Loathing You by Amina Khan

Chapter FOUR

J u l i e t t e

Was I really here? Sitting on Adaline Emery's motorbike?

When I demanded she drive us to my home, she was bewildered, until I reminded her that she was my godforsaken tutor. Soon after that, she agreed. I didn't expect her to give in so quickly and not put up a fight.

She's a fighter. That's what infuriates me.

She was so bothered by me coming to her little dumpling shop. I've been doing it for a few years now; It's my favourite place to visit, because I get to annoy her. Also, because over the years, I've become accustomed to the place. In fact, I love the food that Miss Kim makes; it's divine.

Regardless, it doesn't matter because right now, all I can think about is how I am engulfed by the scent of cigarettes and cherries, accompanied by a slight hint of lavender.

It is so horribly unbearable to be around that scent; to be around her. It is even worse to be behind her, my hands around her tiny waist, clutching onto her leather jacket.

Her bike is shabby, it stinks of gasoline and the seat isn’t very comfortable, so why do I feel so free sitting on it? Why am I dreading the moment we reach my house and I have to get off this bike?

I peer at the side mirror and see Adaline driving with such vigour, not that I can make out her face in that helmet. The Bitch didn't even offer me a helmet.

I can't help but ponder how many people have sat on this bike with her. Besides her friends, did she offer anyone a ride? Did they wrap their arms around her like I am? Or did she actually offer them a helm—It doesn't matter. I don't care. I could care less about who she has on this detestable bike.

I shake my head and decide to release this pent-up frustration in the best way I know how.

I lean forward and place my chin on her shoulder. Adaline instantly stiffens and nudges me off, I fight the urge to bend her over this bike and spank the shit out of her for—wait, no. Not spank. I mean punch, kick, or anything else, but definitely not spank.

Damn these intrusive thoughts.

“How many people have been on this bike?” I whisper teasingly in her ear, pretending like I'm not yearning for the answer.

“Fuck off!” she responds. It's muffled because her helmet is still on and it frustrates me.

Shefrustrates me.

I wish I could see her face; how bothersome her features must look right now. I love bothering her, I love it so much that sometimes I forget why I'm doing it.

“Did they touch you?” I purr the words out.

I often did this with her; berated her for being attracted to women, but then I contradicted myself and teased her. But only because it felt so good to tease her, to revel in the fact that I bother her and she's affected by me.

“Yes. Many people have fucked me on this bike too.”

One. Two. Three. I give her three whole seconds to change her statement or laugh it off, but she doesn't.

Does she have a death wish? Or do I just want to kill someone?

My hands are tightening and I don't know why; my body is stiff and I can't explain it. All that I know is that images of the people Adaline has possibly had sex with on this bike are invading my mind.

Oh God. A woman bending her over this bike while having sex with her? Or did she ride a burly man on here? How many times—

This annoyance that's coursing through my veins right now is purely because I'm straight and thinking about her having sex with women on this bike is bothering me because it's unnatural. That has to be it.

I'm not sure when we reached my house, but I feel myself being snapped back to reality when I feel the bike become stationary.

“Get off my bike, blondie,” she demands, taking her helmet off, I momentarily lose my senses when I see her unforgivably gorgeous black hair spill from the helmet.

She shakes her head like we're in some movie and everything is in slow motion. I hate that she looks so good even after a helmet has been sitting on her head.

I clear my throat and shake my head, getting off the bike quickly. “Gladly.”

I take slow steps up towards my house and enter the key code for the black gate to open: 2305.

My home is like something out of the movies. You know where kids have a whole platter of breakfast but eat one strawberry and run out of the house? It’s that type of house.

My mother always complains about how it’s one of our smallest houses. Her exact words are always, “This house is only 9000 square feet, what would most people think?”

She thinks our circular fountain is too tacky and that the high bushes are never perfectly trimmed.

She prefers our houses in the sunnier parts of the world, such as Australia and California. Not me, I love London; this is where I was born and raised.

Staring up at this mansion in front of me, I feel grateful for the house, but I feel dread every time I walk through those doors.

It seems like Adaline isn't too fond of my house either. I don't miss the faint smirk on her lips. She's probably reminiscing on the time that she vandalized my house three years ago with her friends. It was impressive actually.

She spray-painted my home, threw eggs, and littered everywhere. My house was in chaos for a good few weeks. I still don’t know how she managed to cover so much area, but then, maybe it’s our fault for giving security the night off that day. And by our fault, I mean mine.

Of course, I witnessed the security tapes and saw everything. I quickly deleted every shred of evidence because I knew very well that if my mother had found the tapes, Adaline would be in prison. There was no way I could let that happen.

“Come on,” I say to her, as I yank my keys out and make my way inside the house while she follows. Immediately we enter the house, maids come running towards me, asking how best they can serve me.

I offer a gentle smile. “I won't be needing any assistance, please do not disturb me.”

I make my way up the stairs, my body and mind aware that Adaline is behind me. I wonder if the smell of my house is refreshing for her or it's bothering her like it bothers me. My house always smelled like bleach; always clean and perfect with not an ounce of dirt. My mother was very anal about cleanliness, which didn't really pass down to me.

It only occurs to me when I reach outside my bedroom door that Adaline has never been inside my house, let alone my actual bedroom.

Suddenly, my hands start perspiring. My legs are starting to become frozen and I have to force myself to move and open the door.

Why do I care what she thinks of my bedroom? Is she going to think it's dishevelled because there's art everywhere? Or is she going to think it's unimaginative—

“I can't believe your room actually has personality,” Adaline compliments backhandedly. My heartbeat starts slowing down and I look over to her. She is staring so intently at every inch of my room.

I like it.

Every aspect of my room is covered in art; the walls, floors, even my door was covered completely.

I'm still astounded that I was able to cover my room considering how humongous it actually is. It was the only room in my house that contained even an ounce of colour that was neither neutral nor aesthetically pleasing.

“Let's make a start,” I say swiftly, pretending like I didn't care for her comment.

I sit on my queen-sized bed, the velvet sheets feeling impeccable on my bare thighs.

I immediately take out the contents of my bag and look up. “Don't even think about sitting on my bed.”

Her head snaps to me at my warning, then she narrows her eyes. “I would rather drop dead than risk being anywhere near Adonis's cum.”

Ugh. Why did she always have to be so crass?

“I can assure you my bed is cleaner than your whole house.” I spit out in a tight tone. She just rolls her eyes at me and pulls out a chair from underneath my desk and sits on it.

For a split second, my eyes are drawn to her long, slender legs. Why did she always wear skirts? I mean, obviously she can wear what she likes, but would it kill her to wear a pair of trousers for once?

I'm so utterly sick of seeing her tanned, soft legs,

although I always thought those long legs would do very well on the cheerleading squad. I bet she's super flexible too.

Too bad she's a dyke; I don't let perverts on my cheerleading squad. I shake my head and look up, thankfully, she's engrossed in her own bag and didn't catch me looking. Not like I was staring anyway; I was simply observing.

“What are we starting with?”

“Well, what is your weakest point?” She man-spreads her legs slightly and I feel myself growing irritated.

“Everything.”

I would be embarrassed to admit that to anyone else, but with Adaline, it's different. She has seen the worst parts of me and always assumes the worst of me in any scenario, so I never have to be embarrassed.

She nods in response, opening her textbook. “Let's start with cell structure. It's definitely going to be on the test we have in the next two months—”

“We're gonna have a test?” I question, bewildered. She just looks at me with annoyance painted on her features.

I really need to start paying more attention in biology. I knew we have a few exams in the next few months before our final exam at the end of the year, but I didn’t know it was this soon.

“Yes, you would know that if you paid attention in class, dumbass,” she mutters the last bit under her breath, but still loud enough for me to hear.

My nostrils flare. “What did you just call me?” I ask in a dangerously seething tone.

She looks up at me and blinks. “You heard me.”

Dumbass? I’m a plethora of things; I'm vindictive, cruel and a pain in the ass, but I am not dumb nor have I ever been called dumb.

I despise that word. While I've never heard it directly, I know some people assume that I'm unintelligent. It's true that I doubted my intelligence as a child, but I don't anymore; I know I'm smart.

It's not my fault I'm just not obsessed with biology like Adaline. It's crystal clear that she loves the subject and is crazed about becoming a surgeon. She might as well be carrying a stethoscope around with her at all times.

“Let's just get on with it.” I breathe out, not missing the way she smirks at me backing down.

This is not what I do, but she's tutoring me and I can't fail, so I need to be the bigger person here. Even though I hate it.

“Like I was saying,” she takes out her pen and starts writing some notes, “cell structure is going to be on the test. You're going to need to understand the definitions of some key components, okay?”

Her tone takes me by surprise. It's as if she's slipped into the suit of my tutor. I don't hate it, but it's bewildering. She sounds so serious, like she actually cares if I understand what she's saying. This just makes me realize something utterly annoying.

I have to actually listen to her.

***

That’s what I did. I've spent the last hour listening to her and absorbing the information regarding animal cell structure.

I have to give props when they are due; Adaline is actually excellent when it comes to tutoring. It's probably because she is so passionate about biology; it's practically been oozing out of her for this whole session.

However, my attention is wavering now, mostly because I'm tired of the biology talk. I understand what she's been saying and I've consumed it. I'm a quick learner, so I cannot be bothered to continue talking about animal cell structure right now. Not when I have much more interesting topics of conversation that I would like to bring up.

“Remember that the nucleus contains genetic material,” she twirls her pen, “don't forget about ribosomes either. Remember they are tiny structures where protein synthesis occurs—”

“Your motorbike …” I cut her off, clearing my throat in the process.

She looks exasperated that I've cut her off. I don't blame her; we should be talking about biology. I should be letting her continue because I desperately need to pass. But my brain just won't let me; I won't be able to rest until I hear her answer.

I squeeze my pen tighter, inadvertently, when she looks at me, so intently. I'm not used to Adaline listening to me. It's like a shot of adrenaline—her eyes watching me.

“Yeah?” she questions, confused and annoyed, urging me to continue.

I cross my legs, take a deep breath, and decide to do just that. “How many people have fucked you on it?”

She raises her eyebrows as annoyance swells deep inside her magnificent green eyes. I can see her clenching her fists at the sides of my chair. I refrain from smirking at her clear discomfort and keep a straight face.

I admit I like asking inappropriate questions when it comes to her, but this time, I’m genuinely curious.

“Were you dropped as a child? Is that why you come up with such bullshit?”

Don't deflect. Answer me.

“Are you too much of a pussy to answer?” I question smugly, closing my book.

She is the furthest thing from a coward. This isn't the 1950s, so it's not like she's embarrassed to discuss her sex life either. She's just more bothered that I'm the one asking the question and that makes me really happy.

“No. I just don't know why you're so interested,” she says, shrugging. Before I can answer, she continues talking. “Why are you interested in the head I got from a girl on this bike? Why are you so interested in the three orgasms she gave me?”

Three. Three?

Adaline is provoking me, making my fists clenched and my head pound. Her smug face indicates to me that she knows she's gotten to me; she thinks I'm angry because of my homophobia.

She wants so bad for me to admit that her describing her sexual deviancy with girls is bothering me. But why does her being with a boy bother me just as much? No. I can't let her get to me.

“I just wanted to find out if your sex life was as average as I assumed it was.” I deliver the words in a bored tone that I myself am shocked at.

I've never been good at hiding or controlling my feelings, but in this moment, I'm forcing myself to.

She looks baffled, scoffing. “Average? On what planet?”

“That girl giving you three orgasms isn't as earth shattering as you think,” I mumble harshly, pretending like I'm not interested in this conversation as I stare at my nails.

Are you one to talk Juliette? Your boyfriend can’t even give you one.

“Oh, like you could do any better, pillow princess,” she retorts, annoyed.

“What did you just call me?”

“You heard me.”

Pillow princess? I'm not a pillow princess. It's not my fault I don't have the urge to take care of Adonis or any other man I've ever had sex with. That certainly does not make me a pillow princess.

“I'm not into girls, so that isn't applicable.” I raise my voice slightly. It wasn't the best retort, but she had to know that what she said wasn't accurate. Only dykes can be pillow princesses as far as I'm concerned and I'm not a dyke.

She nods, laughing lightly in that annoyingly smug way she does. “You're right. The word I was looking for is boring.”

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Darling, when it comes to sex, I can assure you that I am the furthest thing from boring.”

I don't mean to purr the words out, I don't mean for it to sound so seductive, yet it doesn't matter what I meant, all that matters is that my words make Adaline's breath hitch. Never in my life have I felt so grateful for not blinking than I do in this moment.

Adaline Emery is a brick wall; her walls impenetrable and her emotions utterly guarded. So that slight hitch? That’s like heroin coursing through my veins.

“Oh yeah?” she asks teasingly, playing with the heart necklace around her neck.

“If I was your way inclined—”

“You mean if you liked fucking girls,” she corrects vulgarly, smiling at my genuine discomfort.

I grit my teeth. “Like I was saying, if I was deplorable like you, you'd find out very quickly that I'm not boring in bed.”

I do not know the words that are leaving my mouth at this instant. I don’t mean the words leaving my mouth, I just need to see her lose, to take her words back. Right?

“You give yourself too much credit. I'm not Adonis. I'm not easy, Juliette.” I bet she isn't. Nothing about Adaline Emery screams 'easy to please'.

“Really? I beg to differ …” I stand up slowly, walking towards her. I place both of my hands on the arm chair and she doesn't even flinch.

She looks like she's holding her breath and I like it; I like when she looks like she's doing something because of me.

“You would be incredibly easy. I think all it would take is one touch …” I lean into the side of her head, engulfing her scent once again as I move my fingers towards hers so our pinkies are touching. “One touch. Where would it be? On your waist? Or on your neck? No, it would be on your ass. All I have to do is mark your ass red for the way you speak to me. Then you'd be begging for me to be inside you. Isn't that right?”

I move my face back to look at her. She's breathing heavily and her eyes are hooded in a way I've never seen before and it is exhilarating.

I would be goading about her reaction if I didn't feel how soaked my own panties were. Why are my panties soaked?

“Juliette …” she whispers, leaning closer to me. I suddenly cannot find the will to breathe as I search into her forest green eyes. This close up, there's a speck of hazel light in her iris—something I've never noticed before.

“Yes?” I whisper throatily as I hang onto every word that she's about to say. I count the seconds in my head; anything to keep me focused and breathing, because I feel like I can't breathe.

One. Two. Three. Fou—

“I never beg boring people to fuck me.”

Before I can respond, she's using her foot to push me away from her gently. I'm speechless. Not willingly, but I feel as though I can't even open my mouth to respond to her.

How does she do that—turn off her emotions in less than five seconds?

I clear my throat, pretending like this encounter hasn't bothered me as I sit back down on my bed. “Whatever dyke.”

She scoffs loudly. “Let's just move along with the actual tutoring. We've only covered animal cells; we still have so much to do—”

I tune her out when she starts rambling, I should actually thank her for this because it's reminding me of how infuriatingly annoying she actually is. Her behaving like this is giving me the required time I need to calm my breathing.

Listening to her drone on while tutoring me numbs my mind into oblivion. She's acting like this is the most important thing in her life, all for a silly little commendation letter? Does she not realize that Oxford will be begging for her regardless of some stupid letter?

“Relax, we have plenty of time,” I interrupt her hastily. my tone isn't as venomous as it usually is, but that's mostly because our previous encounter had drained me.

“Juliette,” she speaks my name harshly, glaring at me, “I'm not going to let your incompetent nature and your contentment with your average grades ruin my chances for a commendation letter!”

This. Bitch.

This is what it takes to bother Adaline Emery? She is completely nonchalant and monotonous even when we were discussing how I would sleep with her.

Yet, as soon as the conversation is steered towards grades and letters, she is absolutely infuriated. All this time I could have just used her future at Oxford to get her attention. To get her reactions. To have her absolutely livid.

Unbelievable.

“You are so fucking dramatic!” I groan out. “Of course, I’m content with my grades! There’s nothing wrong with having average grades. You should try it sometime. Maybe then you’ll stop being so high-strung.”

She laughs lowly. “High-strung? Why the fuck do you think I’m so high-strung? I don’t get to be average, Juliette. Only people like you get that option.”

“People like me?”

“Rich,spoiled cunts that get everything handed to them.” Her precise enunciation fills my body with rage. But she doesn't stop. “You get to be average, to revel in the safety of your money. I don’t get that luxury.”

“If you had my life, you’d be the same,” I spit out, standing up in fury.

“No, I wouldn’t.” She shakes her head with a shrug and I arch my eyebrow prompting her to continue. “I’d actually make use of my money for something other than making other people miserable—”

“Oh, please.” I scoff, cutting her off. I haven’t made everyone miserable—just people that bother me. Like when I told my mother to pull some strings and get Kelly Mitchell fired as a teacher from Richmond because she refused to give my phone back after detention. Or when I smashed Brock Johnson’s car windows when he parked in my spot.

To be fair, he deserved it; everyone knows he’s an asshole. The point is that I don’t make everyone miserable. Just don’t cross me and you’ll be fine. What good is money if I can’t use it to get my way?

She ignores me. “I would buy every advantage I could, anything that would help me excel. I would never be average.” She pauses and her eyes rake me up and down, making me sweat. “I wouldn’t be like you, Juliette, I’d be much worse.”

The wicked glint in her green eye and her confident stature sends a thrill down my spine. Of course. She isn’t mad about me being spoiled, she’s mad that I don’t use it to my advantage the “proper” way. I guess I’m better than her then, because I wouldn’t use my money to get ahead academically; I don’t care enough to do that.

I’ve never had to care enough.

“Juliette!” a voice calls out, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I know that voice. The same shrill, but somehow still loving voice I'm used to hearing when she isn't away on business trips. My mother.