The Driven Series

by Bromberg, K.

  I blow out a shaky breath as my adrenaline surges. It was a dream. Holy shit, it was just a dream. I tell myself over and over, trying to reassure myself with the constant beep of the monitors and the medicinal smell—things I have grown to hate but welcome right now as a way to convince myself that nothing has changed. Colton’s still asleep and I’m still hoping for miracles.

  Just ones that don’t involve Tawny.

  I sink back down into Colton, my nightmare a fringe on the edge of my consciousness that leaves me beyond unsettled and my body trembling with anxiety. I’m so lost in thought—in fear over both nightmares—that as the adrenaline fades, my eyes grow heavy. I’m so lost to the welcoming peace of sleep that when a hand smooths down my hair and stills on my back, I sink into the soothing feeling of it in my hazy, dreamlike state. I nestle closer, accepting the warmth offered and the serenity that comes with it.

  And then it hits me. I snap my head up to meet Colton’s. The sob that chokes in my throat is nothing compared to the tumble in my heart and awakening in my soul.

  When our eyes meet I’m frozen, so many thoughts flitting through my mind, the most prevalent one is that he came back to me. Colton is awake and alive and back with me. Our eyes remain locked and I can see the confusion flicker through his at a lightning pace and the unknown warring within.

  “Hi there,” I offer on a shaky smile, and I’m not sure why a part of me is nervous. Colton licks his lips and closes his eyes momentarily which causes me to panic that he’s been pulled back under. To my relief he reopens them with a squint and parts his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

  “Shh-Shh,” I tell him, reaching out and resting my finger on his lips. “There was an accident.” His brow furrows as he tries to lift his hand but can’t, as if it’s a dead weight. He tries to angle his eyes up to figure out the thick bandages surrounding his head. “You had surgery.” His eyes widen with trepidation and I mentally chastise myself for fumbling over my words and not being clearer. The monitor beside me beeps at an accelerated pace, the noise dominating the room. “You’re okay now. You came back to me.” I can see him struggle to comprehend, and I wait for something to spark in his eyes but there is nothing. “I’m going to get the nurse.”

  I reach out to pull myself off the bed and Colton’s hand that’s lying on the mattress clasps around my wrist. He shakes his head and winces with the movement. I immediately reach out to him and cradle his face with one hand, his skin paling and beads of sweat appearing on the bridge of his nose.

  “Don’t move, okay?” My voice breaks when I say it, as my eyes travel the lines of his face searching to see if he’s hurt anything. As if I would know if he had.

  He nods just barely and whispers in an almost absent voice, “Hurts.”

  “I know it does,” I tell him as I reach across the bed and push the call button for the nurse as the hope deep within me settles into possibility. “Let me get a nurse to help with the pain, okay?”

  “Ry …” His voice breaks again as the fear in it splinters in my heart. I do the only thing I know might reassure him. I lean forward and brush my lips to his cheek and just hold them there momentarily while I control the rush of emotions that hit me like a tsunami. Tears drip down my cheeks and onto his as the silent sobs surge through me. I hear a soft sigh and when I pull back, his eyes are closed and his mind lost to the blackness behind them once again.

  “Is everything okay?” The nurse pulls me from my moment.

  I look over at her, Colton’s face still cradled in my hand and my tears staining his lips. “He woke up …” I can’t say anything else because relief robs my words. “He woke up.”

  Colton comes in and out of consciousness a couple more times over the next few days. Small moments of lucidity among a haze of confusion. Each time he tries to talk without success, and each time we try to soothe—what we assume from his racing heartbeat—are his fears, in the few minutes we have with him.

  I refuse to leave, so fearful that I’ll miss any of these precious moments. Stolen minutes where I can pretend nothing has happened instead of the endless span of worry.

  Dorothea has finally convinced me to take a few moments and head to the cafeteria. As much as I don’t want to, I know I’m hogging her son and she probably wants a minute alone with him.

  I pick at my food, my appetite nonexistent, and my jeans baggier than when I first arrived in Florida a week ago. Nothing sounds good—not even chocolate, my go to food for stress.

  My cell rings and I scramble to get it, hoping it’s Dorothea telling me Colton’s awake again, but it isn’t. My excitement abates. “Hey, Had.”

  “Hi, sweetie. Any change?”

  “No.” I just sigh, wishing I had more to say. She’s used to this by now and allows the silence between us.

  “If he doesn’t wake anytime soon, I’m ignoring you and flying my ass out there to be with you.” Here comes Haddie and her no-nonsense attitude. There’s no need for her to be here really. She’d just sit around and wait like the rest of us, and what good is that going to do?

  “Just your ass?” I let the smile grace my lips even though it feels so foreign in this dismal place.

  “Well, it is a fine one if I may say so myself … like bounce quarters off of it and shit.” She laughs. “And thank God! There’s a bit of the girl I love shining through. You hanging in there?”

  “It’s all I can do,” I sigh.

  “So how is he? Has he come to again?”

  “Yeah, last night.”

  “So that’s what, five times in two days according to Becks? That’s a good sign, right? From nothing to something?”

  “I guess … I don’t know. He just seems so scared when he wakes up—his heart rate on the monitors sky rockets and he can’t catch his breath—and it’s so quick that we don’t have time to explain that it’s okay, that he’s going to be okay.”

  “But he sees you all there, Ry. The fact you’re all there has to tell him he has nothing to fear.” I just give a non-committal murmur in response, hoping her words are true. Hoping that the sight of all of us soothes him rather than scares him into thinking he’s on his deathbed. “What does Dr. Irons say?”

  I breathe in deeply, afraid if I say it my fears might come true. “He says Colton seems stable. That the more often he wakes up the better … but until he starts talking in full sentences, he won’t know if any part of his brain is affected by everything.”

  “Okay,” she says, drawing the word out so that it’s almost a question. Asking me what I fear without asking. “What are you not telling me, Ry?”

  I push the food around on my plate some, scattered thoughts focusing for bouts of time. I work a swallow in my throat before drawing in a shaky breath. “He says sometimes motor skills might be temporarily affected …”

  “And …” Silence hangs as she waits for me to continue. “Put your fork down and talk to me. Tell me what you’re really worried about. No bullshit. You’re not a lesbian so stop beating around the damn bush.”

  Her attempt to make me laugh results in a soft chuckle turned audible exhale of breath. “He said that he might not remember much. Sometimes in cases like these, the patient may have temporary to permanent memory loss.”

  “And you’re afraid he might not remember what happened, good and bad, right?” I don’t respond, feeling stupid and validated in my fears at the same time. She takes my lack of a reply as my answer. “Well, he obviously remembers you because he didn’t freak out when you were lying in bed with him the first time, right? He grabbed your hand, stroked your hair? That has to tell you he knows who you are.”

  “Yeah … I’ve just found him though, Haddie, and the thought of losing him—even if it’s in the figurative sense—scares the shit out of me.”

  “Quit thinking about something that hasn’t happened yet. I understand why you’re worried but, Ry, you’ve made it through some pretty random shit so far—Tawny the twatwaffle’s antics included—so you need to back awa
y from that ledge you’re sitting on and wait to see what happens. You’ll cross that bridge and all when it comes, okay?”

  I’m about to respond when my phone beeps with an incoming text. I pull my phone from my ear and my heart rockets when I see Quinlan’s text. He’s awake.

  “It’s Colton. I gotta go.”

  PAIN POUNDS LIKE A JACKHAMMER against my temple. My eyes burn like I’m waking up after downing a fifth of Jack. Bile rises and my stomach churns.

  Churns as if I’m back in that room—dank mattress, crab weeds of trepidation blooming in me as I wait for him to arrive, for my mom to hand me over, trade me … but that’s not fucking possible. Q’s here, Beckett. Mom and Dad.

  What the fuck is going on?

  I squeeze my eyes shut and try to shake away the confusion, but all I get is more of the goddamn pain.

  Pain.

  Ache.

  Pleasure.

  Need.

  Rylee.

  Flashes of memories I can’t quite grasp or understand blindside me before disappearing into the darkness holding them hostage.

  But where is she?

  I fight to gain more memories, pull them in and grasp them like a lifeline.

  Did she finally figure out the fucking poison within me? Realize this pleasure isn’t worth the pain I’ll cause in the end?

  “Mr. Donavan? I’m Dr. Irons. Can you hear me?”

  Who the hell are you? Ice blue eyes stare at me.

  “It may be tough to speak. We’re getting you some water to help. Can you squeeze my hand if you understand me?”

  Why do I need to squeeze his hand? And why is my hand not moving? How the hell am I going to drive in the race today if I can’t grip the wheel?

  My heart hammers like the pedal I should be dropping on the track right now.

  But I’m here.

  And last night I was there, with Ry. Woke up with her … and now she’s gone.

  … checkered flag time, baby …

  It all zooms into focus at once. And then complete darkness. Checkered holes of black—polka dots of void—throughout the slideshow in my head. I can’t connect the dots. I can’t make sense of anything except that I’m confused as fuck.

  All eyes in the room stare at me like I’m the side show at the goddamn circus. And for his next act folks, he’ll move his fingers.

  I try my left hand and it responds. Thank Christ for that.

  My mind flashes back. Crunching metal, flashing sparks, engulfing smoke. Crashing, tumbling, free-falling, jolting.

  … It looks like your superheroes came this time after all …

  My mind tries to figure out what that means but comes up empty.

  Rylee’s gone.

  She doesn’t love the broken in me after all.

  I try to shake the bullshit lies from my head but groan as the pain hits me.

  Max.

  Me.

  She left.

  Can’t do this again.

  I can’t believe I was selfish enough to even ask her to.

  “Colton.” The doc is talking again. “You were in a bad accident. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  A bad accident? The flickering images in my head start to make more sense but gaps of time are still missing. I try to speak but my mouth’s so dry all that comes out is a croak.

  “You injured your head.” He smiles at me but I’m wary.

  Never look a gift horse in the mouth.

  He may have given me life again, but the fucking reason for living isn’t here. She’s smart enough to leave because I just can’t give her what she needs: stability, a life without racing, the promise of forever.

  “The nurse is bringing you some water to wet your throat.” He notes something on his tablet. “I know this might be scary for you, son, but you’re going to be okay. The tough part’s over. Now we need to get you on the road to recovery.”

  The road to recovery? Thanks, Captain Obvious—more like the speedway to Hell.

  Faces fill my immediate space. Mom kissing my cheek, tears coursing down her face. Dad hiding his emotion but the look in his eyes tells me he’s a goddamn wreck. Quin beside herself. Becks muttering something about being a selfish bastard.

  This must be pretty fucking serious.

  And yet I still feel numb. Empty. Incomplete.

  Rylee.

  After a few moments they slowly back away at my Mom’s insistence to give me space, to let me breathe.

  And the air I’ve just gotten back is robbed again.

  I turn to look at the vague blur I notice in my periphery, and there she stands.

  Curls piled on top of her head, face without makeup, hollow, tear-stained cheeks, eyes welled with tears, perfect lips in a startled O standing in the doorway. She looks like she’s been through Hell, but she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

  Call me a pussy, but I swear to God she’s the only air my body can breathe. Fuck if she’s not everything I need and nothing that I deserve.

  Her hands are fiddling with her cell phone, my lucky shirt hanging off her shoulders, and I can see the trepidation in her eyes as they flit around everywhere but at me.

  Breathe, Donavan. Fucking breathe. She didn’t leave. She’s still here. The neutralizer to the acid that eats my soul.

  Her eyes finally find and lock onto mine. All I see is my future, my salvation, my singular chance at redemption. But her eyes? Fuck, they flicker with such conflicting emotions: relief, optimism, anxiety, fear, and so many more unknown.

  And it’s the unknown I focus on.

  The unspoken words telling me all of this is tearing her apart. That it’s not fair for me to put her through this again. But racing is my life. Something I need as much as I need the air that I breathe—ironic considering she’s my fucking air—but it’s the only way I can survive and outrun the demons that chase me. The black ooze that seeps in every crack of my soul making sure it can never be eradicated. I can’t be selfish and ask her to stand by me when all I want is to be the most self-centered bastard on the face of the earth.

  Urge her to go but beg her to stay.

  But how can I let her go when she owns every single part of me?

  I’ll gladly suffocate so that she can breathe freely. Without worry. Without the constant fucking fear.

  Be selfless for the first time ever when all I’ve been my entire life is self-serving.

  I should have told her—got over the fear that consumes my soul—but I couldn’t … and now she doesn’t know.

  … I Spiderman you …

  Words scream through my head but choke in my throat. The words I don’t know if I’ll ever be healed enough to say.

  She robbed me of that all those years ago.

  And now I’ll pay for it.

  By letting my one fucking chance go.

  Then I hear the sob wrench from her throat. Hear the disbelief and torment in that singular sound as her shoulders shake and her posture sags.

  And I know what I want and what is best for her are two completely different things.

  OUT OF NOWHERE THE SOB tears from my throat at the sight of him, lucid and groggily alert. My damaged man that is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

  My heart tumbles even further if that’s even possible. And we just stare as the noise and excitement in the room abates, everyone taking a step back and silently watching our exchange.

  Yet my feet are frozen in place as I try and read the emotions racing rapid-fire through Colton’s eyes. He seems apologetic and maybe unsettled, but there’s also an underlying emotion I can’t place that has trepidation eating at the corners of my mind.

  A nurse whisks past me, brushing my shoulder and breaking Colton’s hold on me. She brings the straw from a cup of water to his mouth and he sips eagerly until it’s gone.

  “Well, you’re a thirsty one, aren’t you?” she teases before adding, “I’ll go get you some more but let’s make sure this stays down before we waterlog you, okay?”

&
nbsp; I try to quiet my hiccupping draws of breath but can’t seem to calm my anxiety. I feel Quinlan’s arm go around my shoulder as she sniffles herself, but I don’t even acknowledge her. I can’t bear for my eyes to focus on anything but the tear–blurred vision in front of me.

  The nurse reaches over and takes a chart from Dr. Irons and leaves. I haven’t moved yet. I can’t seem to. I just stare at Colton as Dr. Irons examines him: tracking his eyes, testing his reflexes, feeling the strength in his grip as he squeezes. I notice he asks Colton to repeat the grip test for his right hand a couple of times, and I can see panic flicker over Colton’s features. I can’t drag my eyes away. I trace over every inch of him, so very afraid I’ll miss something—anything—about these first few moments.

  “Well, all seems quite well,” Dr. Irons says eventually after he examines him some more. “How are you feeling, Colton?”

  I watch his throat work a swallow and his eyes close with a wince before opening them again. I take a step forward, wanting to help take the pain away. He glances around at everyone in the room while he finds his voice. “My head. Hurts,” he rasps. “Hand?” He looks down to his right hand and then back up, confusion apparent in his eyes. “Happened? How long?”

  Dr. Irons sits down on the edge of the bed next to him and begins to explain about the crash, the operation, and the amount of time he has been in a coma. “As for your hand, that could be a result of some residual swelling still in your brain. We’ll just have to watch it and see how it progresses over time.” Colton nods at him, concentration etched on his face. “Can you tell me the last thing that you remember?”

  I suck in a breath as Colton blows one out. He swallows again and licks his lips. “I remember … knocking four times.” His voice comes out, his vocal chords scraping over gravel.

  “What else?” Andy asks.

  Colton looks over at his dad and subtly nods his head at him before squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. “It’s like snippets in my head. Certain things are clear,” he rasps before swallowing and then opens his eyes to look at Dr. Irons. “Others … they’re vague. Like I can feel them there but can’t remember them.”