The Driven Series

by Bromberg, K.

  His laugh stops immediately when he notices my agitation, and he places an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into him. “Hey look. I’m sorry, Rylee. I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s okay.” I say, leaning forward out of his grasp, escaping the heat of him and embarrassed at my reaction, “There’s no need to apologize. I’m the one who should be sorry.” He nods his head in acceptance to me, his eyes imploring me to say more. “I—um, I was in a pretty bad car accident a couple of years back … I was trapped for a while.” I shake my head to clear the vivid memories pressing in on me. “Since then, I can’t stand being in small places. Feeling trapped.”

  He places his hand on my back and reassuringly rubs up and down. “The scars?” he asks.

  “Uh-huh,” I answer, still trying to find my voice.

  “But you’re all healed now?” The genuine concern that fills his voice makes me look back and smile at him.

  “Physically, yes,” I tell him as I lean back into the comfort of him, resting my back partially on his torso. His arm instinctively goes around me. “Emotionally...” I sigh “...I have my days. I told you, Colton, excess baggage.”

  He places a kiss to the side of my head, keeping his lips pressed there. I can feel the questions he wants to ask me in our silence. What happened and how bad was it? Why an accident has baggage that makes me run from him? I don’t want to mar the night with sadness so I pinch off a piece of cotton candy and turn my body so that I face him, my bent knee resting on his thigh. I wave the piece of cotton candy in front of his face.

  “How sweet do you like it, Ace?” I flirt with him before I lick my bottom lip and then provocatively place the fluff of sugar between them.

  He leans into me, need darkening his eyes, a salacious grin playing his lips. “Oh, sweetheart, you taste sweet enough already.” He bites at the cotton candy hanging between my lips, purposefully nipping my bottom lip, pulling on it. The quick bite of pain is replaced by a quick lick of his tongue. The low moan of pleasure that comes from the back of his throat turns me on. Makes me want to drink him in. Right here. Right now.

  “I definitely like the taste of that,” he murmurs against my lips. “We just might have to wrap this up and take this with us for later.” He lazily brushes his lips against mine. “In case you need a little sweetener after I dirty you up.”

  I can feel his mouth curve in a smile against my lips. His suggestive words send a tightening pulse deep down in my belly. The promise of more to come with him dampens my sex and turns my soft ache into a smoldering burn.

  I sigh against his lips, completely bewitched and totally enchanted by him. I lean my forehead against his, taking the time to steady myself.

  “So,” Colton says, pulling back and pressing a soft kiss on my forehead before continuing. “We have two things left that must be done before we leave here.”

  He rises from the bench, tucking the wrapped bag of cotton candy under his arm, a smirk on his face, and grabs my hand, pulling me to my feet. “Oh, really? And what would those be?”

  “We have to ride the Ferris wheel,” he says, tapping me on the butt playfully, “and I have to win you a stuffed animal.”

  I laugh out loud as we head for the Ferris wheel. The line is short and we chat, surprised at how many things we have in common despite coming from such different backgrounds. How much our likes and dislikes are similar. How our taste in movies and television are alike.

  We are ushered to the car and locked in place with the bar across our laps. We start to move slowly, Colton draping his arm around my shoulder. “So you never finished telling me about you.”

  “What is this?” I laugh. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you haven’t been put on the spot yet.”

  “I’m next,” he promises, kissing my temple as I snuggle into the warmth and security of his arms as we climb higher. He points at a vendor juggling balls on the ground below. “Tell me, Rylee. What’s your future look like? A nice husband, two point five kids, and a white picket fence?”

  “Hmmm, maybe. Someday. But the husband has to be hot and nice,” I kid, laughing out loud. “No kids, though.”

  I feel his body tense at my words, his silence deafening, before he responds. “That surprises me. You love kids. Work with them all day. You don’t want your own?” I can hear the confusion in his voice and can feel his jaw moving as it rests on the crown of my head.

  “I’ll see what fate deals me,” I tell him, hoping he’s satisfied with my answer and that he won’t pry any further. “Look!” I point out to the skyline where the top part of the full moon is just rising over the hills, glad that I can change the topic. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Hmm-hmmm,” he murmurs as we sit watching its ascent. “You know what the rule is when the Ferris wheel reaches the top, right?”

  “No, what?” I ask, pulling away from the warmth of his arms to face him.

  “This,” he says before closing his mouth over mine and fisting a hand in my hair. The hunger in his kiss is so tangible that I lose myself in him and the moment. His tongue slips past my lips, licking seductively at mine. I feel the gentle whir of the ride; the heated warmth of his fingertips whispering over my cheek; the sweet taste of cotton candy on his tongue; the hush of my name on his lips. The feeling of our marked descent has us pulling back, stepping back from the depths of the fire raging between us.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Colton mutters, amused, adjusting in the seat so he can shift the seam of denim pressing against his arousal. “I react like a damn teenager around you.” He shakes his head, his embarrassment clear.

  “C’mon, Ace,” I say, my ego inflated, “you owe me a stuffed animal.”

  Thirty minutes later and several games conquered, my sides hurt from laughing at Colton’s playful antics, but I’m the proud owner of an oversized and very lopsided-looking stuffed dog. I lean up against the corner of one of the permanent buildings at the fairgrounds, one leg bent at the knee with my foot flat against the building, and my new treasured prize resting on my hip. I watch Colton play one last game, take the small prize he’s won, and hand it off to the little boy standing next to him at the booth. He ruffles the little boy’s hair and smiles at his mom before sauntering back to me. Taut muscles bunch beneath his T-shirt as he moves, and his body screams that it was made for sin. It’s impossible for me to take my eyes off of him. I can see that I’m not the only one as I watch the mom’s eyes follow Colton’s back as he leaves, an appreciative look on her face.

  “Are you having fun?” he asks, approaching me, tugging on the ear of the stuffed dog.

  I grin stupidly at him. As if he even has to ask that question. I’m with him, aren’t I?

  He reaches out and runs a fingertip down my cheek. “I love your smile, Rylee. The one you have right now.” He cups my neck, the pad of his thumb running over my lower lip. His translucent eyes look into mine and search inside of me. “You look so carefree and lighthearted. So beautiful.”

  I angle my head, my lips parting at the touch of his thumb. “As opposed to you?” I question. He quirks his eyebrows in question. “When you smile it screams mischief and trouble.” And heartbreak, I think. I shake my head when the exact smile I’m talking about graces his lips. I run my free hand up the plane of his chest, liking the hiss of his breath I hear in response to my touch as well as the fire that leaps into his eyes. “And it has ‘I’m a stereotypical bad boy’ written all over it.”

  The grin widens. “Bad boy, huh?”

  Right now, in this moment, there is no way I’ll ever be able to resist him with his tousled hair, emerald eyes, and that smile. I look up at him through my lashes, my bottom lip between my teeth.

  “Are you one of those girls who like bad boys, Rylee?” he asks, his voice gruff with desire, his lips inches from mine, his eyes glistening with a dare.

  “Never,” I whisper, barely having enough composure to find my voice.

  “Do you know what bad boys like to do?” He takes a hand and places it
on my lower back, pressing me forcibly against him. Flash points of pleasure explode every place our bodies connect.

  Oh my! His touch. His hard body pressed against mine makes me need things I shouldn’t need. Shouldn’t need from him. But I don’t have the strength to fight it anymore. I suck in a ragged breath, not trusting myself to speak. “No,” is all I can manage to say for an answer. Between one breath and the next, Colton crushes his mouth to mine in a heat-searing kiss tinged with near violent desire. He kisses me as if we are in the privacy of his bedroom. His hands run up the length of my torso, flutter over my neck, and cup my face as he slowly eases the intensity of the kiss.

  He places his now-signature kiss on the tip of my nose before pulling back, the devilish look still smoldering in his eyes. “Us bad boys?” he continues, while my head still spins. “We like to ...” He leans in, his lips at my ear, the warmth of his breath tickling my skin. I think he is going to tell me something erotic. Something naughty he wants to do to me for his pregnant pause leaves me suspended in thought. “Eat dinner!”

  I throw my head back and laugh loudly at him, using my hand on his chest to push him away. He laughs with me, taking the stuffed dog from my arm. “Gotcha!” he says as he grabs my hand, saying goodbye to the carnival.

  We make our way to the car, chatting idly as we pull out of the parking lot. Colton turns the radio on and I softly sing along as we drive.

  “You really do like music, don’t you?”

  I smile at him, continuing to sing.

  “You’ve known the words to every song that’s played.”

  “It’s my little form of therapy,” I answer, adjusting my seatbelt so I can turn and face him.

  “The date’s that bad you need therapy already?” he jokes.

  “Stop!” I laugh at him. “I’m serious. It’s therapeutic.”

  “How’s that?” he asks, his face scrunched in concentration as we hit traffic on I-10.

  “The music, the words, the feeling behind it, what’s not being said.” I shrug. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think music expresses things better than I can. So maybe vicariously, when I’m singing, everything I’m too chicken to say to someone, I can relay in a song. That’s the best way to describe it, I guess.” A blush creeps over my cheeks, as I feel stupid for not being able to explain better.

  “Don’t get embarrassed,” he tells me as he reaches out and rests a hand on my knee. “I get it. I understand what you’re trying to say.”

  I pick imaginary lint off of my jeans, a nervous habit I have when I’m put on the spot. I laugh softly. “After the accident ...” I swallow loudly, shocked that he makes me comfortable enough that I’m volunteering this information. Pieces of me that I rarely talk about. “It helped me tremendously. When I came home from the hospital, poor Haddie was so sick of hearing the same songs over and over, she threatened to put my iPod in the garbage disposal.” I smile at the memory of how fed up she’d been at hearing Matchbox Twenty. “Even now, I use it with the kids. When they first come to us or if they are having a hard time dealing with their situation, if they can’t verbalize how they’re feeling, we use music to help them.” I shrug. “Sounds lame, I know, but it works.”

  Colton glances over at me, sincerity in his eyes. “You really love them, don’t you?”

  I answer without hesitation. “With all my heart.”

  “They are very lucky to have you fighting for them. It’s a brutal road for a kid to have to go down. It easily fucks you up.” He shakes his head, lapsing into silence.

  I can feel the sadness radiate off of him. I reach down and link my fingers with the hand he has resting on my leg and give it a reassuring squeeze. What happened to this beautiful man who one minute is playful and sexy and the next quiet and reflective? What can put that haunted look in those piercing green eyes? What has given him that roughshod drive to get his way, to succeed at all costs?

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask softly, afraid to pry but wanting him to share what deep, dark secret has a hold on him.

  He sighs loudly, the silence thick in the car. I steal a quick glance over at him and see the stress etched around his mouth. The lights of passing cars cast shadows on his face, making him seem even more untouchable. I regret asking the question, afraid I’ve pushed him further into his memories.

  Colton withdraws his hand from mine and takes his baseball hat off, tossing it in the backseat, and shoves his hand through his hair. He clenches and unclenches his jaw in thought. “Shit, Rylee.” And I think that is all I’m going to get as the car descends back into silence. Eventually he continues, “I don’t …” He stops as he exits the freeway. I can see him grip the steering wheel tightly with both hands. “I don’t need to haunt you with my demons, Ry. Fill your head with the shit that’s a psychologist’s wet dream. Give you ammunition to dissect and throw back in my face at everything I do—everything I say—when I fuck things up.”

  I immediately hear the when not if in his statement. The raw emotions behind his words hit me harder than his insensitivity. My years of experience tell me that he’s still hurting—still coping with whatever happened long ago.

  We stop at a light and Colton scrubs both hands over his face. “Look, I’m sorry. I—”

  “No apologies needed, Colton.” I reach out and squeeze his bicep. “Absolutely none.”

  He hangs his head momentarily, closing his eyes before lifting it back up and opening them. He glances over at me, a reserved smile on his face, sorrow in his eyes before mumbling, “Thanks.” He looks back at the road and steps on the accelerator as the light changes.

  OUR LATE DINNER IS SINFULLY good. Colton takes me to a small surf-shack type restaurant on Highway One slightly north of Santa Monica. Despite the busy Saturday night crowd, when the hostess sees Colton, she greets him by name and whisks us out to a rather private table on the patio that overlooks the water. The crash of waves serves as soft background music to our evening.

  “Come here much?” I ask wryly. “Or do you just use the fact that the hostess is in love with you to get the primo table?”

  He flashes a heart-stopping grin at me. “Rachel’s a sweet girl. Her dad owns the place. He has a ladder up to the rooftop. Sometimes he and I go up there and throw back a few beers. Shoot the shit. Escape the madness.” He leans over and taps the top of my nose with his finger. “I hope this is okay?” he asks.

  “Definitely! I like laid back,” I tell him. When his grin widens and his eyes darken, I look at him confused, “What?”

  He takes a sip of beer from his bottle, amusement filling his face, “I like you laid back too, just not in this environment.” His comment causes butterflies in my stomach. I giggle and swat at him playfully. He catches my hand and brings it casually to his lips before setting it on his thigh with his hand closing around it. “No, seriously,” he explains, “this is way more my style than the glitz and glamour of my parents’ lifestyle and expectations. My sister fits that lifestyle so much better than I do.” He rolls his eyes despite the utter adoration on his face when he mentions her.

  “How old is she?”

  “Quinlan? She’s twenty-six and a total pain in the ass!” He laughs. “She’s in graduate school at USC right now. She’s pushy and overbearing and protective and—”

  “And she loves you to death.”

  A boyish grin blankets his face as he nods in acceptance. “Yes, she does.” He mulls it over thoughtfully. “The feeling is completely mutual.”

  His ability to express his love for his sister is charming in a man otherwise unwilling to express himself emotionally.

  The waitress arrives, halting our conversation, and asks me if I am ready to order, although her eyes are fixated on Colton. I want to tell her I understand, I’m under his spell too. I’m still unsure what I want so I look at Colton. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  He looks up at me, surprise on his face, “Their burgers are the best. Does that sound okay?”

  �
��Sounds good to me.”

  “A girl after my own heart,” he teases, squeezing my hand. “Can we get two surf burgers with fries and another round of drinks, please,” he tells the waitress, and as I try to hand her my menu, I notice how flustered she is by Colton speaking to her.

  “So tell me about your parents.”

  “Uh-oh. Is this the Colton background portion of the night?” he kids.

  “You got it, Ace. Now spill it,” I tell him, taking a sip of my wine.

  He shrugs. “My dad is larger than life in everything he does. Everything. He’s supportive and always positive and a good friend to me now. And my mom, she’s more reserved. More the rock of our family.” He smiles softly at the thought, “but she definitely has a temper and a flair for the dramatic when she deems it necessary.”

  “Is Quinlan adopted too?”

  “No.” He drains the remainder of his beer, shaking his head. “She’s biological. My mom and dad decided one was enough for them with their busy schedules and all of the traveling to onset locations.” He raises his eyebrows. “And then my dad found me.” The simplicity in that last statement, the rawness behind the words, is profound.

  “Was that hard? Her being biological and you adopted?”

  He ponders the question, turning his head to look around the restaurant. “At times I think I used it for all it was worth. But when it comes down to it, I realized that my dad didn’t have to bring me home with him that day.” He plays with the label on his empty beer bottle. “He could have turned me over to social services, and God knows what would have happened since they’re not always the most efficient organization. But he didn’t.” He shrugs. “In time I grew to realize they really loved me, really wanted me, because, they kept me. They made me a part of their family.”