I’ve always hated Hunter Altman.
I hated him at first sight, in my teens, when my mother met his worthless father.
I hated when Bill moved in with us, dragging Hunter like bad baggage.
I hated when Mom and Bill made it official, turning the delinquent a-hole in the next room into my brand-new stepbrother.
I hated when I fell for Hunter, and Hunter fell for me.
It killed me when he left us behind, shed like dead skin on his way to the top. And now that Hunter is a hotshot music producer on every magazine cover, I hate him even more.
I hate his money. I hate his fancy toys. I hate that he thinks he owns me … or worse, that he OWES me.
I hate that he’s back. That he’s soiled our ghetto with his pristine suit, his fancy black limousine.
My heart hurts, I hate him so much. And it scares me that my heart might keep loving him in the end, beneath it all.