The Driven Series

by Bromberg, K.

  “Asshole?” It rolls of my tongue as if it’s a question, but she’s right. Fucking right in every sense of the word but I’m so beyond angry right now. First her and now Becks turning against me? The hairpin trigger had been pulled tight in the bar, and I’m primed and ready to fight.

  I whip around to face Rylee, only to find her body fucking inches from mine. How can I hate and hurt right now but my body vibrates from her nearness? Fuck me, she’s my kryptonite.

  Where are the fucking superheroes now?

  And I’m so grateful when she speaks because it pulls me from my thoughts—thoughts that are so fucking scattered I can’t figure out which one to focus on. The woman makes me have more personalities than the splintered images of my reflection in that shattered mirror. For some reason though, I don’t think all the king’s horses and all the king’s men will be able to put this Humpty Dumpty back together again.

  She snorts in disgust. The sound forces me to focus on the here and now rather than the memories of what she feels like against me. Beneath me. Part of me.

  “Yeah! Asshole!” She sneers at me with such derision that I can feel it pulse in waves off her.

  Good. The wall’s back up. Right where I need it to be. Fucking Christ! If she thinks that’s going to hurt me, she’s gonna have to try a whole fucking lot harder. It’s hard to hurt a man that died inside years ago.

  But I swear to God she brought me back to life.

  Get your head straight, Donavan. Hurt her before she hurts you. You told her the truth. You chased. You tried. She wouldn’t listen. Still isn’t going to listen.

  Which means she’s not going to hear me. She’s going to believe whatever the fuck she wants to. And in turn she’s going to leave me.

  Broken.

  Shattered.

  Irreparable.

  Break her before she’ll break me.

  “You want to talk about assholes? Try that stunt you pulled with bar-boy back there. I believe you claimed the title right then, sweetheart.”

  “Bar-boy? Wow, because having a harmless drink is so much worse than you with your gaggle of whores earlier, right?”

  She shoves at my chest like she did downstairs and I accept her anger. I welcome the physicality that comes with the force of the push. I welcome the sting in my heart from that goddamn look in her eyes that says she hates me, loves me, is hurt by me.

  I need a fucking minute, a pit stop second. I need to stop that burn in my gut and get my fucking head back in the game. I pace back and forth, blowing out a breath to shove the emotion aside and bury it down deep with the rest of my secrets.

  I notice the smirk on Becks’s face out of the corner of my eye—the one telling me I’m in so fucking deep and the cement’s starting to harden around my feet … and around my heart—and I can’t help the words that fly out of my mouth. “She’s driving me fucking crazy!”

  I’m talking to Beckett, friend to friend, searching for some kind of help here to quiet the confliction within and of course Rylee latches on to the one word I leave hanging out there for her like a checkered flag in the wind.

  “You’d know all about the fucking part seeing as you fucking Tawny is what started this whole thing in the first place,” she screams at me.

  I don’t even have time to register the jolt of Beckett’s body beside me before he stutters out, “What?”

  Oh fuck.

  “What? He didn’t tell you?” She sneers at him.

  Shut the fuck up, Rylee. Becks is in big brother mode and this is my fucking business.

  Motherfucker.

  “I told the asshole that I loved him. He bailed as fast as he could. When I showed up at the Palisades house a couple days later, Tawny opened the door. In his T-shirt. Only his T-shirt.” She takes a deep breath, focused completely on Beckett and ignoring me. “Colton didn’t have much more on either. Told me nothing happened. But that’s a little hard to believe with his notorious reputation. Oh and the condom wrapper in his pocket.”

  I cringe, her words hitting every part of me that wants to hide. Becks turns to look at me and I can see it hitting him, lie by fucking lie. That I let this argument fester to become this because I’m so fucking stubborn that I didn’t tell her the truth. I see the disbelief in his eyes and how infuriated he is in the clench of his jaw. “Are you fucking kidding me here?”

  “What?” I can hear the confusion in her voice, but I can’t look at her because I’m too focused on the look on his face.

  “Leave it, Becks.”

  “What the fuck, man?” Here comes the bulldog. Fuckin’ A. He’s not going to leave this alone, is he?

  “I’m warning you, Beckett. Stay out of this!” I’m so pissed at myself—at everything that’s happened tonight—the anger inside ignites and I turn the inferno toward him. My fists clench. My blood boils.

  He takes the bait, focusing on me rather than Rylee, and adds kerosene to my fire. “When you start jeopardizing my team and the race tomorrow, then it becomes my business …” He shakes his head. “Tell her!”

  “Tell me what?” Rylee shouts out in the silence of the room. The only other sound is the testosterone reverberating between Becks and me.

  He gives me the look—that look that tells me he is so disappointed in me, mixed with what the fuck are you trying to pull. I give him the only answer I can because right now I don’t even know what I’m fucking doing. “Beckett, she’s like talking to a goddamn brick wall. What good will it do?”

  “She’s right. You’re an ass!” he says, and I can see the challenge in his eyes even before he spits out his next words. “You won’t tell her? Fine! Then I will!”

  I’m done, trigger pulled, buttons pushed successfully.

  My hands grip his shirt and I’m pressing him against the wall without a second thought, jaw clenched, fists itching. “I said leave it, Becks!”

  What the fuck am I doing? About to go to blows with my best friend over a fucking chick? She must be the real deal. Fucking voodoo pussy, my ass. More like schizophrenic pussy. She has me all over the goddamn place.

  I can see the amusement in his eyes. The look that says, she’s got you by the balls, Wood, and I think you like it, want it, but are scared shitless.

  No fucking way.

  My emotions are ruled by anger and I’m so confused my game’s off and no one knows that better than him. He could have our positions reversed in a millisecond. So why hasn’t he pushed back? Taken the bait? Hurt me so I’m given the due I deserve?

  Instead he just lifts an eyebrow telling me to show him differently, then—show him that Rylee isn’t my final rodeo—before pushing me away.

  “Then fucking fix this, Colton! Fix! It!” He shouts the dare at me before yanking the hotel room door open and slamming it shut.

  Unsure what to say. Not sure how to escape these confines—from feeling and not wanting to feel and everything in between—I cuss out a storm as I pace the room again, trying to ignore the fact that Ry is watching my every movement—dissecting it and trying to draw conclusions I don’t want her to form. If she’s not going to believe me when I told her nothing happened, then she’ll never trust me anyway.

  How could she really believe I’d want something more when I have her? Perfection. Necessity. The Holy motherfucking Grail.

  Does she know how much it kills me that she thinks I’d do that to her? Rips my fucking gut to shreds. I’ve given more of myself to her than anybody else I’ve ever met and she doesn’t trust me? My poison has tainted her now and I can’t let it continue to any further. I want to punch something—need to desperately—to get rid of this overload of shit coursing through my body.

  “What was that all about?” Her voice cuts through the haze, but I’m so angry I push it away, keep walking trying to calm the fuck down before I say something I’ll regret. “Damn it, Colton! What don’t you want me to know?”

  She blocks my path and as much as I want to physically pick her up and move her out of the way so I can wear a
hole in the fucking carpet until I can think rationally, I can’t. I want to touch her so bad. Take her. Hold her. Accept her.

  But I can’t.

  … no one will ever be able to love you …

  She doesn’t trust me.

  … you’re horrible and disgusting and poisoned inside …

  She’s going to leave me.

  … you’re like a toxin that will kill them …

  Shatter me.

  … I’m the only one that is ever allowed to love you …

  Break me.

  … you’re worthless, Colty …

  I can do worse and she can do better.

  Let her go.

  Push her away.

  Save her.

  “You really want to know?” I shout at her, hoping she flees and runs at the question but knowing not in a million years that she will. “You really want to know?”

  She stands on her tiptoes, those glints of violet boring into mine, daring me to confirm what she already thinks is true in her heart. “Tell me.” Her voice is a quiet calm when she says it. “Are you that Goddamn chicken shit you can’t fess up and just admit it? I need to hear it come out of your mouth so I can get the fuck over you and get on with my life!”

  I don’t know how I swallow. I don’t know how I speak, but the words are out of my mouth before I know it. Walls re-erected and solitary confinement a Siren’s song calling to me. “I fucked Tawny.”

  Poison spread.

  Ship crashing against the treacherous ocean rocks.

  Silence settles around us but I can hear the locking of the cell.

  Feel the quicksand smothering my lungs.

  The death of my resurrected soul.

  “You coward!” she screams, hysteria bubbling up. “You goddamn fucking coward!”

  “Coward?” I shout. Does she have any fucking clue I’m trying to save her? Trying to push her away before I can fuck this up even further? Fuck her over any further? Trying to stem the sudden feeling of need? “Coward?” I ask, trying to cover up every emotion that wants to pour out of my mouth and make this even worse. I’ll take the pain, but fuck me if I don’t want her to know that I tried to tell her. That I tried and she ignored.

  Get your head on straight, Donavan. You either want her or you don’t. Decide. Figure it out because this cerebral war is fucking killing you.

  Turn it back on her.

  “What about you? You’re so fucking stubborn that you’ve had the truth staring you in the face for three fucking weeks. You’re up there so high and mighty on your goddamn horse you think you know everything! Well you don’t, Rylee! You don’t know shit!”

  “I don’t know shit? Really, Ace? Really?” The quiet calm in her voice scares me. Does her lack of fight mean she’s over me? Fuck, no. “Well how’s this? I know a bastard when I see one.”

  Self preservation wins.

  “Been called worse by better, sweetheart.” I’m not sure if the words are meant as a challenge or a coup de grace. Will she fight for me or flee while she can?

  I know my answer in the flash of her hand aiming for my face. Her wrists collide into my hands without a thought, our bodies crashing together with the motion, our lips inches apart. And I’m fucking frozen. Paralyzed in that space of time where I immediately take back everything I said, everything I did, and just crave the simplicity of her addictive taste.

  Just want it to be her and me back in front of that mirror. Just want to be man enough and not fucked-up enough that when she says those words to me, I don’t cringe. I don’t feel the blackness swallow me whole and smother the air in my lungs, but rather look in her eyes and smile.

  Accept.

  Reciprocate.

  Love.

  Her voice breaks through my haze of regret. “If you were done with me … had your fill of me … you could have just told me!” Hurt fills her eyes and trembles across her lips.

  And now that I’ve done it—now that I’ve pushed her away and hurt her with my callous comments—all I want is her back in my arms, my life, at my side. Because done with her? Does she really think that?

  As if a single taste of her will ever be enough.

  “I’ll never have my fill of you.” I say the words but see the disbelief still warring in her eyes so I give into the ache. Show her the only way that I know how. Search for the balm to soothe my aching soul and the bleach to purify my blackened heart.

  My mouth slants over hers. Takes and tastes and demands. I accept her struggle, accept the fact that she hates me because I hate myself too, but I can feel the need vibrate between us. Can sense that this hunger will never be satisfied. That I’ll never want it to.

  She keeps struggling, keeps wanting to hurt me. And I want to tell her to do just that. Hurt me like I deserve. Hurt and love are equivalent to me. The only way I know that love is supposed to be.

  But I see it in her eyes. The pain I’ve caused. And yet I still feel the love from her. Still feel like she wants this. Wants me. And even despite all of this … all of the hurt and confusion and spiteful words we spit at each other, I want her desperately. Have to have her desperately.

  And I plan to take. I have to get us back to where we were. Where we need to be. To the only place my soul has felt at peace over the past twenty-odd years.

  Back to Rylee.

  “You want rough, Rylee?” And despite the contempt in her eyes, I do the only thing I know how to reclaim her. “I’ll give you rough!”

  My lips connect with hers and I do the only thing I can: I take what I want so desperately. What’s mine.

  To save myself.

  THE DESCENT OF THE ELEVATOR feels like it takes forever as my tired eyes and heavy heart force my feet to stand, urge my lungs to breathe. Try to figure a reason to move. I knew that getting over Colton would be hard—absolutely devastating—but I never in a million years imagined that the first step would be the hardest.

  The doors ping and open. I know I need to hurry. Need to disappear because Colton will try and track me down and drag this out.

  Then again, maybe he won’t. Maybe he got his quick fuck and he’ll let me go. It’s not like he’s easy to figure out, and to be honest, I’m so tired of trying. Thinking one thing and him doing another. If I’ve learned one thing being with Colton, it’s that I know nothing.

  I rub my face, trying to blot the tears from my cheeks but know that nothing is going to lessen my damaged appearance. And frankly, I don’t have enough left in me to care what people think.

  I know I’ve been here for a couple of days, but my mind is in such a haze that it takes me a second to figure out which way I need to go to find the main entrance in order to catch a cab. I have to walk out through a garden and then into the main lobby. I see it and start shuffling toward it, all of my luggage overflowing and awkward. I’m in a state of numbness, telling myself that I’m doing the right thing—that I’ve made the right decision—but the look in Colton’s face as he buried himself in me—raw, open, unguarded—haunts me. We can’t give each other what we need, and when we do we only end up hurting each other. One foot in front of the other, Thomas. That’s what I keep telling myself. As long as I keep moving—keep my mind from wandering—I can keep the questioning panic that is just beneath the surface from bubbling up.

  I make it about twenty feet into the garden, empty at this time of the night, and I’m struggling desperately to keep moving.

  “I didn’t fuck her.”

  The deep timbre of his voice causes the words to slice through the still night air. My feet stop. My head says go, but my feet stop. His words shock me, and yet I’m so numb from everything—from needing to feel and then not wanting to feel then to emotional overload—that I don’t react. He didn’t sleep with Tawny? Then why did he say that he did? Why did he cause all of this heartache if nothing happened? In the back of my mind I hear Haddie telling me that I’m so stubborn I didn’t allow him to speak—didn’t allow him to explain—but I’m so busy trying to remind myself
to breathe that I can’t focus on that. My heart thunders in my chest, and I find myself completely at a loss for what to do. I know his words should relieve me, but they still don’t fix us. Everything that seemed so clear—conflicted yet clear—no longer is. I need to walk away, but I need to stay.

  I want and I hate and more than anything, I feel.

  “I didn’t sleep with Tawny, Rylee. Not her or any of the others you accused me of,” he repeats. His words hit me harder this time. Hit me with a feeling of hope tinged with sadness. We did this to each other—tore each other apart verbally and played stupid games to hurt one another—and for no reason? A tear escapes and slides down my face. “When I heard the knock at the door, I grabbed an old pair of jeans. Haven’t worn them in months.”

  “Turn around, Ry,” he says, and I can’t bring myself to do so. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, emotions running rampant and confusion in a constant state of metamorphosis. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he says, his implacable voice closer than before, “…but have no doubt, it will be my way. You are not running this time, Rylee. Turn around.”

  My heart stops and my mind races as I slowly turn to face him. And when I do, I can’t help the breath that catches in my throat. We’re standing in this garden full of exotic plants with exploding colors but by far the most exquisite thing in my line of sight is the man standing before me.

  Colton stands in a pair of blue jeans and nothing else. Bare feet, bare chest heaving with exertion, and hair dripping with water that runs in rivulets down his chest. He looks as if he literally stepped out of the shower, noticed I was gone, and chased me. He takes a step toward me, his throat working a nervous swallow, and his face a mask of conviction. He is utterly magnificent—breathtakingly so—but it’s his eyes that capture me and don’t let go. Those beautiful pools of green just hold mine—imploring, apologizing, pleading—and I’m frozen in the moment.

  “I just need time to think, Colton,” I offer as a justification of my actions.

  “What is there to think about?” He blows out a loud breath, a harsh curse following right after. “I thought we were…”