The Driven Series

by Bromberg, K.

  “She asleep?” he asks, lifting his chin up toward the second story.

  “It’s past midnight, what do you think?”

  “Don’t be such an asshole. Look, you’ve been handed a lot of shit to deal with and—”

  “Butt the fuck out, Becks. Let me just drink my goddamn beer in peace.” I toss my empty bottle toward the trash can and fucking miss. I must be drunker than I thought. Fuckin’ A.

  “No can do, brother.” He sighs as I mutter asshole under my breath which garners a drawn out chuckle from him. “You’ve fucked this up one too many times so I’m here to help.”

  “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, sweetheart.” I just want to be left alone. Me, my beer, my dog, and my fucking peace.

  “Nice try but you’re stuck with me. Kind of like herpes, only better.”

  What? “Dude, did you just actually compare yourself to fucking herpes?” I lean my head back and look at the stars in the sky before angling it over to stare at him and shake my head. “Because at least with herpes, my dick gets serviced first. With you, it’s more like being bent without any lube.”

  He laughs that laugh of his that tugs a smile up at the corner of my mouth. The stubborn fucker is getting to me when all I want is to be left alone.

  “Well at least it’s nice to know you’ll let me in somehow,” he says, winking and staring at me until I can’t take it. I let out the laugh I’ve been holding in.

  “You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” I say, uncapping another bottle of beer.

  “You wouldn’t want me any other way.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I say as I down half of the bottle letting the night’s silence settle around us. As much as I want to be left alone—to deal with the jacked up shit in my head that’s telling me a decision’s going to have to come sooner than later—it’s nice that Becks is here, even if he’s a pain in my ass. I drum my thumbs to Seether playing through the speakers as he gives me a couple of minutes before he starts playing shrink to the fucking poisonous shit in my head.

  “Remember that girl, Roxy Tomlin?” he asks finally, throwing me for a loop.

  “Hoover?” I laugh, curious as to why he’s bringing up the blow job queen from our past. The one who sucked Becks off just to get to me. And normally, I’d be shoving that shit out the door with a stunt like that, but after he’d bragged she gave the best head he’d ever had, I took advantage of the more than willing offer.

  “Yeah, fucking Hoover. The suction that never stopped.” He laughs with me, shaking his head at the memory. “Still pretty goddamn high on the ranking scale in my book.”

  “No fucking Rylee, but yeah.” I shrug. “She was decent.”

  “Decent?” he barks out. “I swear to God, the woman had no gag reflex.”

  “Maybe that’s ’cause you’re not big enough to reach the back of her throat.” I quirk my eyebrows as I finish another beer. He wants to come to my house and fuck with my head, I sure as shit am going to mess with his.

  “Fuck off, Wood.”

  His bottle cap hits me in the chest as I sit back and smirk. “I’ve had much better offers, my friend, but thanks anyway.” My head’s spinning trying to figure out where the hell he’s going with this line of thinking, but hell if I can figure it out.

  “I ran into her the other day.” His calm cadence makes me to turn my head and look at him.

  “And …?”

  “Shocked the shit out of me is what she did.”

  “Why’s that?” I pretend to be interested but he’s losing me. I glance up at the bedroom window behind me where the light’s still off, and even though I’m way beyond the road to drunk, I like knowing Ry’s up there. I try to focus back on Becks but why the hell do I care about the easy piece we both had way back when with a head so screwed up it rivaled mine?

  “I barely recognized her. Still gorgeous as sin. Filled out in all the right places now.”

  Yeah, yeah, get to your fucking point, Beckett.

  “And she had three kids in tow.”

  “Look, dude, I know there’s some kind of six degrees of Kevin Bacon happening here right now, but I’m not fucking following you so just spit out your goddamn point.” Then it hits me. Oh shit! “They’re not your kids are they, Becks?”

  “Jesus Christ, Donavan, you’re drunker than I thought.” He chokes out a cough before raising his hand in the air and pointing to himself. “King of double bag before you stab, right here!”

  “And who taught you that, douche bag?”

  “Apparently not you since you obviously didn’t practice what you fucking preach.”

  His unexpected words cause a twinge in my gut that I hate. The same damn twinge I get every time I think of Rylee lying there on the goddamn floor all by herself, for who knows how long, and every time I think of the small piece of me dying inside of her. I gulp down the beer, pushing the thoughts from my head and force myself to breathe.

  “Where the hell are you going with this, Daniels, because I’m drunk, have no fucking patience, and kind of think you’re trying to push my buttons to get me to react to whatever point you’re taking your sweet ass time getting to. So just fucking get to it.”

  “Remember that one night we all got plastered at Jimmy’s bonfire?”

  “Beckett!” I growl at him because my tolerance ran out like five goddamn minutes ago.

  “Chill out, shut the hell up, and listen.” I snap my head over to look at him because I’m in no fucking mood. “We were wasted and she started talking about the shit that had happened to her—bad shit—you remember?” I give him a measured nod, still not following the fucking road map he’s lost himself on, but recall the story of abuse in all forms. A conversation I took no part in. “And she said she never wanted kids, that life’s too messed up and she didn’t want them to go through the shit she did. And now she has three kids, is married, and seems genuinely happy.”

  “The fucking point?” I growl at him

  “Quit being so goddamn stubborn, Donavan, and connect the fucking dots, will you?”

  “I’m not a fucking constellation. Your dots aren’t drawing a picture so help me the fuck out.”

  “You look like the Little Dipper to me.” He smirks.

  I pick up the pillow next to me and chuck it at him. “Fuck off! Big Dipper’s more like it.” I take a long tug on my beer. Shit, it’s empty. They’re disappearing faster than I can count them. Usually I’d just crash right here, but fuck Ry’s up there. No way I’m sleeping without her next to me. I sigh, Becks’ words running circles in my head, hinting at his point but never really landing on the damn bull’s-eye. “Seriously, Becks, what are you trying to tell me here? Just spit it out.”

  “Things change, dude! Life changes. Priorities change. Pre-fucking-conceived notions change. You have to adjust and change with them or your ass gets left behind.” He shoves up out of his chair and walks to the railing and looks out into the blackness beyond. When he turns back around, he is dead serious. “We’ve been best friends for what? Almost twenty years. I love ya, man. I never interfere with the shit you’ve got going on … which woman’s warming the sheets, but fuckin’ A, Wood …”

  I’m not liking where this conversation is going. Deflection is my only thought. “I thought you told me I needed to fuck a B instead,” I say, trying to add some humor to this serious conversation, and fuck all if I can follow how we went from Hoover Tomlin to Becks sticking his goddamn nose where it doesn’t belong.

  He laughs—has the balls to fucking mock me—before walking over to me and shaking his head at me. “You don’t get it, do you? Fuck the A or the B, you have the whole goddamn alphabet upstairs and she’s asleep in your bed right now, but the only letter that can fuck this up is U!” he shouts at me.

  What the fuck? He’s taking her side? I swear to God, Ry’s worked her voodoo pussy magic on him and he’s never even had it before. Talk about super powers and shit.

  “Becks? How am I going to screw this up? She
’s here isn’t she? I want her here, brought her here, so what the hell else do you want from me? And how does Hoover factor into this shit?”

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” he swears as he paces in front of me and takes a long pull on his beer. “She’s here for now! She’s here until you start thinking too damn much about how, now that she might be able to have a baby, she just might not want you anymore because you’ve never wanted one. Until you start pushing her the fuck away and trying to hurt her so she makes the decision for you so you don’t have to make it for yourself. But things change, Colton! Look at Roxy ‘Hoover’ Tomlin. She never wanted kids because of the shit that happened to her as a kid and now her kids? They’re her whole goddamn world!”

  “Fuck. You.” The ice in my voice rivals the chill of the polar ice cap.

  “No, fuck you, Colton! You sat in that goddamn hospital room when she needed you the most and sure as hell you were there … but fluffing pillows doesn’t fix the shit that’s hurting inside of her. Or in you. I sat there and plain as day watched you start to pull away from her.”

  “I’m warning you, Becks!” I say, standing up, fists clenched, fury racing through my veins. His words hit a little too close to home. A little too close to a truth I always said I never wanted—would never tolerate—but now all of a sudden I can’t get out of my mind. Ideas of a life I never even thought could exist for me. But how is that even fucking possible? The broken merry-go-round in my head keeps whirling, but all I can think about is shutting Becks up because he’s right about me pulling away. About me not being there for her when she needed me most. So right my stomach is a motherfucking mess.

  “Truth hurt, dude? You want to throw a punch at me? Take the truth you don’t want to face out on me?”

  I grit my teeth and throw my bottle into the can and watch it shatter into a million fucking pieces. And once again I’m back here—broken glass, broken mind, and fucked up all around. He pushes my shoulder from behind, egging me on, and I take the goddman bait so quick it’s not even a thought. I whirl around, arm cocked back, fists clenched, and a fucking freight train of anger tears through me.

  And Becks just stands there, eyes locked on mine, chin raised in that fuck you position daring me to take a shot. “What’s your problem, hotshot? Not so tough now, are ya?”

  My body hums, vibrates with every fucking ounce of emotion I’ve held in over the past week, but all I can do is stare at him, wanting so desperately to expel the guilt eating at every goddamn piece of me.

  Guilt that all of this happened because of me—not stepping up to be a man, leaving her alone with Zander, not getting to The House quick enough, not getting to the bathroom quick enough. The guilt clings to so many fucking things inside of me—the poison and the hope— that the only thing I want to do is drink another beer, numb myself, and push it away.

  “You wanna fight? How ’bout you save it? How about you fight for what fucking matters? Because she,” he says, pointing up to the bedroom window and lowering his voice to a quiet steel, “she’s worth the fight, dude. Worth every goddamn fear eating at you. Every piece of it, Colton—A to motherfucking Z.” He steps into me and jabs a finger into my chest. “Time to deal with your past, because Rylee?” He points up to the room again and then back at me. “She’s your goddamn future. It’s fight or flight time, man. Let’s just hope you’re the man I’ve always thought you were.”

  My whole body tenses at his words, and I’m so pissed at myself that I don’t immediately tell him he’s full of bullshit. I’m so motherfucking angry that for a moment—just a flicker of a moment—fear consumes me so I think of flight.

  Think of flight when she’s done nothing but prove she’s a fighter—a gorgeous, defiant, scrappy brawler when it comes to what’s hers—while I fucking hesitated. My teeth are gritted so goddamn hard I swear my molars are going to break, and I turn my back to him and walk over to the railing and cuss out into the darkness that rivals the black I feel in my soul right now.

  I don’t deserve her. Sinner and saint. My caution to her motherfucking checkered flag. And as much as I know this—as much as my chest hurts with each breath because of this—she’s the only thing I see. The only one I want. My fucking Rylee.

  “Cat got your tongue, Colt?” he taunts from behind me. “Are you that stupid you’re going to walk away because she got pregnant? Because of some shit that hap—”

  And I’m done.

  Temper snapped.

  Gas added to my fucking fire.

  “You have no fucking clue about what happened!” I yell at him, my voice breaking as I turn to face him. “Not a clue!”

  Beckett’s in my face in five strides. “You’re right! I don’t have a fucking clue!” He grabs my shoulders so I can’t turn away from him, and as hard as I try I can’t shrug them off of me. “But, Colton, brother, I’ve watched you struggle for years with whatever the fuck that bitch of a mother did to you as a kid, but that’s not you anymore. You’re not that kid. Never again. And, dude, Rylee accepts that. Accepts you. Fucking loves you. Figure out how to accept it and the rest will figure itself out.” He reaches out and cuffs the side of my face with a hand before stepping back and shaking his head. “It’s time to man the fuck up and realize you love her too, before it’s too goddamn late and you lose the one person who’s made you whole again. Figure out how to deal with your past so you don’t lose your fucking future.”

  And with that the fucker nods his head and walks toward the house as if he didn’t just mess with me. He stops as he opens the door and turns back to face me. “When we were younger I didn’t get it, but what your dad used to tell you about hurting is feeling and some shit like that?” I just nod. “Yeah, I think you need to remember that now.”

  He turns back around and disappears into the house, leaving me all alone with nothing but an empty night and haunting memories.

  Hurting is feeling and feeling is living, and isn’t it good to be alive? My dad’s mantra passes through my mind as I walk into my room and see Ry asleep.

  Fuck me.

  She still takes my breath away. Still makes me want and need and ache like no one ever has. And shit I still want to corrupt her—that part will never go away. I laugh at my fucked up mind, but I know deep down corruption doesn’t matter anymore. Because she’s what matters now.

  Rylee. Motherfucking checkered flags and shit.

  I walk toward the bed knowing I could sit and stare at her for hours. Dark curls fanned across my pillow, tank top covering those perfect fucking tits and riding up on her abdomen so the moonlight shows the scars of her past. The scars that robbed her of a future she thought was impossible, until three days ago.

  I rub my hand down my side as I watch her, slide it over my inked scars that remind me of a future I never imagined was a possibility—until three days ago, and my fingers linger over the last one—uncolored and empty. The one thing left I have to figure out before I know for sure if I can do what my head and heart agree on.

  Because baggage can be a powerful thing. It can contain you. Prevent you from moving on. Kill you. And sometimes feelings aren’t enough to break its hold. To allow you to move on. But right as rain, standing here, watching her chest rise and fall, it’s time my 747—baggage and all—takes fucking flight.

  Because I chose fight.

  My breath catches in my throat as I come to the realization that I want this. I fucking want her. In my life—day, night, now, later—and the thought staggers me. Breaks and mends me. Tames the un-fucking-tamable. Fuckin’A.

  I shake my head and laugh softly. I guess I should say A to fucking Z. And I can’t resist anymore. I sink down softly into the bed next to her and push away images of what happened the last night we lay there together.

  I give into the necessity coursing through me like the adrenaline I crave. I reach out and pull her in tight against me. When I do, she rolls over in my arms so her face is nestled under my chin, her arms pressed between our chests, and the heat of her breath t
ickling my skin as she murmurs, “I love you, Colton.”

  It’s so soft I almost don’t hear it. So quiet and sluggish that I realize she’s still asleep but it doesn’t matter, my breath stops. My pulse races and my heart constricts. I open my mouth but then close it to swallow because I feel like I just ate a mouthful of cotton. I do the only thing I possibly can. I press a kiss to the top of her head.

  I want to blame it on the alcohol. And I want to think that someday it might be possible to actually say those words without feeling like I’m opening old wounds just to re-infect them.

  I want to have hope that normal might just be a possibility for me. That this woman curled up beside me really is my cure.

  So I settle for the only words that will come, the ones I know she knows matters.

  “I race you, Ry.” I press a kiss to her shoulder. “Night, baby.”

  “THE CEREMONY STARTS AT FOUR. You’ll be there right?”

  “Yes, Mother! We’ll be there.” Shane calls out to me as he heads out the front door with a huge grin on his face, a little swagger in his step, and car keys rattling around in his hand.

  “I fear we’re creating a monster.” I laugh as I look over at Colton, who has one shoulder leaned against the wall and is staring at me with a quiet intensity. I notice the dark circles still under his eyes that have been there for the last few weeks, and it saddens me he’s having nightmares again and isn’t talking to me about them. Then again he isn’t really talking to me at all about anything, other than work or the boys or the ribbon cutting ceremony later today to kick off the project. And it’s weird. It’s not as if anything is off between us, actually it’s the opposite. He’s more attentive and physical than ever before, but it feels like this is his way to make up for the fact we still haven’t talked about the miscarriage.

  He asked for space and I’ve given it to him, not talking about the loss or how I’m feeling, how I’m coping. I even went so far as to not tell him about my follow-up appointment yesterday.