Wasted Love with You (Wasted Love 1)

Our relationship was a special brand of toxicity, and every sip of danger and instability left me wanting more.

And the sex was definitely better. Not “great,” but better.

As I steer my car onto the highway, my dashboard lights up with a new call.

Nate.

I turn up the volume before answering. “Hey.”

“Hey. I just realized that I forgot to tell you happy birthday this morning.”

Silence.

“Happy birthday, Autumn.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you like me to treat you to dinner this evening to celebrate?”

“Sure.” I ignore the familiar ache in my chest. “What time and place work best for you?”

“You tell me. It’s your birthday.”

The billboard ahead brags about a brand-new eatery downtown.

“O’Malley’s at seven?”

“Seven at O’Malley’s sounds good.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” I end the call and switch lanes.

I prepare to return home, but a sleek, black McLaren speeds past me on the right.

My car shakes in its wake, and I know the driver has to be going at least thirty miles over the speed limit.

What the hell?

I can’t help but remember when Nate and I chased down anyone who dared to speed past us on the highway.

We’d get close enough to match their speed, and then we’d see how long they let us follow. Where they let us go.

I’m not sure what comes over me, but I switch lanes and press the gas pedal to the floor.

I catch up to the McLaren when my dashboard warns I’m driving eighty-five miles an hour, and I’m close enough to read the license plate.

MISTER R

He speeds up. I speed up.

He switches lanes. I do the same.

I match the car for miles, for no reason, knowing that this one-sided game could end in disaster. That he may not even want to play.

He drives far past the city that holds my suburb and into another county. For a long stretch of the road, there’s only the two of us.

As we approach Exit 180A, he flashes his right turn signal.

This is supposed to be the stopping point, when I slow down and turn around. Game over.

I don’t follow the rules this time, though.

I continue to trail him.

When we get off the ramp, a different type of suburbia appears, and I can’t help but question why I’ve never ventured this far before.

I’m admiring this winding, tree-lined drive so much that I fail to realize that I’m not following the McLaren into a subdivision.

This is clearly a private road.

Shit.

His car comes to a stop, and I notice the black iron gate ahead of us. The letter “R” is embedded within its bars.

The driver’s side door suddenly opens and a black umbrella lets up into the rain. Then a man dressed in a dark grey suit steps onto the pavement.

He strolls toward me, rendering me speechless with every step he takes, with every glance I’m stealing of his gorgeous, chiseled face.

Oh. My. God…

I can’t determine his exact eye color from here, but I know that the hard clench of his jaw means he’s not too pleased about being followed.

Not wanting to give him a chance to make it to my window, I put my car in reverse and slam on the gas.

My heart races as I struggle to maneuver the backward turns, my palms sweat against the steering wheel.

The man remains standing under his umbrella—watching me until I’m gone—then I return to the highway and head back to where I belong.

What the hell was I thinking?

End of Episode 2

Episode 3

Autumn

O’Malley’s is booked with reservations for the next two months, no exceptions.

Our seven o’clock plans for my birthday dinner are derailed, now exchanged for a last-minute ticket to Outback Steakhouse. Even so, we may never get the chance to claim our rides.

Today’s “light and steady rainfall” is a full-blown thunderstorm that’s shedding sheets of rain every few seconds, and we’re currently killing time in the restaurant’s parking lot. Desperately waiting for it to slow.

My designer red dress—with its deep, plunging neckline and sparkling nude stilettos—feels like too much of an effort; same with Nate’s custom black suit and Italian leather shoes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead and check on O’Malley’s.” Nate turns down the heat.

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.” I clear my throat. “How was your day today?”

“Good. Yours?”

“Same.”

Silence stretches between us, painful yet comforting at the same time.

“You know what?” He taps his chin. “I can drive next to the entrance to get you close enough to the awning to stay dry, or we can order your birthday dinner to-go.”

“That would be nice.”

Without asking whether I’m referring to the former or the latter, he puts the car in drive and speeds toward the entrance.

“What do you want me to order?” He turns on the hazard lights, picking ‘the latter’ for me.

“I’ll have whatever you have.”

He nods and steps into the downpour.

After watching him rush inside, I shut my eyes and pretend that tonight’s ending has a different trajectory. That maybe, in some alternate universe, the man I chased all the way to his home caught up to my window before I backed away.