Dare You to Hate Me by B. Celeste (best android ereader .txt) 📗

and I slept even shittier because of what he’d said to me. I’m usually good at ignoring what people think.

Until Aiden.

Since the day I met him, I’ve always held a high regard of what Aiden thought. Anything he liked, I quickly followed suit—watching the clouds in the large yard behind our houses even though I could never figure out the shapes, playing basketball even though I rarely got the ball into the hoop, and exploring in the woods even though I hated bugs.

But having his attention meant not having my mother’s or dealing with Porter when he threw temper tantrums. Instead of being trapped inside my pink room with stuffed animals taking over the twin bed and dolls scattered on the floor, I was able to listen to the crunch of sticks and leaves under my dirty shoes while Aiden pulled me to some new destination where we could hide out just the two of us.

Whenever he’d ask why I never wanted to hang out at my house, I’d give him the same, mundane answer. I like yours better. And over the years, he stopped asking why and made his own conclusions, especially when I found myself in his room more times than I slept in mine.

Having no other option but to brush off the thought, I rush upstairs when the worst of the water is cleaned up. My knuckles rap against Sydney’s bedroom door. She made it clear that nobody was allowed to use her own personal bathroom inside, and everyone’s smart enough to heed the warning.

“Sydney?” I call out, knowing she’ll more than likely hate me for waking her up. My knuckles hit the wood harder.

I hear something ruffling and a loud thud against the door. After a few seconds, there’s nothing else.

Sighing, I try again. “Sydney, I think your bathroom has a leak. The water is coming through my ceiling.”

This time, I hear her muffled scream of annoyance. By the time I blink, the door swings open. It’s not Paris Hilton’s clone on the other side, who’s had a scowl on her face since the day we met like she’d already decided we’d be enemies, but a guy with dark tussled hair covered in nothing except a sheet.

A guy whose sun tattoo right over his hipbone is one I became acquainted with well by tongue and hands a few months ago downstairs.

His lips quirk into a sly, knowing grin that tells me he remembers that night too. “You mentioned there’s a leak?”

“I just need someone to check the bathroom,” I reply, ignoring the way his eyes roam over the length of my body as he delivers the D-grade porno line. “All my clothes are ruined because of the water coming down.”

Sydney pops up behind him, wearing an oversized shirt that I imagine belongs to our mutual acquaintance. “Are you kidding me right now, Ivy? It’s three thirty.”

I blink. “I’m well aware of what time it is. I woke up to water pouring into my room. So, I’m going to ask again. Can you check to see if it’s coming from your bathroom?”

Her lips pinch, but she turns on her heels and struts away with mumbled words, and not even ten seconds later I hear, “Oh my god! My new rug!”

That’s a yes.

“How’ve you been?” the guy whose name escapes me asks, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb like he’s not practically naked right now. “It’s been a while.”

Is he serious? I vaguely remember his horrible flirting during a party when I first moved in, and for some reason it was enough for an invite downstairs. Some of the girls whispered as I waved them off with a sardonic smile on my face in lieu of a middle finger as they watched me close and lock the door behind me and the tall, cocky idiot currently standing in Sydney’s room. “I’ve been amazing. Truly wonderful. Are you going to put some clothes on now?”

“I seem to recall you liking them off.”

“I also like eating my weight in croissants without actually gaining anything, but beggars can’t be choosers,” I snipe, crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes focus on my boobs, held in by a sports bra that I fell asleep in before his lips curl higher. Looking over his broad shoulder and trying to ignore the perv, I call out, “Need my help?”

When Sydney approaches again, she’s glaring at me like I’m at fault for whatever is going on. “Do you have better things to do than flirt with Remi? Like, I don’t know, call a plumber?”

Slowly wetting my lips to give myself time to filter my words carefully, I reply, “It’s the middle of the night, Sydney. Nobody is going to come. What’s leaking anyway?” Addressing her flirting comment about Remi isn’t even worth my time. I’m not forcing him to check me out, the douchebag is doing it all on his own. It’s not my fault her taste in men is clearly as bad as mine.

“The shower,” she grumbles.

The guy—Remi—gives me a half-assed apologetic look while dipping his chin toward my housemate. “My bad, babe. Needed a shower after the workout you gave me earlier.”

I refrain from gagging at his remark, but it takes everything in me. “That doesn’t solve my problem. All my clothes are sopping wet and there’s going to be even more water damage on the ceiling than there already was.” My eyes move to Sydney. “Don’t we rent this from your aunt and uncle? Can they call someone in the morning to come look at it?”

Her lips flatten, then twitch. “No. This is my godparents house, who happen to be very influential people at Lindon by the way, and they don’t need to be bothered. You’ll have to call somebody in the morning because it’s not their problem to deal with.” I go to say something about her godparents obviously caring what happens to their house if we let a problem go untouched for too long, but she cuts me off.