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

by K. Bromberg

  “Have you been talking to Haddie?” I ask. There is no way she knows what to ask without having talked to Haddie.

  “Quit avoiding the question. What happened at the function?”

  “Nothing. We talked for a few minutes and then I was pulled away because of a problem with the date auction.” Dear old mom doesn’t need to know about the brief interlude backstage before that.

  “And what was the problem?”

  “Mother!”

  “Well, if you’d just answer me straight the first time, we wouldn’t have to play this cat and mouse game you’re playing now would we?”

  What is it with mothers? Are they clairvoyant? “Okay, mom. A date contestant got sick. I took her place. Colton bid on a date with me and won. Are you happy now?”

  “Interesting,” she says, drawing out every syllable, and I swear I can hear the smirk on her face in the single word. “So you tell me that I’m being silly when one of the sexiest men alive is pursuing my daughter, donating to her charity to get her attention I assume, and taking her to high profile events to show her off? Really? And how is that being silly, Rylee?”

  “Mom—”

  “How serious is it?” she deadpans, and I shouldn’t be shocked at her frankness, but even after all of these years, I still am.

  “Mom, Colton doesn’t do serious,” I try to deflect.

  “Don’t try to play it off, Rylee,” she scolds. “I know you well enough to know that any man you give your time to is obviously worth it. And you wouldn’t waste your time on someone that is in it for a quick lay.” I cringe at her words. If only she knew about Colton’s arrangements, I’m sure she wouldn’t be so sure of my judgment then. “So tell me, honey, just how serious is it?”

  I sigh loudly, knowing that my mother is tenacious when she wants an answer. “Honestly, from my viewpoint, it could be something. From his...well, Colton isn’t used to doing the more than a couple of months type of thing. We’re just feeling it out as we go,” I answer softly and as honestly as possible.

  “Hmmm,” she murmurs before falling silent. “Does he treat you well? Because you know that they always treat you the best in the beginning of the relationship, and if it’s not good in the beginning then it’s not going to get any better.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I say like a child.

  “I’m serious, Rylee Jade,” she says, her voice implacable. She must be serious if she’s using my middle name. “Does he or doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, Mom. He treats me very well.”

  I hear her warm laughter on the other end of the line, and I can tell she’s relieved. “Just remember what I always say; don’t lose yourself trying to hold onto someone who doesn’t care about losing you.” I finish mouthing the words she’s saying. Words she’s told me since I started crushing on boys as a teenager.

  “I know.”

  “Oh, honey, I am so happy for you! After everything that you’ve been through…you deserve nothing but happiness, my sweet child.”

  I smile at her unconditional love and concern for me, appreciating what a great mother I have. “Thanks, Mom. We’re just taking things a day at a time right now and seeing where it leads us.”

  “There’s my girl. Always with a level head on her shoulders.”

  I sigh, a soft smile on my face. “So how are things going? How have you been? How’s Dad?”

  “All’s good here. Dad’s fine. Busy as ever, but you know how he is.” She laughs and I can imagine her running her tongue over her top lip as is her habit. “How are the boys?”

  I smile at my mom’s question. She treats them like they’re family too, always sending them treats or cookies or little things to make them feel special. “They’re good. I think Shane has his first pseudo-girlfriend, and Zander is slowly making progress.” I go through the boys and talk about each one with her, answering her questions, and I can sense another care package coming for them.

  We talk for a bit more before she has to go. “I miss you, Mom.” My voice cracks with my words because she might be tough and overbearing, but she only wants the best for me. I love her more than anything.

  “I miss you too, Ry. It’s been too long since I’ve seen you.”

  “I know. I love you.”

  “Love you too. Bye.”

  I hit call end and snuggle back into my warm bed that for some reason no one will let me sleep in this morning. I glance over at the dresser at the People and grab it. I flip it open to the marked page and there I am.

  I stare at the picture of Colton and me at the Kids Now function on the red carpet. He is standing, his shoulders squared to the camera, with his hand in one pocket of his slacks and his other hand wrapped around my waist. His pocket square front and center. His face is looking toward the camera, but his chin and eyes are angled toward me with a huge smile on his face.

  My eyes gravitate to the part of the picture that I love the most, the way his hand grips my hip, a possessive hold announcing to the world that I am his.

  I reread the caption again and sigh. I’m so glad the press hasn’t gotten a hold of my name yet. I’m not ready to be thrust in to the media circus but I know it’s inevitable if I’m with Colton.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I mutter to myself.

  I hold the picture in my hand, staring at it until I talk myself into taking my run. I shift out of my bed when my phone dings a text. I laugh out loud at technology’s rule over my life this morning and nonetheless pick up my phone to see Colton’s name. I can’t help the smile on my lips.

  Thinking nasty thoughts of you in the middle of my meeting. Won’t be standing for a while now. Bruno Mars – Locked Out of Heaven.

  I laugh out loud, knowing the song and feeling flattered at the same time at the song’s lyrics. I text him back.

  So glad I could help with your boredom, Ace…it’s the least I can do. Think more thoughts! TLC – Red Light Special.

  I smirk as I toss my phone onto my nightstand, knowing that he’s going to have a lot harder time concentrating in his meeting now.

  “YOU KNOW WHAT I THINK?”

  “Huh?” I look over to where Becks is sitting on the chair across from me, but I move too fast and the room spins for a minute before I can focus again.

  “I think,” he says, laughing and tilting God knows what number beer we’re on at me, “I think we need to have a moment of silence.”

  “Who died?” I’m drunker than I thought. What did I miss? I lift my bottle to my lips and try to figure out what he’s talking about.

  “Your single, non-pussy-whipped self.”

  “Bullshit!” I spout through his damn laughter that’s a little too loud right now for my drunk ears.

  “Bullshit?” he says as he scoots to the edge of his chair, and I want to tell him not to stand, that he’ll fall on his ass. Then again, he’s fucking with me and I could use a good laugh at his expense so I refrain. “Were you just not looking at your phone like you wanted to call her and get off?”

  I lay my head back and laugh because hell if he’s not right. It’s been five fucking days since I’ve had her, since she stayed the weekend at my place. Hours occupied with sex that rocked my world and downtime where she challenged me, pushed me, laughed with me. A first for me on so many levels, but the most important one was that I wasn’t freaked the fuck out about it.

  And that never happens.

  “It’s called Skype,” I tease, closing my eyes momentarily. No amount of alcohol can fuck with the perfect image in my head of answering my iPad to find Rylee sitting on her bed, lace and garters and come-fuck-me-gear on the other end of the picture connection. Manicured fingernails parting pink flesh to show me just what I’m missing. Dirty talk I’d never expect to fall from her lips but perfectly fitting in that telephone-sex rasp of hers.

  “Exactly. When have you ever had Skype-sex? You usually snap your fingers in whatever town you’re in and you can pick from the hundred that come running and drop to their knees.” I hear
the pop of a bottle top and then another and open my eyes to see him holding a fresh one out to me.

  I think for a second as I accept it and fuck if he’s not right.

  “See? I told you. When you brought her to Vegas with us I thought she was just a passing fad. Thought you were testing the waters because you weren’t used to having a challenge and it got a rise out of you. Literally,” he deadpans, drawing a shake of my head. “But, Wood, after the past few weeks, you bailing from work early to go to go-kart tracks and shit … It’s more than obvious that we need to say our parting words and have a moment of silence for your dearly departed dick.”

  “Becks—”

  “Shh!” he responds, trying to hold his pointer finger to his lips but his depth perception is so off I laugh when he tries several times to get it there despite his dead serious face. “A moment of silence is needed to kiss your unvoodooed ass goodbye.”

  “You’re such an asshole,” I tell him but know I’m lucky to have him as my partner in crime.

  “Shh!” he says again, and I give up. I take a deep breath and roll my eyes but humor him and remain silent. I swear he’s passed out but he’s still sitting at the edge of the chair and hasn’t fallen over.

  Yet.

  But his eyes are still closed when a huge-ass grin turns his mouth up and he claps his hands together and rubs them. “Shit, that was easier than I thought.”

  “What was?” My buzz is humming now and I’m finally relaxed after a fuck-all day with the Firestone guys and negotiations over shit they’re going to cave on in the end anyway.

  “Getting you to admit you’re a kept man now.”

  “Fucking Christ, dude!” I spit my beer out. “Kept? You’re calling me kept?” That’s like the equivalent of telling Jenna Jameson she’s a virgin.

  “It’s pretty fucking obvious when there’s a huge neon sign above your head flashing no vacancy for your stabbin’ cabin that you’re a kept man. Have a woman now.”

  “A woman now? I’m sure Ry would love to hear you refer to her as that.”

  He eyes me over his bottle. “So she’s not your woman, then? Because usually when you hang up the phone you don’t think twice, back to business. Now you hang up with a little smirk on your face and you’re lost in la-la land for a bit.”

  “La-la land?” I laugh.

  “What would you call it, then? Girlfriend-ville?” He eyes me. Dares me to deny his reference since I’m the self-proclaimed don’t do the girlfriend thing kind of guy.

  I begin to argue but then stop. Fucking Becks. He knows me like the back of my hand and yet this is uncharted fucking territory for me. A woman that I want to color outside the lines with. No, scratch that. A woman that fucks with me on so many levels that I’m so busy being challenged and seduced by her words, her body, and her defiance that I don’t even realize the parameters I’m used to controlling don’t really matter anymore … because she does.

  Fuckin’ A, he’s right, but hell if I’ll tell him that.

  “We’ll go with woman,” I concede, but the word girlfriend rolls around in my head, sticking here and there as I get used to the idea of it.

  “Holy shit!” Becks says, pounding on his chest acting like he’s choking and I just stare at him unamused despite the smile on my lips. He stops laughing and tosses a bottle cap at me as he leans back in his chair. “Well, admission is half the battle. Keeping her is the other half.”

  “Keeping her?” Dude’s got my head spinning. I mean, fuck, I just told her I’d try, asked her to spend the weekend at Broadbeach with me when no one ever has, and he’s talking about how to keep her? I didn’t realize she was going somewhere.

  “Baby steps, Becks. Don’t give me a heart attack here. I hear keeping her but I think rings and strings and weddings and shit.”

  And he only thinks my reaction makes the whole situation funnier by how he curls up and can’t stop laughing. “The look on your face is priceless,” he finally gets out, “but I’m not talking about marriage.”

  Thank fuck for that. We can put away the defibrillators now. I look over at him, eyes telling him to get to the fucking point so I can enjoy my beer again without any more cardiac arrests.

  “I’m talking about romance. Shit girls like, man.”

  “You don’t need romance when you have my skills,” I tell him, already waiting for the smart-ass comment to come from his mouth.

  “Okay, one-pump chump.”

  “Fuck off!” I sneer and flip my middle finger up, but he’s laughing so hard he doesn’t even see it.

  “Shit. I’ve got to take a piss,” he says and rises on unsteady feet to head to the bathroom of my suite.

  I lift my feet up and prop them on the table in front of me, hands clasped behind my head. Through the open balcony doors I can hear Bruno Mars’s newest song playing in the bar across the street, but in the muted silence I start thinking about the word girlfriend. Wondering if that’s a definition we really need when we have our own language between us. Then Beckett’s words start running over again in my head until he comes back out zipping up his fly.

  He walks over to the open doors and I feel a slight pang of guilt that he wanted to go hang out at the bar and I just didn’t want to deal with the crowd tonight. I’m usually interested in the eye candy and playing the game.

  But I just don’t feel like it this trip.

  I shake my head. What in the fuck is Rylee doing to me? All her talk about Scooter saying I Spiderman you and that look on her face as she sat naked on her knees beside me undoes me bit by bit when I’m already a mess of unraveled memories.

  I lean forward and grab another beer from the bucket of ice in front of me and stare at the label for a few minutes. “So uh, romance, huh?”

  I see his body register my words, but he keeps his face toward the street because he can tell I’m so far out of my fucking element here, the periodic table wouldn’t even be able to help me.

  Romance? I don’t do it. Flowers die, food gets eaten. It’s not real. I’ve watched people flip the switch on and off enough in my life between my dad’s movie sets to women wanting something with me that I’m not fucking stupid enough to see the farce.

  So why the fuck am I wondering what Becks thinks I’m screwing up here?

  “What are you not saying to me? You think I’m not giving her the flowery shit a girl wants so she’s gonna bail?” The thought doesn’t settle well in my stomach. In fact it makes me shove up out of my chair and walk back and forth.

  Well more like stumble.

  “I didn’t say shit, dude.” Becks keeps looking out the window. He knows he’s questioned me and I don’t take too easy to that.

  And fuck if he doesn’t have me questioning myself now. I told her I’d try to give her more. That has to be enough in the end here. I’m already pushing myself past my comfort zone and now I have to think about this kind of shit?

  I’m annoyed with Becks for butting his nose in and irritated at myself for not even thinking about it. But I shouldn’t have to, should I?

  I roll my shoulders and plop back down on the couch. Did he really have to ruin my stellar buzz by bringing this up? Then again, the room’s still moving a bit so maybe he didn’t.

  “What do you think I should do? Send her poems and shit? C’mon, dude, that’s not me.”

  He snorts out a laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure a classy ‘roses are red’ poem is just what a lady like her wants.”

  I sit there in silence, ignoring the dig, thoughts running through my semi-cloudy mind and plaster a grin to my face when the words connect. “Roses are red, tires are black, you’re the only pussy I wanna ride bareback.”

  Becks spits out the beer in his mouth in a huge spray out the balcony doors. He wipes his mouth as his laughter falls to match mine. He turns to face me and raises an eyebrow. “That was pretty fucking good. If you’re that witty when you’re drunk, I think we should work under the influence more often.” He walks toward me and I can already see his mind tu
rning, trying to match my poem. “I’ve got one. Roses are red, violets are fine, you be the six, and I’ll be the nine.”

  “Now that’s a good image to have,” I say, my mind immediately back on her in that fucking outfit from Skype.

  “Down, boy. Poetry, not pornography,” he says, tapping the neck of his bottle against mine before sitting back in his chair. “Not with me anyway.”

  “No worries there. You’re cute and all but not my type.” I lean back and fall into thought before I start laughing. Look at us. Two guys in our thirties making up fucking nursery rhymes. This is some funny shit.

  Becks chuckles to himself, his eyes closed, and I wait for him to speak. “Roses are red, violets are blue, get in my bed and be ready to screw.”

  “How fucked-up are we?” I laugh.

  “Hey, this is poetry in its truest form.” He lifts his beer to me, his eyes still closed as the alcohol mixed with the clock hitting past midnight begins to get to him. “In fact, you should send her one of them tomorrow. That’s something a good boyfriend would do.”

  “You and your boyfriend bullshit,” I tell him, taking my hat off and tossing it on the table. “I’m so good, dude, labels like that don’t apply to me.”

  “Oh Jesus.” He throws his hands up, his beer splashing up the top of his longneck that has him sputtering to wipe it off his shirt. “Forgive me, Oh-King-of-All-Things in his own mind.”

  “Damn straight,” I say, loving to get his feathers ruffled.

  “Let me ask you something,” Becks says as he props his feet on the table. “Do you fuck her regularly?”

  I nearly spit my beer out but don’t because I may be feeling more than good, but no one talks about Ry this way. I make sure my eyes tell him exactly that.

  “Oh, excuse me, choirboy Colton. Let me rephrase. Are you having regular relations with her?” he asks in a prim and proper voice.

  I can’t help but laugh. Fucker. He just stares at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to answer. “Every chance I get.”

  He nods his head and works his tongue in his mouth while he thinks. “What’s she doing tonight?”