Page 1 of Fueled Hate

1

Sadie

Hate. Sometimes I really hate him, but right now, I hate myself more. Here I go again, calling his phone just to get a message that his voice mail is full. Ending the call, I drop my phone on the table, scanning the busy restaurant. It’s not the first time Kyle has stood me up but considering it’s our anniversary and he’d insisted on having a special meal, it pisses me off that much more.

“Still no luck?” Jett’s voice pulls me out of my angry haze.

“Nope,” I drink down what remains of the lemonade Jett has refilled continually for the last hour before sliding off the barstool. “I’m just going to head home, so if he decides to show, please tell Kyle to go fuck himself.”

“Gladly.” Jett smirks as he leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the wood surface as he eyes me. “But I think you should tell him and really dump his sorry ass this time.”

“Yes, I should.” Though we both know I won’t. All three of us know, in fact, which is why Kyle does it—because he knows he can. Even throughout our relationship during high school, he was never a considerate, doting boyfriend. But things really went downhill after we started college. Here we are, going into our second year, and things have continued to get worse, not better.

“Sadie,” Jett says, and I turn to see him holding up a to-go box, his smirk replaced by a sympathetic smile. “Loaded chicken-stuffed baked potato with the barbecue sauce on the side.”

He’d known Kyle wouldn’t show. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath before stepping back to the bar and grabbing the to-go box containing my favorite meal from Big Tobe’s Diner. “Thanks,” I whisper, setting the box down to reach into my purse.

“I got it covered,” Jett says, waving me off as he turns to help a girl at the end of the bar.

The thoughtful gesture is overwhelming. It’s not out of character for Jett, I’ve worked with him at Big Tobe’s long enough to know he’s a kind and caring guy. But it’s another thing that highlights how much of a jerk Kyle is. And as if my night wasn’t bad enough already, I look out the door to see rain barreling down. Waiting it out would be the smart thing to do, but I’m too embarrassed to go sit back at the bar. Darting outside, I jog to my car, pull open the door, and drop into the driver’s seat. Getting all dressed up had been a waste and now the effort is certainly shot to shit as my hair is wet, my makeup is dripping, and my dress is clinging to my skin. At least my crappy outer appearance now matches the way I feel on the inside.

Steering out of the parking lot, I’m barely two miles down the road when a telltale thwap, thwap, thwap sound and jerky movement of my car signals what I dread to be true. Yep, looking at the driver’s side rear tire, I’ve got myself another problem. A flat. Great. Thankfully, the rain has slowed to a steady drizzle instead of the deluge from moments ago.

Reaching into the car, I hit the button to light up my hazards, pull the parking brake, and snatch a hair tie from the console. Twisting my hair up, I secure it out of my face before yanking the latch that pops the trunk. I just want to get home, shower, eat my lonely anniversary meal, and go to bed. That’s it.

Opening the trunk, I move the stiff carpet, grip the spare tire, and clumsily lift it out. My wet fingers slip on the rubber, and it hits the ground with a bounce. I steady it, then roll it to lean against the rear quarter panel.

“Need a hand?” a deep voice says as I’m turning back towards the trunk.

Studying the guy standing near the hood of his car, I quickly shake my head. “No, I’m good.” How had I not realized he’d stopped behind me? I’m usually more aware of my surroundings, but I’m so caught up in sulking about my night that my vigilance has slipped, and I hadn’t noticed the vehicle pull up behind me.

“You sure?” he asks casually, peeking around me.

I quickly step to the trunk, grab the lug wrench, tighten my grip on the metal, and look back to him. “Yep.”

“Okay.” He lets out a deep chuckle as I stand rigid but doesn’t make a move to leave.

“Really. I’m good. You can leave now.”

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Like you’d tell me if you were.”

A charming, playful smile crosses his face, and if I weren’t worried about him being a psychopathic murderer, it might have more of an effect on me. But right now, I want him gone.

“True. But I could’ve easily done so when you were unaware I was behind you.” He folds his arms across his chest, leaning against the side of his Subaru.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Because it doesn’t.”

“So, what is it that I can do to make you feel good?” His smooth voice matches his relaxed demeanor.

Me on the other hand, I’m just getting pissed off. Less concerned with him being a killer, I’m now thoroughly irritated that he’s hindering my progress. The entire reason I decided to change the damn tire myself was to get it done quickly and get home, not stand on the side of the road at night having a stare down with a complete stranger while getting completely soaked by the rain.

“You leaving—that would make me feel fabulous,” I say sternly, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he keeps his humored expression on me. “Seriously, leave.”

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I left you stranded?”

“I’m perfectly capable of changing a fucking flat tire without the help from someone with a dick between their legs.”