The Driven Series

by Bromberg, K.

  Of all the questions I had expected him to ask, it wasn’t that. And of course I’m stupid for hoping that on the off chance Colton might not want to race again, but hearing him actually say it causes panic to course through me. As much as I try to hide the mini-anxiety attack his words have evoked, my body instinctively tenses, my hands jerking tight around his hand while my breath audibly catches in my throat.

  Colton averts his eyes from Dr. Irons momentarily to look into mine. Obviously Dr. Irons senses my discomfort because he waits a beat before answering. And during that time, Colton’s eyes convey so much to me but at the same time are guarding his deepest thoughts. The moment I start to catch more, he looks away and back to the doctor.

  This immediately puts me on edge, and I can’t quite place why. And that scares the shit out of me. The unknown in a relationship is brutal, but with Colton? It’s a downright mindfuck.

  My pulse is racing from Colton’s question alone, and now I have to worry about the cryptic warning in his eyes? What the fuck is going on? Maybe like Dr. Irons said earlier, his emotions and disposition have been affected by the accident. I try to tell myself this is the reason—to play it off as such—but deep down I hear warning bells and when it comes to our relationship, that’s never a good sign.

  Dr. Irons snaps me from my turbulent thoughts with the clearing of his throat. And I fear how he is going to answer Colton’s question. “Well …” He sighs and looks down at his iPad before looking back up to meet Colton’s gaze. “Since I’m getting the sense that whatever I tell you not to do, will just encourage you to do it even faster—”

  “You’re a quick learner,” Colton teases.

  Dr. Irons just sighs again, trying to fight the smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. “Normally I’d tell you that getting back in the car is a bad idea. That your brain has been jarred around enough and even when your skull is fully healed, it will still have a weak spot where the bone has reconnected and that could be dangerous … but I know no matter what I say you’re going to be back on the track, aren’t you?”

  I have no option but to sit down now because despite how calm I appear on the outside, my insides have just been shredded by Dr. Irons’ correct assumption.

  Colton blows out a long breath and looks out the window for a bit, and for just a moment I notice the chink in his armor. It’s fleeting, but it’s there nonetheless. He may never admit it, but he’s scared to get in the car again. Scared to recall the moments during the crash that he can’t remember right now. Afraid he might get hurt again. And he’s so consumed by his thoughts that he doesn’t notice that he’s withdrawn his hand from mine.

  “You’re right,” he finally says, and chills immediately blanket my body. “I will. I have no other choice … but I’ll follow your advice and wait until I’m medically cleared. I’ll have my doctors in California connect with you to make sure nothing is missed.”

  Dr. Irons swallows and nods his head. “Okay, well I’m going to bank on the fact that you’re a sensible guy … well, as sensible as one can be that drives two hundred miles an hour for a living.” Colton smiles at the comment. “I’ll be back to check on you later.”

  Dr. Irons leaves and for a moment there is an awkward silence between the four of us. I imagine it’s because all of us are secretly wondering what it’s going to be like if—no when—he hops back in the race car, but no one says anything.

  Dread weighs heavy on me, and I have no clue how I’m going to be able to handle it. How I’m going to be able to watch him climb inside a car nearly identical to the one he almost died in.

  Colton breaks the startled silence. “Becks?”

  “Yeah.” Becks steps forward and stares at his friend.

  “Make sure to tell Eddie that he needs to get my records from Dr. Irons so we can study my injury. See how we can make it complement the HANS even better.”

  I know Colton is talking about the top secret safety device he was wearing during the accident. The one that CD Enterprises is getting ready to submit for patent protection, so I’m not sure why Beckett’s face falls. I watch his eyes dart over to Tawny momentarily, a flash of worry flickering through them, before looking back at Colton.

  “What, Becks? What aren’t you telling me?” Obviously Colton notices the reaction too.

  Becks clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “You fired Eddie a couple of months ago, Colton.”

  “What? C’mon, Becks. Quit fucking with me and just get the records for him, okay?”

  “I’m not fucking with you. A second set of schematics disappeared. With his gambling debts and other issues, too many factors pointed to him, so you fired him,” Beckett says as Colton’s eyes flicker around the room, his head toggling back and forth as if he’s trying to comprehend what he’s being told.

  “Seriously?” When Becks just nods, Colton looks over at Tawny and she nods too. “Fuckin’ A,” he grits out as he rolls his shoulders and stares out the window for a moment before looking back at Beckett. “Stealing? I don’t remember that at all.” His voice is dead quiet and full of disbelief.

  I reach out and squeeze his hand, causing him to look over and meet my eyes. “Hey, it’s okay. It’ll come back. It’s only temporary,” I say, trying to reassure him as best as I can.

  “But … if I don’t remember something like that, what else don’t I remember that I don’t even know about?” His eyes swim with confusion and he grimaces momentarily causing my heart to speed up with worry.

  “Don’t worry about it, dude. Think of all the crap you can claim amnesia on that normally you’d get shit for.”

  Thank God for Becks and his easygoing personality because even though I can still see Colton struggling as he tries to grasp everything, I can also feel some of the tension relax from his hand that I’m holding. I meet Becks’ eyes, a silent thank you passing between us.

  Tawny clears her throat softly and all of a sudden it’s like we all snap from our private thoughts with the sound. Colton breathes in deeply and says, “Tawny, I need you to issue a press release right away.”

  “What would you like it to say?” Ms. Ever-efficient asks while walking to the bedside opposite me, as Colton gathers his thoughts. And with just the slightest glance my way, she refocuses on him and softens her voice. “Colton?”

  “Yeah?” he answers, raising his eyes to meet the question in her voice.

  She reaches out and squeezes his bicep, her eyes roaming over his wound before withdrawing her hand when he doesn’t respond. “I’m so glad that you’re okay.”

  I can hear the sincerity in her voice—know she means it—but it still doesn’t make me like her any more.

  “Coulda been a lot worse from what I’m told, so I’ll get there.” Colton takes a sip of water while his brow furrows in concentration. “Tell them I’m awake and have been for a day or so. I’m on the road to recovery and will be heading back to California within the week, once I’m cleared, and returning to the track in no time. Thank them for their support and prayers, and instead of any flowers or gifts, I’d rather they make a donation to Corporate Cares. The boys need it more than I do.”

  Tawny looks up from her phone where she’s typing all of this and asks, “What about your memory loss?”

  “None of their business,” Colton says, glancing up at Becks again, a silent understanding passing between them. “That’s all.” Tawny lifts her focus from her phone and looks at Colton as if she doesn’t understand. “You can go now,” he says to her, and I have to hide the look of shock on my face at the unexpected dismissal.

  Tawny’s head snaps up as she shoves her phone in her purse. “Well, um, okay,” she says, color staining her cheeks as she heads for the door.

  “Hey, Tawn?” Colton’s words stop her and the acid in his tone surprises the hell out of me.

  “Yes?” she asks as she turns around to face the two of us side by side.

  “After you issue the press release, you can get your stuff and head back home.”


  She angles her head and stares at Colton for a moment, confusion flickering over her face. “It’s okay. It’s better if I stay here and deal with the media—”

  “No,” Colton says. “I don’t think you understand what I’m saying.” Tawny’s tongue darts out and wets her bottom lip as nerves start to eat at her. She takes a step toward the bed as he begins to explain. “We’ve known each other, what? Most of our lives? Long enough for you to know that I don’t like being fucked with.” Colton leans forward as her eyes widen and I hold my breath in disbelief at the ice in his voice. “You fucked with me, T. And more importantly you fucked with Rylee. Now that? That I most definitely remember. Game over. Pack your shit. You’re fired.”

  I hear Beckett suck in a breath. At the same time Tawny sputters out, “Wh-what? Colton, you—”

  “Save it.” Colton holds up a hand to stop her and shakes his head in disappointment. “Save your ridiculous excuses and go before you make things any worse for yourself.”

  She just stares at him, blinking away the tears before glancing over at Beckett, spinning on her heels, and rushing out of the room.

  I watch her leave, trying to fathom what it would be like to be in her shoes. To lose both your job and the man you’ve believed is yours.

  And as I hear Colton breathe out a huge sigh beside me, I actually feel sorry for her.

  Well … not really.

  A MUFFLED SOUND PULLS ME from sleep. And I’m so tired—so wanting to sink into the blinding oblivion because I’ve had so little sleep over the past two weeks—that I keep my eyes closed and write it off as the purr of the jet’s engine. But because I’m now awake, when I hear it a second time, I know I’m wrong.

  I open my eyes, startled at what I see. The sight of my reckless bad boy—eyes squeezed tight, teeth biting his bottom lip, and face painted with the grief that courses down his cheeks—coming completely undone in disciplined silence. I’m momentarily frozen with uncertainty.

  I’m uncertain because I’ve felt a disconnect between us in the past few days. On the one hand I felt like he was trying to push me away—keep me at arms’ length—by keeping all discussions superficial. By saying his head hurts, that he needed to sleep, the minute I brought up any serious subject.

  And then there were the odd moments when he thought I wasn’t paying attention to him when I’d notice him looking at me from the reflection in the room’s window with a look of pained reverence, one of longing laced with sadness. And that singular look always caused chills to dance over my flesh.

  He hiccups out a sob and opens his eyes slowly, the pain so evident in them, my grown man scarred by the tears of a scared little boy. He looks away momentarily and I can see him trying to collect himself but only ends up squeezing his eyes shut and crying even harder.

  “Colton?” I shift from my reclined position, starting to reach out, but then pulling back in uncertainty because the absolute desolation reflected in his eyes. My hesitation is answered by Colton looking at my hand and shaking his head as if one touch from me will crumble him.

  And yet I can’t resist. I never can when it comes to Colton.

  I can’t let him suffer in silence from whatever is eating his soul and shadowing his face. I have to connect with him, comfort him the only way that has seemed to work over the past few weeks.

  I unbuckle my seat belt and cross the distance between us, my eyes asking if it’s okay to make the connection with him. I don’t let him answer—don’t give him another chance to push me away—but rather settle across his lap. I wrap my arms around him as best I can, nestle my head in the crook of his neck, and just hold on in reassuring silence.

  Hold on as his chest shudders and breath hitches.

  As his tears fall, either cleansing his soul or foreshadowing impending devastation.

  THE TURBULENCE JARS ME AWAKE. Scares the fuck out of me really, seeing as I was having that damn dream again about the crash—the dream where I can’t remember shit except for the dizzying, sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach and the out of control feeling in my head. Add to that the jolt of the plane, and my mile-high wake up is a hell of a lot more stressful that the one I’d really like to have with Ry.

  God, how badly do I want to take that for a ride. I’m fucking hard as a rock as I’ve been for the past three days when I wake up but one, doctor’s fucking orders. Two, we’re constantly surrounded by other people, and three, after overhearing her conversation with Haddie the other night when she thought I was asleep, how can I touch her when all I’m going to do is end up hurting her.

  I don’t want to do that to her. Don’t want her to live life always waiting for the worst to happen. I don’t mind the car, don’t mind what a crash could possibly do to me because the shit I lived through was much more painful than hitting a concrete barrier.

  Impact can kill your body.

  What my mom did to me killed my soul.

  I shake the shit from my head and lift it up from the chair Ry insisted I adjust to recline. I look around to see Nurse Ratchet, the hospital approved medic sent to monitor my flight home, sit up at attention when she notices that I’m awake.

  Leave me the fuck alone.

  I’ve had enough prodding fingers and concerned eyes looking at me to last a fucking lifetime. Oh and then there were the fucking ludicrous sponge baths. Grown men sure as fuck are not supposed to have someone wash their nuts unless it’s to be followed by a blowjob in the shower. On a bed with a sponge? Fucking ridiculous.

  Good riddance to the hospital and its torturous type of solitary confinement.

  Nurse Ratchet starts to unbuckle her seatbelt, and I just shake my head to tell her that I’m fine. I lie back down, angling my head to the right so I can stare at the sight across the aisle from me. Rylee’s sound asleep, curled up on her side so she’s facing me, no doubt so that she can watch and make sure that I’m okay.

  The fucking self-sacrificing saint.

  And I know she’s exhausted. She misses the boys desperately despite being on the phone with them every chance she gets. Add to that the nightmares she’s been having every night that wake me, allowing me to be the silent witness to the fucking agony I’m inflicting upon her. She shouts out Max’s name. My name. Begs for us to live. Begs to take our place so she can die instead. Begs for me not to race again. Screams for a car to stop and let me out. And I know this because I lie awake holding her while she trembles in her sleep. Holding her—holding on to her as I breathe in everything I can—so that I can live with the ghost of her when I finally bring myself to do what I need to do.

  Be selfless for the first time in my life.

  And the time has come.

  Way too soon—forever would be too fucking soon—but it has come.

  And the thought has every single fucking part of me protesting over the gut-wrenching hurt that’s to come. That I’ll be inflicting on myself. Pain I’m sure that will be a thousand times worse than these ear-splitting headaches that come and go on a fucking whim, because this kind will be from tearing myself apart, not from trying to put myself back together.

  Humpty fuckin’ Dumpty.

  She sighs softly, shifting in her sleep, and a curl falls over her cheek. I give into the need—the one that is so inherent now that I’m fucking scared to death of how I’ll be able to lessen it in the coming days—reach out and move it off of her face. I curse my fucking fingers as they tremble from the after effects of what we still hope is just swelling. They stop shaking and so I let them linger, enjoying the feel of her skin against my fingertips.

  What the fuck is going on with me? How is it I fought my whole life to not need, to not feel … and now that I do, I’ll gladly take the pain so she doesn’t have to?

  But the thought I can’t shake keeps tumbling through my obviously screwed-up head. If she’s my fucking pleasure, how in the hell am I going to bury the pain when I push her away? From pushing her away? I shake my head, unsure, and welcome the stab of pain from the action
because it’s got nothing on what’s going to happen to my heart.

  But there’s no other option. Especially after overhearing her on the phone with Haddie last night when she thought I was asleep. Hysterical hiccupping sobs. Denials of how she’s ever going to watch me get in a car again. Hearing the brutal reality of what she went through killed me, fucking ripped me to shreds as I lie with my back to her, remorse hardening my heart, tears burning my eyes, and guilt submerging my soul. Learning that her abrupt trips out of my hospital room are so she can throw up because she’s so sick with worry over it. How she’s eating Tums like candy to lessen the constant acid eating through her stomach from my need to return to the track. How she’ll support me, urge me, help me get back in the car, but will have to sneak out before the pace car is off the lead lap. How she won’t be able to hear the sounds and see the sights without replaying the images that are etched in her mind. Won’t be able to look me in the eyes and wish me luck without thinking she’s sending me to my death.

  A shiver of recourse revolts through my body.

  And then there’s the other hint that I’m getting from her—that I can see in her eyes when she shifts them away—that tells me she knows something I don’t. She has one of my memories and is holding it hostage. But which fucking one?

  The hints swirl of what I’ve lost in the black abyss of my mind. Ghosts of memories converge, overlapping and all shouting for attention at once. They scream at me like fans asking for autographs—all begging for attention—faceless, nameless people all wanting something—yelling at the tops of their lungs—and yet all I hear is white noise.

  All I see is a blur of mixed color.

  Why is it I can still remember the shit that stains my soul but I can’t seem to remember the bleach I’ve found that washes it away? And I have a feeling that whatever Rylee is guarding is that important. That monumental. She wouldn’t be keeping it from me unless she was trying to protect me. Or her.