Hate F*@k: The Complete Story

  Contents

  Hate Fuck

  About This Book

  The Cast of Characters

  part one

  one - Hailey

  two - Cole

  three - Hailey

  four - Cole

  five - Hailey

  six - Cole

  seven - Hailey

  eight - Cole

  nine - Hailey

  ten - Hailey

  eleven - Cole

  twelve - Hailey

  part two

  one - Hailey

  two - Cole

  three - Hailey

  four - Cole

  five - Hailey

  six - Cole

  seven - Hailey

  eight - Cole

  nine - Hailey

  ten - Cole

  eleven - Hailey

  twelve - Cole

  thirteen - Hailey

  part three

  one - Cole

  two - Hailey

  three - Cole

  four - Hailey

  five - Cole

  six - Hailey

  seven - Cole

  eight - Hailey

  nine - Cole

  ten - Hailey

  eleven - Cole

  twelve - Hailey

  thirteen - Cole

  epilogue - Cole

  the postscript

  In The Middle of the Night

  Wedding Day

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  HATE

  F*@K

  Cole and Hailey

  the complete story

  a serial romance in

  The Horus Group series

  by

  Ainsley Booth

  www.ainsleybooth.com

  Warning: This is just the start. This doesn't end well. And it's going to get much worse before it ever gets better.

  Cole:

  I push her buttons. I want to push them in the good way. Dirty, up-against-the-wall, my-hand-in-her-pants kind of way.

  But that’s not possible, because I’m dark and she’s light, and we both know it.

  So I push her buttons in the bad way, making her hate me.

  Hailey:

  If a genie granted me three wishes, I’d ask for Cole Parker to never look at me again, that I’d forget the dark promise in his eyes, and that just once, before he vanished from my life completely, that he’d push me up against a wall and fuck me.

  Then I’d go wash my mouth out with soap.

  This is the complete story of Cole Parker and Hailey Dashford Reid. The Horus Group series will continue…

  —cast of characters—

  The Horus Group

  Cole Parker

  Jason Evans

  Wilson Carter

  Tag Browning

  The Reids

  Morgan Reid — m — Amelia Dashford Reid

  Taylor Dashford Reid

  Hailey Dashford Reid

  Morgan Dashford Reid II

  Alison Dashford Reid

  HATE F*@K

  Cole and Hailey

  part one

  —one—

  Hailey

  I pick at the blueberry muffin on my desk, which my friend Taryn gave me out of pity since I can’t go outside. I have two monthly reports to run and a mile-long, hand-scribbled list of fixes for our website from my boss, but I can’t concentrate on work right now.

  My co-workers all understand, which makes me feel all the more guilty for bringing this shitstorm to their doorstep. These are good people, regular middle-class, law-abiding folks. None of them have a sister who is stupid enough to believe a powerful man when he promises no-one will find out about their affair.

  Newsflash. People always find out.

  Long story short, my family is a freaking train wreck, and I was an idiot for thinking I could have a regular job and pretend I’m a regular girl.

  My phone vibrates in my purse, and my skin crawls. I don’t want to answer it. There is literally not a single person in the entire world I want to hear from right now.

  “Hailey?” I glance up at my boss, standing beside my cubicle, and wince at the look on her face. A mix of pity and annoyance which I understand and resent at the same time. I didn’t blow the Vice President. This isn’t my fault.

  “I’m so sorry, Ellen. They’ll go away soon.” I’m talking about the various scuzzy photographers and videographers from media outlets camped in front of the converted townhouse that houses the employment agency I work at. This is new and awful and unexpected for my co-workers, and I feel like shit for bringing this into their lives.

  Me? I know the drill. They don’t care about me, but they want a sound bite, and I’m the rebel. The only member of the family not holed up at my parent’s estate—again.

  Jesus.

  It wouldn’t be a Friday morning if I hadn’t already considered changing my name at least once.

  Because being a Reid? It sucks.

  She leans against the fabric covered half-wall in a poor attempt at nonchalance. “Will you hate me if I suggest you work from home this week?”

  Yes. I bristle at the totally reasonable suggestion because, like so much of the drama in my life, I feel like it’s not fair. Which is petty, so I suck it up, because my boss is awesome for knowing that I’d rather just keep going on as if my family isn’t on the national news. “No. I get it.”

  The truth is that there isn’t anything for me to do at home. I’m an intern. The whole point is that I’m on the job site, soaking up the knowledge and expertise of those around me.

  “You can finish knitting those socks you brought in yesterday.” She offers a weak smile, knowing that I’m miserable. “And as soon as it is safe for you, we want you back here. You’re a hard worker, Hailey. Don’t let this be anything other than a momentary blip.”

  I take a deep breath and nod. What else is there to do? Ellen pats my shoulder and drifts away.

  Against my foot, my purse vibrates again. I want to kick it. I don’t.

  It is not a genetic requirement that I have no self-control. Just because my father and my sister have both caused national scandals in the last six months doesn’t mean anything other than Fate has a gross sense of humor.

  Beside, I have two other siblings and a mother who haven’t caused national scandal—that I know of. So only thirty-three percent of Reids are morally reprehensible. So far.

  With a thunk, I drop my forehead to the desk. Fuck. My. Life.

  I only wallow in self-pity for a minute. My boss is right. I can go home and knit, and at least if I’m there, my co-workers will be able to come and go as they please. It’s not like I’m being super productive or anything. I yank my bag out from under the desk, stick Ellen’s list of website fixes into the outside pocket, because those I can do from home, and slide on my oversized, extra-dark sunglasses. No way are those assholes getting a picture of my whole face.

  I don’t bother to say goodbye. I just power down my computer and head for the back staircase. There’s a gated backyard that leads to an alleyway, and I can dash across it into the back of the import/export shop across the way. From there, I can get a cab.

  It’s a great plan, but as soon as I swing the door open, I know it’s not going to happen.

  For one thing, there are a couple of photographers sitting on motorcycles on the other side of the gate.

  But even worse than that, Cole Parker is standing on this side of it, and he looks pissed.

  Cole Parker. I think of him as the CFO of The Horus Group—CFO standing for Chief Fuck-You Officer. I don’t actually know his title. The Horus Group probably doesn’t do titles.

  The four men came out of nowhere two years ago and bu
zz quickly swirled around them, branding them as the go-to crisis management team in the city. Probably got that reputation by getting bad people out of even worse situations. Hardly noble heroes, even if they look the part.

  There are four of them, all various shades of bad-ass super soldiers who turned in their uniforms for suits and smooth lines. Cole and Jason, both ex-Navy SEALs, according to my brother. Tag, an ex-cop, local to the Metro DC area. And Wilson…he looks like a computer nerd on steroids. Obviously a CIA hacker gone rogue.

  And one of them is standing between me and freedom.

  Part of me knew Cole would be waiting, because my father has them on speed dial. I just didn’t expect him to be mad at me, which he clearly is.

  Angry Cole is still incredibly good-looking, so I’m tempted to stand there and just look at him vibrating for a minute, but the last thing I need is a picture taken of me anywhere near Washington’s favorite fixer. I grab the door before it even slaps shut behind me and as quickly as I stepped out into the damp January dreariness, I’m back inside.

  But of course I’m not alone. That would be too easy.

  Because this is the thing about Cole Parker. He’s a fucking pit bull, and sometimes that’s good, temporarily, when he’s on your side. When you’ve pissed him off, though, it’s downright scary. He’ll rip the heart out of anyone who crosses him, backed up by a carefully constructed non-disclosure agreement.

  I should know. He made me sign one. It was the closest we’ve ever been, him leaning across the conference table pointing out the various places I needed to initial and sign. The delicate hairs on my arms had stood up as if they knew I wanted to say, Take Me, Mr. Parker. Totally inappropriate on a million levels, and the way he glowered at me, I knew he was thinking the same thing—never going to happen.

  Six months, I’ve known Cole Parker. Well, known would be an exaggeration. My father hired The Horus Group to get him out of “a bind”, as my mother would call it. Bile rises in my throat at the willful blindness there. A bind. For fuck’s sake.

  Six months, I’ve lived with the twin reactions of disgust and something…quite different than disgust. I don’t want to name it, the way my skin prickles when he’s nearby. The way his dark gaze gets under my skin and takes up residence, leaving an itchy awareness that Cole Parker is not like other men. Not in general, and not for me.

  So I should keep walking, up the stairs, through the office and out the front door, cameras be damned.

  Instead, I stand there like a chump, waiting for him to lay into me. It doesn’t take long.

  “You’re not answering your phone,” he growls, and I jam my sunglasses on top of my head so he can see me roll my eyes and know that I’m not impressed. “You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m letting you be chased down an alley by thugs on bikes.”

  “I was just going across the alley, and if my safety is at jeopardy, you could have called the police.” I take a step towards the stairs and he moves with me, closing the gap, so I stop. The last thing I want to do is get any closer to the coiled snake that is my father’s personal crisis management expert.

  “Ms. Reid, this is not a time to be principled.”

  I’m sure that where Cole Parker is concerned, there’s never a time to worry about such things as principles and morals and laws. “It’s okay. I’ll go out the front.”

  He narrows his eyes—still hazel flecked with gold, just like my stupid memory recorded them from our previous encounters—and backs me up against the wall. “I’ve got men out front. We’re taking you home, one way or another.”

  “That’s not my home.”

  I’m pretty sure I can hear teeth grinding as he glowers down at me. “Fine, then to your apartment.”

  I’m the second of four children born back to back to back. Staring contests? Ha. Fuck Cole Parker. I’ve got this in the bag. I tilt my head to the side as if to say, bring it, pretty boy.

  He really is. Pretty, I mean, in a masculine, made of steel kind of way. Dark brown hair, thick dark lashes around those tiger eyes of his. A chronic case of sexy stubble that a really good razor could probably fix, but wouldn’t that be a shame.

  If he was anyone else, I’d take this staring contest as an opportunity to eye fuck him. Run my fingertips along his jaw and—

  “Stop it.” He jams his hand on the wall next to my head and leans in close, his harsh words reverberating between us. Close enough that I get my first whiff of his spicy sweet cologne. It brings with it the dawning realization that I did exactly what I really meant not to do—I let him get close.

  Fuck me. I swallow hard and pretend I don’t care. “You blinked.”

  “This is not a game, Ms. Reid. You might not like the drama that your family members face from time to time, but my job is to make sure you’re safely escorted home.”

  “I thought your job was to—“

  “Uh uh uh.” He shakes his head as he presses his index finger against my lips. A shiver wracks through my body at the touch, and I fight to keep my eyes their normal size. Controlling my pulse is a lost cause, it’s hammering away like a Habitat for Humanity crew on speed. “You keep your feisty little comments about what I do to yourself. I do the job that needs to be done, regardless of whether or not I like it. And I don’t blink. Let’s go.”

  He drops my sunglasses back into place on my face, then somehow he wraps his arm behind me and is easing me out the door before I have a chance to protest again. Since we’re in view of the photographers, I give up the fight. He can take me to my apartment. Point, Cole. I’ll slam the door in his face as soon as I’m inside. Future point, Hailey.

  I slide a neutral mask of indifference over my face as Cole maneuvers me around the cameras and motorbikes, keeping his body between me and anyone else at all times. He’s tall enough that it literally feels like I’ve got my own brick wall around me. I hate to admit how nice that is for a change, not having to construct one out of wishes and denial and principled hot air.

  He gets me into the passenger side of a giant black SUV and before I have a chance to take a breath by myself, he’s around to the other side and we’re off.

  “You don’t listen to music?” It’s weird how quiet the car is. And how clean. It looks like a rental car on the inside, but it doesn’t smell like one.

  No, Cole’s car smells like the man himself. Sinfully delicious. Stop it, Hailey. I can’t. Desire is apparently my stress response, because I’m not normally like this. But every six months, my family hits the evening news, Cole storms into my life, and I get all achey in the good places.

  “Not when I’m escorting a client.”

  “I’m not a client.”

  “Same thing.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “Are you afraid I’m going to make fun of your terrible taste?”

  He stares straight ahead, as if my question has no effect, but after a beat he taps his finger against the stereo. Nine Inch Nails. Okay, he doesn't have terrible taste. Point, Cole. It’s a good thing he doesn’t know I’m keeping score.

  I give him a sideways glance, which I’m sure he notices but doesn’t acknowledge. He’s driving quickly, not speeding exactly, but moving faster through traffic than I feel should be possible. And he does it with ease, which is…concerning. And hot.

  He cuts around the university and heads north. Of course he knows where I live, but I’m annoyed that he didn’t even bother with the pretense of asking for my address.

  Out the window, everything is cold and dreary. I hate January. Even though it’s mid-morning, it doesn’t feel bright out yet, like the day is sluggish to get started. Ridiculous, because so much has already happened today.

  I know what we’ll find at my apartment—another minor swarm of photographers. I must have just missed them this morning because I went to the gym before work. Taryn dragging me to early morning yoga finally paid off. But I’ve been through this once before, although six months ago I
didn’t decide to ride out the drama in my own space.

  This time would be different. I clear my throat and brace myself for opposition. “I’m not going to my parents’ estate. You can’t make me pack a bag and leave again.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t need to. Disapproval rolls off him in a palpable wave, making the last minute of the car ride incredibly uncomfortable. He parks half a block up from my low-rise apartment building, turns off the SUV, and just sits there.

  Being all big and angry. And disapproving.

  “You should go for some variety. Crack a few jokes when you take people hostage,” I say into the silence, and he flexes his jaw. Maybe that’s not funny.

  “We’re going to get out and walk at a normal pace to your apartment,” he says slowly.

  “Normal for me, or normal for you? My legs aren’t as long—”

  He cuts me off with a stare, as if to say, are you always this mouthy? I’m not. He brings it out in me, and I’m not sure what he’d do with that knowledge. “Give me your key.”

  I take a breath and hold it, thinking about arguing, but it’s not really worth it. I hand over the bundle of keys, and he looks at the knitting needle fob hanging off the ring. I wait for him to crack a joke—deadly or something like that—but he just points a finger at me and tells me to stay.

  Like I’m a fucking puppy.

  Since I was thinking about hopping out of the car, the reminder wasn’t entirely off base. But still.

  He comes around to my side, opens the door, and we’re off. A few questions get tossed my way by the waiting media crew, but I genuinely can’t hear them because the blood is pounding so hard in my ears. Whomp. Here we go again. Whomp. At least it’s not a murder investigation. Whomp. Maybe it’s time to move.

  Wilson is waiting in the lobby, which surprises me in an uneasy-making way I don’t like, and Cole mutters a question I don’t catch, which I like even less.