Crashed

CHAPTER 15

“Oh, buddy, I’m so proud of you!” I fight back the wave of guilt that rolls over me. I missed helping Connor study for a test in his most dreaded subject—math. “I knew you could do it!”

“I just used that little trick you told me about and it worked!” The pride in his voice brings tears of joy to my eyes, and at the same time, grief over not being there.

“I told you it would! Now go get ready for baseball. I’m sure Jax is waiting for you already!” He laughs telling me I’m right. “I promise I’ll see you a little later in the week, okay?”

“’Kay. I Lego you.”

“I Lego you too, bud!”

I hang up and look out toward the patio as laughter filters in above the crash of the waves—years worth of friendship breaking though Colton’s bad mood. I’m so thankful to Beckett for stopping by. I hear them belt out another laugh, and as much as I wish I was the one putting the smile on Colton’s otherwise scowling face of late, I’m just grateful that it’s there.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

I watch them clink the necks of their beer bottles over something and I sigh out loud, wanting the tension between Colton and me to go away. I’m sure it’s because we’re both sexually frustrated. To need and want and desire when temptation is right beneath your fingers, but to not be able to take and devour, is brutal in every sense of the word.

And yes, his more than skillful fingers brought me a small ounce of the release I needed the night before last, but it’s not the same. The connection was made but not cemented, because when Colton is in me, literally stretching me to every depth imaginable, I am also completely filled figuratively in every sense of the word. He completes me, owns me, has ruined me for anyone else ever again.

I feel closer to him right now—spending so much time with him—and yet further away. And I hate it.

I shake myself from my pity party and think how much worse things could be right now. I slip my shoes off and head out onto the deck for fresh air. I walk between Colton and Beckett’s lounge chairs and sit in one of my own, facing them.

Behind my sunglasses I take in the sight before me, and I know there isn’t another woman in the world that wouldn’t want to be in my shoes right now. Both men are relaxed, clad in board shorts, ball caps, and sunglasses. I let my eyes roam lazily with more than ample appreciation for the defined lines of their bare torsos and fight the smile that wants to pull at the corners of my mouth.

“Well if it isn’t Florence Nightingale,” Beckett drawls in that slow, even cadence of his as he brings the bottle to his lips.

“Well I think if I was Ms. Nightingale, I’d be telling my patient, Mr. Donavan here, that he probably shouldn’t be drinking alcohol with all of those pain meds running through his blood.”

“More like Nurse Ratchet.” Colton snorts, looking at me from beneath the shadow of his bill, green eyes running over the length of my legs stretched out on the chaise in front of me. A quick dart of his tongue over his lips tells me he wants to do a whole lot more than just look.

“Nurse Ratchet, huh?” I ask as I slide my foot up and down the calf of one of my legs trying to not feel insulted.

“Yep,” he says, pursing his lips as his eyes watch me over the top of his beer bottle. “If she gave me what I really wanted, I’d be able to recover that much quicker.” He raises his eyebrows at me, the suggestion in his eyes devouring me.

“Well shit,” Beckett swears, “if I’m not trying to get the two of you back together, I’m fucking trying to keep you apart.”

“Fucking,” Colton drawls in Beckett fashion, “now there’s a word.”

Becks just snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes. “Definitely a good word indeed.”

Colton breaks our eye contact for the first time and angles his head over to look at his oldest and best friend. “Rest assured, bro, when the doc clears me, nothing—and I mean nothing—is going to be coming between Rylee and me for a long fucking time, except for maybe a change of sheets.”

My cheeks burn red at his frankness but my body clenches at the promise of his words. And I don’t care that Beckett just heard because I’m focused on the words long, fucking time.

“So noted,” Becks says as he takes another tug on his beer.

“I gotta take a piss,” Colton says, shoving himself up from the chaise. As I’ve learned to do over the past days, I force myself to remain seated as Colton struggles momentarily with his lack of balance and the sudden dizziness that I know assaults him. After a few moments he seems steady and goes to place his beer bottle on the table next to him. About a foot from the table, Colton’s right hand’s grip gives way and the bottle clatters to the deck below.

Becks’ eyes flash to mine momentarily, concern passing through them before he laughs and pretends not to notice. “Party foul!” he laughs. “I think Nurse Ratchet just might be on to something in regards to mixing all those drugs with that alcohol.”

“Fuck off,” he tosses over his shoulder as he turns toward the house. “Just for that I’m grabbing another!” I watch Colton walk into the kitchen, and when he thinks no one is looking, he looks down at his hand and tries to make a fist out of it before shaking his head.

“How’s he doing?”

I turn to face Becks. “The headaches are coming less and less but he’s frustrated. He keeps finding little things here and there he can’t remember. And he’s feeling confined.” I shrug. “And you know how he gets when he feels confined.”

Beckett blows out a loud breath with a shake of his head. “He needs to get back out on the track as soon as possible.”

I stare at him, mouth lax. “What?” slips from between my lips, feeling a stab of betrayal at his words. This is his best friend. Doesn’t he want to keep him safe? Keep him alive?

“Well, you say he’s feeling confined … the track is the one place he’s always been free of everything,” Becks says, holding my stunned stare. “Besides, if he doesn’t get behind the wheel soon, he’s going to let that fear he has eat at him, embed itself in his head, and fucking paralyze him so when he does actually think he can get back in the car, he’ll be a danger to himself.”

I’m an intelligent person and maybe if I weren’t still surprised by Beckett’s first comment, I would really hear what he’s saying—see the whole picture—but I don’t. “What are you talking about? Since he’s been home all he’s been grumbling about is getting back on the track.”

He just chuckles and even though it’s not condescending, I feel like my back is up against the wall here and grit my teeth at the sound. “Fuck yeah, he’s scared, Ry. Scared out of his fucking gourd. If it’s not his hand that he uses as an excuse, it will be something else … and he needs to get over it. If he doesn’t, the fear is just going to eat him alive.”

My mind jogs back to the past week. Things Colton has said about racing. Actions that contradict the words he’s saying, and I begin to realize that Beckett is right.

“But what about my fear?” I can’t help the desperation that laces through my voice.

“You think I’m not scared? That it’s going to be easy for me too?” The bite in Becks’ voice has me turning to look at him. “You think I’m not going to relive those seconds over and over in my mind every time I buckle him in the car? Every time he flies down the chute? Fuck, Ry, I almost lost him too. Don’t think this is going to be easy for me because it’s not. It’s going to be fucking brutal but it’s what is best for Colton.” He shoves up from the his seat and walks over to the railing, hands spread out supporting himself as he leans into them. “Until you came along it was the only thing he cared about. The only thing that kept him fucking sane.” He blows out a biting breath. “It’s the only thing he knows.” He turns back around to face me, eyes hidden behind aviators. “So yes, he needs to get his ass on the track and I’ll be his biggest fucking cheerleader, but don’t let that fool you into thinking my heart’s not going to be racing every goddamn minute he’s out there.”

My eyes follow him as he paces to one end of the patio to let his agitation abate and then back toward me before grabbing his bottle and turning the end up, downing the remainder of his beer.

“Racing’s about eighty percent mental and twenty percent skill, Rylee. We’ve got to get his head back in the game, thinking he’s ready, then he’ll be ready.”

I see the logic behind his reasoning, but it doesn’t mean I’m not scared to death.

I lift my face up to catch the last rays of sun before they dissipate and sink into the horizon. I hum along to Collide playing softly on the outdoor speakers as my mind wanders to Beckett and our conversation, to how I’m going to feel watching Colton get behind the wheel again and if he’ll fear it as much as I do.

“Hey, what are you doing out here all by yourself?” Colton’s rasp pulls at me on every level, and I open my eyes to find him looking down at me from my comfortable spot on the chaise. Warmth spreads through me when I see the pillow crease in the side of his cheek, and I can’t help but wonder what he was like as a little boy.

“Did you have a good nap?” I scoot over as he sits down beside me, but I purposefully don’t move too far so I can snuggle up closer to him.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in. “Yeah, I was out.” He laughs pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “But no more headache so all is good.

“I can’t imagine why you’d have any type of pain with the amount of beer you two put away.”

“Smart ass.”

“I’d rather be a smart ass than a dumb ass.”

“Aren’t we feisty tonight?” he says as he tickles my rib cage. “You know what feisty does to me, baby, and I sure as fuck could use it right now.”

I squirm out of his grasp. “Nice try, but we most likely only have a couple more days and then I’ll be any kind of feisty you want me to be,” I say with a raise of my eyebrows as his fingers ease up and smooth down my back.

“Don’t promise shit like that to a man as desperate as I am, if you’re not going to deliver, sweetheart.”

“Oh, no worries, Ace,” I say, snuggling back into him, “I’ll deliver truckloads of feisty as long as I know you’ll be okay.”

Colton doesn’t say anything, rather he makes a non-committal sound in response. We settle into a comfortable silence for a while, and I welcome it because this is the first time in the past few days where there isn’t that inexplicable tension vibrating between us. As the sun sinks and the ocean waves sigh into the oncoming night, my mind begins to wander back to my conversation with Becks. And being me, I have to ask, have to know Colton’s thoughts about racing again.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Mmm-hmm,” he murmurs into the crown of my head.

I hesitate at first, not wanting to bring up any thoughts if they’re not there already, but ask anyway. “Are you scared to get back on the track? To race again?” The words rush out and I wonder if he can hear the underlying trepidation in my tone.

His hand pauses momentarily on its trek up my spine before it continues, and I know I’ve touched on something he’s not completely comfortable talking about or admitting to. He sighs out into the silence I’ve given him. “It’s hard for me to explain,” he says before shifting so that we’re side by side, our eyes meeting. He shakes his head subtly and continues. “It’s like I fear it and I need it all at the same time. That’s the only way I can put it.”

I can sense his unease so I do what I do best, I try to soothe him. “You’ve figured it out with me.”

Confusion flickers in his eyes. “What do you mean?”

I had no intention of taking the conversation here, making him feel uncomfortable in talking about the “us” that was there before the crash. The “us” he raced and doesn’t remember. I reach out and rest my hand on the side of his stubbled jaw and make sure I have his attention before I speak. “You feared and yet needed me …” My voice fades.

He draws in a breath as emotions flicker through his eyes. His lips purse momentarily. The silence mixed with the intensity in his eyes unnerves me. I can hear the hitch of his breath, the sound of the ocean, the pound of my heart in my ears, and yet silence from him. He looks away and I prepare myself, for what I’m not sure. But when he looks back at me, a slow, shy smile curls up one corner of his mouth, and he nods his head in acceptance. “You’re right, I do need you.”

Parts way down deep sag in relief that he’s finally acknowledging our connection. Accepting it. And I don’t care that he isn’t telling me he races me, because this, the fact that he needs me, is more than I could ever have hoped for.

He brings a hand up gently to cup the side of my face and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip. He leans in and whispers his lips over mine tenderly before kissing the top of my nose. When he pulls back I see the wicked grin on his face. “Now it’s my turn.”

“Your turn?” I ask as his fingers play over the buttons of my top.

“Yep. It’s question and answer time, Ryles, and it’s your turn in the hot seat.”

“I’d like a turn in your hot seat,” I say back to him, earning the lightning fast grin that pulls on every hormone in my body like a magnet.

“Watch it, sweetheart, because I’m a walking case of blue balls that wants nothing more then to be buried in that finish line between your thighs.” As he speaks, he leans forward, close enough to kiss but doesn’t grant me one. Talk about sweet torture. When he speaks next, his breath feathers over my lips. “It’s best not to test my restraint.”

Every part of my body angles into him—wanting, needing, daring him—but he proves he still has control when he chuckles out a pained laugh. “My turn. Why haven’t you seen the boys yet?”

Of all of the questions he could have asked me, I had not expected this one. I must look a little shell-shocked because he’s right. I do desperately want to see the boys, but I don’t know how to see them without bringing the circus with me. The circus that their already fragile lives don’t need and can’t handle.

“You need me more right now,” I tell him, not wanting to give him the exact reason, so that he doesn’t have something besides recovering to worry about.

“That’s bullshit, Ry. I’m a big boy. I can be left alone for the night. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

But what if it does? What if you need me and no one is here and something horrible happens? “Yeah … I just,” I trail off, needing to say it and at the same time not wanting to offend him. “I don’t want your world to collide with theirs. They don’t need cameras in their faces telling everyone they’re orphans—that no one wanted them—or any of the fallout I’m sure would come with it.”

“Ry, look at me,” he says as he lifts my chin up to meet his eyes. “You and me? I don’t ever want it—me, the craziness around my life, the press, whatever—to come between you and the boys. They are what’s important, and I understand that more than most.”

Between telling me he needs me and then this declaration, I swear I could have just won the lottery and it wouldn’t matter because those two things just made me the richest person in the world. He really gets me. Gets that my boys make me who I am and that in order to be with me, he needs to love them. Beckett says I’m Colton’s lifeline, but I think he just proved it goes both ways.

I swallow back the lump of tears in my throat as he continues staring at me, to make sure I hear what he’s saying. I murmur in agreement, my voice robbed of emotion. “I’ll figure something out,” he says, leaning in to brush a kiss to my lips. “I’ll make sure you get to see the boys soon without interference, okay?”

I nod my head and then curl myself into him as my mind whirls with numerous questions when one jumps out at me. “My turn,” I say, wanting and fearing the answer to the question.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“That first night,” I pause, undecided about how to ask the question. I decide to dive in head first and hope I’m in the deep end. “What were you doing with Bailey in the alcove before you found me?”

Colton barks a laugh followed by a curse, and I think he’s a little surprised by my question. “You really want to know?”

Do I? Now I’m not so sure. I nod my head and close my eyes in preparation for the explanation to come.

“I walked backstage to take a call from Becks.” He laughs. “Shit, the minute I hung up she was on me like a pit viper. She had my jacket stripped, the front of her dress unzipped, and her mouth on mine faster than …” He fades off as I try not to react to the words, but I know he feels my body tense because he presses a kiss into the top of my head in reassurance. “Believe me, Rylee, it was not what it sounds like.”

“Really? Since when does the infamous ladies’ man, Colton Donavan, turn down a willing woman?” I can’t hide the sarcasm in my voice. Even though I asked the question, it still hurts to hear the answer. “Besides, I thought you like women taking control.”

He laughs again. “There’s no need to be jealous, sweetheart … even though it’s kind of hot that you are.” I poke him with my finger, content that he’s trying to soften the blow of the truth, and instead of pulling away, he just holds on to me tighter. “And I’ve only ever let one woman take control because she’s the only one that’s ever mattered.”

I scrunch up my nose as my heart sighs at the comment, but my head questions whether he is just trying to exercise self-preservation. Cynicism wins. “Hmpf.” I puff out. “I do believe I heard sweet Jesus come out of your mouth and not get off me.”

I feel Colton’s body shudder as he laughs in that full bodied way I love. “Think of it more like being eaten alive by a piranha with dull teeth.” I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his comment, and I just shake my head. “No seriously,” he says. “The minute I was able to come up for air, that was the first thing that came out of my mouth because the woman kisses like a fucking bulldog.” I can’t stop laughing now, my jealousy easing toward relief. “And the funniest part was at that moment my mom called to see how things were going and unknowingly rescued me from her claws.”

“You mean from her voodoo pussy?”

“Fuck no,” he chuckles. “You, baby—you’re my voodoo pussy. Bailey? She’s more like a piranha pussy.”

We laugh a bit more as his analogies get funnier and funnier and then he says, “Okay, so...” he trails a finger down the bare skin of my arm leaving tiny sparks of electricity in its wake “...Ace?”

I was waiting for the question, and I just pull back from him and shake my head. “You’re going to waste your next question on that? You’re going to be so disappointed.” I twist my lips and look at him. “Don’t you want to know something else?”

“Quit stalling, Thomas!” His fingers dig into my ribs, and I squirm trying to evade them.

“Stop,” I tell him as I keep wriggling. “Okay, okay!” I put my hands up and he stops right before I shove his shoulders. “Tyrant!” He tickles me one more time for good measure and then grunts as I try to explain. “Haddie tends to have a ridiculous penchant for rebellious bad boys.” I stop mid-sentence as he raises his eyebrows at me.

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, huh?” I can see him trying to keep the smile off of his face.

“I told you that night at the carnival that I don’t do bad boys.”

“Oh, baby, you most definitely did me.”

I don’t even fight the laugh that comes out because the cocky, mischievous grin is back on his face, lighting up his eyes, and solidifying the theft of my heart. “I sure did, but you were most definitely the exception to the rule,” I tell him with a smirk.

“As you were mine,” he says, and I think back to how easy it seems for him to say these things now when a month ago I never thought it would be a possibility. He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine, his tongue delving between them to taste and tantalize. I groan, unsatisfied, when he pulls away. “Now give me answers, woman. Ace?” he says with the raise of his eyebrows.

“Okay, okay,” I relent, although I’m still very distracted by how close Colton’s lips are to mine and how much I crave just one more taste even though my lips are still warm from his. “Like I said, Haddie goes for tattooed men destined to break her heart. Some are good for her, most are not. Max and I used to always laugh at the revolving door of rebels that surrounded her. In college she dated this guy named Stone.” I just nod when Colton shakes his head, making sure he heard me correctly.

“Yes, Stone was in fact his name. Anyway, the guy was a jerk but Haddie was madly in lust with him. One night he stood her up for his boys, and as we sat with a bottle of tequila and a bag of Hershey kisses, I told her he was a “real ace in the hole” she’d picked this time. One thing led to another shot, and then another shot.” I laugh at the memory from all those years ago. “And the more we drank, we decided to make ace stand for something … we thought we were hilarious with our guesses and once we decided on the perfect one for Stone, we couldn’t stop giggling. Later that night after he’d been out on the town with his buddies, he showed up at the door and when Haddie answered it, she said “Hey, Ace!” and the nickname stuck. He thought she was telling him he was an ace in the sack when she was really telling him he was an arrogant, conceited egomaniac.” Colton’s eyes meet mine when I finally give him what he wants to know. “And from there on out, every time she dated a guy who was like Stone, we called him Ace.”

He just stares at me for a second before nodding his head subtly. “Hmpf,” is all he says after a beat, his expression stoic and unexpressive. I worry my bottom lip between my teeth as I wait, and then a slow, lazy grin curls up one corner of his mouth. “It’s still a chance encounter to me, but I guess I earned that title the first night we met.”

I snort. “Umm, yeah, you can say that again.”

“Don’t kick an injured man when he’s down.” He pouts in mock sadness, and I lean in and brush my lips against his.

“You poor thing,” I croon.

“Yep, and just because you feel sorry for me, you’re going to let me ask another question. What other memory am I forgetting that you’re not telling me?”

I swear my heart skips and lodges in my throat. I try to not falter. Try not to show the break in my figurative stride, which would most definitely let him know that I know something he doesn’t. “Nice try, Ace,” I tease, swallowing hard and figuring distraction is key at this point.

I lower my lips and kiss little pecks down his neck and chest and then instantly know my next question. I probably shouldn’t ask it—know it’s a no-go area and I really intend to ask about the knock four times on the hood of the car thing—but the question is out of my mouth before I can stop it. “What do your tattoos mean?” I feel his chest hitch momentarily as I look up and meet his eyes. “I mean, I know what the symbols represent … but what is their meaning to you?”

He stares at me, tumult in his eyes and uncertainty in his grimace. “Ry … ” My name is an exhale on his lips as he tries to find the words to express the warring emotions dancing at a rapid pace through his irises.

“Why’d you get them?” I ask, thinking maybe I’ll switch gears, anything to get rid of the fear flickering in them.

“I figured I was scarred permanently on the inside—live with it every day, a constant reminder that never goes away—I might as well scar myself on the outside too.” He shifts his eyes away from mine with a deep breath and looks out toward the ocean. “Show everyone that sometimes what you think is a perfect package is filled with nothing but damaged goods, scarred and irreparable.” His voice breaks on the last word and with it so does a little piece of my heart. His words are like acid eating at my soul.

I can’t stand the sadness that overtakes him so I take the reins. I want him to see that whatever the tattoos represent, it doesn’t matter. Show him that only he could take what he deems an invisible disfigurement and make it visibly, beautiful art. Explain to him that the scars inside and out are meaningless because it’s the man that wears them—owns them—who is important. Is the man I’ve fallen in love with.

And I’m not sure how to show him this, so I move on instinct, touching his arm so he raises it up. I very slowly lean forward and press my lips to the uppermost one, the Celtic symbol representing adversity. I feel his chest vibrate beneath my lips as he tries to control the rush of emotion swamping him when I move ever so slowly down to the next one: acceptance.

The notion that anyone should ever have to scar themselves permanently to accept horrors I can’t even fathom hits me hard. I leave my lips pressed against the artistic reminder and close my eyes so he doesn’t see the tears pooling in them. So he doesn’t mistake them for pity. But then I realize I want him to see them. I want him to know that his pain is my pain. His shame is my shame. His adversity is my adversity. His struggle is my struggle.

That he no longer has to battle it alone, body and soul stained in silent shame.

As I lift my lips from the symbol of acceptance and move it down to healing, I look up at him through my tear blurred eyes. His eyes lock on to mine and I try to pour everything in myself into our visual conversation.

I accept you, I tell him.

All of you.

The broken parts.

The bent parts.

The ones filled with shame.

The cracks where hope seeps through.

The little boy cowering in fear and the grown man still suffocating in his shadow.

The demons that haunt.

Your will to survive.

And your spirit that fights.

Every single part of you is what I love.

What I accept.

What I want to help heal.

I swear neither of us breathe in this silent exchange, but I can feel walls crumbling down around the heart that beats just beneath my lips. Gates that once protected are now forced apart from the rays of hope, love, and the trust breaking through. Walls collapsing to let someone else in for the first time.

The absolute impact of the moment causes the tears to fall over and trail down my cheek. The salt on my lips, his scent in my nose, and the thunder of his heart breaks me apart and puts me back together in a magnitude of ways.

He squeezes his eyes shut, fighting the tears, and before he opens them, he’s reaching down and pulling me up so we’re at eye level. I can see the muscles in his jaw tic and see the fight over how to verbalize it in his eyes. We sit like this a moment as I allow him the space he needs.

“I …” he starts out and then his voices fades, lowering his eyes for a beat before raising them back up to mine. “I’m not ready to talk about it yet. It’s just too much and as much as it’s clear in my head—in my soul and my nightmares—saying it out loud when I never have, is just …”

My heart splinters for the man I love. Fucking shatters into the tiniest shards possible from the memories that just put that lost, apologetic, shameful look in his beautiful eyes. I reach out and cup his jaw in my hands trying to smooth away the pain etched in the magnificent lines of the face.

“Shh, it’s okay, Colton. You don’t need to explain anything.” I lean in and press a kiss to the tip of his nose as he does to me and then rest my forehead against his. “Just know I’m here for you if you ever want to.”

He exhales out a shaky sigh and pulls me tighter against him, trying to make me feel secure and safe when I should be doing that for him. “I know,” he murmurs into the darkening night. “I know.”

And it’s not lost on me that he let me kiss all of his tattoos—express love for all of the symbols of his life—except for the one denoting vengeance.