. Striking even.

  But not blue.

  “Come on in, sweetheart. You’re in the right place at the right time. Obviously, Blane just wanted you here a little early and he’s running late.” When I stayed silent, he added, “He went to get Franny.”

  “Oh, okay,” I muttered, taking an awkward step forward and running the soft cotton of my t-shirt mindlessly through my fingers.

  I liked Blane’s dad. I’d been around him a lot, and he was always kind and welcoming. But I’d never been alone with him, and I found myself nervous about it. Not because I thought he would be mean or weird or negative in any way, but because I was seventeen and not as sure of myself as I would have liked to have been.

  “You’re not one of those vegetarian kids, are you?” he asked randomly. Remnants of hamburger clung comically to his raised palms.

  “Um, no,” I answered, just one corner of my mouth curving upward involuntarily.

  Happiness warmed his features again. “Good. I need some help seasoning up these burgers, and I figured raw cow wasn’t the sort of thing a girl like that would be into handling.”