The Driven Series Boxed Set - Limited Edition (Driven #1-4)

by K. Bromberg

  I grin stupidly at him. As if he even has to ask that question. I’m with him, aren’t I?

  He reaches out and runs a fingertip down my cheek. “I love your smile, Rylee. The one you have right now.” He cups my neck, the pad of his thumb running over my lower lip. His translucent eyes look into mine and search inside of me. “You look so carefree and lighthearted. So beautiful.”

  I angle my head, my lips parting at the touch of his thumb. “As opposed to you?” I question. He quirks his eyebrows in question. “When you smile it screams mischief and trouble.” And heartbreak, I think. I shake my head when the exact smile I’m talking about graces his lips. I run my free hand up the plain of his chest, liking the hiss of his breath I hear in response to my touch as well as the fire that leaps into his eyes. “And it has ‘I’m a stereotypical bad boy’ written all over it.”

  The grin widens. “Bad boy, huh?”

  Right now, in this moment, there is no way I’ll ever be able to resist him with his tousled hair, emerald eyes, and that smile. I look up at him through my lashes, my bottom lip between my teeth.

  “Are you one of those girls who like bad boys, Rylee?” he asks, his voice gruff with desire, his lips inches from mine, his eyes glistening with a dare.

  “Never,” I whisper, barely having enough composure to find my voice.

  “Do you know what bad boys like to do?” He takes a hand and places it on my lower back, pressing me forcibly against him. Flash points of pleasure explode every place our bodies connect.

  Oh my! His touch. His hard body pressed against mine makes me need things I shouldn’t need. Shouldn’t need from him. But I don’t have the strength to fight it anymore. I suck in a ragged breath, not trusting myself to speak. “No,” is all I can manage to say for an answer. Between one breath and the next, Colton crushes his mouth to mine in a heat-searing kiss tinged with near violent desire. He kisses me as if we are in the privacy of his bedroom. His hands run up the length of my torso, flutter over my neck, and cup my face as he slowly eases the intensity of the kiss.

  He places his now-signature kiss on the tip of my nose before pulling back, the devilish look still smoldering in his eyes. “Us bad boys?” he continues, while my head still spins. “We like to ...” He leans in, his lips at my ear, the warmth of his breath tickling my skin. I think he is going to tell me something erotic. Something naughty he wants to do to me for his pregnant pause leaves me suspended in thought. “Eat dinner!”

  I throw my head back and laugh loudly at him, using my hand on his chest to push him away. He laughs with me, taking the stuffed dog from my arm. “Gotcha!” he says as he grabs my hand, saying goodbye to the carnival.

  We make our way to the car, chatting idly as we pull out of the parking lot. Colton turns the radio on and I softly sing along as we drive.

  “You really do like music, don’t you?”

  I smile at him, continuing to sing.

  “You’ve known the words to every song that’s played.”

  “It’s my little form of therapy,” I answer, adjusting my seatbelt so I can turn and face him.

  “The date’s that bad you need therapy already?” he jokes.

  “Stop!” I laugh at him. “I’m serious. It’s therapeutic.”

  “How’s that?” he asks, his face scrunched in concentration as we hit traffic on I-10.

  “The music, the words, the feeling behind it, what’s not being said.” I shrug. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think music expresses things better than I can. So maybe vicariously, when I’m singing, everything I’m too chicken to say to someone, I can relay in a song. That’s the best way to describe it, I guess.” A blush creeps over my cheeks, as I feel stupid for not being able to explain better.

  “Don’t get embarrassed,” he tells me as he reaches out and rests a hand on my knee. “I get it. I understand what you’re trying to say.”

  I pick imaginary lint off of my jeans, a nervous habit I have when I’m put on the spot. I laugh softly. “After the accident ...” I swallow loudly, shocked that he makes me comfortable enough that I’m volunteering this information. Pieces of me that I rarely talk about. “It helped me tremendously. When I came home from the hospital, poor Haddie was so sick of hearing the same songs over and over, she threatened to put my iPod in the garbage disposal.” I smile at the memory of how fed up she’d been at hearing Matchbox Twenty. “Even now, I use it with the kids. When they first come to us or if they are having a hard time dealing with their situation, if they can’t verbalize how they’re feeling, we use music to help them.” I shrug. “Sounds lame, I know, but it works.”

  Colton glances over at me, sincerity in his eyes. “You really love them, don’t you?”

  I answer without hesitation. “With all my heart.”

  “They are very lucky to have you fighting for them. It’s a brutal road for a kid to have to go down. It easily fucks you up.” He shakes his head, lapsing into silence.

  I can feel the sadness radiate off of him. I reach down and link my fingers with the hand he has resting on my leg and give it a reassuring squeeze. What happened to this beautiful man who one minute is playful and sexy and the next quiet and reflective? What can put that haunted look in those piercing green eyes? What has given him that roughshod drive to get his way, to succeed at all costs?

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask softly, afraid to pry but wanting him to share what deep, dark secret has a hold on him.

  He sighs loudly, the silence thick in the car. I steal a quick glance over at him and see the stress etched around his mouth. The lights of passing cars cast shadows on his face, making him seem even more untouchable. I regret asking the question, afraid I’ve pushed him further into his memories.

  Colton withdraws his hand from mine and takes his baseball hat off, tossing it in the backseat, and shoves his hand through his hair. He clenches and unclenches his jaw in thought. “Shit, Rylee.” And I think that is all I’m going to get as the car descends back into silence. Eventually he continues, “I don’t …” He stops as he exits the freeway. I can see him grip the steering wheel tightly with both hands. “I don’t need to haunt you with my demons, Ry. Fill your head with the shit that’s a psychologist’s wet dream. Give you ammunition to dissect and throw back in my face at everything I do—everything I say—when I fuck things up.”

  I immediately hear the when not if in his statement. The raw emotions behind his words hit me harder than his insensitivity. My years of experience tell me that he’s still hurting—still coping with whatever happened long ago.

  We stop at a light and Colton scrubs both hands over his face. “Look, I’m sorry. I—”

  “No apologies needed, Colton.” I reach out and squeeze his bicep. “Absolutely none.”

  He hangs his head momentarily, closing his eyes before lifting it back up and opening them. He glances over at me, a reserved smile on his face, sorrow in his eyes before mumbling, “Thanks.” He looks back at the road and steps on the accelerator as the light changes.

  OUR LATE DINNER IS SINFULLY good. Colton takes me to a small surf-shack type restaurant on Highway One slightly north of Santa Monica. Despite the busy Saturday night crowd, when the hostess sees Colton, she greets him by name and whisks us out to a rather private table on the patio that overlooks the water. The crash of waves serves as soft background music to our evening.

  “Come here much?” I ask wryly. “Or do you just use the fact that the hostess is in love with you to get the primo table?”

  He flashes a heart-stopping grin at me. “Rachel’s a sweet girl. Her dad owns the place. He has a ladder up to the rooftop. Sometimes he and I go up there and throw back a few beers. Shoot the shit. Escape the madness.” He leans over and taps the top of my nose with his finger. “I hope this is okay?” he asks.

  “Definitely! I like laid back,” I tell him. When his grin widens and his eyes darken, I look at him confused, “What?”

  He takes a sip of beer from his bottle, amusem
ent filling his face, “I like you laid back too, just not in this environment.” His comment causes butterflies in my stomach. I giggle and swat at him playfully. He catches my hand and brings it casually to his lips before setting it on his thigh with his hand closing around it. “No, seriously,” he explains, “this is way more my style than the glitz and glamour of my parents’ lifestyle and expectations. My sister fits that lifestyle so much better than I do.” He rolls his eyes despite the utter adoration on his face when he mentions her.

  “How old is she?”

  “Quinlan? She’s twenty-six and a total pain in the ass!” He laughs. “She’s in graduate school at USC right now. She’s pushy and overbearing and protective and—”

  “And she loves you to death.”

  A boyish grin blankets his face as he nods in acceptance. “Yes, she does.” He mulls it over thoughtfully. “The feeling is completely mutual.”

  His ability to express his love for his sister is charming in a man otherwise unwilling to express himself emotionally.

  The waitress arrives, halting our conversation, and asks me if I am ready to order, although her eyes are fixated on Colton. I want to tell her I understand, I’m under his spell too. I’m still unsure what I want so I look at Colton. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

  He looks up at me, surprise on his face, “Their burgers are the best. Does that sound okay?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “A girl after my own heart,” he teases, squeezing my hand. “Can we get two surf burgers with fries and another round of drinks, please,” he tells the waitress, and as I try to hand her my menu, I notice how flustered she is by Colton speaking to her.

  “So tell me about your parents.”

  “Uh-oh. Is this the Colton background portion of the night?” he kids.

  “You got it, Ace. Now spill it,” I tell him, taking a sip of my wine.

  He shrugs. “My dad is larger than life in everything he does. Everything. He’s supportive and always positive and a good friend to me now. And my mom, she’s more reserved. More the rock of our family.” He smiles softly at the thought, “but she definitely has a temper and a flair for the dramatic when she deems it necessary.”

  “Is Quinlan adopted too?”

  “No.” He drains the remainder of his beer, shaking his head. “She’s biological. My mom and dad decided one was enough for them with their busy schedules and all of the traveling to onset locations.” He raises his eyebrows. “And then my dad found me.” The simplicity in that last statement, the rawness behind the words, is profound.

  “Was that hard? Her being biological and you adopted?”

  He ponders the question, turning his head to look around the restaurant. “At times I think I used it for all it was worth. But when it comes down to it, I realized that my dad didn’t have to bring me home with him that day.” He plays with the label on his empty beer bottle. “He could have turned me over to social services, and God knows what would have happened since they’re not always the most efficient organization. But he didn’t.” He shrugs. “In time I grew to realize they really loved me, really wanted me, because, they kept me. They made me a part of their family.”

  I’m a little taken back by Colton’s honesty since I expected him to evade my questions. My heart breaks for the struggles of the little boy he was. I know he is glossing over the turmoil he must have experienced joining an already established family. “How was it growing up with parents in the public eye?”

  “I guess it really is my turn for the inquisition,” he jokes before stretching his arm out, resting his hand on the back of my chair, idly wrapping one of my curls around his finger as he speaks. “They did the best they could to insulate Quin and me from it all. Back then, the media was nothing like it is today.” He shrugs. “We had strict rules and mandatory Sunday night family dinners when my dad wasn’t on location. To us, the movie stars who came over for barbeques were just Tom and Russell, like any other people you invite to a family function. We didn’t know any differently.” He smiles broadly. “Man, they spoiled us rotten though, trying to make up for all I had missed out on in my early years.”

  He stops talking when the food is served. We both thank the waitress and put condiments on our burgers, deep in our thoughts. I’m surprised when Colton speaks again, continuing to talk about growing up.

  “God, I was a handful,” he admits. “Always creating a mess of one kind or another for them to have to clean up. Defiant. Rebelling against them—against everything really—every chance I had.”

  I take a bite of my hamburger, moaning at how good it is. He flashes a smile. “I told you they were the best!”

  “Heavenly!” I finish my bite. “Sooo good.” I wipe the corner of my mouth with a napkin and continue my quest for information on Colton. “So, why Donavan? Why not Westin?”

  “So why Ace?” he counters, flashing me a combative grin. “Why not stud muffin or lover?”

  It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing. Instead, I angle my head, eyes full of humor, as I purse my lips and stare at him. I was curious how long it’d take for him to ask me that question. “Stud muffin just sounds all kinds of wrong coming from you.” I finally laugh, setting my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. “Are you evading my question Ace?”

  “Nope,” he leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving mine. “I’ll answer your question when you answer mine.”

  “That’s how you’re going to play this?” I arch a brow at him. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”

  Colton’s eyes light up with challenge and amusement. “Baby, I’ve already seen yours,” he says, flashing me a lightning fast grin before closing the distance and brushing his lips to mine and then pulling away before I get a chance to really sink into the kiss. My body hums in frustration and arousal. “But I’d be more than happy to see the whole package again.”

  My thoughts cloud and my thigh muscles tense at the thought, sexual tension colliding between the two of us. When I think I can speak without my voice betraying the effect he has on my body, I continue, “What was the question again?” I tease, batting my eyelashes playfully.

  “Ace?” He shrugs, darting his tongue out to wet his bottom lip. “Why do you call me that?”

  “It’s just something that Haddie and I made up a long time ago when we were in college.”

  Colton raises his eyebrows at me, a silent attempt at prompting me further, but I just smile shyly. “So it stands for something then? And not just pertaining to me in particular?” he asks, working his jaw back and forth in thought as he waits for an answer I’m not going to give him. “And you’re not going to tell me what though, are you?”

  “Nope.” I grin at him before taking a sip of my drink, watching his brow furrow as the wheels in his mind turn in thought.

  “Hmmmm,” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing at me. “Always Charming and Endearing.” He smirks, obviously proud of himself for coming up with what he assumes the acronym stands for.

  “Nope,” I repeat myself, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.

  His smile widens further as he tips his beer at me, “I’ve got it,” he says, scrunching up his nose adorably in thought. “Always Colton Everafter.”

  The smirk on his face and the charming look in his eyes has me laughing out loud. I reach out and place my hand over his and give it a squeeze. “Not even close, Ace,” I tease. “Now it’s your turn to answer the question.”

  “You’re not going to tell me?” he asks incredulously.

  “Uh-uh,” I tell him, finding his reaction funny. “Now quit avoiding the question. Why Donavan and not Westin?”

  He stares at me for a moment, weighing his options. “I’ll get the answer out of you one way or another, Thomas,” he says suggestively.

  “I’m sure you will,” I acquiesce, knowing he’ll probably get so much more than just that from me.

  He stares at me for a moment, a mix of emotions flickerin
g though pools of emerald before he shrugs nonchalantly and looks out to the ocean, effectively stopping any chance I have of reading what is in them. “At first my parents used Donavan as a way to protect me as a child. When we traveled or had to use an alias, we would use it. But as I got older...” he takes a sip of his beer “...and as I got into racing, I didn’t want to be seen as some spoiled Hollywood kid who was just using his name and daddy’s money to make it.” He looks up at me, snagging a fry off of my plate despite having a plethora himself. “I wanted to earn it. Really earn it.” He flashes that grin at me again. “Now it doesn’t really matter. I couldn’t care less what anybody writes about me. Thinks about me. But back then, I did.”

  A silence falls between us. I’m having a hard time reconciling the arrogant, sexy troublemaker the media portrays with the man before me. A man comfortable with himself—and yet a part of me still feels like he is striving to find his place in this world. To prove he is worthy of all of the good and bad he has experienced in his life. I have a feeling that the real Colton is a little bit of both angel and devil.

  “So Colton, how’d you find this place?” I pick up my glass by the stem and swirl the wine around absently in the glass before I take a sip.

  “I found it on the way home from surfing one day when I was in college,” he muses, wincing at the small shriek from inside the restaurant as a woman recognizes him and calls out his name.

  Ignoring the bystanders starting to gather inside to catch a peek at him, I continue. “I don’t picture you in college, Ace.”

  He finishes the bite of food he’s chewing before answering. “Well, neither did I.” He laughs, taking another swallow of his beer. “I think I broke my parents’ heart when I dropped out after two years at Pepperdine, sans degree.”

  “Why didn’t you finish?” I flinch when a flash sparks through the dark night from someone’s camera.

  He casually shifts his chair in a move so fluid it’s obviously well practiced. He now has his back more angled to the center of the restaurant so that less of him can be seen. I don’t mind. It moves him closer to me so that now we both face the moonlit ocean off of the deck. “I can give you the bullshit answer about being a free spirit, et cetera ...” He flutters his hand through the air in indifference. “It just wasn’t my thing.” He shrugs. “Concentrated studies, set formats, deadlines, structure …” He shivers in pseudo-horror at the last word.