“What’s your problem?” she blurted out as soon as we were racing down the highway, headed back to town.
“My problem?” I was pissed, and she could tell. “You come to the bonfire with that idiot Ben Jamison, who can’t stay sober enough to drive you home, and then you traipse off into the woods, in the dark, and get groped by Dietrich. Maybe you’re the one with the problem.”
Reel it in, asshole.
When I thought about what Nate could’ve done to her—would’ve done to her—I wanted to kill. Tate was too headstrong. Too independent.
She misjudged her own capabilities and put herself in danger.
“If you recall, I had the situation under control,” she sneered. “Whatever favor you think you were doing me only satisfied your own anger. Leave me out of it.”
I sucked in my cheeks, breathing in the thick air and zoning in on the road.
The car roared under me, propelling us faster as my hands strangled the steering wheel.
“Slow down,” she commanded, but I ignored her.
“There’s going to be situations you can’t handle, Tate.” I was trying to reason with her, but even I didn’t know where I was going with this. She couldn’t exist in the closed box I’d created for the rest of her life, and I couldn’t protect her from everything. Sooner or later, she’d leave.
“Nate Dietrich wasn’t going to take too kindly to what you did to him tonight,” I continued. “Did you think that was going to be the end of it? He would’ve come after you again. Do you know how badly Madoc wanted to do something after you broke his nose? He didn’t want to hurt you, but he wanted to retaliate.”
She overestimated herself. Some guys didn’t care about victimizing women.
Obviously.
“You need to slow down.”
“No, I don’t think so, Tate,” I laughed out. “You wanted the full high school experience, didn’t you? Football player boyfriend, casual sex, reckless behavior?”
So I switched off my headlights before she got a chance to respond.
The road before us went black, and Tate let out a small gasp as she pressed herself back in the seat.
The adrenaline of fear and excitement shot through my veins. It was the type of feeling I had lived for while she was away. It made me feel alive.
The dull, pathetic light from the moon poured in through the trees, but it illuminated very little.
“Jared, stop it. Turn on the lights!” Her voice cracked, and she was scared. I wasn’t looking at her, but I could still see her, and she was bracing for a crash with one hand on the dashboard.
“Jared, stop the car now!” she pleaded, and I hated the sound. “Please!”
“Why? This isn’t fun?” I goaded and already knew the answer. “Do you know how many squealing airheads I’ve had sitting in that seat? They loved it.”
And you’re different.
“Stop. The. Car!” she screamed.
“You know why you don’t like this?” I turned my head to look at her with quick glances back to the invisible road. “Because you’re not like them, Tate. You never were. Why do you think I kept everyone away from you?”
I immediately slammed my mouth shut and groaned.
Why the fuck did I just say that?
Her eyes went wide and then narrowed like bullets.
Here we go. In 3-2-1…
“Stop the fucking car!” she screamed as she slammed her fists against her thighs and then hit me on the arm.
I flinched and slammed on the brakes, gritting my teeth at the hundreds of dollars’ worth of tires I’d just left on the highway.
The Boss came to a screeching halt, swaying slightly from side to side as I worked the wheel to keep us from flying off into the brush.
Goddammit.
I down-shifted, ripped the e-brake and turned off the car.
Tate opened her door and flew out of her seat, and so did I, ready to go after her if she decided walking home was a smart idea.
But she didn’t run.
She looked about ready to hit me. I could feel the heat of the hellfire and hatred coming from her eyes.
“Get back in the car.” I cut her off before she had a chance to speak.
We were in the middle of the road, and another car could come at any time.
“You could’ve killed us!” she cried.
I would never put you in danger.
My shirt fell off her bare shoulder, and I saw the ripped strap of her shirt peeking out.
I slammed my palm down on the roof of the car, rage and love at battle in my head. “Get back in the goddamn car!” I shouted.
“Why?” she asked, her voice low and cracking.
Was she serious?
“Because you need to go home.” Duh.
“No.” She shook her head, choking back tears and breaking my heart. “Why did you keep everyone away from me?”
“Because you didn’t belong with the rest of us. You still don’t,” I shot back.
She was better.
But apparently, she didn’t like that answer.
Before I could stop her, she’d ducked inside of my car and snatched my keys out of the ignition.
I watched, in confusion, as she rounded her open car door and jogged up the road, near the rocky ditch off to the side.
My keys. What the hell?
My fingers itched to shake her or kiss her.
I approached her slowly, partly annoyed and partly in awe of the fight in her.
She was beautiful. Strands of hair fell across her eyes and small pieces blew around her face from either the wind or her heavy breathing. Seeing the angry passion on her face built me up the same way bullying her had done.
And when I thought of how I could’ve felt all of this by simply being close to her rather than hurting her, I was planted—no, stuck—to the ground by the weight of wasted time.
It sat like a boulder in my stomach.