Crashed

by K. Bromberg

  Whole again.

  I start to move so I can look into his eyes. “No doctors yet. I just need this. Need you. No one else, okay?” he asks.

  Seriously? Is the sky blue? If I could, I’d whisk him out of this sterile prison and keep him all to myself for a while. Forever or more if he’d let me. But rather than letting the flippant comment roll off my tongue, I just make a satisfied moan and tighten my arms around him. I close my eyes and just absorb everything about this moment. I so desperately wish we were somewhere else, anywhere else, so I could lie with him skin to skin, connect with him in that indescribable way. Feel like I am doing something to help heal his broken memory and damaged soul.

  We lie there in silence, my hand over his heart and the fingers of his left hand lazily drawing lines up and down my forearm. There are so many questions I want to ask. So many things that run through my head, but the only one that I manage to say is, “How are you feeling?”

  The momentary pause in his movement is so subtle I almost don’t catch it, but I do. And it’s enough to tell me that something’s wrong besides the obvious.

  “This is nice.” It’s all he says and that further solidifies my hunch. I give him a bit of time to gather his thoughts and work out what he wants to say because after the past few weeks, I’ve learned so many things, least of which is my inability to listen when it matters the most.

  And right now it matters.

  So I sit in silence as my mind wars with the possibilities.

  “I’ve been awake for a few hours,” he starts. “Listening to you breathe. Trying to make my right hand fucking work. Trying to wrap my head around what happened. What I can’t remember. It’s there. I can sense it but I can’t make it come to the forefront …” he trails off.

  “What do you remember?” I ask.

  I desperately want to turn, to look into his eyes and read the fear and frustration that is most likely marring them, but I don’t. I give him the space to admit that he’s not one hundred percent. To balance that inherent male need to be as strong as possible, to show no weakness.

  “That’s just it,” he sighs. “I remember bits and pieces. Nothing flows though, except you were there in most of them. Can you tell me what happened? How the day went so I can try to fill in what’s missing?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I nod my head gently, smiling at the memory of how our morning started.

  “I remember waking up to the best sight ever—you naked, on top of me.” He sighs in appreciation that causes parts within me that have been ignored over the past week to stir to life. I don’t even fight the smile that spreads across my lips when I feel his growing arousal beneath the sheet next to me. Glad I’m not the only one affected by the memory.

  “Becks came in without knocking and I was pissed at him for that. He left and I do believe your jeans were on the floor and your back was up against the wall in a matter of seconds after the door was shut.” We fall silent for a moment, that undeniable charge crackling between us. “Sweet Christ what I wouldn’t give to be doing that right now.”

  I start laughing and this time when I shift myself to sit up and look at him, he allows me. I turn to face him and can’t help the chills that blanket my skin when I lock eyes with his. “Now I don’t think Dr. Irons would approve of that,” I tease, silently sighing with relief that we feel like we are right back where we left off before the accident. Playful, needing, and each other’s complement. I can’t stop my hand from reaching out and lingering on his cheek. I hate the thought of not being in contact with him.

  “Well,” he says, “I’ll make sure that’s the first thing I ask Dr. Irons when I see him.”

  “The first thing?” I ask and swallow around my heart that’s just somersaulted into my throat when he turns his face and presses a kiss into the palm of my hand. The simple action knotting the bow on the ribbon already tied around my heart.

  “A man has to have his priorities.” He smirks. “If one head’s fucked up, at least the other one can be used to its maximum potential.” He starts to laugh and winces, bringing his left hand up to hold his head.

  Alarm shoots through me and I immediately reach out to push the call button, but his hand reaches out and stops me. And it takes a second for me to register that it’s his right hand he’s just used. I think Colton realizes it at the same time.

  He works a swallow down his throat, his eyes shifting to watch his hand as he releases my arm. I follow his gaze to see his fingers tremor violently as he unsuccessfully tries to make a fist. I notice a sheen of sweat appear on his forehead below the bandage as he wills his fingers to tighten. When I can’t bear to watch him struggle any more, I reach out and grab his hand in mine and start massaging it, willing it to move myself.

  “It’s a start,” I reassure him. “Baby steps, okay?” All I want to do is wrap him in my arms and take away all of his pain and frustration, but he seems so fragile that I fear touching him, despite how much it would lessen the lingering unease that tiptoes in my head. My usual optimism has been put through the ringer these past few weeks, and I just can’t seem to shake the feeling that this isn’t the worst of it. That something else is lurking on the horizon waiting to knock us down again.

  “What else do you remember?” I prompt, wanting to get his mind off of his hand.

  He gives me his recollections of the day, little pieces are missing here and there. The details aren’t too major but I do notice that the closer he gets to the start of the race, the bigger the voids are. And each piece of the puzzle seems to get harder and harder to recall, as if he has to grab each memory and physically pull it from its vault.

  Giving him a moment to rest, I return from the in-suite bathroom to put away the mouthwash he’d requested. I find Colton looking out the window, shaking his head at the media circus below. “I remember being in the trailer. The knock on the door.” His eyes angle over to me, salacious thoughts dancing within his glints of green as I return to my seat on the bed beside him. “A certain checkered flag I never got to claim.” He purses his lips and just stares at me.

  And resistance is futile.

  It always is when it comes to my willpower and Colton.

  I lean in, doing what I’ve wanted to do desperately. Giving into the need to feel that connection with him—to feed my one and only addiction—and brush my lips against his. I know it’s ridiculous that I’m nervous about hurting him. That somehow the lascivious thoughts behind our innocent brush of our lips are going to cause pain to his healing head.

  But the minute our lips touch—the minute the soft sigh escapes his mouth and weaves its way into my soul—I find it hard to think clearly. I withdraw a fraction, needing to make sure he’s okay when all I want to do is devour the apple tempting me.

  But I don’t have to because Colton hands it to me on a silver platter when he brings his left hand to the nape of my neck and draws my mouth back down to his again. Lips part, tongues meld, and recognition renews as we sink into each other in a reverent kiss. We’re in no hurry to do anything other than enjoy our irrefutable connection. The annoying beep of the monitors is overtaken by the soft sighs and satisfied murmurs signaling the affection between us.

  I am so lost in him, to him—when I feared I might never taste him again—all I can think about now is how will I ever get enough of him?

  I feel the tightening of his lips as he grimaces in pain and guilt immediately lances through me. I’m pushing him too hard, too fast to soothe my own selfish need for reassurance. I try to pull away but his hand holds my head firm as he rests his forehead against mine, noses touching, breaths feathering over each other’s lips.

  “Just give me a sec,” he murmurs against my lips. I just nod my head slightly against his because I’ll give him a lifetime if he asks.

  “These headaches come on so quick it feels like a sledgehammer hits me,” he says after a moment.

  Concern douses the flames of lust instantly. “Let me get the doctor.”

  “No,” he say
s, pounding his left hand against the bed making the rails shake. “This place brings me back to being eight.” And the argument that was about to roll off the tip of my tongue dies. “Everyone looking at me with worried eyes and no one giving me answers … except this time I’m the one who can’t give answers.”

  He laughs softly and I can feel his body stiffen again with the pain. “Colton …”

  “Uh-uh. Not yet,” he says again, stubbornly, as he rubs his thumb back and forth across the bare nape of my neck trying to soothe me when it should be the other way around. “I remember my interview with ESPN. Eating my Snickers bar.” He gets a rather odd look on his face and averts his eyes momentarily. “Kissing you on pit row and then nothing for a bit,” he says, trying to distract me from wanting to get the doctor.

  “The drivers’ meeting.” I fill in. “Becks was with you then.”

  “Why would I remember eating a candy bar but not the meeting?”

  And I draw the connection in my own mind with the missing information that Andy had filled in. Because the traditional good luck Snickers bar is tied to his past—the first chance encounter he had with hope in his life. “I don’t know. I’m sure it will all come back to you. I don’t think—”

  “You were next to me during the anthem. The song ended …” His voice fades as he tries to recall the next events, while mine catches in my throat. “I watched Davis help you over the wall, wanting to make sure you were safe while Becks started last minute checks … and I remember feeling the weirdest sense of being at peace as I sat at the start/finish line but I’m not sure why … and then nothing until waking up.”

  And the lingering tiptoe of unease that I’d felt earlier turns into a full-on stampede.

  My heart plummets. My breath hitches. He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember telling me the phrase that’s glued the broken pieces of me together. It takes every ounce of strength I have to not let the unexpected slap to my soul show in the stiffening of my body.

  I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear him say those words again—especially after thinking I’d lost him. How knowing he remembered that defining moment between us would mend together the last fissures in my healing heart.

  “Do you?” His voice breaks through my scattered thoughts as he kisses the tip of my nose before guiding my head back so he can look into my eyes.

  I try to mask the emotions that I’m sure are swimming there. “Do I what?” I ask, forcing a swallow down my throat over the lie that clogs it.

  He angles his head as he looks at me and I wonder if he knows I’m holding something back. “Do you know why I felt so happy at the start of the race?”

  I lick my lips and mentally remind myself to not worry my bottom lip between my teeth or else he’ll know I’m lying. “Uh-uh,” I manage as my heart deflates. I just can’t tell him. I can’t force him to feel words he doesn’t remember or make him feel obligated to repeat words that make him recall the horrors of his childhood.

  … What you said to me—those three words—they turn me into someone I won’t ever let myself be again. It triggers things—memories, demons, so fucking much …

  His words scrape through my mind and score a mark that only he will ever be able to heal. And I know as much as I want to, as much as it hurts me to suppress my need to hear it, I can’t tell him.

  I force a diminutive smile on my lips and meet his eyes. “I’m sure you were just excited about the start of the season and thinking that if your practice runs were any indication, you were going to be claiming the checkered flag.” The lie rolls off of my tongue, and for a minute I worry he’s not going to believe it. After a beat one corner of his mouth lifts up and I know he hasn’t noticed.

  “I’m sure there was more than one checkered flag I was focused on claiming.”

  I shake my head at him, the smile on my lips beginning to tremble.

  Colton’s face transforms instantly from amusement to concern at the unexpected change in my demeanor. “What is it?” he asks, bringing his hand up to cradle the side of my face. I can’t speak just yet because I’m too busy preventing the dam from breaking. “I’m okay, Ry. I’m going to be okay,” he whispers reassurances to me as he pulls me into him and wraps his arms around me.

  And the dam breaks.

  Because kissing Colton is one thing, but being encircled in the all-encompassing warmth of his arms makes me feel that I’m in the safest place in the entire world. And when all is said and done, the physical side to our relationship is earth shattering and a necessity no doubt, but at the same time this feeling—muscular arms wrapped around me, his heated breath murmuring reassurances into the crown of my head, his heart beating strong and steady against mine—is by far the one that will carry me through the tough times. The times like right now. When I want him so much—in so many ways—that I never realized were possible. That never even flickered on my radar before.

  I’m crying for so many reasons that they start to mix and mingle and slowly fade with each tear that makes the all too familiar tracks down my cheeks. I’m crying because Colton doesn’t remember. Because he’s alive and whole and his arms are wrapped tight around me. I’m crying because I never got the chance to experience this with Max and he deserved it. I’m crying because I hate the hospital, what it represents, and how it affects and changes the lives of everyone inside for the good and for the bad.

  And when the tears stop—when my catharsis is actually over and all of the emotions I’ve kept pent up over the past week abate—I realize what matters most is this, right here, right now.

  We can get through this. We can find us again. A part of me worries deep down that he’ll never remember that moment so poignant in my mind, but at the same time we have so many more moments ahead of us, so many ready for us to make together, that I can’t feel sorry for myself any longer.

  My breath hitches again and all I can do is hold on a little tighter to him, hold on a little longer. “I was so worried,” is all I can say. “So scared.”

  “Spiderman. Batman. Superman. Ironman,” he whispers in what seems almost a reflex.

  “I know.” I nod and pull back from him so I can look him in the eyes as I wipe away the tears from my cheeks. “I called to them to help you.”

  “I’m sorry that you ever had to.” He says the words with such honesty that I all I can do is stare into his eyes and see the truth beneath them. That his apology knows how truly scared I was.

  I lean in and press my lips gently to his one more time, unable to resist. Wanting him to feel the sense of relief finally settling in my soul. Wanting to prove to him that I can be the strong one while he heals. That it’s okay for him to let me.

  “Well lookie here. Sleeping Beauty finally woke his ugly ass up.”

  We break from our kiss at the sound of Beckett’s voice, heat flooding my cheeks. “I was just going to call you.”

  “Really? Is that what you were doing?” he teases as he approaches the bed. “Kiss a lot of frogs? Because it looks to me like the comatose prince here has you under his spell.”

  I can’t hold back the laugh that bubbles up. “You’re right. I’m not sorry at all.” I reach out and squeeze the hand he offers me. “But I was going to call you next.”

  “No worries. I know you would have.” He turns and looks at Colton, his smile the brightest I’ve seen since race day. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes. Welcome to the land of the living, man.” And I know he sounds tough, but I catch the break in his voice and the water beading at the corners of his eyes when he focuses on Colton. He reaches out and cuffs his shoulder. “Shit. That freakish-looking shaved patch on your head might just knock you back down to the realm of good looking people. How’s it feel leaving the land of I’m-a-fucking-God?”

  “Fuck off. This coming from the land of I’m-a-fucking-comedian?”

  Beckett barks out a laugh with a shake of his head. “At least in my land we don’t have to modify door casings to allow overinflated egos to walk through
.”

  “This is the kind of welcome back to the world I get? I feel the love, dude. I think I prefer the drugs they’re giving me to hold me under rather than wake up and listen to this shit.” Colton squeezes my hand and his eyes dart over to mine before returning back to Beckett.

  “Really? Because I may not have just awoken from a coma, but I assure you that the fuzzy feeling those drugs give you is nothing compared to being awake and the feeling of a warm, wet—”

  “Whoa!” I hold my hands up and scoot off the bed, not wanting to hear where the rest of this conversation is going. The faint smell of last night’s dinner in the trash gives me all the excuse I need to give them a moment alone. “That’s enough for me, boys. I’m going to head down, stretch my legs, and take this trash out.”

  “Oh, Ry! C’mon …” Becks says, holding his hands out to the side of him. “I was going to say bath. A warm, wet bath.” He laughs loudly and then I hear Colton’s laugh and I feel like the world that had been shifted off its axis has just been righted somewhat.

  “Yeah,” I chide as I pull the liner from the trash can. “I know I always use the adjectives warm and wet when referring to a bath.” I shake my head and catch Colton’s gaze for a beat. “Be back in a couple of minutes.”

  My heart feels so much lighter as I walk down the corridor back toward Colton’s room. I’ve texted his parents and Quinlan about him being awake again, and I’m sure they’ll be here momentarily. I head to the end of the hall, where the staff of the hospital has so graciously placed Colton’s room. His room is more private than most of the others so he can stay out of the sight of other hospital visitors. And there’s less chance of the media getting a coveted picture of him.

  I’m just about to enter his room when I realize he might want some water. I turn around, not paying attention, and almost run head on into the one person I have no desire to see.