by K. Bromberg
He laughs loudly, as he pulls the cork out of the wine, pours it in the paper cups, and hands one to me. “To simplicity!” he toasts good-humoredly.
“To simplicity,” I agree, tapping his cup and taking a sip of the sweet, flavorful wine. “Wow, a girl could get used to this,” I admit. When he eyes me with doubt, I continue, “What more could I ask for? Sun, sand, food—”
“A handsome date?” He jokes as he breaks off a piece of bread, layers it with provolone and thin-sliced salami, and hands it to me on a paper napkin. I accept it graciously, my stomach growling. I’ve forgotten how hungry I am.
“Thank you,” I tell him, as I take the food from him. “For the food, for the donation, for Zander…”
“What’s the story there?”
I relay the gist of the story to him, his face remaining impassive at the details. “And today, with you, is the first time he’s purposely interacted with anybody, so thank you. I’m more grateful than you will ever know,” I conclude, looking down sheepishly, a blush spreading across my cheeks as I’m suddenly uncomfortable again at his direct and undivided attention. I take a bite of the makeshift sandwich, and moan appreciatively at the mixture of fresh bread and deli fare. “This is really good!”
He nods in agreement with me. “I’ve been going to that deli forever. It’s definitely better and more my speed than caviar,” he shrugs unapologetically. “So why Corporate Cares?” he asks, his mouth parting slightly as he watches me savor my food.
“So many reasons,” I admit, finishing my bite. “The ability to make a difference, the chance to be part of a breakthrough such as Zander today, or the feeling I get when a child left behind is made to feel like he matters again …” I sigh, not having enough words to express the feelings I have. “There are so many things that I can’t even begin to explain.”
“You are very passionate about it. I admire you for that.” His tone is earnest and sincere.
“Thank you,” I reply, taking another sip of wine, meeting his eye. “You were quite impressive yourself today. Almost as if you knew what to do despite me telling you to leave,” I admit sheepishly. “You were good with Zander.”
“Nah,” he denies grabbing another piece of cheese, folding it in the bread, “I’m not good with kids at all. That’s why I’m never having them,” his statement determined and his expression blank.
I’m taken aback by his comment. “That’s a bold statement for someone so young. I’m sure at some point you’ll change your mind.” I reply, my eyes narrowing as I watch him, wishing I still had the option to make a choice like his.
“Absolutely not,” he states emphatically before averting his eyes from my gaze for the first time since meeting him. I can sense his discomfort with this topic of conversation. An oddity for a man so confident and sure of himself in all other areas of life. He looks out toward the tumultuous ocean and is quiet for a few moments, an unreadable look on his rugged features.
I think that my questioning statement will go unanswered, until he breaks the silence. “Not really,” he says with what I sense is a resigned sadness in his voice. “I’m sure you experience it first hand every day, Rylee. People use kids as pawns in this world. Too many women try to trap men with them and then hate the kid when the man leaves. People foster kids just to get the monthly government stipend. It goes on and on,” he shrugs nonchalantly, belying how affected he is by the hidden truth behind his words. “It happens daily. Kids fucked up and abandoned because of their mother’s selfish choices. I’d never put a child in that kind of position,” he shakes his head emphatically, still refusing to meet my eyes, his gaze following the surfer riding the wave a ways out. “Regardless, I’d probably fuck them up as much as I was as a kid.” He breathes deeply with his last statement and removes his cap with one hand while running his other hand through his hair in what I interpret as agitation.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand,” I falter as I start to ask without thinking. This conversation has unexpectedly gotten heavy quickly.
Annoyance flashes across his face momentarily before I watch him knowingly rein it in. “My past is basic public knowledge,” he states, my furrowed brow showing my confusion. “Fame makes people dig out ugly truths.”
“Sorry,” I say raising my eyebrows, “I don’t make it a habit of researching my dates.” I hide the unease I feel with this conversation in the sarcasm of my tone.
His concentrated green eyes lock onto mine, muscle pulsing in his clenched jaw. “You really should, Rylee,” his steely voice warns. “You just never know who’s dangerous. Who’s going to hurt you when you least expect it.”
I’m taken aback by his sudden comment. Is he warning me about him? Warning me away from him? I’m confused. Pursue me and then push me away? This is the second time today he’s issued a statement like this. What should I make of it?
And what the hell is with his comments about being messed up as a kid? His parents are practically Hollywood royalty. Is he saying that they did something to him? The fixer in me wants to probe but I can tell how unwelcome that prospect is by his reaction.
I cautiously glance over at him, to see his attention turned back toward the surf. It is in this moment I can see the pictures painted by the media of him. Dark and brooding, a little rugged with the dark shadow of hair on his jaw, and an intensity to his eyes that makes you feel as if he’s unapproachable. Unpredictable. The broad shoulders and sexy swagger. The bad boy who is too handsome for his own good mixed with a whole lot of reckless. The rebel women swoon over and swear they could tame—if they had a chance.
And he’s sitting here. With me. It’s mind-boggling, and I’m still unclear as to how this all happened and why it happened to me.
I clear my throat, trying to dispel the awkwardness that has descended on our picnic. “So, how ’bout them Lakers?” I deadpan.
He throws his head back and laughs loudly before turning back to me. All traces of Brooding Colton have been replaced by Relaxed Colton with eyes full of humor and a megawatt smile. “A little heavy?”
I nod, pursing my lips, as I grab for another piece of cheese. Time for a change in topic. “I know it’s an unoriginal question, but what made you get into racing? I mean why hurl yourself around a track at close to two hundred miles an hour for fun?”
He sips from his Dixie cup. “My parents needed a way to channel my teenage rebellion,” he shrugs. “They figured why not give me all the safety equipment to go along with it instead of racing down the street and killing myself or someone else. Lucky for me, they had the means to follow through with it.”
“So you started as a teenager?”
“At eighteen,” he laughs, remembering back.
“What’s so funny?”
“I got a ticket for reckless driving. I was speeding … out of control really … racing some preppy punk.” He glances over at me to see if I have any reaction. I just look at him and raise my eyebrows for him to continue. “I was spared being hauled off to juvie because of my dad’s name. Man, was he pissed. The next day he thought he’d teach me a lesson. Dropped me off at the track with one of the stunt drivers he knew. Thought he’d have the guy drive me around the track at mach ten and scare the shit out of me.”
“Obviously it didn’t work,” I say dryly.
“No. He scared me some, but afterward I asked him if he could show me some of the stunt moves.” He shrugs, a half smirk on his lips as he looks out toward the water. “He finally agreed, let me drive his car around the track a couple of times. For some reason one of his friends had come with him to the track that day. The guy’s name was Beckett. He worked for a local race crew who’d just lost their driver. He asked if I’d ever thought about racing. I laughed at him. First of all, he was my age so how could he be part of a race team, and secondly, how could he watch me take a couple of laps and know that I could drive? When I asked, he said he thought I could handle a car pretty well, and would I like to come back the next day and talk to him some
more.”
“Talk about being at the right place at the right moment.” I murmur, happy to learn something about him that I couldn’t read about by looking on the Internet.
“You’re telling me,” he shakes his head. “So I met up with him. Tried out the car on the track, did pretty well and got along with the guys. They asked me to drive the next race. I was decent at it so I kept doing it. Got noticed. Stayed out of trouble,” he grins a mischievous grin at me, raising his eyebrows, “for the most part.”
“And after all this time, you still enjoy it?”
“I’m good at it,” he says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
He chews his food, carefully mulling over my question. “Yes, I suppose so. There’s no other feeling like it. I’m part of a team, and yet it’s just me out there. I have no one to depend on, to blame, but myself if something goes wrong.” I can sense the passion in his voice. The reverence he still has for his sport. “On the track, I can escape the paparazzi, the groupies … my demons. The only fear I have is that which I’ve created for myself, that I can control with a swerve of the wheel or a press of the pedal … not any inflicted on me by someone else.”
The startled look on his face tells me that he has given me more than he expected in an answer. That he’s surprised by his unanticipated honesty with me. I brush his unease of feeling vulnerable over by propping my arms out behind me and raising my face to the sky. “It’s so beautiful here.” I say breathing in the fresh air and digging my toes in the cool sand.
“More wine?” he asks as he shifts to sit closer beside me. The brush of his bare arm against mine leaves my senses humming.
I murmur in assent as warning bells go off in my head. I know that I need to create some distance from him, but he’s just too damn attractive. Irresistible. Nothing like I expected and yet everything I anticipated. I know that I need to clear my head for he is clouding my sensibility.
“So is this what you imagined, Ace, when you spent all that money for a date with me?” I turn my head and come face to face with him; hair mussed, lips full, eyes blazing. I hold my breath, frozen in the moment for all it would take is for me to lean in to feel his lips on mine again. To taste his carnal hunger as I did earlier on the porch.
He flashes a grin at me. “Not exactly,” he admits, but I can sense our proximity is affecting him too for I can see the pulse in his throat accelerate. His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow. I bring my eyes back up to his, unspoken words flowing between us. “You really have the most unusually magnificent eyes,” he tells me, his words a breath of a whisper.
It’s not as if I haven’t heard this before with my unique, violet-colored eyes, but for some reason, hearing it from him has desire spiraling through me. Warning bells clang again in my head.
“Rylee?”
I raise my eyes to meet his, trepidation in my heart. “I’m only going to ask this one time. Do you have a boyfriend?” The gravity in his tone as well as the question itself takes me off guard. I didn’t expect this for I think he’d already know the answer after the backstage ministrations from the other night. I think more surprising than the question itself is the way he asks it. The demanding tone.
I shake my head no, swallowing loudly.
“No one you are seeing casually?”
“You just asked twice,” I joke, trying to shake the nerves skittering up my spine. When he doesn’t smile but rather holds my stare in question, I shake my head again, “No, why?” I respond breathlessly.
“Because I want to know who’s standing in my way …” he tilts his head and stares at me as my lips part fractionally in response for my mouth is suddenly very dry. “… Whose ass I have to kick before I can make it official.”
“Make what official?” My mind flickers trying to figure out what I’m missing.
“That you’re mine.” Colton’s breath flutters over my face as the look in his eyes swallows me whole. “Once I fuck you, Rylee—it’s official, you’re mine and only mine.”
Oh. Fucking. My. How can those words, so possessive, so dominantly male, make me want him that much more? I’m an independent, self-assured woman and yet hearing that this man—yes, Colton Donavan—inform me that he is going to have me without asking, without giving me a choice, makes me weak in the knees.
“It might not be tonight, Rylee. It might not be tomorrow night,” he promises, the rumbling timber of his voice vibrating through my body, “but it will happen.” My breath hitches as he pauses, allowing his words sink in before he continues. “Don’t you feel it, Rylee? This—” he says gesturing a hand between him and I, “this charge we have here? The electricity we have when we’re together is way too strong to ignore.” I lower my eyes, uncomfortable with his overconfidence yet turned on by his words. He takes a hand and reaches out, the spark he’s referring to igniting when his index finger trails up the underside of my neck to my chin. He pushes up to lift my chin so that I’m forced to stare into the depths of his eyes. “Aren’t you the least bit curious how good it will be? If it’s this electrifying with just the brush of our skin against each other, can you imagine what it will be like when I’m buried inside of you?”
The confidence in his words and the intensity of his stare nonpluses me, and I avert my eyes down again to focus on the ring I’m worrying around my right ring finger. The rational part of me knows that once Colton has his way with me, he’ll move on. And even though I’d know this going into it, I’d still be devastated in the end.
I just don’t want to go through it again. I’m afraid to feel again. Afraid to take a chance for the consequences before were life-altering for me. I use my fear to fuel my obstinance; no matter how wild of a ride, the inevitable fallout isn’t worth it to me.
“You’re so sure of yourself, do I even need to show up for the event?” I say haughtily, hoping my words cover for the deep ache he’s responsible for creating in my body. His only response to my question is a heart-stopping smirk. I shake me head at him, “Thanks for the warning, Ace, but no thanks.”
“Oh, Rylee,” he admonishes with a laugh. “There’s that smart mouth that I find so intriguing and sexy. It disappeared for a little while with your nerves. I was getting worried.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Oh, and Ryles, just so you know, that wasn’t a warning, sweetheart. That was a promise.”
And with that, he leans back on his elbows on the blanket, a cocky grin on his face, and challenge in his eyes as he stares at me. I travel the length of his lean body with my eyes. My thoughts running to how I should resist this over-the-top, reckless, troubled, and unpredictable man whose continual verbal sparring makes me uncomfortable. Makes me desire. Churns up feelings and thoughts that died that day two years ago. And yet rather then head the other way as I should, all I want to do is straddle him right here on that blanket, run my hands up the firm muscles of his chest, fist my hands in his hair, and take until I surrender all my rational thoughts.
I brave meeting his eyes again for I know he is watching my appraisal of his body. I make sure that my eyes reflect none of the desire I’m feeling. “So, what about you, Colton?” I question, turning the tables on him. “You said you don’t do the girlfriend thing and yet you always seem to have a lady on your arm?”
He arches his eyebrows at me, “And how would you know what I always have on my arm?”
How do I know that? Do I admit to him I occasionally glance through Haddie’s subscription of People and roll my eyes at the ridiculous commentary? Do I confess that I peruse Perezhilton.com as a distraction when I’m in the office sometimes and that I usually skip over the gossip about self-absorbed Hollywood brat-packers like him, who think they’re better than everyone else? “Well, I do stand at the checkout lines in the grocery store,” I admit. “And you know how true all of those tabloids are in the stands.”
“According to them I’m dating an alien with three heads and my photo-shopped picture is right next to the caption stating a chupacabra was found
in a movie theater in Norman, Oklahoma,” he says, animating his expression, eyes wide in a mock stare of horror.
I laugh out loud. Really laugh. So glad that he takes the media in stride. Happy that he’s added some levity to the heavy topics of conversation. “Nice change of topic, but it’s not going to work. Answer the question, Ace.”
“Oh, Rylee—all business,” he chides. “What is there to say? I hate the drama, the points system of who is contributing how much, the expectation of the next step to take, trying to figure out if there is an ulterior motive to them being with me …” He shrugs, “rather than deal with that bullshit, I come to a mutual agreement with someone, stated rules and requirements are laid out, specifics are negotiated, and expectations are managed way before they even have a chance to begin or get out of hand. It simplifies things.”
What? Negotiations? So many things run through my head that I know I’m going to have to think about later but with his eyes boring into mine, awaiting my reaction, I decide that humor is the best way to mask my surprise at his response.
“So a guy with a commitment issue,” I roll my eyes, “like that’s something new!” He remains quiet, still regarding me as I think about him, about this, about everything. “So what were you hoping for?” I continue sardonically, “that I’d just look into your gorgeous green eyes, drop my panties and spread my legs when you admit that you like women in your bed but you won’t let them in your heart?” Despite my sarcasm, I’m being brutally honest. Does he think that just because he is who he is, it’ll negate all my morals? “And they say romance is dead.”
“You do have such a way with words, sweetheart,” he drawls, shifting onto his side, propping his head on his elbow. A slow, measured smile spreads across his face. “I assure you, romance is not something I actively subscribe to. There’s no such thing as happily ever after.”