EWB (Enemies With Benefits)

I hated Valentine Tye.

I hated him with every fibre of my being, with the raging fire of a thousand burning suns. I hated him in ways I couldn’t even describe.

Why, do you ask?

Let me count the fucking ways . . .

It began in primary school. Yep. I’ve hated that fucker since then. Year five, Under 10s Rugby Union Grand Final. He was the captain of his team. I was the captain of mine. He scored the winning try, taking his school to the state finals. Half my team were crying to their parents whereas I just glared at him. And you know what he did?

The fucker smiled at me.

Enter high school. Year seven, St Ignatius Boys School. One of Sydney’s more exclusive private schools, where Valentine Tye and I would be classmates, teammates on the rugby team. He was team captain, because of course he was. Perfect grades, perfect hair, perfect face.

I might have even liked the guy.

Until two weeks out from the finals. I got home and my parents sat me down. Mum had been crying, Dad was quiet, sullen. Devastated.

I had to change schools and move house. Dad had lost his business and I’d have to attend the local public high school. They couldn’t afford the tuition because my father’s much-loved hardware store had been squeezed dry and sold for pennies to none other than hardware giant Tye Corp.

Valentine fucking Tye.

Fast forward to eighth grade rugby semi-finals. North Ryde Public High versus St Ignatius; public poor boys against the rich preppy snobs. My old school, my old friends, and my new arch nemesis.

Ten minutes into the second half, we were up by four. Valentine made a break down the sideline, about to score for sure. I lined that fucker up, cleared half the field to smash him into the ground. I took out his legs and drove him over the sideline. I stopped him scoring and saved the game. Everyone cheered and I was named player of the match. But I couldn’t even gloat since I had to go to hospital because, when I’d tackled him, I’d broken my arm.

Missed the grand final because of him.

I hated Valentine Tye. I hated him because I’d let my team down, and I hated him because he was still at the private school and I was at the public Shithole High.

I hated him the most because my dad struggled so damn much. He was never the same after that.

Fast forward again to grade ten. Sydney’s high school rugby carnival. I never actually got to play against him, but I saw him. In his preppy school team gear, with his rich girlfriend and her long hair and pretty smile. I hated that he had the perfect life—an easy life—while I kept my head down, trying not to be obvious about checking guys out in the dressing rooms.

Shirtless, sweaty, hot.

I hated that I noticed him. He was tall, lean, fit. His dark floppy hair, his pale skin and flushed cheeks.

I fucking hated him for making me want him.

With no hope of going to uni, I left school at the end of grade ten and took a building apprenticeship. I enjoyed it, and was good at it. I got to hang out with my mates. I still played rugby on weekends, but I was out of the school division, so I never played against him again.

I saw him though, at a game here and there.

He got even taller, filled out more. With his still-floppy hair, high cheekbones, and sharp jaw, he was hot enough to be a model, and he turned heads wherever he went.

I fucking hated him for that too.

Then I didn’t see him for a few years. Maybe he went to uni. Hell, he could have been on a runway in Milan for all I fucking knew. But it was hard not to be reminded of him when his family’s mega-hardware company had gone national and had ads on every-fucking-thing all the damn time. TV, radio, internet. That damn advertising jingle grated on my every nerve. I hated it too.

Despite all that, there were about two years of my life where I never thought about Valentine fucking Tye.

Two blissful years of working hard and playing hard, both on and off the field.

Monday to Friday I was the site manager for my building crew. Saturday afternoon was game day or training, and Saturday nights I spent drinking with mates and usually ended up in a drunken fist fight or being balls deep in some guy’s ass.

Two blissful years of no Valentine Tye.

Until the new rugby season started. A trial game against the Lane Cove Tigers and who should run out on the field as one of their starting centres?

Valentine fucking Tye.

He looked good too. Real fucking good. And I did get the satisfaction of him doing a double take when he saw me. His eyes locked with mine and that asshole smirked around his mouthguard.

And all that bitter rage just bubbled right up to the surface. I’d never wanted to hurt someone so bad.

Just a few minutes in and he had the ball. I tried to take him down. I dived for his legs but the slippery fucker was fast. Then we were locked in a scrum, shoulders pressed in hard, and that fucker mumbled something.

“Got something to say, princess?” I snarled.

He laughed. He actually laughed.

I broke the scrum and grabbed his jersey, pulled my fist back, ready to get my fight on. I was gonna smash his perfect fucking nose. He came back at me too, sneering as he swung for me—but our teams pulled us apart.

My best mate, Taka, had a hold of me. “Take it easy, bro,” he said, dragging me away.

“I hate that motherfucker,” I bit out, trying to contain my anger.

“I know you do.” Taka had been my best mate since the day I’d started at Shithole High. He knew my story. He knew why. “Just let it go.”

Typical Taka. He was a giant of a man, a six foot four tall, three foot wide Samoan. He could stop a freight train on the rugby field. Off the field, he was the softest, gentlest man you’d ever meet. The only thing bigger than his smile was his heart.

I was more a hold-a-grudge-forever kind of guy.

The game ended and the fact we’d won on their home turf made up for the fact I didn’t get to punch the shit outta Valentine. Afterwards, we went back to the pub, the sponsor of their team. They sat around some tables in one corner; we sat in the other. I tried to shake off my anger, but I couldn’t help glancing over every now and then at you know who.

In his preppy expensive sweater that matched his dark hair and made his skin look extra pale.

Taka knocked his knee to mine. “Stop it.”

I hated that after two years, Valentine goddamn Tye was under my skin like he hadn’t missed a day. Needing to clear my head, I stood up. “It’s my shout.” I went to the bar, ordered a round for my table and handed out everyone’s beer. I took a long pull of mine. “I gotta take a piss,” I said.

“Don’t go startin’ nothin’,” Noah said. Another mate of mine, and a guy who always had my back when someone needed a lesson in manners outside a bar at two o’clock in the morning.

I grinned at him. “Course not.”

I went to the men’s room, took a piss at the urinal and when I was washing my hands, who should walk in?

Yep.

Valentine fucking Tye.

He stopped when he saw me, and then that fucker smirked.

My body’s reaction was visceral and instant. My blood caught fire, rage burned through me, my hands clenched into fists. “What the fuck do you want?”

Before he could answer, there was a loud bark of laughter just outside the door. Valentine turned at the sound before he shot a panicked look at me, grabbed me, and shoved me into one of the stalls.

I almost fell, my hand on the wall to stay upright. “What the f—”

But in the blink of an eye, he shut the door and kept his forearm across my chest, his other hand over my mouth. “Shh.”

I tried to shove him off as one of the guys walking in spoke. “Yeah, it’s Marshall Wise.”

Me?

With Valentine’s hand still over my mouth, he pressed his body up against mine, and he put his finger to his mouth in a be-quiet way. His eyes were so dark brown they were almost black, his lips were the same pink that ran in blotches down his cheeks.

My god I hated him.

Hated how my body reacted to him.

Hated that he could probably feel it.

“Well, he’s a piece of shit,” another voice said at the urinal. “See how he almost punched Tye? Fucker’ll get what’s coming to him.”

I tried to push Valentine off me, but he shoved harder against me.

“Apparently he fights pretty good,” the first guy said. “For a gay guy.”

“He’s gay?”

My chest heaved and Valentine’s eyes darted between mine. He shook his head.

“Yeah. Fucks anything, fights anything. He’s a piece of shit.”

The urinals flushed and the other guy said something about how I should watch my back, and I would have laughed if Valentine’s hips weren’t pressed up against mine.

If I couldn’t feel his dick rubbing against mine. Felt good too.

What the fuck?

Then I remembered who it was. I tried to shove him off me again, but then, with his hand still over my mouth, he slid his other hand down and palmed my dick. He cupped my balls and squeezed, then massaged my cock. A little too hard, a little too rough.

A little too good.

“What are you—” I tried to say behind his hand. I wasn’t fighting him anymore, and he knew it.

He moved his hand to my throat, squeezing a little. “Keep your mouth shut,” he whispered.

Threatened.

I shouldn’t have liked it.

I hated that I liked it.

Then he raked his hand down from my neck, down my chest, lower. He undid the button on my jeans and unzipped the fly. With a flash of warning in his eyes, he sank to his knees.

When he saw my traitorous cock, he made the softest grunt. Then he gave me the best blow job of my life.

He used his hands, his mouth, his tongue.

All I could do was fist his hair and concentrate on not making a sound while he worked me over.

He made me come so fast, so hard. He swallowed around me, then swallowed every drop.

And while I was slumped against the wall with my jeans around my thighs, my head spinning, and my bones made of jelly, without a word he stood up and walked out.

For a minute or two, I wondered if I’d imagined it.

But my very happy dick, the buzz in my blood, and my empty balls told me it was very real.

After putting myself back together, I went back to my table, to my friends.

“You okay?” Taka asked me.

“Yeah, I’m good,” I said, swigging my beer.

I was so fucking good.

But I watched Valentine across the bar as he drank his beer and laughed with his teammates. Then I watched as he left with them, and he never once turned around. He never once looked at me.

He just walked out like what he’d done meant nothing at all.

Yeah. I really hated Valentine Tye.