by Bromberg, K.
“The man can kiss,” I confess, grinning like a loon. “He can definitely kiss.” I nod my head in agreement.
“Don’t think about it, Rylee … just do it! Be reckless. Let your hair down,” she urges. “Do you want to wake up twenty years from now with a perfectly ordered life with everything in its proper place but never having really lived? Never really putting yourself out there?”
“Well, I like the everything in order part,” I kid as she rolls her eyes at me.
“Of course, that’s what you would focus on! Just think of the stories you can tell your grandkids someday—about the sordid affair you had with the hot playboy race car driver.”
I take a sip of my wine, contemplating her comments. “I know what you’re saying, Haddie, I really do, but the sex without commitment thing. Without the relationship thing … how do you do that?”
“Well you stick flap A in slot B,” she answers wryly.
“It was a rhetorical question, you bitch!” I laugh, throwing a pillow at her.
“Thank God! I was worried it had been so long that I was going to have to give you a sex-ed lesson.” She reaches over to the table and uncorks another bottle of wine, topping off both of our glasses. She settles back in the couch, and I can see her mentally choosing her words before she speaks. “Maybe it’s best that way?” When all I do is raise my eyebrows in question, she explains. “Maybe for your first guy since Max, maybe it’s best that he isn’t relationship material. You’re bound to have some hiccups—after everything you’ve been through—so maybe it’s best to throw caution to the wind and embrace your inner slut for a little bit. Have some fun and a lot of mind blowing sex!” She wiggles her eyebrows and I giggle at her, my overconsumption of wine slowly taking effect, smoothing over my frayed nerves.
“My inner slut,” I reiterate, nodding my head, “I like that, but I think she’s lost.”
“Oh, we can find her, sister!” she snickers. “She’s probably hiding behind the layers of cobwebs covering your crotch.”
We both laugh before we start giggling uncontrollably. My overwrought emotions from the week welcome this release. I giggle until tears seep from the corners of my eyes. Just when I think my laughter is going to subside, Haddie shakes her head. “You have to admit, Ry, the man is fucking hot!”
I start giggling again. “Scorching hot!” I confirm. “Man, I can’t wait to see him naked!” The words are out before my fuzzy brain has had a chance to filter them.
Haddie stops mid-laugh, a knowing smile playing over her lips. “I knew it!” she yells at me, pointing at my face. “I knew you wanted to fuck him!”
“Well, duh?” I respond before we collapse again in another fit of giggles.
“Let’s get you drunk tomorrow night at the event, and then we’ll drunk dial his ass for a booty call.”
“Oh God, no!” I blanch. What have I gotten myself into?
THE LIGHT FILLING THE ROOM is way too bright. The pounding in my head makes me groan out loud and grab my pillow from under my head, pulling it down over my eyes. I curse the numerous glasses of wine that Haddie and I drank last night but smile remembering our tears, and our laughs.
And Colton. Hot, delectable Colton.
Hmmm, I sigh at the memory of yesterday and him. He’s going to have to do something to take care of this ache he’s churned inside of me. I press my thighs together to abate it without success.
Since I can’t get him out of my head, my hopes of falling back asleep are now gone. I reach my hand out blindly and fish around for the cell phone on my nightstand, knocking over an empty bottle of water. It clatters loudly on the hardwood floor, the sound making me cringe. I lift the pillow slightly to glance at the screen of my phone, wanting to know what time it is.
I lift the pillow further when I see my screen. I have numerous missed calls and texts from last night. I scroll through them quickly noting Haddie’s texts getting more frantic as time passed. There are several from Dane and as I scroll to the next screen, the very last alert shows me there is a text from an unknown number. It was sent after I’d gotten home last night, during my discussion with Haddie. I open the text, and a smile spreads across my face. The text is from Colton:
Ryles—Thanks for the unexpected picnic. Since you seem most comfortable telling me what you think through music, I’ll do the same. Luke Bryan, “I Don’t Want This Night to End”—take it for what it is. *Ace
I smile at his words when I realize he heard the words I sang to him yesterday in the car. I’m unaware of the song he’s mentioned, so I scramble quickly, ignoring my hangover to grab my MacBook Pro. I pull it off my dresser and plop back on my bed, anxiously waiting for it to power up. I immediately Google the song and am surprised to find that it is country; Colton does not seem like a country music kind of guy to me, more hard rock or something with a thumping bass. I click on the link and within seconds the song is playing.
I lie back on my bed, close my eyes, and listen to the words of the song. A soft smile plays on my lips as the song washes over me. My first peek inside of Colton’s head—sure, he verbally tells me he wants me, but the gist of the words is that he enjoyed his time with me last night. That he didn’t want the night to end. I enjoy the little boost to my ego and the flutter in my stomach from the thought that Colton wants to get drunk on my kiss.
Don’t jump to conclusions. I warn myself. This is the same man who warned me off of him. Who tells me I need to research my dates to know who’s dangerous and will hurt me when I least expect it.
I sit back up and grab my computer. I immediately replay the song and open up another window to Google “Colton Donavan.” The search is immediately populated with page upon page of links referencing him: racing sites, the Speed Channel, fan-created sites, and so many more.
I decide to narrow the search and type in “Colton Donavan Enterprises.” I click on the company’s website. The opening page is a picture of what I assume is Colton’s racecar next to a picture of the office facility. I click through the menu and am led through a corporate mission statement, history, products, media, and race team information. It’s all very impressive, but I stop when I click on the tab “drivers” and Colton’s face fills the screen. It is a close-up, candid shot of him in his fire suit. He is looking intensely at something off-camera, and his green eyes are clear and intrigued. He has a half-smile on his face as if he is remembering a fond moment, the dimple in his right cheek winking. His hair is in need of a cut and curls over the neck of his suit.
I suck in my breath. My God, the man is sex on a stick.
I bookmark the picture for good measure before I force myself to change the page and search Google Images. I reluctantly type in his name, afraid of what I’ll see. The page refreshes and dozens of images of him pop up on the screen, most of them with a gorgeous woman draped on his arm or looking up in obvious adoration of him. I know I have no reason to be jealous—these pictures are dated—but I find myself rolling my shoulders to ease my agitation. Knowing I should close the page, I do just the opposite and find myself clicking on each picture. Staring. Comparing. None of the captions refer to the women as girlfriends, just dates or companions.
I realize that most of his escorts are long, leggy blondes, stick thin, with some type of plastic enhancement. And all are drop-dead gorgeous. Much to my chagrin, I realize they look very similar to Haddie, except hers are real. Ironically, the pale hair next to his dark features makes him seem more aloof and edgier somehow.
I note that each girl only seemed to exist in his life for a short period of time, except for one. I wonder why that is. Is she an escort? The one he takes when his other cookie-cutter blondes have fallen through and he needs a date? Or is she the one he keeps going back to because there is really something there? After clicking on several of their pictures together, I finally get a caption that offers her name. Tawny Taylor. The caller on his phone yesterday. What is she to Colton? I know I could dwell on this for hours so I force myself to push it to t
he back of my head and resolve to think about it at another time, even though I’m afraid to know the answer.
I look like none of them. I may be tall, but I’m definitely not petite like them. I’m thin but I have curves in all the right places, unlike their ruler-straight physiques. I have an athletic body that I’m proud of—that I work hard to maintain—whereas they look like they have no need to even think about exercise. I have rich chocolate brown curly hair that stops midway down my back; it is unruly and a pain, but it suits me. I continue the comparisons until I tell myself that I need to just get off the page before I become depressed. That my hatred toward them has nothing to do with them in particular.
I go back to Google and type in “Colton Donavan childhood.” The first few pages reference children’s organizations that he is involved with. I quickly scan through the links, looking for one mentioning his childhood.
I finally find an old article written five years ago. Colton was interviewed in connection with a charity he was supporting that benefited new changes speeding up the adoption process.
Q: It is public knowledge that you were adopted, Colton. At what age?
CD: I was eight.
Q: How was the adoption process for you? How would you have benefited from these new initiatives that this foundation supports?
CD: I was lucky. My dad literally found me on his doorstep, took me in, for lack of a better term, and I was adopted shortly after that. I didn’t have to go through the lengthy process that occurs today. A process that makes kids who desperately crave a home, a sense of belonging, wait months to see if an application will be approved. The system needs to stop looking at these kids as cases, as paperwork to be stamped with approval after months of red tape, and start looking at them as delicate children who need to be an integral part of something. A part of a family.
Q: So what was your situation, prior to being adopted?
CD: Let’s focus less on me and more on the passing of these new measures.
Does he not want to talk about it because it draws attention away from the charity, or was it so bad he just doesn’t talk about it? I scan the rest of the article but there is nothing else about his childhood. So he was eight. That leaves a lot of time to be damaged, conditioned as he’s said, by whatever situation he was in.
I stare at the screen for a couple of minutes imagining all kinds of things, mostly variations of the kids who have come through my care, and I shudder.
I decide to look up his parents, Andy and Dorothea Westin. The pages are filled with Andy’s movie credits, Oscar nominations and wins, and top-grossing movies amongst other things. His family life is referenced here and there. He met Dorothea when she had a bit part in one of his movies. At the time she was Dorothea Donavan. Another piece clicks into place. I wonder why he uses his Mom’s surname and not his Dad’s. I continue scanning and see the basic Hollywood mogul background, less the tabloid drama or stints in rehab. There are a few mentions of his children, a son and a daughter, but nothing giving me the answers I’m looking for.
I return to search again and scan through the different links that mention Colton’s name. I see snippets about a fight in a club, possible altercations with current-generation brat-pack actors, generous donations, and gushing comments from other racers about his skill and the charisma he brings to his sport that had been tinged after the CART and IRL league split years ago.
I sigh loudly, my head filled with too much useless information. After over an hour of research, I still don’t know Colton much better than I did before. I don’t see anything to validate the warnings he keeps giving me. I can’t help myself. I open up the page again for CDE and click on the picture of him. I stare at it for sometime, studying every angle and every nuance of his face. I glance up and sadness fills my heart as the picture on my dresser of Max catches my eye. His earnest smile and blue eyes light up the frame.
“Oh, Max,” I sigh, pressing the heel of my palm to my heart where I swear I can still feel the agony. “I will always miss you. Will always love you,” I whisper to him, “but it’s time I try to find me again.” I stare at his picture, remembering when it was taken, the love I felt then. Seconds tick by before I look back at my computer screen.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, strengthening my resolve as the song on my computer, Colton’s song, repeats itself for the umpteenth time. It’s time. And maybe Haddie is right. Colton may be the perfect person to help me find myself again. For however long he lets me, anyway.
I look back at my phone, suppressing the overwhelming urge to text him back. To connect with him. If I’m going to do this, I at least need to make sure a couple things are on my terms.
And chasing after him is definitely not going to allow me to achieve that.
I BARELY RECOGNIZE THE GIRL in the mirror who stares back at me. Once again, Haddie has gone all out with her preparations for the launch party tonight thrown by the public relations company she works for. She spent almost an hour blowing my ringlets out so that my hair hangs in a straight, thick curtain down my back. I keep staring at myself in the mirror, trying to adjust to this different person. My eyes are subtly smoked so the dark smudges have an opalescent quality, reflecting the violet in my irises. My lips are lined with nude liner and lip-gloss, making the slight touches of bronzed blush on my cheeks stand out.
She has talked me into wearing a little black number that shows off more skin than I’m comfortable with. The bust of the dress runs into a deep V, hinting suggestively at my abundant bra-proffered cleavage without being trashy. The straps go over the shoulders and connect the non-existent back with thin gold chains that drape loosely and attach at the swell of my butt. I tug down on the hemline that falls mid-thigh, something I’m not altogether used to.
I look again in the mirror and smile. This is not me, the girl I know. I sigh shakily as I add chandelier earrings to complete the look. This may not be me, I think, but this is the confident girl I want to be again. The new me who’s going to go out tonight, let loose, and have fun. The girl who has resolved to have a night of fun and gain some self-assurance before I undertake all that is Colton and his warning-laced pursuits.
“Holy shit!” Haddie walks into my bathroom, a whistle blowing from her lips. “You look hot! I mean—” She stumbles over her words. “I’m at a loss here. I don’t think I have ever seen you this smokin’ sexy, Ry.” I smile widely at her praise. “You’re going to have them lining up tonight, baby. Hot damn, this is going to be fun to watch!”
I laugh at her response, my self-esteem bolstered. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself,” I compliment her harlot-red dress that shows off all of her best assets. I slip my heels on, wincing and smirking at the memory of the last time I wore them. “Give me a sec and I’ll be ready.”
I grab my clutch and stuff my driver’s license, money, and keys into it. When I grab my phone to place in the small purse, I realize I never asked Haddie about the voicemails from her that I’d listened to earlier.
“Had? I never asked you what was so exciting about the event tonight. What hot celebrity did you guys secure as a carpet walker?”
She gives me an enigmatic smile. “Oh, it fell through,” she dismisses casually. I shake off the feeling that for some reason she is laughing at me. I quirk my head at her and she turns around, “Let’s go!”
The entrance to the trendy club downtown is quite the spectacle with criss-crossing searchlights, velvet ropes, and a celebrity ready red carpet complete with a backdrop displaying Merit Rum, the new product being launched. We park in reserved spots for Haddie and her fellow PRX employees at the trendy, upscale hotel that owns and is connected to the club. Haddie flashes her credentials, which allows us to whisk past the hoopla, and within moments we are inside the crowded club, the dull throb of the music pulsing through my body.
It has been years since I’ve been in a club like this and it takes me a while to acclimate to the dim lighting and loud music and not feel intimidated. I think Haddie r
ealizes my nerves are kicking in and that my confidence is waning despite my sexed-up appearance. Within moments she has pushed us through the throng of people to the bar. With disregard to the numerous bottles of Merit lining the slick countertop, Haddie orders us each two shots of tequila.
“One for luck.” She grins at me.
“And one for courage,” I finish our old college toast. We clink glasses and toss back the liquid. It burns my throat. It’s been so long since I’ve done a shot of tequila, I wince at the burn and put the back of my hand to my mouth to try and somehow stifle it.
“C’mon, Ryles,” Haddie shouts, unfazed by the liquor. “We’ve got one more to go!”
I raise my glass, an intrepid smile on my face, tap it to hers, and we both toss them back. The sting of the second one isn’t as bad, and my body warms from the liquid, but it still tastes like shit.
Haddie gives me a knowing glance and starts to giggle. “Tonight’s going to be fun!” She hugs her arm around me and squeezes. “It’s been so long since I’ve had my partner in crime back.”
I flash a smile at her as I take in the club’s atmosphere. It’s a large room with purple, velvet-lined booths around the bottom floor. A glossy bar with a mirror placed behind it fills one whole wall, creating the illusion that the massive space is even larger. In the middle of the main floor is a large dance floor, complete with trussing lined moving head lights that are creating a dizzying array of colors. Stairs rise up from the floor to a raised VIP area where teal booths are sectioned off by velvet stanchions. In one section of the VIP area, a plexiglass partition allows all below to see the DJ spinning the music pumping through the club. Model-worthy waitresses flit around in hot pants and fitted tank tops, purple flowers adorning their hair. The club is swanky class with a touch of sophistication, despite the advertising for Merit Rum around the room.
