Driven Collection

by K. Bromberg

  When I just stand there staring at her with disdain she continues. “I’ve never seen Colton like that at the track before. He brings his bimbos, they flit around like arm candy, but he disregards them. He never lets someone distract him when he’s in the car. You distracted him. I’ve never seen him so...” she searches for a word “...smitten with someone before.” She crosses her arms across her chest and leans against the wall. “And my dad tells me you were at the Broadbeach house? Then to top it off Becks tells me you went to Vegas with them?”

  What is it with the women in Colton’s life keeping tabs on me and passing judgment?

  Smitten? Colton may have said that I scare him, but in no way did he infer love or even hint at that. Definitely not smitten. I’m something different than his typical in-your-face, I-want-something-from-you-in-return type of girl. I burn him. I scare him. But for some reason despite all of that, I don’t make him want to try for something more than what he’s used to. I’m not enough to make him change his ways. He’s not going to confront his demons when he’s not even willing to talk about them. And that’s the only way I think he’ll be able to give into the emotion I see brimming in his eyes and feel in the worshiping actions of his touch.

  I shake myself from my thoughts and focus on Quinlan. She stares at me. Really stares at me causing me to squirm under her silent scrutiny. “And your point is what, Quinlan?”

  “Listen, as much as Colt tries to play Mr. Aloof and think that I don’t—shit my whole family...” she exhales “...doesn’t know about his little arrangements...” she rolls her eyes in disgust as she says the word, “It’s no secret to us. His stupid rules and sexist ways run amok. And as much as I disagree with him and his antics, I know it’s the only way he thinks he can have a relationship…his necessary way of dealing with his past.” Her eyes hold mine and I realize she is apologizing for her brother. For what he thinks he can’t give me. Over the fact that he’s afraid to even try.

  “Was it that horrible?” I whisper, already knowing the answer.

  Finally a softness plies her steeped countenance as a true sadness fills her eyes. She nods her head subtly. “He rarely speaks of it, and I’m certain there are parts that he’s never spoken about, Rylee. Experiences that I can’t even begin to fathom.” She looks down at her pink painted nails and twists her fingers into each other. “Having parents who don’t want you is hard enough to come to grips with when you’re adopted. Colton…Colton had so much more than that to overcome.” She shakes her head and I can see that she is struggling with how much to tell me. She looks up at me, eyes clear yet conflicted. “An eight year old boy so hungry—locked in his room while his mom did God knows what for days—that he somehow escaped and went in search for food, luckily collapsing on my dad’s doorstep.”

  I suck in a breath, my heart quickening, my soul wrenching, and my faith in humanity crumbling.

  “That’s just a small snippet of his hell, but it’s his story to tell you, Rylee. Not mine. I’m only sharing so you have an iota of what he’s been through. Of the patience and persistence you’re going to need.”

  I nod in understanding, unsure of what to say next to a woman who moments before was berating me and who is now giving me advice. “So…”

  “So I had to make sure you were for real.” She offers me an apologetic smile of resignation. “And once I did, I wanted to get a good look at the first woman that might be the one to make him whole again.”

  Her words stagger me. “You’ve taken me by surprise here,” I admit, unsure of what else to say.

  “I know that I may be coming off a little strong, presumptuous even in being here…but I love Colton more than anything in the world.” She smiles softly at his name. “And I’m just looking out for him. I want nothing less than the best for him.”

  This I can understand.

  She pushes off the wall and straightens herself in front of me. “Look, if you look past the gorgeously rough exterior…there’s a scared little boy inside that’s afraid of love. That for some reason he associates love with horrific expectations one minute and then thinks he’s not worthy of it the next. I think he’s afraid to love someone because he knows that they’ll leave. He’ll most likely hurt you to prove that you will...” she shakes her head “...and for that hell alone, I apologize because from what I can tell, you deserve better than that.”

  Her words hit me in their full force. I understand the little boy inside because I have a backyard full of them right now with issues of their own. I just wish they had the unconditional love that Colton seems to have in Beckett and Quinlan. Someone who stands up for them and looks out for them because they want nothing but the best for them. This love—this protective feeling—I understand.

  Quinlan reaches out and places her hand on my arm and squeezes to make her point. “I love my brother dearly, Rylee. Some would say that I worshiped the ground he walked on growing up.” She reaches in her pocket and pulls something out, averting her eyes from mine. “I’m sorry for my intrusion. I really shouldn’t be here…interfering.” She seems embarrassed all of a sudden as she steps toward the door. She reaches out her hand and places a check in mine. Her eyes look up to meet mine, and for the first time I see acceptance in them. “Thank you for your time, Rylee.” She takes a step past me and then hesitates and looks back at me. “If you get the chance, take care of my brother.”

  I nod in acknowledgement and all I can manage is a stilted, “Bye,” as my head is in a whirlwind of chaos over her unexpected revelations.

  THE SCREAM WAKES ME IN the dead night. It’s a strangled, feral plea that goes on and on, over and over before I can even get out of the bedroom door. I race through the house toward the sound of unfettered terror, Dane and Avery right behind me, our footsteps pounding with urgency.

  “Moooooommmmm!” Zander screams. I bolt through the door of his room as the soul shattering sound ricochets against the bedroom walls. He thrashes violently in his bed. “Nooooo! Noooo!”

  I hear Shane’s panicked voice in the hallway, trying to help Dane settle down the little guys who have woken up and are now frightened. The thought flits through my mind on how sad it is that night terrors are such a regular visitor in this house that Shane’s no longer phased by them. But I focus solely on Zander now, knowing that Dane will take care of Shane and the rest of the boys. I hear Dane tell Avery to help me if I need it. Welcome to your first night at The House, Avery.

  I cautiously sit on Zander’s bed. His body twists and writhes beneath the sheet, his face wet from tears, his bedding damp with sweat, and fearful whimpers escape from deep in his throat. The unmistakable smell of his terrifying fear suffocates the small room.

  “Zander, baby,” I croon, careful to not raise my voice and add to the violence already haunting his nightmare. “I’m right here. I’m right here.” His crying doesn’t stop. I reach out to try and shake him awake and am taken aback when he thrashes ferociously, his fist connecting with my cheekbone. The pain registers just beneath my eye, but I shake it off, needing to rouse Zander to prevent him from hurting himself.

  “Daddy, no!” he whimpers with such heartbreak that tears spring to my eyes. And despite it being a dream that cannot be used legally, Zander just confirmed the suspicion that his father killed his mother. Right before his eyes.

  I struggle to wrap my arms around him. Despite his small size, the strength he has from the adrenaline induced terror is heightened. I manage to wrestle my arms around him and pull him into my chest, murmuring to him all the while. Letting him know I’m here and that I’m not going to hurt him. “Zander, it’s okay. C’mon, Zand, wake up,” I whisper over and over to him until he wakes with a start. He struggles to sit up and get out of my grip, searching the bedroom with hollow eyes to orient himself to his surroundings.

  “Momma?” he croaks in such desperation that my heart shatters in a million pieces.

  “It’s okay, I’m right here, buddy,” I soothe, rubbing my hand up and down his back sof
tly.

  He looks at me, eyes red and raw from crying and falls into my arms. He clings to me with such despair that I know I’d do anything to erase his memory of that night if given the chance. “I want my mommy,” he cries, repeating it over and over. It’s the first sentence I have ever heard him say and yet there is nothing to be excited about. There is nothing to encourage or celebrate.

  We stay huddled together, arms wrapped tight for the longest time until his even breathing convinces me that he’s fallen back asleep. I slowly shift him to lie down on the bed, but when I attempt to withdraw my arms from around him, he clings even tighter.

  It’s not until the sun’s rays peek through the closed mini-blinds that we both fall into a deep sleep.

  THE SHUDDER OF THE MOTOR vibrates through my body as I flick the paddle coming into turn four. Fuck. Something doesn’t feel right. Something’s off. I ease up more than necessary as I cross over and into the apron coming out of the turn.

  “What’s going on?” Becks’ disembodied voice fills my ears.

  “Fuck, I don’t know,” I grate out as I bring the car back up to speed to try and decipher what she’s telling me. Every shudder. Every sound. Each jolt of my body. My attention straining to try and pinpoint what feels off—something to substantiate why she doesn’t seem to be handling how she should. I can’t figure out what I’m missing, what I might be overlooking that could cost us a race.

  Or put me headfirst into the wall.

  My head pounds with stress and concentration. I pass the start/finish line, the grandstands to my right one big stretch of mixed colors. The blur I live my life in.

  “Is—”

  “How much preload in the differential?” I demand as I hit another paddle heading into turn one. The rear of the car starts to slide as I press the gas coming out of it, accelerating the car up to top speed. My body automatically shifts to compensate for the pressure imposed on it by the force and angle of the track’s bank. “Possibly the clutch plate? The ass end is sliding all over the place,” I tell him as I fight to get the car back under control on the chute before heading into turn two.

  “That’s not poss—”

  “You driving the fucking car now, Becks?” I bark into the mic, my hands gripping the wheel in frustration. Beckett obviously reads my mood, because he goes radio silent. My mind flickers to the nightmares that plagued my sleep last night. Of not being able to talk to Rylee this morning when I called. Of needing to hear her voice to help clear the remnants from my mind.

  Goddamnit, Donavan, get your head on the track. Irritation—at myself, at Beckett, at the damn car—has me pushing the pedal down harder than I should down the back straightaway. My fucked up attempt at using adrenaline to drown out my head.

  I know Becks is probably beside himself right now, thinking I’m gonna burn her up. Trash all the time and precision we’ve dialed into the engine. I’m nearing turn three and a part of me wishes there was no turn. Just a straight stretch of road where I could keep going, drop the hammer, race the wind, and outrun the shit in my head—the fear squeezing at my heart.

  Chase the possibilities just beyond the reach of my fingertips.

  But there isn’t one. Just another fucking turn. Hamster on a goddamn wheel.

  I come into the turn too hot, my head too screwed up to be on the track. I have to consciously remember to try and not over-correct as the ass end gets too loose on me and slides to the right, drifting too high. A shiver of fear dances at the base of my spine for that split second when I’m not sure if I’ll be able to pull the car out in time to avoid kissing the barrier.

  Beckett swears on the radio as I narrowly escape, and I shout out one of my own. The only way to voice the high of fear that just jolted through my system. Adrenaline, my momentary drug of choice, reigns until the realization of my stupidity will take over in the moments to come. It always takes a few seconds to hit.

  Fuck me. I’m done. I shouldn’t be in the car right now. It’s stupid of me to be here when my head’s not right. I ease into turn four, decelerating when I hit pit row and stop where my crew stands behind the firewall. I silence the engine and blow out a loud breath. They all just stand there, no one stepping over, as I unbuckle my helmet and detach the steering wheel. I pull up on my helmet and it’s yanked from my hands.

  “You trying to kill yourself out there?” Beckett shouts at me as I remove my balaclava and ear buds. Now I know why the crew stayed behind the wall. They’re used to the volatility and brutal honesty between Becks and me. They know when to stay clear. “Then do it on your own goddamn time. Not under my watch!” He’s pissed and has every right to be, but fuck all if I’m telling him that.

  I just stare at him, a slight smirk turning up the corners of my mouth at my oldest friend. My attempt at provoking him so that he doesn’t notice the trembling of my hands. A surefire way for him to know I scared the shit out of myself as well and add fuel to his own fire. What the hell was I thinking getting in the car with a jacked up frame of mind? He just glares at me, jaw clenched and shoulders square before shaking his head, turning his back to me, and walking away.

  The minute Becks turns the corner, my crew clears the wall and begins doing their various jobs as I climb out. I’m glad they steer clear of me, all obviously accustomed to my moodiness by now when testing goes to shit.

  I scrub my hand over my face and through my sweat-soaked hair. I head the same way as Becks, knowing he’s had enough time to calm down so that we can talk. Maybe. Fuck. I don’t know. When things are off between the two of us, the rest of the team feels it. I can’t have that coming into a new season.

  I follow him to the RV and climb up the steps. He’s sitting in the recliner across from the door, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He just looks at me and shakes his head, causing a twinge of guilt to hit me for taking years off of his life with my careless stunt.

  “What the hell was that?” he asks in an all too quiet voice—the voice of a disappointed parent to their child.

  I unzip my suit to the waist and let the sleeves hang, before peeling off my shirt and falling back onto the couch. I close my eyes, swiveling so that my head rests on one armrest and my feet on the opposing one. I am so tired. I need sleep that’s not filled with all the fucked up dreams that’ve been coming repeatedly since that morning with Rylee. I’m a damn mess. Can’t think straight. Obviously can’t drive worth a shit. “I don’t know, Becks,” I sigh out. “My head wasn’t in the right place. I shouldn’t have—“

  “You’re goddamn right you shouldn’t have,” he yells at me. “That was a stupid fucking stunt, and if you ever pull one like that again—get in the car when you’re head’s not straight—you can find yourself another goddamn crew chief.” The squeak of the chair tells me he’s just unfolded himself and stood. The motor home rocks with his movement and the door slams shut as he leaves.

  I keep my eyes closed, sinking into the lumpy ass couch, just wanting to forget, wanting to talk to Rylee but knowing that she’s probably sleeping herself after the events of her night.

  I don’t know why I got so panicked this morning when I couldn’t reach her. My mind immediately veered to thoughts of her in an accident. Trapped in a mangled fucking car somewhere. Alone and scared. My chest tightened at the thought until I got a hold of Haddie who gave me the number to The House’s landline. I felt better—and worse—after speaking to Jackson about the chaos of Zander’s nightmare.

  Poor fucking kid. Nightmares can be so damn brutal. Cause such a setback and fuck with your memories even more. Make them darker. Make you relive them in the worst possible way. Remember things you shouldn’t. Otherwise wouldn’t. Don’t ever want to. But at least he had Rylee to comfort him, stay with him, and keep the demons at bay with her soft voice and reassuring touch.

  Exactly what I needed from her last night. What I still need from her today.

  I sigh at the thought of her, wanting her in the worst way...in the best way. I laugh out loud at myself i
n the vacant RV. I can’t figure out what I want more, a dreamless sleep or to hear Rylee’s voice.

  Shit, my head must really be fucked up if all I want from Rylee is to hear her voice. I shake my head and scrub my hands over my face, feeling pussified from the thought. What I wouldn’t give to go back to a couple of months ago when sleep came easy.

  When my dick and balls were firmly attached and in charge of my thoughts. When the choice between sleep, sex, or wanting to hear a specific woman’s voice was a no brainer; a few hours of uncomplicated sex led to the sleepless oblivion. Two down with one shot. And the woman’s voice? Who cared if she talked or what she did with her mouth as long as she opened wide and swallowed without a gag reflex.

  Rylee flashes through my mind. Her dark hair on the white pillow as I hover over her. The look on her face—lips jolting apart, eyes widening, cheeks flushing with color—as I sink inside of her. How she tightens like a vise around me as she comes. Fucking voodoo pussy.

  My dick stirs at the thought—wanting, no needing her—but my exhaustion overwhelms, and swallows me whole into its oblivion.

  Spiderman, Batman, Superman, Ironman.

  Spiderman, Batman, Superman, Ironman.

  I jolt from the nightmare with a start, disoriented from the unknown passage of time. My heart thunders in my ears. My stomach churns. My head forgets specifics instantly, but the nightmare’s clutches of fear still hold me against my will, dragging me backwards through poisoned memories.

  “Fucking Christ!” I yell out to the empty RV as I force myself to calm down and breathe. To try and forget the fear that’ll never go away. Never. Fear gives way to anger as I pick up the closest thing to me, one of the crew’s hackey-sacs and chuck it across the aisle as hard as I can. The thud it makes does nothing to abate the feelings clawing through me, embedding themselves in every fiber of my being, but it’s all I can do. My only source of release.