Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

I’d fallen for his act just because he was kind and sweet to me a handful of times. Was I that desperate for his attention? But why?

There had been other guys out there I could’ve made a fool of myself with, but I hadn’t. So…why him?

I was embarrassed and pathetic. But he was worse.

Because he was cruel.

Maybe his goal was to get me in the sack, and now that he realized I wouldn’t give it up, he’d decided to humiliate me or get back at me in a different way—to make me like him and then throw me away. He’d succeeded. And now he didn’t want anything to do with me.

Maybe there was no girlfriend. Maybe that was his Ferrari in the driveway. And he really just wanted me to leave because he’d gotten what he wanted.

Maybe he’d made a bet with other guys. Or girls. It wasn’t the first time it happened to me. My own girl “friends” had made bets with other guys off me before. Mean ones. Nasty, vindictive ones. Get Kara—the poorest, plainest-looking, tallest girl in the class—to go out with you, sleep with her, and post it on social media. That hadn’t quite worked out the way they’d wanted it. I’d escaped before any physical damage was done to me. Emotional scars were different though.

Did he make a bet with his fellow basketball players? With the whole team?

Why did I want to cry?

Worse things have happened to me and I didn’t cry then. I sure as fuck wouldn’t cry now.

I knew there was a possibility I was blowing this out of proportion, and my history was clouding my judgment.

I turned the shower off and lifted myself out of the tub. My wet clothes dripped all over the floor. I looked up to the ceiling, prayed for patience. A wet floor was a pet peeve. Just one more thing to add to his list.

I took my clothes off and wrung them dry. Using the washing machine would be costly. I had to wash these by hand now or else they’d smell tomorrow. I was adding that to his list too.

And when I searched for a towel and remembered I didn’t get my things before I jumped in the shower, the anger came back. It always did.

I shouted for Dylan to get me a towel. I wrapped myself in it and ran to my room.

His sweater was on my bed.

And I just saw red.

I slammed open my dresser, put on panties, shirt, and jeans.

Girl, what about a bra?

Fuck the bra. I didn’t need it anyway.

My hair was still wet, but I didn’t care. I marched past my dad and Dylan in the living room, put on my parka, grabbed my keys, and leaped in my car.

I was ready for war.

* * *

It started to rain again just as I got into my car. Little pellets of hate from the night sky that my windshield wipers couldn’t completely clear away. Just like the hot anger I felt for him. Except that mine was building into a storm.

I felt hot, burning. I cranked the window open a little, letting the night air cool me down. The lights from the oncoming traffic blinded me as I put my signal on, turned right onto his street. I was hoping the drive to his house would calm me a little bit. Not a chance.

My body was poised for a fight. The adrenaline rush and the anger made me blind to everything but confronting him. My breathing quickened as I spotted his house, as I pulled up to his driveway. The Ferrari was gone.

I sat there for a moment, trying to convince myself to let it go. He wasn’t worth it. Forget about him and move on. He certainly didn’t care about me.

I gripped the steering wheel, focusing on the feel of it in my hands. The squeaking sound of the wiper blades as they slid back and forth on the windshield every few seconds. The sound of the rain as it hit the roof of my car. Focusing on anything other than all the things I wanted to hurl at his face to hurt him as much as he had hurt me.

Leave! I’m done with you. His voice was strong and clear in my head.

I gave myself another minute to calm down. Inhale, fucking exhal