Hate You Still by Lyssa Lemire
CHAPTER ONE
EMMA
I used to wonder what could drive someone to kill. But after being woken up in the middle of a Wednesday night by another out of control party next door, it’s not a mystery for me anymore. I understand – oh, do I understand.
When our neighbors kept us up all night with parties on Friday and Saturday, yeah, it was annoying. But it’s a college town. You just have to accept that that’s going to happen sometimes.
When they did it on Sunday, it was grating. When they did it on Monday, it was infuriating. When they did it on Tuesday, it was an outrage.
But on Wednesday?
What kind of monster doesn’t respect the sanctity of a Wednesday night? Who has an all-out rager on the second Wednesday of the Fall semester?
The sound of a glass bottle shattering on the street below my window and a chorus of obnoxious yells and cheering rudely snatches me from the much-needed sleep that was just starting to take hold.
I turn on my side and press my pillow against my ears, but it does little to tune out the racket out front. I can hear my roommate, Katie, in the room next to mine push her window open and scream down: “Shut the hell up out there!”
Her admonition is met with laughs, jeers, and even a few catcalls. The loud crash of her window shutting again is pretty much the last straw for any chance I have of rest tonight. I sit up in my bed and sigh in defeat as I hear Katie walk down the hallway from her room to mine, a cloud of grumbled expletives traveling with her.
She swings my door open. “I’m going to kill whoever moved into that damn house next door.”
I collapse back on my mattress and stare at the ceiling, now wide eyed and without the faintest hope of sleep any time soon. “Tell me about it.”
When Katie and I found this super-cheap two-bedroom second floor apartment just three blocks away from campus, we thought it was too good to be true. Turns out that when something seems too good to be true, it probably isn’t true.
Every single night the house next door throws loud, wild parties that go on all night. I’m talking frat bros puking on the lawn, bonfires, broken bottles, so much trash all over the ground the morning after that it looks like a tornado blew through a Solo cup factory.
More than one streaking incident.
We still don’t know who lives there. They don’t even bother to clean up after themselves. Some freshmen frat pledges come along the afternoon after with trash bags and take care of it. The guys who actually live in the house are no doubt uber-douches of the highest caliber if they think they’re too good to clean up their own messes.
We never see anyone walking in or out of the house while the sun is out. I’m sure they’re sleeping in until late afternoon, nursing hangovers until the sun goes down, and then starting the next party around eleven at night until the sun starts to peek over the horizon again.
Do they even go to classes? Ugh.
Katie sits on the edge of my mattress. “I thought this would ease up after the first week.”
Katie and I both work damn hard. She’s an engineering major, and I’m an education major. In fact, I’m going to start student teaching at the local middle school next week. And the inconsiderate jerks in the house next door are no doubt either rich boys whose parents donate enough money to let them get away with murder, or … God forbid, they’re athletes: untouchable heroes who never need to play by the rules at sports-crazy Alton University.
The thought of how much those jerks are able to get away with – on athletic scholarships no less – fills me with a righteous indignation. “That’s it. I’m going to do something about it.”
“You wanna call the cops?” Katie asks.
I stand up and tug on a pair of pants. “Nope. I’m going over there.”
Katie’s jaw hangs open. “Really?”
I zip up my jeans zipper and puff out my chest. “Yep. I’m giving them a piece of my mind.”
Maybe having their party barged in on and getting yelled at by a sleep deprived neighbor might just awaken a minimal amount of shame or humanity in them and get them to turn it down a couple notches.
I’m so full of frustration and pumped up to finally give those inconsiderate jerks next door the dressing down they deserve, that I march out of my room on a war path without another word. Katie lets out a surprised peep behind me and hurries to follow. “I’m coming with,” she says, her voice a little shaky.
Katie and I walk down the stairs and out the front door, both of our shoulders still squared, chests out, and heads high, but the scale of the unmitigated debauchery going on out front serves to steal some of our courage from us.
“Holy–” Katie exclaims, before a fresh-faced freshman rushes past us and deposits the contents of his stomach into a bush in our front yard.
The party is clearly too wild for just the house to contain, so it’s spilled out onto the lawn and sidewalk out front.
The grass and concrete are already strewn with empty cans, bottles, pizza boxes, even articles of clothing. Just as I’m taking it all in and readjusting myself to the scale of the barbarity occurring before us, I hear a shrill yell from across the lawn. My eyes dart to its source, where a fight has just erupted between two guys – apparently over the yelling girl.
At first it looks like friends of theirs are trying to break it up, but as more drunk and rowdy party goers realize what’s going on, the scuffle becomes a spectacle that people are cheering over. Suddenly someone is organizing a betting pool and people are staking money on who they think will come out on top.
With a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I look over to the entrance of the house. Just walking inside will require stepping over a passed-out partygoer. God knows what horrors we’ll face inside looking for the party hosts.
“Should we just go back inside?” Katie whispers next to me.
But I steel my resolution and shake my head.
There’s no way we can live like this for the rest of the year, with spectacles of this nature going on every other night right next to us. We’re paying good money to live in an off-campus apartment that isn’t on frat row. I know it’s a college town, and no matter what we’re going to have to live with some level of noise and chaos, but this is unacceptable.
And our so-called neighbors need to someone to tell them that. Since obviously no one else is going to do it, including campus or town police, that someone is just going to have to be me.
“Let’s go,” I say to Katie. She nods her head, and we walk from our lawn to theirs.
It’s like we’re entering enemy territory.
As if the forces of debauchery want to try one more time to dissuade us from advancing any further, right as we’re walking toward their front porch, a group of drunken frat bros starts to try to light a bonfire right on the walkway. Katie and I walk around it, giving the guys with their lighters a wide berth.
I just hope our own house is still standing after we walk out of this one.
We walk through the threshold of the front door, and I’m almost blown over by the smell of stale beer, pot, and cigarette smoke. The stench is so pungent I feel like I’m about to get a buzz just from the fumes.
For a moment it feels like all of my senses are diminished from the utter assault my sense of smell is suffering.
But soon I’m acclimated enough to take note of what my eyes are seeing. If the outside of this party was wild, I’ll need to invent a new adjective to properly describe what’s going on inside the house.
The music is pounding. Masses of partiers are gyrating on the floor, people are chugging beers, one guy’s in the corner doing a keg stand as others are cheering him on, multiple couples – and one throuple – are making out. A pack of girls giggles while running past us, all stripped down to their underwear.
Hey, at least I’m not the worst dressed person here, then.
I scan the room for anyone who at least distantly approximates being sober, so I can ask them where I can find the people renting this house. It’s no easy task.
Finally, my eyes zero in on two girls with sour looks on their face, hanging out in the corner with drinks in their hands, looking like they’re about to leave.
“Hey,” I begin, walking up to them. “Do you know whose house this? Like, which one of these guys,” I spread my arm out, indicating the bedlam going on around us, “actually lives here?”
“I think they’re upstairs,” one of the girls answers.
Katie and I thank them and tentatively walk up the stairs located in the hallway to the second floor, dreading what kind of madness we might find near the bedrooms.
To the right of the top of the stairs, there’s an open door, out of which I hear flowing laughter and conversation, clearly from a group of people. Since it sounds like it’s probably not an orgy, I risk walking over and peering inside.
A group of people are sitting at a table in various stages of undress. I notice a guy with his shirt off but pants on, another guy only in underwear and socks, a girl pretty much fully dressed with the exception of her shoes, and another girl in her bra and panties. Each of them holds cards in their hands.
Strip poker.
Of course.
One of the players is standing. I see a flash of motion as he tugs his shirt over his head. It feels like time slows down.
The motion first reveals his trim waist, with a deep, stark v-shape cut into his pelvis, the edges sharp and defined like carved stone. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen one of those in person – I always just assumed it was something they photoshopped onto models’ bodies for romance novel covers.
But this one is real. Oh, is it ever real.
His defined and chiseled six-pack abs lead up to a wide chest, the expansive, hard planes of his muscles glistening in the interior lighting. When his arms reach far above his head to tug the shirt off fully, his shape is elegant and powerful, like the ancient statue of a mythological figure. A living, breathing work of art.
Even in the short, simple movement of removing his shirt, his body displays a finesse and power like it’s a finely tuned, expertly engineered machine.
And then the shirt falls to the ground and his arms, as defined with muscle as his chest and stomach, dangle at his sides. For the first time, I can see his face.
Hard, sharp angles. A wide, strong jaw. High, defined cheekbones and deep dimples. Plush and sumptuous lips. Thick, rich, brown hair. Shocking and vivid eyes, a perfect and penetrating emerald green.
All features I’ve seen before.
Features that still haunt my dreams and stalk my unconscious fantasies after all these years.
Our eyes lock.
This is the first time I’ve been in a room with him since we were in high school. The first time I’ve seen him face to face – certainly the first time he’s looked at me – since he unceremoniously dumped me junior year.
I thought I’d be able to get through my four years at Alton University without having to experience this moment. I thought I’d be able to avoid him. It’s not like we run in the same circles or have anything close to the same lifestyle here on campus.
But fate had other ideas.
It’s Knox Delton.