If You Hate Me

by Helena Hunting

His free hand slides into my hair and curls into a fist, holding my head. “You know what they say about playing with fire.” He twists my head, his lips dragging across my cheek until they reach my ear. “Bad little Bea,” he taunts, catching my earlobe between his teeth.

All three heads turn my way. Tristan is in the middle of a sip of orange juice—he drinks an irrational amount of juice. He chokes and coughs into his arm. I hop to the floor, plaster a bright smile on my face, and head for the fridge, passing Tristan. His eyes are wide, and his mouth hangs open. It’s comical, really. “What the fuck are you wearing?” he blurts.

They want you more than a hockey player wants a full set of teeth.”

might loathe him with the fire of a thousand burning yeast infections,