First Look: Loathed Love - Chapter Two (Patreon)

As a First Look, you all are receiving early access to Chapter Two of Loathed Love. Please be respectful of your fellow readers and do not spoil anything for those who wish to wait to read. It's a very Cobalt Wednesday as we have the second chapter for all of you to feast on. It is also one of our very favorite meet cutes we've ever written 🤭🩷🕊️ Happy Reading!!

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Alea iacta est. The die is cast. Julius Caesar’s words ring in my head as I make my way out of Reynolds Hall and onto the lawn. There is no turning back. No tucking my tail between my legs. The only way ahead is forward, and I must stop any doubts from invading.

My first instinct is to whip out my phone like a pistol and search through my favorites in my contacts.

My thumb hovers over Ben’s name. He’s the youngest of my brothers but still older than me. The sixth-born. He’s partly why I’m in New York so soon, but I’m trying to keep my distance.

It’s a delicate situation, and I don’t want to smother him.

I want to prove to Ben that what happened to me at the frat party, during his sophomore year at MVU, was a fluke. That the messes I create don’t need to be solved by my five brothers. That I can climb out of the holes I’ve dug myself into.

Which is why I shouldn’t call any of my siblings. If they fix this problem for me, they won’t believe what I already know about myself. I’m resourceful, and they don’t always have to be my resource.

Decision made, I pocket my phone in my Prada bookbag, and a cold gust of wind blows my hair at my face. A strand sticks to my lip gloss. Just as I peel it off, I notice a familiar face across the quad.

I must be seeing things.

Surely it can’t be him. I take a couple steps closer, squinting harder.

His hair is the color of melted brown sugar. Ruffled and disheveled, the wild strands catch his pretty eyelashes and curl at his neck. A red plaid shirt is tied around his waist, and his dark jeans look worn. Very ’90s grunge, except for the white button-down I spot beneath his unzipped leather jacket. He’s seated on a bench that faces a marble statue of Aristotle.

It’s my second favorite bench at MVU because this quad is quieter than the main one by the science buildings.

Two silver piercings swoop around his bottom pink lip. As I walk nearer, I see a splotchy red birthmark against the ivory of his neck—and I know it’s him.  

My eyes widen in shock and delight.

This is fate. Destiny rescuing me once again. I have no other way to explain how this man happens to be in my path at this very moment.

I hurriedly make my way to the bench.

My black Mary Janes plant right in front of him as he takes a monster-bite from a sandwich. Lettuce spills on his lap, but he ignores the mess as his brows furrow at me. Up close, I notice a barbell piercing in his eyebrow, and an inky-black tattoo peeks out of his unbuttoned collar—but I can’t distinguish exactly what it is.

“Hi,” I say in a cheerful greeting.

He swallows his bite in a thick gulp. “Who are you?”

My mouth goes slack. My heart stutters. “Seriously?”

“Wait a second…” Faint recognition flits across his steel-gray eyes. He snaps his fingers. “I’ve got it now.”

Good. I nod.

“You’re the Queen of England.” He smiles sardonically and takes another bite of his sandwich. He’s so casual about it that I feel as if insulting people might be one of his daily activities.

But seriously…what…the fuck? “You really don’t know who I am?” I’ve never been offended by someone not recognizing me, but this is different. This is…ridiculous.

He suddenly narrows his eyes as he chews. Genuine confusion pulls the creases of his face.

“Our brothers have been in a rock band together for a year,” I snap at him. “They’re dating. Tom Cobalt and Phoenix St. Pierre. Do those names ring any bells for you—ohmygod, don’t take another bite of food.” He’s shoving the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and collecting his backpack from the bench. He stands to leave. “I’m talking to you.”

He points to his mouth as he chews like he can’t converse now.

“You still have ears,” I snap at him, quickening my pace to keep up with his lengthy stride. He slips me a glare, and I ask, “You’re seriously going to run away from me?”

He laughs mid-chew, and after he swallows, he says, “Does it look like I’m running?” No. He’s walking briskly though. I’m almost jogging just to maintain eye contact. 

“You are Birdie St. Pierre?” I confirm.

“Oh, now you’re asking? Normal people lead with that rather than assuming they know who you are.”

I let out an annoyed huff. “Our brothers are dating. I’m sorry, I thought you would recognize me.”

“I didn’t,” Birdie says. “But I’ve heard enough about you.”

“Perfect. So we can start over.”

“No, see you don’t get another first impression. You have to live with the one you just made, Virginia.”

I glare. He did not just use my middle name like an insult. Ughhh. “I have a million things to say to that, but can we pause for a second? My legs are on fire.”

He does stop walking, surprisingly.

“What do you want?” Birdie asks pointedly. He faces me with an annoyed pout, and it dawns on me suddenly…he’s very, very attractive. Like the boys from my favorite teen movies who drink beer behind a dumpster and skateboard to class and throw casual middle fingers. He has an “I’m going to burn the world to the ground” energy that is both scary and enticing. But this criminally attractive guy with ’90s style, piercings, and tattoos is unequivocally not my type.

He is so far outside my type that he might as well exist on Venus with surface temperatures of over eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit. He would burn to an ugly crisp before even becoming my type. And not only that—he’s looking at me like I’m roadkill that suddenly appeared on his doorstep, brought to him by a mangy, feral cat.

Any and all attraction suddenly poofs out of my brain like exhaust.  

What do you want? His question lingers in the air.

“Why would you think I want something?” My cheeks are on fire from the accusation. Unfortunately, it’s an accurate accusation.

His brows rise. “Am I wrong?”

I let out a long breath. “You said you know ‘enough’ about me.” I use finger quotes. “What does that even mean?”

“Heads up!!”

I turn toward the shouted warning—a football collides with my forehead. The impact knocks me on the ground, my ass hitting the grass behind me in a painful thud.

What…?

I blink in shock, staring up at the sky, clouds and overcast weather muddying the beautiful blues into gloomy gray. There’s no chivalrous hand extended toward me. No gallant man to help me to my feet. I sit up all by myself to see Birdie staring at me with a hand to his mouth like he means to hide his laughter, but his chest bucks with the movement.

“I’m so happy you find this amusing,” I snap angrily.

He wipes his hand across his lips, but he can’t rid himself of his smile. “You took it like a champ,” he tells me, which causes my cheeks to burn. But he adds, “Fucking hilarious.”

All bashful heat converts into a furious scald.

Screw him.

He bends down to casually pick up the football from the grass and tosses it back toward the jocks. They raise a hand in thanks. Everyone is way too blasé after I was just hit with a projectile. Birdie twists back to me and holds out a hand.

“No,” I growl. “You can’t act all chivalrous now.”

He rolls his eyes while I scramble to my feet and brush the grass off my skirt and pink sweater. My stomach drops. Is there a run in my tights? Massive grass stains are on my butt. Just lovely. I take a calming breath and rub the knot on my forehead.

Birdie watches me. “What did you want me to do?”

“Catch the football. Protect me from injury.”

He laughs even harder. “Okay.” He nods slowly. “First of all, not a superhero. I have human reflexes, Virginia.”

A growl scratches my throat as I glower harder.

He continues, “Second, do I look like a fucking jock?” He waves a hand down his tall, lean body. He has muscles in his biceps, so I don’t know what he’s insinuating other than he looks like he could grace the cover of Rolling Stone over Sports Illustrated. “I don’t play sports.”  

“You threw the football back just fine.”

“Throwing something isn’t the same as catching.” He looks me over. “Earlier, you asked me what knowing ‘enough’ about you means. My brother called you conniving and trouble. That’s what I meant.”

“Conniving?” I start to smile. “That’s sweet, actually.”

He shakes his head. “Not a compliment.”

“If you knew my family at all, you’d understand it is one.” I readjust the strap to my bookbag that’s fallen off my shoulder.

He glances at his phone, and I worry that he’s checking the time. He might have somewhere to be.

“You’re like your brother, right?” I ask hurriedly.

He’s baffled. “In what way?”

“You’re a drummer for a rock band too? You graduated from Berklee College of Music, same as Phoenix. Although, I’m positive he said cello is your specialty and drums are his, but all this is to say that you must know quite a lot about music.”

He blinks at me like I’m speaking in riddles. Granted, this is the extent of what I know about Birdie St. Pierre. I’ve been given the basics from Tom and Phoenix. Had I known I’d need his help, I’d have asked for a full biography.

I continue, “Nothing Personal. That’s the name of your band.”

Birdie shakes his head. “No. Not anymore.”

I frown deeply. “So what are you doing at MVU?”

He lifts and lowers his shoulders. “Just lingering around a college campus in the hopes I run into you.”

Confusion buries itself in my chest. Until I realize, “You’re being facetious.”

He chokes out a rough laugh. “There was a part of you that thought I was being serious?”

“No,” I lie quickly. “That’s absurd.”

“Oh look, we agree.” He’s about to move.

“Wait!” I shout too loudly because he’s still right in front of me. “You really aren’t going to tell me why you’re here?”

He expels a weighted huff. “Fuck. I’m in grad school, Virginia.” His tone is frustrated, annoyed, very much over me. “I’m here for my master’s in music.”

The expression on his face says, fuck off. But he might as well have gift wrapped me a present with his words. I’m grinning like an absolute fool.

Birdie grimaces. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“I have a favor to ask—”

“No.” He’s back to striding away from me—this time his pace is double the speed.

I jog to keep up. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“Don’t have to know. Don’t care. I’m not in the market to help a spoiled, entitled rich heiress.”

His words are cold water splashing against my face. “I’m your brother’s boyfriend’s sister!”

He stops dead—and I almost run into his chest, but I’m able to halt my momentum an inch away. “Do you even hear how ridiculous that sounds? It means nothing to me.”

I glare. “You don’t care if Tom and Phoenix think you’re mean to me?”

“No.”

I wince and hastily tell him, “I just need to be tutored in music. That’s it. I will pay you.”

His rough laugh sounds drier. “I don’t want your money, Virginia.” He points to his mouth. “Look at my lips very carefully. When you’re alone tonight and when you wake up tomorrow morning, I want you to remember this. I’m. Not. Interested.”

He turns around to walk away, and this time, I have far too much pride to run after him again.

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“Loathed Love," Copyright © 2026 by K.B. Ritchie