The Marriage Mistake_A Billionaire Hangover Romance

by Natalie Knight

  That’s when you can start embracing what comes next, whether you can predict it or not. It’s all part of the awesome, wild storm, and you’ve learned not to lose yourself in it no matter what.

  I’ve learned that. At least I hope I have, because if this G-Man has something to prove to his buddies, I better know not just how to ride but also how to control the shitstorm that’s brewing at this very moment.

  I won’t see anything there, though. This is a wild-goose chase, but that’s the best kind of chase for the absurd bullshit of this situation.

  Things are getting dark, in a real sense, when I start powering around the perimeter of the track. There’s no one else here except for maybe one or two drivers. I’m not noticing much; these mental tricks are still playing with me in surges, coming and going.

  I just hope I’m doing it to myself. Like the way I’m racing right now, feeling the raw energy of my vehicle but staying on top of it.

  Okay, who the fuck are they, anyway?

  This is the second time I’ve seen those two shadowy figures, those blurry shapes that I’m rapidly approaching. Whatever the fuck they’re doing, it doesn’t seem like a natural part of the racetrack life that I know every particle of by now.

  One figure is handing a document—a whole folder, in fact—to another. I really wish I didn’t know who both of them are, but I won’t be able to deny it for much longer.

  I’m stopping way too quickly again, the word downshift disappearing from my vocabulary. I’m braking hard, sliding, almost losing control.

  Of course, I don’t fucking lose control. Ever.

  I come to a beautifully askew stop just a few feet away from Jenna. No, that’s not...yes, there’s no doubt that’s her.

  What the actual fuck?

  Jenna’s right there. I know now that my worst fears are about to be confirmed. I can’t delude myself into thinking there’s anything else she’s doing here.

  She’s talking to another man, and she doesn’t look happy to be doing it.

  She doesn’t look reluctant either. It’s a weird look, because I pulled up so fast it’s like I’m studying a still frame. Despite the world-shuddering I must’ve caused pulling up, along with the odor of burning rubber and the vision of my racer drawing closer at an alarming trajectory, the recognition that I’m here is somehow only now dawning on her face.

  Some fucking federal agent, too, who’s also just now turning around. What the fuck did they think was happening? Jenna should’ve spotted me sooner, but this must be challenging for her.

  This job she’s doing.

  This betrayal.

  It’s no joke; he’s making it happen, like he said. But that’s not even in the running to be my top concern right now.

  One thing I can gather from this sloppy farce I’ve driven in on is that my Fed friend here is rushing things. If he let this bullshit play out more naturally, they might have had my ass reeled in more securely.

  They. I cannot fucking believe it. I grind my teeth so hard I hear my jaw creak.

  The still frame of Jenna’s reaction is morphing into slow motion, especially since Mr. fucking Federale is just now turning around to face me. Good going, dipshit.

  Here comes the wild storm. It’s not coming from an engine this time, but it feels as overwhelming as ever, with an untameable intensity.

  How could Jenna do this?

  That dumb question again—all part of the mental warfare from this weasel who’s daring to try and face me directly right now.

  I’m ahead of the wild storm, as usual, channelling it as a sturdy fist right to the G-Man’s jaw. I can hear the transferred energy in the forceful popping sound that echoes across the empty track.

  Like I said, some federal agent, crumpling to the ground in pain. Whether or not he ever trained to be prepared for that, he certainly wasn’t ready.

  Jenna’s not ready either. Nothing’s playing in slow motion anymore. I’m watching her shock register at regular speed.

  There’s no more wild storm, just disappointment. With the brief look I give Jenna, I make sure she sees it.

  The disbelief on Jenna’s face is slowly changing as she tries to think of something to say. She doesn’t even notice that I snatched the folder right out of her hand until it’s safely in mine.

  I have to move past this as quickly as possible, though. I’m back on the right and flying away through the streets before Jenna has any chance to react.

  Speeding away from the ache in my chest as if I’m in the most significant race of my life.

  But this is one race I don’t think I’ll be able to win.

  Jenna

  The only other times I’ve felt like I do right now is when I’ve just been in a car accident. I mean, right after that moment of impact, after feeling a two-ton, swiftly moving metal machine come to an abrupt halt, slamming every bit of its kinetic energy into the rear of your own vehicle, which is innocently waiting at a red light.

  During those moments, there’s a brief little ripple of denial, at least for me.

  That didn’t just happen. No way. It was nothing. I can just keep driving like normal.

  That’s the way I feel about seeing Braden tear into my meeting with Harrison like the proverbial bat out of hell.

  That’s an expression I now understand all too well.

  That kind of ferociousness is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, from Braden or anyone. It’s as unreal as a sudden accident, except this is no accident.

  Although Braden’s long gone now, I’m starting to register it as reality. Harrison recovering from Braden’s blow to the face is driving it home.

  This isn’t happenstance; this is a huge fucking complication that I need to adjust to, somehow, although with the other complication of Harrison stalking toward me and looking pissed, I don’t know if that’s possible.

  “This is what’s going to happen,” he begins, and I immediately go wide-eyed, trying to convey that I have no clue what’s going on.

  I watch Harrison, waiting to hear what he’ll say next, but there are no more words. I’m face down on the ground, feeling Harrison’s grip on my arms and the cold sting of metal around my wrists. I yell wordlessly in protest, but it’s over before I grasp everything that’s happening.

  I hear Harrison stand up, and I climb up unsteadily, using my legs until I’m standing as well.

  My hands are cuffed tightly behind my back, and I’m trying to push away another bout of denial about this mess.

  I don’t have time for that before Harrison shoves me hard with both hands.

  I twist to my right side while plummeting back to the ground. I don’t have the option of using a hand to break my fall and though I instinctually fall on my right shoulder, I don’t know if those instincts are right.

  My shoulder slams against the paved roadway, and pain radiates through me from the point of impact. My right arm takes some of the brunt of the fall, which is probably the only reason I don’t seem to have any major injuries as I squirm on the ground and try to stand up again.

  I roll over onto my right side, and I hear Harrison’s car start, followed immediately by the sound of him burning rubber after Braden.

  There are a few more complications now, to say the least.

  I sit up readily as a fresh wave of adrenaline hits. I need to get to my car. Now.

  I try to get back upright, only to find a fresh tremor of sharp pain from my right arm. I close my eyes and will myself back on my feet with random bursts of agony that are thankfully getting duller as they go on.

  Feeling dizzy, with a throbbing ache still going through my shoulder, I half stagger, half gallop around, almost blindly, until I magnetically end up outside the driver’s side of my car.

  I shut my eyes, cursing my past self for closing the door. I revolve myself around so that my left hand is lined up with the handle, and I’m able to get enough grip to lift the handle and get the door open a couple inches.

  I walk backward gingerly and pry op
en the door with my left foot, leaning against the car for balance.

  My keys are still in the ignition. At least they’re not in one of my front pockets.

  I try sitting in the driver’s seat, facing forward. Fuck. If I can’t even turn the key, I probably won’t be able to steer.

  I turn my right side toward the keys helplessly, feeling the fading bursts of pain from my shoulder. I don’t even get close to turning the key that way.

  I kick the floor mat in frustration, and I’d love to do that a few more times while yelling at the futility of trying to catch up with Braden and Harrison, but there’s no time.

  I twist over onto my right side, trying to turn around in the seat, but it still hurts just a little too fucking much for that. I sit forward again, let out a sigh, give the floor mat a huge kick, and with a yell, I start twisting again, turning counter clockwise onto my left side.

  I start grunting with every movement as it gets more and more uncomfortable. I try to keep my legs and feet from hitting the steering wheel and everything else.

  I’m not as graceful as I could be.

  Once I’m facing backward in the seat, I’m able to reach the door handle to try and pull it closed.

  It closes; hopefully I’ll be able to get it open again. I try not to think about the situation I’ll be in when I need to.

  I slowly reach toward the ignition with my left hand, pulling my right arm and shoulder with it.

  I start letting out an ongoing primal yell to conduct the pain away. I stop when I feel the plastic of the key grip in my left hand.

  And I turn it.

  Now the engine’s started, and it’s just a small matter of getting myself forward again.

  And getting the car in gear.

  And steering.

  And catching up with Harrison and Braden and then...

  I stop considering all of it, and I twist right back around so I’m facing forward.

  I lean as far right as I can, gritting my teeth. I press my right arm down on the automatic gear shifter.

  Okay, okay, it isn’t so bad. I’m seeing flashes of white light, and I’m yelling inadvertently, but I start moving the shifter backward.

  Oh, no, oh, please, I can’t pass out...

  After moving the lever back two spots, I snap back up reflexively. My arm and my shoulder are refusing to cooperate with that any longer.

  Now I’m in neutral, and the car is moving whether I’m ready for it or not. I close my knees tight around the bottom half of the steering wheel, my feet just barely able to reach the accelerator and the brake.

  Steering is surprisingly easy, but the car’s moving faster than I thought it would, with a slight downhill slope heading away from the racetrack. I close my eyes again, and with an aggressive scream of pain and fury, I lean over and shift the transmission one more spot, putting the car in drive.

  Getting onto public streets, I’m trying to look and act casual. I’m confused enough at this point. I don’t want extra attention.

  I’m coasting along at about 35, trying to ease on the brake to not go much faster. I don’t think catching up with Braden is a hope worth harboring. He’s probably somewhere in Connecticut by now. Or Maine.

  Why did he show up anyway? There’s no coincidence here that much is certain.

  How much did he know beforehand? Why did he grab those false documents? How could he know they’re false? He can’t. He doesn’t know that I made my own fake blueprints.

  I know this is bad, but it’s getting worse.

  I pump the brakes slightly, getting into a busier area. I don’t feel like moving this slow anymore, but I know my only other choice is to make the next right, and those few blocks are not ones you’d want to steer with your knees.

  Fuck, that’s probably where Braden went with the blueprints. He has way more control than I do right now, but he knows way less about the situation. That’s a horrible combination of circumstances, just like trying to navigate away from the fairly even grid of straight streets I’m on to try and pilot this car along the alpine windiness around the next corner.

  On a good day, with full use of my limbs, accelerator, and brake pedal, I can do just fine on those precipitous drops and sudden curves. In my current condition, I can probably do okay. Besides, I need to save Braden’s ass.

  I blow right through a yellow light just changing to red, now dropping to around 30, approaching the right turn. There’s less of a slope now. I’m dropping in speed, and jamming on the accelerator is not doing much.

  I thought I knew these streets as well as anyone, but as I try to maintain my speed and steering, I’m learning about the subtle changes in terrain, about the way this street slopes down more approaching the turn as the speedometer approaches 40.

  I ease down on the brake pedal, watching the speedometer needle fall too fast. I’m almost at the turn, though, a sharp right—sharper than any turn I’ve tried yet while handcuffed and driving with my knees.

  My speed is down to around 20 with the turn, and I violently twist toward the right. There’s still an aching pressure on my right side, but that’s almost gone. Better still, my tense dance steers the car peacefully around the corner before the power steering takes over.

  Braden must have someone inside the FBI. Why the fuck didn’t I think about that?

  I spot Braden’s car on the street ahead of me, traveling at a moderate speed but starting to seriously accelerate as Harrison tries to keep up with him.

  And I know now, this can’t end well.

  Braden

  I ignore my racing pulse and grind my teeth. Fucking lights are getting closer. I can see the white coming through on my knuckles. Almost instinctively, I turn the steering wheel a little to the right.

  My foot pushes on the accelerator. My eyes are fixed on the road ahead.

  “Always keep your eyes on the road,” Bade, my very first driving instructor, taught me. “No matter what else, eyes dead ahead on the road.”

  And I keep mine there now, best as I can. Occasionally, inevitably, they stray to the rear-view mirror.

  I don’t like what I’m seeing.

  What the fuck is going on?

  Fucking bitch. How could she ruin everything like this?

  Dark clouds unleash a wild storm inside me. I want to fucking punch someone. I slam the palm of my right hand on the steering wheel instead.

  The road climbs a little, and I force my mind to stay on task. The needle of my speedometer is over two hundred clicks. At this speed, I can’t afford to make a mistake, even a minute one.

  On autopilot, my right hand grabs the gear stick and shifts it down a notch. Tight hairpin coming up.

  I’m taken back to a wild ride a few years ago. I took a buddy along this very road. We floated around each bend.

  He spent his time clutching on to the side of his door yelling at me to slow down.

  I laughed at him and only went faster. His panicked words of ‘I don’t want to die,’ now ring in my ears as though he were here now. Poor bastard died in a plane crash a few years ago.

  Now, of course, I’m on my own and being chased by some fucking mad agent. This is no joy ride; on the contrary, it’s a matter of life and death. What the fuck was Jenna thinking?

  Her betrayal hits me hard. A kick in the gut from a sumo wrestler would be less painful than this. I finally trusted a woman. Was fucking ready to have an actual relationship.

  And this is how she repays me.

  At breakneck speed, I traverse the road, taking each hairpin as it comes. Left, right, left.

  I misjudge a corner, and one of my tires bites into the gravel. Instantly, the car spins. Quick as lightning, I counter the spin by turning the steering wheel the other direction.

  Briefly, I see the edge of the road come toward me at great speed. I close my eyes. I don’t want to see the free-fall though the air. I’m sure I’ll go hundreds of feet before hitting the bottom.

  Sure, I might be lucky and get caught by a tree along t
he way, but it’ll no doubt snap like a tooth pick with the speed my car is going.

  I wonder if this will be end.

  If it is…there’s still so much I wanted to achieve.

  Determined not to die, I open my eyes again. With a furrowed brow, I take my foot off the accelerator and keep my hands on the steering wheel, holding it as far right as I can.

  One, two, three, four…I count up to five. So far so good, I’m not flying through the air—not yet.

  I breathe, and then I feel my tires find firm ground and the road again.

  I breathe a little sigh of relief.

  Jenna.

  Mixed fucking emotions wash over me. If she’s betraying me, I should cut my losses now.

  But she’s so fucking hot and sexy. So perfect.

  I still want her, despite this fucked up shit.

  Fuck.

  Her eyes wide with shock haunt me. Is there more to the story? Am I jumping to the wrong conclusions?

  When did life become so complicated?

  I glance in the rear-view mirror and am about to breathe a sigh of relief when the lights pop up again out of nowhere. This fucker is obviously not going to give up.

  Once I’m at the top, the real fun will begin, with the road winding down the other side with sharp, steep, killer bends.

  The engine is purring as I put it through its paces. Fucking agent has one hell of a car, though, which is somehow creeping up on me. It’s designed to chase not just regular race cars, but upgraded race cars.

  No doubt it’s equipped with the latest and greatest in engine power and whatever else fucking agent cars have.

  I floor mine again and shoot forward.

  A sharp left bend takes me by surprise. I hit the brakes and decelerate. Then as I’m through the bend, I put the pedal to the metal.

  Those headlights disappear again as the agent obviously reaches the first of the lethal corners. I need to put distance between us without going over the edge.