The Way I Hate Him: Prologue


“How good are you at giving head?”

The girl straddling my lap, tits bouncing in my face, a G-string being the only thing on her body, leans in with a smirk. “I’ve never had any complaints.”

I wet my lips and rest my head against the back of the couch. “Show me.”

A half-empty tequila bottle is on the coffee table in front of us, salt is sprinkled all over, and her tits are still wet from where I was licking the salt off. Lime wedges are scattered along the floor with her clothes and my shirt.

And . . . I’m not really feeling it.

Fuck, what’s her name again?

I know she told me . . .




She scoots off my lap and kneels between my legs. Before she can undo my pants, I ask, “What’s your name again?”

Her big blue eyes stare up at me, and she seductively says, “Tara.”


Oh fuck, I was way off.

A snort pops out of me because, Jesus, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Is there something wrong with my name?” she asks, sitting back on her heels.

“No.” I shake my head.

“Then why are you laughing?”

Yeah, dickhead, why are you laughing?

“Your hands tickled my dick,” I say because hell, I’m drunk and can barely hold it together. Her brow rises, and yeah, I realize the truth is probably better. “I thought your name was Kendall. I wasn’t close to guessing it correctly.”

Her brow pulls together with disdain. “Who the hell is Kendall?”

“You got me,” I say just as a knock sounds on my door, and my agent pops his head in. “Dude,” I say, gesturing to Kendall . . . I mean, Tara. Jesus Christ.

Ruben winces. “I have to talk to you.”

“It’s fine,” Tara says as she grabs her dress and stands. “I was leaving.”

My dick wants me to protest, but I don’t have it in me, so I watch as she slips her dress over her head, shimmying it over her large tits. Such a shame. I would have had fun with her.

But I’ll tell you one thing—I’m never fucking desperate for pussy. Ever.

I’m not the begging kind.

So if she wants to leave, I won’t stop her.

And from the pause at the door and the glance over her shoulder at me, I know she wants me to stop her, to beg her to stay. Sorry, not going to fucking happen.

I lift two fingers to my forehead and offer a salute, causing her brows to turn down.

“You’re an ass,” she says as she pushes past Ruben and leaves.

Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.

I lean forward with my elbows on my thighs as Ruben shuts the door to my dressing room and straightens his tie. The man is a killer in negotiations and the smartest man I know, but he’s a goddamn dweeb. It’s not the first time he’s walked in on me with a girl, and it won’t be the last, yet he still has the same nauseous and uncomfortable look.

I pour myself another shot of tequila but then lift the bottle to inspect it. We didn’t drink that much. “Fuck.” I sigh. “I think Matt’s stealing from me.”

Ruben steps closer and picks my shirt up off the ground. He folds it and gently sets it on the coffee table. “Your assistant?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “Things keep going missing, and he’s the only one besides you allowed in my private space.” I lift an eyebrow. “Unless you’re stealing from me?”

Utter shock and disgust cross Ruben’s face. “You . . . you can’t be serious.” He tugs on the cuffs of his paisley button-up shirt. “I would never—”

“I’m kidding, Ruben.” I toss the shot back and then lean against the couch again. “What’s up?”

“Two things,” he says, holding his fingers up. “Carlton called and wants to know when to expect the next album.” I roll my eyes.

“Jesus Christ, I told him he’ll get it when he gets it. I’m just finishing up his goddamn tour.”

“That’s what I told him, but since you’ve recently gone viral again, he wants to capitalize on that.”

“I’m sure he does,” I say. “Well, I have nothing, so he’ll be waiting a while.”

“Not even a single?”

“Ruben.” I stand from the couch and snag the shirt he folded. “You know me better than anyone, do you think I have a single up my sleeve I can just release?”

“Didn’t think so, but I thought I’d check.” I slip my shirt on. “What would you like me to tell Carlton?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Are you?” he asks.

“Nope,” I answer, picking up my faded gray baseball hat. “But I will.” After slipping it on backward, I grab my phone and place it in my pocket. “What’s the second thing?”

Ruben hesitates. “Abel called.”

That makes me pause and turn toward Ruben. “Why?”

“Your grandma fell again, fractured her hip. She’s been asking for you. She thinks this is the end.”

“She thinks every day is the end,” I say.

Ruben keeps me from moving toward the door when he says, “Abel thinks she really misses you and will say anything to get you home.” Ruben sighs. “I think you need to go back to Almond Bay.”

Ahh . . . fuck.


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