by Bromberg, K.
“What—?” I start to say but I stop when he holds his hand up, eyes squeezing shut as the cluster headache hits him momentarily. And of course I feel guilty for pushing him on this, but he’s crazy if he thinks I’m going anywhere. I want to reach out and soothe him, try to take the pain away but know that nothing I can do will help, so I sit and rub my thumb absently over the back of his tensing hand.
“When I was out … I heard you tell Becks that you couldn’t do this anymore … that you’d gladly walk out …” his voice drifts off as his eyes bore into mine, jaw muscle pulsing. The obstinate set to his jaw asking the question his words don’t.
“That’s what this is all about?” I ask dumbfounded and struck with realization all at once. “A snippet of a conversation I had with Becks when I said I would have gladly walked away from you—done something, anything differently—if it would’ve prevented you from being comatose in a hospital bed?” I can see how his mind has altered bits and pieces of my conversation with Beckett, but he’s never asked me about it. Never communicated. And that fact, more than the misunderstanding, upsets me.
“You said you’d gladly walk out.” His repeats, his voice resolute as if he doesn’t believe I’m telling him the truth. “Your pity’s not needed nor welcome.”
“You’ve been pulling away because you think I’m only here out of pity? That you got hurt and now I don’t want you anymore?” And now I’m pissed. “Glad you thought so highly of me. Such an asshole,” I mutter more to myself than to him. “Feel free to make assumptions, because in case you haven’t noticed, they’ve done wonders for our relationship so far, right?” I can’t help the sarcasm dripping from my voice, but after everything we’ve been through together—everything we always seem to come back to when all is said and done—I’m hurt that he even remotely thinks I’m going to want him any less because he’s not one hundred percent.
“Rylee.” He blows out a loud breath and reaches for my hand but I pull it back.
“Don’t Rylee me.” I can’t help the tears that swim in my eyes. “I almost lost you—”
“You’re goddamn fucking right you did, and that’s why I have to let you go!” he shouts before swearing out a muttered curse. He laces his fingers at the back of his neck and then pulls his elbows down, trying to staunch some of his anger. My eyes flash up to meet his, my breath choking on confusion. “I heard you on the phone with Haddie the other night when you thought I was asleep. Heard you tell her that you’re not sure you’ll be able to watch me get back in the car again. I can’t be made to choose between you and racing,” he says, anguish so palpable it rolls off him in waves and crashes into the desperation emanating off of me. “I need both of you, Rylee.” The desolation of his voice strikes chords deep within me, his fear transparent. “Both of you.”
And now I get it. It’s not that he thinks I don’t want him because he’s hurt, it’s that I won’t want him in the future because I’ll fear for every minute of every second that he’s in that car, as well as the minutes leading up to it.
I had no idea he’d heard my conversation. A conversation with Haddie that was so candid, I cringe recalling some of the things I said, without the sugarcoating I’d use with most others.
I lift my hand to his face and bring it back to look at mine. “Talk to me, Colton. After everything we’ve been through, you can’t shut me out or push me away. You’ve got to talk to me or we can never move forward.”
I can see the transparent emotions in his eyes, and I hate watching him struggle with them. I hate knowing something has eaten at him over the past week when he should have been worried about recovering. Not about us. I hate that he’s even questioned anything that has to do with us.
He breathes out a shaky breath and closes his eyes momentarily. “I’m trying to do what’s best for you.” His voice is so soft the sound of the waves almost drowns it out.
“What’s best for me?” I ask in the same tone, confused but needing to understand this man so complicated and yet so childlike in many ways.
He opens his eyes and the pain is there, so raw and vulnerable they make my insides twist. “If we’re not together … then I can’t hurt you every time I get in the car.”
He swallows and I give him a moment to find the words I can see he’s searching for … and to regain my ability to breathe. He’s been pushing me away because he cares, because he’s putting me first and my heart swells at the thought.
He reaches up and takes the hand I have resting on his cheek, laces his fingers with it, and rests it in his lap. His eyes stay focused on our connection.
“I told you that you make me a better man … and I’m trying so fucking hard to be that for you, but I’m failing miserably. A better man would let you go so that you don’t have to relive what happened to Max and my crash every time I get in the car. He’d do what’s best for you.”
It takes a moment to find my voice because what Colton just said to me—those words—are equivalent to telling me he races me. They represent such an evolvement in him as a man, I can’t stop the tear that slides down my cheek.
I give in to necessity. I lean in and press my lips to his. To taste and take just a small reassurance that he’s here and alive. That the man I thought and hoped he was underneath all of the scars and hurt, really is there, really is this beautifully damaged man whose lips are pressed against mine.
I withdraw a fraction and look into his eyes. “What’s best for me? Don’t you know what’s best for me is you, Colton? Every single part of you. The stubborn, the wild and reckless, the fun loving, the serious, and even the broken parts of you,” I tell him, pressing my lips to his between every word. “All of those parts of you I will never be able to find in someone else … those are what I need. What I want. You, baby. Only you.”
This is what love is, I want to scream at him. Shake him until he understands that this is real love. Not the unfettered pain and abuse of his past. Not his mom’s twisted version of it. This is love. Me and him, making it work. One being strong when the other is weak. Thinking of the other first when they know their partner is going to feel pain.
But I can’t say it.
I can’t scare him into remembering what he felt for me or said to me. And as much as it cripples me that I can’t say I race you to him, I can show him by standing by his side, by holding his hand, by being strong when he needs me the most. By being silent when all I want to do is tell him.
He just stares at me, teeth scraping over his bottom lip, and complete reverence in his eyes. He sniffs back the emotion and clears his throat as he nods his head, a silent acceptance of the pleading in my words. “What you told Haddie is true though. It’s going to kill you every time I get in the car …”
“I’m not going to lie. It is going to kill me, but I’ll figure out how to handle it when we get to that point,” I tell him, although I already feel the fear that stains the fringes of my psyche at the thought. “We’ll figure it out,” I correct myself and the most adorable smile curls one corner of his mouth, melting my heart.
He just nods his head, his eyes conveying the words I want to hear, and for now, it’s enough for me. Because when you have everything right before you, you’ll accept anything just to keep it there.
“I’m not any good at this,” he says, and I can see the concern fill his eyes, etch across his features.
“No one is,” I tell him, squeezing our linked fingers. “Relationships aren’t easy. They’re hard and can be brutal at times … but those are the times you learn the most about yourself. And when they’re right,” I pause, making sure his eyes are steadfast on mine, “they can be like coming home … finding the rest of your soul …” I avert my eyes, suddenly embarrassed by my introspective comments and my hopeless romantic tendencies.
He squeezes my hand but I keep my face toward the sun, hoping the color staining my cheeks isn’t noticeable. My mind races with the possibilities for us if he can just find it within himself to let me have a permanent
place there. The silence is okay now because the empty space between us is floating with potential instead of misunderstanding. And on this patio, bathed by sunlight, we’re lost in thought because we’re accepting the fact that there are tomorrows for us to experience together, and that’s a good place to be.
As my mind wanders I see the plate of food and pain meds on the table next to us. “Hey, you need to take your pills,” I say, finally turning toward him and meeting his eyes.
He reaches out and cups the side of my face, brushing the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. I draw in a shaky, affected breath as he angles his head and watches me. “You’re the only medicine I need, Rylee.”
I can’t help the smile spreading across my lips or the sarcastic comment that slides off my tongue. “I guess the doctors didn’t mess with your ability to deliver smooth one-liners did they?”
“Nope,” he says with a devilish smirk that has me leaning into him the same time he does, so that we meet in the center.
Our lips brush ever so gently, once then twice, before he parts his lips and slides his tongue between mine. Our tongues dance, our hands caress, and our hearts swell as we settle into the tenderness of the kiss. He brings his other hand up to cup my face, and I can feel it trembling as he tries to keep it there. I lift my hand up to hold onto the outside of his and help him hold it against my cheek. Desire coils deep in my belly and as much as I know I can’t sate my body’s yearning, per doctor’s orders, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to desperately.
When we connect through intimacy, it’s more than just the mind blowing orgasm at the hands of the oh-so-skillful Colton, but rather something I can’t exactly put words to. It’s almost as if, when we connect, there is a contentment that weaves its way deep down in my soul and completes me. Binds us. And I miss that feeling.
A sexy as hell groan comes from the back of his throat that doesn’t help stem the ache I have burning for him. I reach my free hand out and run it up the plane of his chest, loving the vibration humming beneath my fingers as a result of my touch. Chills prickle my skin and it’s not from the ocean breeze but rather the tidal wave of sensations my body misses desperately.
“Fuck, I’m dying to be in you, Ry,” he whispers against my lips as every nerve in my body stands at attention and begs to be taken, branded, and remade his all over again. And I am so close to saying fuck the doctor’s orders that my hand is sliding down his torso to slip beneath his waistband, when I feel his body tense and his breath hiss out.
I’m immediately swamped with guilt over my lack of willpower to take the temptation so readily at my fingertips and I switch to high alert. “A bad one?”
The grimace on Colton’s face remains, eyes squeezed shut, as he just nods his head softly and shifts backward in the chair until he’s reclined. I reach for the medicine and put them in his hands.
I guess I’m not the only medicine he needs after all.
I WANDER THE HALLS OF the Malibu house—worry over Colton, homesickness for the boys, and missing Haddie all robbing me of sleep. This has been the longest I’ve been away from any of them, and as much as I love Colton, I’m needing that connection with my life.
I need their energy that always lifts my soul and feeds my spirit. I’ve missed Zander’s deposition, Ricky’s first home run, Aiden being called into the principal’s office for stopping a fight rather than starting one … I feel like a bad mother neglecting her children.
Not finding solace, I climb the stairs for the umpteenth time to check on him. To make sure he’s still knocked out from the cocktail of medications Dr. Irons prescribed on the phone earlier when Colton’s headache would not let up.
I’m still worried. I think I subconsciously fear falling asleep because I might miss something he needs.
Then I think of Colton’s revelations earlier before the headache hit, and I can’t help the smile that softens my face. The knowledge that he was trying to push me away to protect me may have been misguided, but perfect nonetheless.
There is most definitely hope for us yet.
I walk toward the bed, Halestorm playing softly on the stereo overhead, and can’t help the breath I hold as I sit down on the bed beside him. He’s lying on his stomach, his arms buried beneath the pillow and his face angled to the side of the bed facing me. The light blue sheets have fallen down below his waist, and my eyes trace the sculpted lines of his back, my fingers itching to touch the heated warmth of his skin. My eyes roam over the scar on his head and note that the patch of hair is starting to grow in with stubble. In no time at all no one will even know the trauma beneath his hair.
But I’ll know. And I’ll remember. And I’ll fear.
I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, needing to get control of my rampant stampede of emotions. I notice his discarded shirt on the bed beside him and can’t help picking it up and burying my nose in it, drinking in his smell, needing the mapped connection in my mind to lessen the worry that’s now a constant. It’s not enough though, so I crawl into bed beside him. I lean forward, careful not to disturb him, and press my lips to the spot just between his shoulder blades.
I inhale his scent, feel the warmth of his heated flesh beneath my lips, and thank God that I get this moment again with him. A second chance. I sit like this for a moment, silent thank yous running through my mind when Colton whimpers.
“Please no,” he says, the juvenile tone in the masculine timbre is haunting, unnerving, devastating. “Please, Mommy, I’ll be good. Just don’t let him hurt me.”
He thrashes his head in protest, body tensing, arms bracing as the sounds he’s making become more adamant, more upsetting. I try to wake him, take his shoulders and shake him.
“Please, Mommy. Pleeeaaassseeee,” he whimpers in a pleading voice wavering with terror. My heart lodges in my throat and tears spring to my eyes at that eerie combination of little boy within the grown man.
“Wake up, Colton!” I shove his shoulder back and forth again as he becomes more animated, but the strength of the prescriptions that Dr. Irons had me give him are too strong to pull him from the nightmare. “C’mon, wake up,” I say again as his body starts rocking, the all too familiar chant falling from his lips.
I hiccup a sob as he shifts again, voice silenced and rolls onto his back. He shifts a couple more times and I’m relieved that his nightmare seems to have left him. He still seems uneasy though, so I crawl up beside him and lay my head on his chest, leg hooked over his, and rest my hand on his frantically beating heart. And I do the one thing I can in hopes of soothing him, I sing.
I sing of little boys and imaginary dragons. Of believing in something unbelievable. Of forgetting and moving on.
“My dad used to sing that to me when I had nightmares.”
His rasp of a voice scares the crap out of me. I didn’t even know he had woken up. He places an arm around me and pulls me in closer to him. “I know,” I whisper into the moonlit room, “and you were.”
Silence hangs between us as he blows out a soft breath. I can tell his dreams are still on his mind, so I grant him the silence to work through them. He presses a kiss onto the top of my head and keeps his mouth there.
When he speaks, I can feel the heat from his breath as he murmurs into my hair. “I was scared. I remember the vague sense of being scared those last few seconds in the car as I was flipping through the air.” And it’s the first time he’s admitted to me anything to confirm my fears in regards to the crash.
I run my hand over his chest. “I was too.”
“I know,” he says as his hand finds its way beneath the waistband of my panties and cups my bare ass, pulling me up his body so my eyes can meet his. “I’m sorry you had to go through that again.” I can see the apology in his eyes, in the lines etched in his forehead, and I’m unable to speak, tears clogging in my throat at his acknowledgment of my feelings so I show him the next best way I know how. I lean in and brush my lips against his.
His lips part as I slip my tongue between
them, a soft groan rumbling in the back of his throat, spurring me on to taste the one and only fix to my addiction. My hands run over his stubbled jaw to the back of his neck, and I take in the intoxicating mixture I’ve grown to crave. His taste, his feel, his virility.
His hands cradle my face, fingers tangled in my curls as he draws my face back momentarily so we’re inches apart, our breath whispering against each other’s and eyes divulging emotions we’ve previously kept guarded under lock and key.
I can feel the pulse of his clenched jaw beneath my palms as he struggles with words. “Ry, I …” he says and my breath catches. My soul hopes with bated breath. And I mentally finish the sentence for him, fill in the two words that complete it, complete us. Express the words that I see in his eyes and feel in the reverence of his touch. He works a swallow down his throat and finishes, “Thank you for staying.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.” I can see the words I breathe out sink in and register as he pulls me toward him, guiding my body to shift and settle in a straddle over his lap while his mouth crashes to mine. And it does crash. A frenzy of passion explodes as my need collides with his desperation. Hands roam, tongues delve, and emotions intensify as we refamiliarize ourselves with the lines and curves of one another.
Colton runs his left hand down my back and grips the flesh on my hip as I rock over the ridge of his boxer-brief clad erection. Sensation swells within, creating an ache so powerful, so intense it borders on painful. My body craves the all-consuming pleasure I know only he can evoke.
I swallow his groan as I am engulfed in the emotion—the connection between us—in this moment. I feel Colton’s right hand slide down to my other hip as he brings his hands to the sides of my tank top trying to pull it up and off. But when I feel his right hand fail to grasp the material, I quickly take control, not wanting it to affect this moment. I cross my arms over my front, grab the hem, and lift it over my head.
I sit astride him, bare except for a scant pair of panties, as his eyes scrape over the lines of my body, raw male appreciation apparent in his gaze. Unfettered lust. Undeniable hunger. He reaches back out to touch, to dance fingertips up my ribcage enabling him to guide my face back to his so that he can take, taste, tempt.