The Hook Up (Game On Book 1)

“It’s my fucking place!” he bellows. And his arm punches the air for emphasis. “You crazy ass—” Even now he can’t call me a name. A strangled shout breaks from him. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”


“No!” I get in his face. Maybe I want him to hit me. I sure as hell want to hit him, hit something. “And there isn’t a thing you can do about it.”

“Oh, yes I can.” In full maniac mode, he stomps into our bedroom. Before I can follow, he’s out again, carrying an armful of my clothes. Shock has me rooted to the floor. I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to punch him when he wrenches open the door and tosses my things out.

“You motherfucker,” I shout.

Not to be outdone, I go to the room and get a handful of his things. His own shock, when he sees me, is nearly comical, were it not for the fact that he’s breaking my heart.

“You’re being the asshole,” I retort, tossing his things onto the lawn. “So you get out.” Maturity has officially left the building. Along with our clothes.

Nostrils flaring, he moves to go into our room again. I know he’s after more clothes. I dodge in front of him, blocking the way. Drew skids to a stop, teetering before he snarls.

“No,” I snap. “You don’t get to manhandle any more of my stuff.”

He’s so angry now, he vibrates. “Get. Out!”

“No!” We are nose to nose now. “I’m not fucking leaving. Do you hear?” My throat hurts from the force of my words. “I’m never leaving you, Drew. No matter what you say. I’m. Never. Fucking. Leaving!”

It’s the truth. I won’t leave him. But I don’t have to look at him. Not when hateful tears are pricking behind my lids. Not when my lip is quivering. Angry crying is a curse. I turn from him, but he clearly sees. I march away. I was wrong. I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough; I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.

“Anna!”

I ignore him. The door to our room, when I slam it, rattles the windows. I lock it for good measure, just in time, because he’s on the other side.

“Anna, damn it!” He smashes his fists into the wood with enough force that something cracks. But the door holds.

“Get bent,” I shout in a voice way too high-pitched.

With a snarl, he pounds once more, and adds a “Fuck!” for emphasis. Then he’s gone.

I’m pretty sure if his leg weren’t broken the fucking bastard would have kicked down the door and physically tossed me out by now. Like he did my clothes. God, that hurt. It still does. Our dresser drawers are tilting haphazardly, half hanging out from their housing. T-shirts, and one of my bras, hang from them like streamers. I focus on that lone bra. A ridiculously expensive La Perla sky blue bra that Iris gave me on my twenty-first birthday. The bra Drew slipped his fingers under the night he’d asked me to move in with him.

He emptied my lingerie drawer? That dick. My fucking bras are on the street, probably being ogled by some fucking frat boy.

The thought, for some inane reason, makes the damn burst. I sob, great big hulking sobs that I try to contain by shoving a pillow into my face. Smothered by down and hunched over on the floor, I almost don’t hear him.

“Anna.” His voice is ravaged, but so close and clear, he has to be leaning on the door. “Anna, baby. Let me in.”

I hate myself that my whole body vibrates with the need to do as he asks. I just want this fight to end. I want him to hold me. I want to hold him. And then I remember that my panties are likely hanging on the bushes and curl tighter into myself.

“Anna.” It’s a long plea. “Please, honey. I just… Please.”

God, he sounds so broken. He is broken. And I don’t know how to fix him. He doesn’t want me. But he’s on the other side of the door. Calling my name.

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