Read Scorned (From the Inside Out #1) Online
Authors: S. L. Scott
Scorned (From the Inside Out #1)
From the Inside Out—
Scorned
First Edition
Copyright © S. L. Scott 2014
The right of S.L. Scott to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN:
978-1-940071-19-0
Cover design: Melissa Ringuette
Cover Image: Coka
Interior Design: Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
I HATE HIM
with all my soul and every fiber, muscle, and nerve of my being. Dylan Somers broke me and my heart simultaneously, destroying everything I knew my life to be. Over the course of the next year, my friend Brandon had to put me back together. Piece by piece, he glued me back into a semblance of what I used to be before I knew Dylan, or so I thought. What I didn’t realize was he was also bonding himself to me in the process. One night, my friend became my lover. Brandon never should have played that role, especially since I was still too broken to be good for anyone else. So we went back to being friends because I needed a friend more than a lover.
Dylan hasn’t seen me since he walked in and sat down in the same restaurant as me. When my hand twitches, I realize I’ve pulled my phone from my purse, subconsciously to help diffuse the panic attack before it has a chance to hit. I refuse to let his presence overwhelm me or call Brandon every time I start freaking out.
This isn’t a restaurant I frequent and being in the same place after all these years is completely coincidental. I’ve lost my appetite, so I push the plate of food away from me.
I glance over at him and
her
—red hair, red nails, red lips, red shoes, too tight red dress, red clutch perched on the table next to her glass of red wine. Everything about her is cliché and predictable to attract men. I roll my eyes, but then mine meet hers again and I look away. In that glimpse, I caught that her eyes are light colored, maybe blue,
probably
blue.
Mine are hazel—green on a good day, brown on most.
The face I really want to see is turned the other direction with his back to me. Dylan hasn’t seen me in three years. It makes me wonder if he ever did, even when we were together. I don’t know anymore and I hate to think about that time… the time when it was bad.
Sitting at this table for one, I’ve forgotten if it was ever good between us, or did I block it out? If I dig deep, really deep past the pain that was inflicted during those last few months we were together, it was blissful and perfect. I felt loved. I felt pretty. I felt whole. We were more good than bad, but now only the scar remains.
Glancing back to their table, her eyes are on me again. Quickly, I dig out a fifty and toss it on the table. That will easily cover my bill, even at an over-priced, too-trendy-to-be-considered-trendy-any-longer establishment on the Upper West Side.
My eyes meet hers one more time and I hope mine don’t give anything away. Things like: how I know what he looks like when he falls apart from an orgasm, how he liked for me to touch him
there
, but not go further, deeper, and how when he’s upset, his eyes match the skies right before a storm rolls in. I know all these things because I’ve experienced them with him, so I know him, the real Dylan.
Does she?
I look at him this time, just him, blocking her from my focus. His hair is styled. He always did have great hair, light brown, darker when gelled. I smirk at the thought that he still has great hair despite the hateful curses I wished upon him to go bald. The light starch to his shirt proves he hasn’t changed. He insisted on that perfection, but still wanted to be comfortable in his clothes. The large face of his watch gleams under the track lighting above. Dylan Somers was always very confident… or cocky. I’m not sure which anymore. My memories on that specific trait of his has somewhat faded, overtaken by more harmful ones.
He holds too much pain, more than I can endure tonight. I walk through the intimate tables of the dining area. When I pass, she nods to him while smiling as if to tell him silently that I’m watching, as if to tell him, he has an admirer.
I’m not an admirer.
I’m an adversary—the enemy—the person he hates the most in the world if I recall his words correctly.
I push the door open and the cool air hits me. We’re on the verge of spring, but it’s still chilly, so I wrap my arms around myself and head south.
“Juliette?”
Hearing his voice causes my insides to freeze, but my feet keep moving. I don’t respond to that name. Do I even know who Juliette is anymore?
“Juliette? Is that you?”
I hear his footsteps. They quicken but I refuse to respond to careless niceties he feels obligated to dole out.
Why?
Why does he try?
Why does he care?
What does he want?
“Hey!” He shouts from a distance, planting himself in a spot on the sidewalk, not willing to chase me. I roll my eyes because I’m walking in four-inch Prada, so he can easily catch me if he wants. He just doesn’t want to. That’s his arrogance showing. Everything always came so easy for him, including me back in college.
Rounding another corner, I find safety in the shadows of the building and keep walking. Memories of how bad the ending of us envelops me…
“I hate you,” he shouts. “I hate you for making me take this job. I hate you for making me buy that car. I hate this apartment and the furniture. I hate everything I’ve had to do since moving here for you.”
He used to say love, but lately, all I hear is hate. He’s used it generously in the last week and more than a few times tonight, five in the last minute. It’s ironic he’s now using the car and the job he chose against me, both of which he got without talking to me at all. He now blames me for the regret he feels. I guess the saying is true; we hurt the ones we love the most.
My feet keep moving as the flashback continues…
“I hate this life… my life with you,” Dylan yells at me.
“Have you met someone else?”
“God damn it, Juliette! This is about us, not anyone else.”
He turns his back when he shouts. I can’t see his eyes, which makes me question his truthfulness. I’m at a loss here. Do I speak again or is remaining quiet best these days? My phone rings, causing both of us to look over at it. He’s not happy about the intrusion, though I’m relieved.
“I have to get that.” I walk across the living room and pick it up.
Before I can answer, Dylan says, “Get it. I’m done here anyway.” My eyes lift from the number flashing on the screen back to his that are looking down. “We’re done.” He leaves on that note, walking into the bedroom and leaving me to take my call.
“This is Juliette.” I walk out of the apartment to give him the time alone he seems to need right now. Time is needed to cool down so we can talk about what is happening and what I did to upset him.
After many reassurances of my return to work, I hang up the phone with my gallery manager. Dylan’s parting words sink in. We’re done. Suddenly, I begin to understand that Dylan won’t be here when I get home. Is it even home without him? I realize he meant what he said and I’m at a loss… again. I’m losing him. I’m losing my heart. I’m losing my other half. My soul. Everything that matters.
Taking a deep breath, my heart pounding, I move even quicker to get away from him and the memories, and all that ties me to the past. There’s no more Dylan and Juliette, there’s no point in making a scene on the street.
Finally, I reach my comfort zone. My hand is shaking although I’m standing in front of my own building.
One ring.