Page 16 of Fueled Hate

Reflexively, the words leave my mouth. “No, sometimes there isn’t tomorrow.”

A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down, taking a deep breath. I remember the moment my mom literally walked out of my life for the last time. Who would’ve thought a trip to the grocery store would’ve ended her tomorrows? I sure as hell hadn’t, and I know she hadn’t either. Looking down the runway, I think about the night Willow told me about the crash, another reminder that tomorrows aren’t guaranteed.

“Come on. Let’s watch from your car.” Willow loops her arm in mine, thankfully disrupting my dreadful reminiscing, and we walk behind the concrete barriers lined along the drag strip where vehicles are backed in.

Stopping behind my Mustang, we lean against the trunk, taking in a good view of the drag strip. It’s much better than near the starting line where people cluster together.

“Sadie, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Willow says, her pity damaging my already broken heart.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. Well, other than jump too quick to play matchmaker again.” Dylan isn’t the first guy Willow has nudged me towards. I’ve always known it’s because she hopes for a replacement for Kyle, but I’ve never wanted nor considered a replacement … until now, that is. Damn it. I definitely can’t admit any such thought to Willow. She’s already pushing the boat away from the dock without me on board. If she even had an inkling that I was interested in anyone other than Kyle, she would go all out. And even if there is a hint of interest towards Dylan, I’m really not ready yet.

We’re both focused on the track as the burnouts begin. It’s a welcome distraction to watch the car tires spin, throwing a cloud of smoke behind them before the drivers get in position for the race. Soon the race begins, quickly leading into another round. Both competitors complete the drag safely, and with each race that ends without a disaster, I relax and try my best to enjoy the night.

Fortunately, there’s only one instance when Dylan pierces my thoughts. I wonder if he’s going to race. Knowing he drives a STI, it wouldn’t be a far stretch for him to test it out on the track. Or maybe he just likes watching. Damn him and his stupid words for putting inappropriate thoughts into my head.

When it’s time for the final race, my question is answered, Dylan isn’t racing. Kyle, on the other hand, can’t go one night without defending his title, and he does just that as he effortlessly beats a Thunderbird down the track, leaving it behind from the launch. I should be happy for him, but all I feel is dread, knowing his head will only get bigger.

Willow and I make our way onto the track and are weaving through the crowd when Kyle spots us. Surprisingly, he heads my way. Pulling me into a hug, he swings me around before I can shove back from him. And though I’m leaning away from him, he tries (unsuccessfully) to plant a kiss on my mouth. Really, how has he not picked up on my vibe?

Anger flashes across his face as his arm tenses around me. “I’m sick of this hot and cold shit.” His disgruntled, harsh tone takes me by surprise, as does the volume with which he speaks. As in loudly—for everyone around us to hear. And they all glance over as he releases me.

“Me too.” But I’m not agreeing with him. It’s his hot and cold that I can’t get used to. He blows off his own wrongdoings but nitpicks mine, then quickly forgets them and acts like everything is the same as it was before. It’ll never be the same again. Ever.

A smile curls on his face as he steps back, looping an arm around the closest girl within reach. He wraps her in a celebratory hug, his eyes watching me. Then he leans down, giving her a quick kiss on the lips. It should piss me off. It should make me upset. It should make me feel something, right? But it doesn’t. The only thing I’m remotely feeling is annoyance at his childish ploy to make me jealous, or whatever he’s trying to provoke. No matter what his goal was, he failed.

“What a dick,” Willow says, grabbing my arm as she hauls me away. I nonchalantly follow her, still trying to figure out why I’m not angry. Willow is having more emotions about it than I am. No doubt she’s pissed on my behalf, figuring he’s just hurt me again, but still. Maybe I’m numb now and can’t feel anything anymore—except regret and loneliness. Those feelings are chronic. “I’m sorry I made you hang out here tonight.”

Turning to face her, I say, “It’s fine. I’m good, really. A little too good actually.”

Willow gives me a confused look as she glances over my shoulder to the crowd we just left behind. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I hesitate, but I can’t help asking the question out loud. “That should’ve pissed me off a little, right?”

“Um. Yes.”

“What’s wrong with me? It didn’t. I’m not upset at all. We’ve dated for years, and all I was thinking was I felt sorry for that girl.”

“That should tell you everything, because ‘that girl’ is you.”

Ugh. She has a point. I’ve been that girl for years.

“Let’s go home. I have to be up early for a 7 a.m. class that some lunatic signed up for.”

“Sounds good to me.” I follow her as she heads to the Mustang. She’d come with Parker but says she’ll let him know she’s leaving as she drops into the passenger seat of my car.

“On second thought, how about we grab something to eat before we head home. Either way, I won’t be good in the morning, so I might as well enjoy the night, good company, and some yummy food,” Willow suggests cheerfully.

Yummy food and good company sounds like what we should’ve done in the first place, but at least one good thing happened—I have no doubt what the next step is and who won’t be coming along.

11

Dylan

Her Mustang drives out of the lot, disappearing into the night as I remain propped up against the driver’s door of my car. I knew Kyle was a piece of shit, but that display between the two of them tells me more than I need to know. She just calmly walked away after watching him kiss another girl. Either she doesn’t give a shit about him or herself, one or the other since she allows him to keep treating her that way.

Kyle slowly approaches, but I don’t make a move to acknowledge him. He stops a few feet away, folding his arms across his chest as he widens his stance. “You don’t belong here.”

I take my time, methodically tilting my head to look at him. For someone who covets strength and confidence, he sure is a pussy about owning it. I see right through the piss-poor front he puts up. Behind the weak-ass bravado is nothing but fear and misery.