Текст книги "Crashed"
Автор книги: K. Bromberg
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 26 (всего у книги 31 страниц)
CHAPTER 40
Colton
The sun feels just as fucking good as the ice cold beer sliding down my throat and the sight of Rylee bending over in front of me. Fuck is my only thought as I adjust myself and think thoughts I shouldn’t be thinking with the boys here.
Will this ever end? To want her near? The want to watch her sleep and wake up next to her? My need to be buried in her? It’s been only three damn hours since we’ve left my bed and fuckin’ A, I’d love to drag her upstairs right now and have her again.
“Down boy!”
And there’s the voice that will make me go limp.
“’Sup, Becks.”
“Apparently you, if you don’t stop looking at her like you want to bend her over that lounge chair and fuck her into oblivion,” he says, taking a long sip of his beer.
Well, that’s always a thought.
I groan. “Thanks for the visual, dude, because that’s really not helping right now,” I reply with a roll of my eyes and shake of my head, before looking around to make sure the boys are far enough away they can’t hear us talking about how I want to defile their sexy-as-fuck guardian. And my God is she a walking wet dream. I shift in my chair again as I watch her squat down and adjust the top of her suit before slathering sunscreen all over Zander.
I shake my head thinking about her concern earlier in picking which swimsuit to wear with the boys coming over for a pool party. Even in the red one piece that she deemed matronly, every fucking curve of hers is on display like a goddamn road map tempting me to take it out for a test drive.
Dangerous curves ahead? Fuckin’ A. Bring. It. On. I’m a man that lives for danger. The thrill I get from it. And fuck if I’m not itching for the keys, right now.
Talk about revved and raring.
“By that sappy ass look on your face, I take it things are going good?” Becks asks as he sits down beside me and snaps me from my dirty thoughts.
“Pretty much.” I pop the top off of another bottle with the opener and take a drink.
“Please don’t tell me you’re gonna get all domesticated and shit on me now.”
“Domesticated? Fuck no.” I laugh. “Although the woman is hot as fuck in her heels pushing that grocery cart in front of me.” I can visualize it now and damn if the thought’s not making me ache to take her.
“You—Colton Donavan—stepped foot into a grocery store?” he sputters.
“Yep.” I raise my eyebrows and smirk at the look of shock on his face.
“And it wasn’t just to buy condoms?”
I can’t help it now. I love fucking with him. It’s just too goddamn easy. “Nah, no longer a requirement when you hold a frequent flier card to the barebacking club.”
“Jesus Christ, dude, are you trying to get me to choke on my beer?” He wipes beer off his chin that he spit out.
“I got something else you can choke on,” I murmur as my eyes are drawn back to Rylee bending over, my constant semi wanting to fly full staff. I’m so focused on her and my corrupt but oh-so-fucking awesome thoughts of what I can do to her later that I don’t hear what Becks says. “Huh?” I ask.
“Dude, you are one whipped motherfucker, aren’t you?”
I look over at him ready to defend my fucking manhood when I realize it’s right where I want it to be, held in Rylee’s fucking hands—the perfect mixture of sugar and spice. So I laugh out and just shake my head, bring the beer to my lips and shrug. “As long as it’s her pussy doing the whipping, I’m fucking game all day long.”
Becks chokes again but with laughter this time, and I pat him on the back as Ry looks over at us making sure he’s okay. “My God! That must be the best motherfucking voodoo pussy ever to tame Colton fuckin’ Donavan.”
“Tame? Never.” I chuckle and shake my head, leaning back on the chair behind me to look over at him. “But some asshole—er friend—made me realize how much I like the fucking alphabet.”
“That friend deserves a shitload of beer as a thank you then.” He shrugs. “That, or a mighty fine piece of ass in return.”
I snort out a laugh, grateful for his sarcasm to avoid talking about deep feelings and shit that I’m not really comfortable discussing. I’m just getting used to saying this kind of shit to Ry, I’m sure as fuck not going to be getting touchy-feely with Becks.
“She’s got a hot friend,” I tell him with a raise of my eyebrow, earning me a snort in return as I repeat what I said the night I talked him into inviting Ry to Vegas with us.
“She sure does,” he murmurs, but before I can respond, Aiden cannonballs into the pool and the splash hits us full on. We start laughing, comment forgotten, sunglasses now splashed with water.
“Hey,” he says, and I look back over at him. “I have to give you shit because that’s just the way we roll … but I’m really happy for you, Wood. Now don’t fuck it up.”
I grin at him. The fucker. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, dude.”
“Anytime, man. Anytime.” We sit in silence for a moment, both watching the boys around us acting like they’re supposed to be, kids. “So you ready?”
Becks’ voice pulls me from my thoughts and back to what I should really be focusing on: the race next week. First time back in the car since the accident. Pedal to the floor and the next left turn. And fuck if just the thought doesn’t make my blood pressure spike.
But I got this.
“Fuck, I was born ready,” I tell him, tapping the neck of my beer bottle to his. “Checkered flag’s mine for the taking.”
“Fuck yeah it is,” he says as he looks down at his phone that’s received a text, and my eyes drift back to Rylee and thoughts of a particular pair of checkered panties I never did get to claim. I sure as fuck need to fix that.
I shake my head as I sink back into my chair and watch the boys jumping in the pool and chicken fight one another. I sit and wait for it, but it doesn’t happen. That fucking pang of jealousy I used to get when I saw boys acting their age, acting how I never got to. Because even after I was adopted, the fear was still there, still raw as fuck.
Rylee catches my eye from across the deck and those fucking sexy-as-sin lips spread wide. Fuck me running. My balls tighten and chest constricts at the notion that I put that smile on those lips. The woman is my fucking kryptonite.
Who else would I allow to invite seven boys to my house for a pool party to celebrate summer being here? What other woman could I share my demons with and instead of running like a fucking banshee, she looks me in the eyes and tells me I’m brave? Who else would scar their skin to prove to me she’s in it for the long haul?
Motherfucking checkered flags and alphabets and sheets. When the fuck did all of this become okay with me?
I shake my head, pretending I don’t want it but fuck if I can’t look away from her for one goddamn second before my eyes find her again.
I lift the fresh beer Becks hands me and start to take a sip and look over at him as he shakes his head laughing at me. “What?”
“You are so going to fucking marry her.”
It’s my turn to choke on my beer. I double over in a coughing fit as Becks pounds me a little too hard on the back. “He’s fine!” I hear him say as I try to control the choking mixed with laughter burning its way up my throat. “He’s fine,” he says again, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“Fuck off, Becks!” I finally manage to get out. “Not gonna happen! No rings, no strings,” I say our old motto with a laugh. And then I look up to find Ry. She’s across the patio sitting on the edge of the pool, Diet Coke in hand, and is playing referee to the boys’ game of Marco Polo. Ricky gets caught as a fish out of water, and Rylee throws her head back in laughter at something Scooter says to him.
And there’s something about her right now—hair highlighted from the sun, a carefree sound to her laugh, and obviously in love with everyone around her. Something about her being with the boys, making life normal for them at a place that has never really been a home until now—until her—hits me harder than that fucking rookie Jameson did in Florida. Has me thinking about the forevers and shit that six months ago would have never once crossed my mind.
It’s just gotta be Becks getting in my head. Fucking it up. The bastard needs to shut the hell up about shit that’s not gonna happen.
Never.
So why the fuck am I wondering what Ry’d look like wearing white? Why am I wondering how Rylee Donavan sounds out loud?
Never. I try to shake the thoughts from my head, but they linger, spooking the fuck out of me.
“So not gonna happen.” I laugh, not sure if I’m repeating the words to convince Becks or myself. I look back over at Ry for a second. Talk about jumping the gun when I haven’t even found the bullets to load it yet. Fucking Beckett. “Taming’s one thing, fucker. Ball and chaining?” I whistle out. “That’s a whole ’nother ball game I have no interest in playing.” I shake my head again at that shit-eating grin on his face as I rise from the chair. “Never.”
“We’ll see about that,” he tells me with that smirk I want to wipe from his face.
“Dude, do you feel that?” I ask, raising my arms out from my side and lifting my face to the sun before looking back down at him.
“Huh?”
“That’s called heat, Daniels. Hell can’t freeze if it’s still hot outside,” I toss over my shoulder before walking to the edge of the pool. Conversation over. No more discussion of marriage and shit like that.
Is he trying to give me a heart attack?
Fuck.
“Cannonball!” I yell before jumping in, hoping to create more fucking turmoil in the pool than what Becks is trying to create in my head.
CHAPTER 41
Déjà vu hits me like a runaway train as I step from the RV ahead of Colton. The humid heat of Fort Worth hits me instantly, but the sweat trickling in a line down my back has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the anxiety coursing through every nerve.
Over Colton.
And over the car we’re walking toward.
I know he’s nervous, can feel it in the tightened grip of his fingers laced with mine, but his outward appearance reflects nothing but a man preparing to do his job. People around us chatter incessantly but Colton, Becks, and I walk off the infield as one unit, completely focused.
I attempt to push away the memories bombarding my mind, to appear calm even though every fiber of my being is vibrating with absolute trepidation.
“You okay?” His rasp washes over me, the concern in it tugs on my guilt since it should be me reassuring him.
I can’t lie to him. He’ll know if I am and it will only cause him to worry more. The last thing I want is him to be thinking of me. I want him focused and confident when he buckles into the car and takes the green flag all the way to the checkered one.
“I’m getting there,” I breathe and squeeze his hand as we reach the pits and the mass of photographers waiting to record Colton’s first race back after the accident. The click of shutters and shouting of questions drowns out the response he gives me. And as I tense up further, Colton seems to relax some, comfortable in this environment like it’s his second skin.
And I realize that while all of this is uncomfortable and foreign to me, this is part of the blur that Colton used to permanently reside in. Surrounded by the shouts and the flashes of light, he’s one hundred percent back in his element. The utter chaos is allowing him to forget the worry I know is plaguing his thoughts, and for that I’m so thankful.
I step to the side and watch him answer questions with a flash of his disarming smile that gets me every time. And as much as I see the cocky bad boy shining through with each answer, I also see a man in utter reverence of the sport he loves and the role he plays in it. A man gaining back bits and pieces of the confidence he left on the track in St. Petersburg with each response.
As much as I’m dreading the familiar call of “gentlemen start your engines,” a part deep down within me sags in relief that he’s back. My reckless, rebellious rogue just found his footing and is stepping back in his place.
* * *
Silence descends around us—the constant noise fading to a white humming as the minutes tick away, bringing us closer and closer to the start of the race. I can feel Colton’s restlessness rising, can see it in his constant movement, and wish I could ease it somehow, someway, but fear he’ll sense mine and that will only make matters worse.
I see him toss his empty Snickers wrapper into the trash beside him as he goes over pit stop scheduling with Becks and some of the other crew members, his face intense but his body language fluid. I watch him step away and look at his car, his head angling to the side as he stares at it for a beat—a silent conversation between man and machine. He walks up to it slowly; the crew, still making last minute adjustments, steps back. He reaches a hand out and runs it up the nose to the driver’s cockpit, almost a caress of sorts. Then he raps his knuckles on the side, his customary four times. The last time he holds his fist there, resting against the metal for a second before shaking his head.
And even with the chaos of all the last minute preparations happening around me, I can’t tear my eyes away from him. I realize how wrong I was to hope he’d give this all up as I sat beside his hospital bed. How asking him to give up racing would be like asking him to breathe without air. To love without me being the one he’s loving. Racing is in his blood—an absolute necessity—and that has never been more evident than right now.
I wonder how different this race will be for him without the constant pressure of the demons on his heels, of the need to drive faster, to push harder to outrun them. Will it be easier or harder without the threat he’s had his whole life?
The PA hums to life shattering my thoughts and Colton’s moment of reflection. When he looks over his shoulder, his eyes immediately lock with mine. A shy smile spreads over his lips, acknowledging that our connection is so deep that we don’t need words. And that feeling is priceless.
People scramble around us but with his eyes on mine, he wraps his knuckles two more times on the hood before turning and walking toward me.
“Starting a new tradition?” I ask with a quirk of my brow, a smile a mile wide and a heart brimming with love. “Two more for extra luck or something?”
“Nah.” He smirks, scrunching his nose up in the cutest way—such a contrast to the strong lines of his face—that my heart melts. “All the extra luck I need is right here,” he says as he leans in and presses the tenderest of kisses to my lips and just holds his mouth against mine for a moment.
Emotions threaten—war really—inside of me as I try to tell myself his sudden affection isn’t because the fates above are giving me one last memory with him because something bad is going happen again. I try desperately to fight the burn of tears and enjoy the moment, but I know he knows, know he senses my unease, because he lifts his hands up to hold my face as he draws back and meets my eyes.
“It’s gonna be okay, Ry. Nothing is going to happen to me.” I force myself to hear the absolute certainty in his voice so I can relax some, be strong for him.
I nod my head subtly. “I know …”
“Baby, Heaven doesn’t want me yet, and fuck if Hell can handle me, so you’re kinda stuck with me.” He flashes me a lighting fast grin that screams everything I never thought was sexy—unpredictable, adventurous, arrogance—and now can’t help the ache it creates.
“Stuck with you, huh?”
He leans in and brings his mouth to my ear. “Stuck in you is more what I’m thinking,” he murmurs, his heated breath against my ear sending shivers down my spine. “So please, please, tell me you’re wearing some type of checkered flag I can claim later because fuck if I don’t want to throw you over my shoulder and take a test lap right now.”
Every part of my body clenches from his words. And maybe it’s my heightened adrenaline and excessive emotion being back in the moment so precious yet stolen so brutally from us months ago, but fuck if I don’t want him to do just that.
“I love a man willing to beg,” I tease, my fingers playing with the hair curling over the neck of his fire suit.
“You have no idea the things I’m willing to beg for when it comes to you, sweetheart.” He disarms me with that roguish grin of his, his words causing my breath to catch in my throat. “Besides, my begging leads to you moaning and fuck if that’s not the hottest sound ever.”
I exhale a small groan of frustration, needing and wanting him desperately when I can’t have him … and I know that’s exactly why the ache is so intense. I start to speak, but am cut off by the opening chords of the Star Spangled Banner. Colton holds tight to the sides of my face and looks at me a moment longer before pressing one more kiss to my lips, and then nose, before turning toward the flag, removing his lucky hat, and placing his hand over his heart.
As the song plays on, its last notes sounding, I take a deep breath to prepare myself for the next few moments—to be strong, to not show him my fear’s still there, regardless of how certain he feels. And then chaos descends around us the minute the crowd cheers.
Colton gets suited up, taped down, zipped up, gloves on. Engines start to rev farther down the line, and the rumble vibrates through my chest. He’s in the zone, listening to Becks and getting ready for the task at hand.
Superstition tells me to make this race different. To step back over the wall without Davis’ help. To do anything to not let time repeat itself. And then his voice calls to me. Shattering all my resolve with the shards of nostalgia.
“Rylee?”
My eyes flash up immediately, the breath knocked clear from my chest with his words and the bittersweet memories they evoke, and lock onto his as he strides toward me, shrugging off a groan from Beckett about running out of time.
My mouth parts and my eyebrows furrow, “Yeah?”
He reaches out, the short barrier of a wall between us and yanks my body to his so our hearts pound against one another’s. “Did you actually think I was going to let you walk away this time without telling you?”
The smile on my face must spread a mile wide because my cheeks hurt. Tears pool in my eyes and this time it’s not from fear.
But from love.
Unconditional adoration for this man holding me tight.
“I love you, Ryles.” He says the four words so softly in that rasp of his, and even with everything around us—revved engines, a packed grandstands, the crackle on the PA system—I can hear it clear as day.
His words wrap around my heart, weave through its fibers, and tie us together. I exhale a shaky breath and smile at him. “I love you too, Ace.”
He smirks before pressing a toe-tingling kiss to my lips and says, “Checkered flag time, baby.”
“Checkered flag time,” I repeat.
“See you in victory lane,” he says with a wink before turning and walking back toward a crew standing motionless, waiting for their driver.
I watch them help him slide his helmet on, mesmerized with both love and fear, and then allow Davis to lead me up the stairs to the pit box so I can watch from an elevated level. I place the headset on as I look down over the sill and watch them fasten Colton’s HANS device, yank on his harnesses, and tighten the steering wheel down.
“Radio check, Wood.” The disembodied voice of Colton’s spotter fills my ears, startling me. “Check one, two. Check one, two.”
There’s silence for a moment and I look down as if I’d be able to actually see him through his helmet and the surrounding crew.
The spotter tries again. “Check one, two.”
“Check, A, B, C.” Colton’s voice comes through loud and clear.
“Wood?” The spotter calls back, confusion in his voice. “You okay?”
“Never better,” he laughs. “Just giving a shout out to the alphabet.”
And the nerves eating at me dissipate immediately.
“The alphabet?”
“Yep. A to motherfucking Z.”
* * *
Quinlan grips my hand as I look up at the ticker on the top of the screen counting down the laps left to go.
Ten.
Ten laps to go through the gamut of emotions—nervous, excited, frantic, hopeful, enamored—just like I have the past two hundred and thirty eight laps. I’ve stood, I’ve sat, I’ve paced, I’ve yelled, I’ve prayed, and have had to remind myself to breathe.
“He’s gonna pull it off,” Quinlan murmurs beside me as she squeezes my hand a little tighter and while I agree with her—that Colton is going to win his comeback race in a flurry of glory—I won’t say it aloud, too afraid to jinx the outcome.
I look down below to where Becks is talking furtively with another crew member, their heads so close they’re almost touching as they scribble on a piece of paper. And I don’t know much about racing, but I know enough that they’re worried their fuel calculations are so slim in margin that Colton may literally be running on fumes on the final lap.
I watch as the lap number gets lower, my pulse racing and heart hoping as it hits five. “You’ve got Mason coming up hard and fast on the high side,” the spotter says, anxiety lacing his usually stoic voice.
“Ten-four,” is all that Colton says in response, concentration resonating in his voice.
“He’s going for it!” the spotter shouts.
I glance at the monitor in front of me to see a close up version of what I’m seeing on the track, and my body tenses in anticipation as they fly into turn three, masses of metal competing at ungodly speeds. I swear that everyone leans forward from their position in the booth to get a closer look. I fist my hands and rise up on my toes as if that will help me see more, quickly pushing my prayers out to Colton as Mason challenges him for the lead.
I hear the crowd the same time my eyes avert back to the monitor, just in time to see rear tires touching together, Mason overcorrecting and slamming into the wall on the right of him, while Colton’s car swerves erratically on the bank of asphalt from the force of their connection.
Everyone in the box is on their feet instantly, the same sound, different track, wreaks havoc on our nerves. My hands are covering my mouth, and I’m leaning out of the open-windowed booth to see the track.
“Colton!” Becks shouts out as I gasp, a blaze of red car sliding out of control onto the apron. Colton would normally reply instantly, but there is absolute radio silence. And I think a little part of me dies in that instant. A tiny part forever lost to the notion that there will always be this trickle of unease and flashback of the riotous emotions from Colton’s crash every time I see smoke or the wave of the yellow flag.
I see Beckett pull on the bill of his baseball cap as his eyes fixate on the track. Anxiety rules over my body right now, and yet I still feel those seeds of certainty Colton planted with his confidence earlier ready to root and break through. And I can’t imagine what’s going through his head—the mix of emotions and memories colliding—but he doesn’t let up. The car doesn’t slow down one bit.
And yet he still hasn’t spoken.
“C’mon, son,” Andy murmurs to no one in particular down the line from me, hands gripping the edge of the table he stands behind, knuckles turning white.
Only seconds pass but it feels like forever as I watch Colton’s car aim erratically toward the grass of the infield, heading straight for the barrier, before miraculously straightening out.
And then the whole booth lets out a collective whoop when the telltale red and electric blue nose of the car flies back up the apron and onto the asphalt, under control. And still in the lead. Colton’s voice comes through the speaker. “Fuckin’ A straight!” he barks, the overflow of emotion breaking through both his voice and the radio, followed by a “Woohoo!” The adrenaline rush hitting him full force.
“Bring it home, baby!” Becks shouts at him as he paces below us and blows out a loud breath, taking off his headset and hat for a moment to regain his composure before putting them back on.
Four laps left.
I feel like I can breathe again, my fingers twisting together, my nerves dancing, and my hopes soaring to new heights. C’mon, baby. You can do this, I tell him silently, hoping he can feel my energy with the thousands in the stands pushing for him to claim this victory.
Three laps left. I can’t stand it anymore. My body vibrates from more than the rumbling of the engines as the cars pass us one after another in an endless sequence. I shove back from the counter and shrug at Quinlan when she gives me a questioning look about where I’m going. I want to be as close to him as possible so I make my way to the stairs and start running down them.
“Two to go, baby!” Becks shouts into the mic as I make it to the bottom step and stay close to the wall below on the inside border of the pits. I can’t see the track very well from here but I smile as I watch Becks look at the monitor and shake his head back and forth, body moving restlessly, energy palpable.
I look up at the standings and see that Colton is still in the lead before my eyes are drawn to the flag stand where the flagger is getting the white flag denoting last lap ready. And then it waves and my heart leaps into my throat. Becks pumps a fist in the air and reaches over to squeeze the shoulder of the crew member next to him.
Someone brushes against my shoulder and I look over to see Andy beside me, cautious smile ready to light up his face when the checkered flag takes flight. I look back up but my view of the flag stand is obstructed by the row of red fire suits standing atop the pit row wall, watching, waiting, anticipating.
And then I hear it.
The crushing roar of the crowd and the jubilant whoops of the crew as they jump off the wall hooting and hollering in victory. I’m so overcome with emotion I don’t even remember who grabbed who, but all I know is that Andy and I are hugging each other out of pure excitement. He did it. He really did it.
The next few minutes pass in a blur as hugs and high fives are given all around, headsets are removed, and we all move quickly in a big mass toward victory lane. The motor revs as Colton pulls into his spot fresh off his victory lap.
And I don’t know what the protocol is for non-crew members, but I’m right in the thick of it, fighting my way to see him. Wild horses couldn’t keep me from him right now.
My view is blocked temporarily by camera crews and I’m so anxious—heart pounding, cheeks hurting from smiling so wide, heart overflowing with love—that I want to push them out of the way to get to him.
When they shift to get a better shot, I see him standing there, accepting congratulations from Becks, bottle of Gatorade to his lips, hand running through his sweat soaked hair sticking up in total disarray, and the most incredible expression on his face—exhaustion mixed with relief and pride.
And then as if he can feel my gaze on him, he locks his eyes on mine, the biggest, most heart-stopping grin blanketing his face. My heart stops and starts as I take him in. I swear the air zings with sparks from our connection. He doesn’t even say a word to Beckett but leaves him behind and starts pushing through the crowd, the mass moving with him, his eyes never leaving mine, until he’s standing before me.
I’m against him in an instant, his arms closing around me and lifting my feet off the ground as he throws his head back and emits the most carefree laugh I’ve ever heard before crushing his mouth to mine. And there is so much going on around us—utter chaos—but it’s nothing compared to the way he’s making me feel inside right now.
Everyone and everything fades away because I’m right where I belong—in his arms. I feel the heat of his body pressed against mine rather than the press jostling us to and fro to get the perfect shot. I inhale his smell, soap and deodorant intermingled with a hard day’s work—and it has my pheromones snapping to attention, has them silently urging him to take me, dominate me, own me so I’m marked by that scent. I taste Gatorade on his lips and it’s nowhere near enough to satiate the desire coursing through me, because with Colton, one taste will never be enough. I hear his laugh again as he breaks from our kiss and presses his forehead to mine for a moment, his chest rumbling from the euphoric sound.
“You did it!”
“No,” he disagrees, pulling his head back to look in my eyes. “We did it, Ry. It was us together because I couldn’t have won without you.”
My heart tumbles in my chest and crashes into my stomach that’s jolted up as if I’m free falling. And in a sense I am. Because my love for him is endless, bottomless, eternal.
I smile at him, tears blurring my vision as I press one more chaste kiss on his lips. “You’re right,” I murmur. “We did it.”
He squeezes me tight one more time and lowers me to the ground with another heart-stopping grin as the world around us seeps back. I step away, allowing everyone else their five seconds with him, and yet all I can think of are his words, we did do it.
And I watch him—the man I love—and know his words have never been more true. We’ve really done it. We’ve faced our demons together.
His past, his fears, his shame.
My past, my fears, my grief.
He looks over in the midst of an interview question and winks at me with a smirk. Pride, love, and relief flow through me like a tidal wave.
Holy shit.
We really did do it.
