Hate Story Read online

  Reading about his life—his accomplishments—made my life seem small and insignificant. I wasn’t ashamed of my life or anything, just kind of depressed that it amounted to so little after working so hard. Realizing how people could exert the same amount of effort and commitment and come out with two totally different results was sobering.

  A pounding on the door of The Busy Bean made me jump so badly, I spilled the cup of coffee I’d been sipping while pouring over Max the Great’s life story.

  I automatically reached for the bat the owner kept propped in the corner for these kinds of situations, also known as some bum, meth head, or thug looking to score a quick and easy hundred bucks from the till. This part of Portland wasn’t known for its low crime rates. That and the stand’s twenty-four-hour-a-day schedule equated to a higher than average robbery rate.

  “Hey, fräulein. Open up the damn door already,” a familiar voice shouted with another pound.

  I left the bat where it was and swallowed my heart back into my chest. I’d been working the night shift a few months ago when some kid in an ancient Oldsmobile rolled up to the window and demanded all of the money in the till. He said he had a gun, but I never saw it. He probably didn’t, but I wasn’t going to call his bluff over forty-one dollars.

  “You know, second to cancer, heart disease is the leading cause of death in women,” I said after unlocking the cheap door and opening it. “Thank you for ensuring I’ll wind up in that statistic one day.”

  Kate puckered her shocking pink lips at me before hopping inside. “Thank you for not answering your phone when I called you fifty thousand times today.”

  I locked the door and grabbed a towel to mop up the spilled coffee dripping onto the floor. “Sorry. Kind of hard to answer a phone that’s been shut off due to non-payment.”

  Kate was already rummaging through the fridge, digging around for the half and half to make her peach Italian soda. “Those corporate slugs. Always thinking of themselves first. Kind of like all of the men I’ve dated. Sure, we’ll give you that, if you give us this first.” Kate slammed the fridge door and made a face. “You know I’m always here whenever you’re ready to ask for help. I might not make the kind of bank the future Mr. Nina Burton does, but I make enough to keep a girl’s phone on.”

  I wiped up the coffee on the counter first before kneeling beside the mess on the floor. “Thank you, but no. Besides, other than the bill collectors, you’re the only one who calls me and I see you almost every day anyway.”

  “Not to mention you’ll be getting the hookup soon.” Kate glanced at me as she dished a scoop of ice into the largest cup we sold. “Cha-ching.”

  I focused on getting every last drop cleaned up. “Yep.”

  “How’s it working again? Five hundred grand now, five hundred after?”

  I rose and tossed the dirty towel into the hamper. “First half on our wedding day. The second half the day he gets approved for his green card.”

  “Nothing until you exchange vows? Really?” She poured a load of peach syrup over the ice. “He can’t even throw you fifty grand after the first date or something? Maybe after the first good fuck?”

  “Kate . . .” I snatched a fresh towel from the pile and lobbed it at the back of her head.

  “What? It’s true. Men write their checks with their dicks, not their hands. Remember that.”

  “That’s not part of our arrangement. We’ve both agreed on that.”

  “Yeah? And how long are you two going to have to be exclusive to make this thing convincing to the federal government?” She poured more half and half than soda water into the cup then gave it a quick stir.

  I shrugged. “A few years.”

  She popped a lid on and stabbed a straw through it. “And no sex?”

  I checked the drive-up windows just to make sure a customer wasn’t waiting. “Nope.”

  She rolled her eyes. “He’s expecting sex.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Yes, he is,” she argued before taking a sip of her drink.

  “He never said that.” I glanced at the folder. No sex. I’d made sure of it. I’d quadruple-checked.

  Kate lifted her eyes to the ceiling again. “No, the million singles said that.”

  It did? No, it didn’t. The million said, “Marry me so I can legally get away with committing a crime.”

  “Well, I’m not having sex with him.” I crossed my arms.

  “Why not? Hell, I’d pay him a million bucks to have sex with him. You know, if I had that kind of money lying around.” Her eyebrow peaked, and she got that far-off look that meant she was having another filthy fantasy right in front of me.

  Another towel sailed at her face. “Kate.”

  “What?” She chewed the end of her straw. “You know he’s hung like a frickin’ sperm whale.”

  Her mentioning that part of his body made me think about that part of his body . . . which made my stomach feel something it shouldn’t. “Eh, no, I do not.” I curled my nose and tried to shudder. Weak attempt on my part. “With those huge hands and feet, he’s probably hung like a hamster.”

  Kate huffed. “You are clueless.”

  “Yeah, and I’d like to remain clueless when it comes to that part of his anatomy, so scoot. I’ve got a mess of homework to complete.” I waved at the other thick folder and bit my lip. Sure, there were a thousand pages of questions and ample spaces for me to answer, but I’d only need one page to list my whole life story of twenty-three years.

  “How far have you gotten?” Before I could run interception, Kate lunged toward the folder and flipped it open. “How far have you not gotten.” She flipped through the mostly empty pages.

  “I know. I just . . . get paralyzed every time I try to fill in one stupid question.” I fired a glare at the empty pages like they were the enemy, instead of me and my pathetic existence. “You read through his and it’s like you’re reading the screenplay for some future Academy Award-winning movie, and then you compare what mine would read like . . .” My sneakers squeaked on the weathered linoleum when I shifted. “And it’s like what someone would read if they were trying to put themselves to sleep.”

  Kate flipped through the first couple of pages of Bible of Max before turning to face me. “So what? So you haven’t scaled the Eiffel Tower with your toes. Or made enough money to support a small country. You have your own story that’s just as impressive.”

  Both of my eyebrows hit my hairline. “I’m a twenty-three-year-old with a high school degree who walks dogs by day, works an all-night coffee stand frequented by felons, and in my ‘free time,’ I take photos that don’t sell.” I lifted my arms at my side and did a slow spin. “I’m single, swimming in an ocean of bills, and about to lose my grandma’s house.”

  Kate set her drink on the counter and gave my arm a squeeze. “It’s your house, Nina.”

  “It will always be Grandma’s house.” I kicked at the linoleum.

  “You know I hate it when you get all defeatist on me.” Kate grabbed a pen from the counter and lowered it to the first question on the first page. The part about family. “‘I gave up my dreams to take care of a person I loved.’ Edit that.” She lifted her index finger. “You temporarily put your dreams on hold to take care of a person you loved. How is that any less impressive than all of this?” She shook Max’s pages. “Making money, scratching goals off some checklist, winning awards . . . who gives a shit? At the end of the day, we all want what you’ve got, Nina Burton—a big heart that doesn’t possess a single selfish beat.”

  I always got uncomfortable when she painted me as some modern-day urban Mother Teresa, so I dodged the topic. “Family.” I stabbed my finger at the first thing listed. “Grandma. That’s all I’ve got to fill in. Mom would be a lie, Dad would be a guess, and brothers and sisters? Probably, but god knows I never have and never will meet them.”

  Kate lifted the pen and thumped the end against my forehead. “You had the real deal with your grandma. Most people
never get that. Not once. Having one person who loves you and can back that up is worth more than a million who claim to love you but come up short when put to the test.”

  I moved toward the empty pages waiting for me to fill them in. “I know that. I’m not ashamed of my life. I don’t regret anything. I wouldn’t trade a single day with Grandma for all the money in the world . . . I just feel kind of stuck, you know? Grandma’s gone now, but I can’t figure out what I want to do with my life. Some days I feel like I’m going to wake up and find out I’ve aged fifty years and am still working here and eating canned soup while sitting in front of a television all alone.” I grabbed another towel to wipe down the espresso machine as a distraction.

  I didn’t give most people a chance to get close enough to know the real me—the person who hid fear behind strength. Kate, I’d let slip past the gate enough that she knew.

  “I can’t conceive of a better time to get ‘unstuck’ than with some hot, wealthy foreigner who’s paying you a load of money to break the law with him.”

  The way she’d said it so matter-of-factly made me smile. “It’s definitely a fresh start.”

  She nudged me with her elbow. “Definitely.”

  It was the first date I’d been on in a long time. It was the first “fake” date I’d ever been on. That had to be the reason my stomach was unleashing hell on me as I rode the elevator to the top floor of the hotel I was meeting him at.

  For dinner. Only dinner.

  After our initial meeting last week, we’d agreed on a day, place, and time to get this first date thing scratched off the relationship to-do list. Much like last week, at the other slightly less lavish hotel, I was getting looks from the time I stepped into the lobby. Kind of the way a person felt in a dream when they showed up naked at school.

  I didn’t fit in with the social elite. I never would. I’d never rub elbows with the wealthy or bullshit with the upper crust.

  And I didn’t give a crap.

  People in this class of society behaved like money was their passport dictating how to experience life. They acted like anything could be bought, along with themselves. It turned my stomach . . . right until I stopped in front of the hostess stand and remembered why I was there. I was marrying a man for a million dollars.

  I turned the judgment finger around on myself.

  “Max Sturm,” I told the hostess, guessing he was already there since I was fifteen minutes late. A person like Max didn’t show up late to anything in life.

  The girl didn’t need to consult the sheet in front of her. “Mr. Sturm’s right this way.” She led me into the dining room while I refrained from grumbling over the mister part.

  It was prime dinner hour, and the restaurant was busy. There wasn’t one empty table, and from the wait out front, I doubted there would be for a while. I practically had to jog to keep up with the hostess. Twilight hung in the sky outside, and as we moved closer to the windows stretching around the perimeter of the restaurant, I let myself take in the view.

  Portland was bathed in color, the great Willamette River looking as if it was filled with diamonds instead of water thanks to the lighting. The view alone was worth the price.

  Still jogging to keep up through this restaurant that would not end, I kept admiring the view. Which backfired when I kept walk-jogging even after the hostess had rolled to a stop. When I crashed into her, I made a noise that was more animal than human.

  “Sorry,” I said, realizing a moment later that we’d stopped in front of a window table where someone was waiting.

  He was looking at me in that same way again—fighting that damn smile. Although since I’d just rear-ended a hostess in front of a restaurant full of people, the smile was warranted.

  “Hey,” I greeted him as the hostess slid the empty chair out for me.

  “Hello, Nina.”

  I slid off my shoulder bag and settled it on the floor beside my chair, trying to shake off the chills I felt tumbling down my spine from the way he’d said my name. “Sorry, I’m late.”

  I scooted the chair closer to the table and didn’t know where to look. He obviously had no qualms about staring a person in the eye. Usually I didn’t either, but for some reason, tonight I found it difficult to maintain eye contact.

  Especially when the person I was supposed to be making eye contact with was him. A face meant to be worshipped, a body meant to sin, a smile birthed straight from the depths of hell. My future husband. That person.

  He leaned across the table like he wanted to tell me a secret. “If this were a real date, I might actually be offended.”

  “But you’re not? Since this isn’t?”

  His eyes dropped to my mouth, then he leaned back in his chair. “Not this time, but please try to keep in mind that I respect your time, and I hope you’ll do the same with me.”

  Was he telling me not to be late again? Ordering me?

  I knew I had a serious chip on my shoulder with this kind of stuff, so I made myself take a deep breath and calm down. He was saying he respected my time, and he had been the one here on time. He was saying that he hoped I’d do the same, which was not too much to ask.

  One more deep breath and the raging feminist inside me calmed her shit.

  “I should have been here on time, but public transportation had other plans.” I reached for my glass of water and took a drink. I was thirsty from hustling from the bus stop to the hotel.

  “You take public transportation? As in the bus?”

  The way he said it, like it was an incurable disease, made me smile. “As in the bus, the light rail, and even those nifty streetcars on occasion.”

  “That’s not safe. In this city. For a woman. At this hour.” Max motioned out the window at the darkening sky, like the city was brimming with thugs and thieves just waiting to prey upon the innocent after nightfall. “I wasn’t aware that was how you got around. I’ll have it taken care of.”

  “Actually, nothing needs ‘taken care of,’ and the reason you didn’t know I’m a fan of public transportation is because you didn’t have this.” I reached into my bag to pull out the Bible of Nina that I’d finally managed to finish last night with the help of a few shots of vodka. My life story didn’t seem nearly as depressing when I was steeping in Smirnoff.

  When I held the folder out for him, Max studied me for a minute. Half of his stares felt as if he could see through me, and the other half felt as if he was trying to figure me out. This was one of the latter stares.

  “Finished?” he asked, taking the folder. He set it on the table in front of him instead of stuffing it in some lock-and-key briefcase like I’d imagined he would, given our situation.

  I nodded. “Finished.”

  Well, mostly. That last section remained blank because no amount of vodka could make me brave enough to fill in those questions.

  “Good.” He reached for something beside his chair and pulled out another folder. This one was green instead of blue and not nearly as thick, but still. Another one? I never knew committing a federal crime would be so much work. “I’ve drawn up a timeline for us to follow. When you get a chance, please review the dates and let me know if you have any conflicts with the schedule.”

  I found myself looking around the restaurant, almost like I was expecting a few FBI agents to lunge out of their seats and haul us away in handcuffs. But no one was looking. No one cared what was inside the folders we were exchanging over dinner. I wondered if anyone would even if they knew what was inside them.

  “It’s important that we document our relationship as it progresses, so if you haven’t already, please open up a social media account or two, so your friends and family won’t be shocked when you announce you’re getting married.” He pulled something else out of his briefcase of goodies. “I’ll be doing the same so my family and friends won’t be startled by it either.”

  He set a white rectangular box in front of me. It had a picture of a phone on it—one of those sleek, giant new ones.
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br />   “I took the liberty of purchasing you a new phone as I noticed your current one is so old . . .” He must have noticed the warning in my expression. “It looked pre-camera-phone era.”

  His head turned to look out the window, but I didn’t miss the smile trying to form.

  “Thank you, but I can’t take it.”

  Before I could continue, he lifted his hand. “Before you get too far, I anticipated your lack of acquiescence and am equipped with a favorable solution.”

  He paused just long enough to let me say something, but I stayed quiet. He was right—my phone could barely hold a call, let alone take a picture. Not to mention said phone was in indefinite hibernation.

  “I could deduct the cost of the phone from what I’m paying you. If you prefer that option.” He didn’t glance around the room like I did. He seemed so at ease with this arrangement. So unconcerned that this could blow up in our faces. “Is your silence a sign of your agreement, disagreement, or indecision?”

  I eyed the phone, thinking. He was right about documenting our relationship in the form of photos and social media posts. Not that I had one of those, but I could open one easily enough. The friends and family part would be a different obstacle.

  I’d already agreed to marry him for money—what was accepting a phone in comparison?

  “You’ll deduct the full amount?” I asked.

  “To the last penny if it makes you happy.” His tone was playful.

  “Deal,” I said before slipping the phone into my purse. With the exchanging of folders and now a new phone, we probably looked like a couple of international spies to anyone watching us. Which no one seemed to be doing anyway.

  “By the way . . .” His eyes circled me. “Nice dress.”

  I glanced at the dress I’d zipped into tonight. It was another old one from high school that had been barely in fashion back then. It was pretty much the antithesis of the dress that had been hand-delivered to my front door earlier today. The dress box alone had probably cost as much as my weekly grocery budget.