The Driven Series

by Bromberg, K.

  I can’t help the panic that flutters as I realize that I’m the reason Colton’s here. I pushed him away and didn’t believe him—made him tired the night before a race—and all because I was stubborn and scared. “I did this to him.” The words kill me. Rip my soul apart.

  Beckett lifts his red-rimmed eyes from his hands. “What are you talking about?” He leans in close, his conflicted blue eyes searching mine.

  “Everything …” My breath hitches and I pause. “I messed with his head the last couple of days, and you told me that if I did, it was on me—”

  “Ryl—”

  “And I fought him and left him and we stayed up so late and I put him in that car tired and—”

  “Rylee!” he finally manages in a harsh tone. I just keep shaking my head at him, eyes burning, emotions overloading. “This is not your fault.”

  I jolt as he puts his arms around me and pulls me into him. I fist my hands into the front of his fire suit, the coarseness of its fabric rough against my cheek.

  “It was a crash. He drove into it blind. That’s racing. It’s not your fault.” His voice breaks and falls on deaf ears. His arms are around me, trapping me, and claustrophobia threatens. Suffocation claws.

  I stand abruptly, needing to move, to release the unease scavenging my soul. I pace to the far end of the waiting room and back. On my second pass the little boy in the corner chair scoots off his seat to pick up a crayon. The lights on his shoes flash red and grab my attention. I narrow my eyes to look closer, to take in the inverted triangle with the S in the center.

  Superman.

  The name feathers through my subconscious, but my attention is drawn to the television as someone changes the channel. I hear Colton’s name and I suck in a breath, afraid to look but wanting to see what they’re showing.

  It seems like the whole room stands and moves collectively. A mass of red fire suits, faces conflicted with emotion, focus on the screen. The announcer says there was a crash that halted action for more than an hour. The screen flashes to the image of the cloud of smoke and cars careening off of each other. The angle is different than ours was on the track and we are able to see more, but as Colton’s car comes into the turn, the broadcast cuts the footage. All of the shoulders around the television sag as the crew realizes that what they were anxiously anticipating will not be shown. The segment ends with the announcer saying that he is currently being treated at Bayfront.

  I see Colton’s lifeless body on the gurney, Max’s beside me in his seat. The similarities of the situation knock the wind out of me, pain without end. Memories colliding.

  I turn to see the Westins walk into the waiting room. Colton’s regal and commanding mother looks pale and distraught. I swallow the lump in my throat, unable to tear my eyes from the sight of them. Andy supports her gently, guiding her to sit down as Quinlan grips her other hand.

  Beckett’s at their side in a flash with his arms wrapped around Dorothea and then Quinlan in quick but meaningful embraces. Andy reaches out and grabs Beckett in a longer hug, teeming with heart-wrenching desperation. I overhear a choked sob and almost break from the sound of it.

  Watching the whole scene unfold causes memories to flicker through my mind of Max’s funeral. A miniature pink casket laid atop a full-sized black casket, both blanketed with red roses, remind me of the words I can’t hear again: ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Makes me remember the hollow, empty hugs that do nothing to comfort. The ones that leave you feeling over-sensitized, raw when you’ve already been scraped to the core.

  I start to pace again amidst the hushed murmurs of “how long until there is an update?” Faces usually so strong and energetic are etched with lines of concern. And when my feet stop I’m looking into the eyes of Andy and Dorothea.

  We just stare at each other, faces mirrors of each others’ disbelief and anguish, until Dorothea reaches a trembling hand out for mine. “I don’t know what … I’m so sorry …” I shake my head back and forth as words escape me.

  “We know, sweetheart,” she says as she pulls me into her arms and clings to me, both of us holding each other up. “We know.”

  “He’s strong,” is all Andy says as his hand rubs up and down my back to try and comfort me. But this—hugging his parents, all of us comforting each other, the tear-stained cheeks and muffled sobs—makes it all too real. My hope that this is all a really bad dream is now shattered.

  I stagger back and try to focus on something, anything, to make me feel like I’m not losing it.

  But I keep seeing Colton’s face. The look of absolute certainty as he stood amid all of the chaos of his crew—the same crew that sits around me, heads in hands, lips pulled tight, eyes closed in prayer—and admitted his feelings for me. I have to stop to try and catch my breath, the pain radiating through my chest, in my heart, just won’t stop.

  The television pulls at me again. Something whispers through my mind and I turn to look. A trailer for the new Batman movie. Hope reawakens as my mind reaches into its depths—into the past hour.

  The Spiderman book on the table. The Superman shoes. The Batman movie. I try to rationalize that this is all just a coincidence—that seeing three of the four superheroes is a random occurrence. I try to tell myself that I need the fourth to believe it. That I need Ironman to complete the circle—to be the sign that Colton will pull through.

  That he will come back to me.

  I start searching, eyes flitting around the waiting room as hope looms and readies itself to blossom, if I can just find the final sign. My hands tremble; my optimism lies beneath the surface cautious to raise its weary head.

  There is sound toward the hallway and the noise—the voice—causes every emotion that pulses through me to ignite.

  And I’m immediately ready to detonate.

  Blonde hair and long legs breeze through the door and I don’t care that her face looks as devastated and worried as I feel. All of my heartache, all of my angst rears up and is like a rubber band snapping.

  Or lightning striking.

  I’m across the room within seconds, heads snapping at the growl I let loose in my fury-filled wake. “Get out!” I scream, so many emotions coursing through me that all I feel is a mass of overwhelming confusion. Tawny’s head whips up and her startled eyes meet mine, her enhanced lips set in a perfect O shape. “You conniving bit—”

  The air is knocked out of me as Beckett’s strong arms grab me from behind and yank me back into his chest. “Let me go!” I struggle against him as he grips me tighter. “Let me go!”

  “Save it, Ry!” He grunts as he restrains me, his reserved yet firm drawl hitting my ears. “You need to save all of that fire and energy because Colton’s going to need it from you. Every goddamn ounce of it.” His words hit me, punch through the holes in me, and sap my adrenaline. I stop struggling, his grip around me still iron clad, and the heat of his breath panting against my cheek. “She’s not worth it, okay?”

  I can’t find my words—don’t think I’m capable of coherency at this point—so I just nod my head in agreement, forcing myself to focus on a spot on the floor in front of me, rather than on the long legs off to the right.

  “You sure?” he reaffirms before slowly letting go and stepping in front of me, forcing me to look into his eyes, to test if I’ll be true to my word.

  My body starts trembling, held captive to the mixture of anger, grief, and the unknown coursing through me.

  My breath hitches as my lungs hurt with each breath. It’s the only hint of the turmoil I feel inside when I meet the kindness edged with concern in Beckett’s eyes. And I feel so horrible that he’s here trying to take care of me when he loves Colton and is reeling from the unknown just as much as I am, so I force myself to nod. He mimics my action before turning around, his body blocking my line of sight to Tawny.

  “Becks …” She sighs his name and her voice alone chafes over my exposed nerves.

  “Not a fucking word, Tawny!” Beckett’s voice is low and guarded,
audible only to the three of us despite the numerous pairs of eyes watching the confrontation. I see Andy rise to his feet from the other side of the room as he tries to figure out what’s going on. “I’m letting you stay for one reason and one reason only … Wood is going to need everyone he has in his corner—behind him if he …” he says, choking on the words, “when he pulls out of this … and that includes you, although right now after the stunt you pulled between him and Ry, friend is a very loose term when it comes to you.”

  Becks’ words take me by surprise. I hear the noncommittal sound she makes before a momentary silence hits … and then I hear her start to cry. Quiet, sorrowful whimpers that break through the hold on me that Beckett’s voice couldn’t.

  And I snap. My reassurance to Becks that I’d save my strength vanishes right along with my restraint.

  “No!” I scream, trying to push Beckett out of the way and take a swing. “You don’t get to cry for him! You don’t get to cry for the man you tried to manipulate!” Arms close around me from behind, preventing me from landing my punch, but I don’t care, reality’s lost to me. “Get out!” I shout, my voice wavering as I’m dragged away from her stunned face. “No!” I struggle against the restraining arms. “Let me go!”

  “Shh-shh-shh!” It’s Andy’s voice, Andy’s arms that are holding me tight, trying to soothe and control me at the same time. And the only thing I can focus on—can grasp onto as my heart races and body shakes with anger—is that I need a pit stop. I need to find Colton. I need to touch him, to see him, to quiet the turmoil in my soul.

  But I can’t.

  He’s somewhere close, my rebellious rogue unable to let go of the damaged little boy within. The man who has just started healing is now broken, and it kills me that I won’t be able to fix him. That my murmured words of encouragement and patient nature won’t be able to repair the immobile and unresponsive body that was loaded onto that stretcher and rushed to somewhere within these walls—so close yet so very far away from me. That he has to rely on strangers to mend and heal him now. Strangers that have no idea of the invisible scar tissue that still lingers beneath the surface.

  More hands reach out to touch and soothe me, Dorothea’s and Quinlan’s, but they’re not the ones I want. They’re not Colton’s.

  And then a terrifying thought hits me. Every time Colton is near, I can feel that tingle—the buzz that tells me he’s just within reach—but I can’t feel anything. I know he’s physically close, but his spark is nonexistent.

  Be my spark, Ry. I can hear his voice say it, can feel the memory of his breath feather over my skin … but I can’t feel him.

  “I can’t!” I shout. “I can’t be your spark if I can’t feel yours, so don’t you dare burn out on me.” I don’t care that I’m in a room full of people, being turned around and encircled into Dorothea’s arms, because the only one who I want to hear me, can’t. And knowing that causes desperation to consume every part of me not already frozen with fear. I fist my hands into the back of Dorothea’s jacket, clinging to her while I plead with her son. “Don’t you dare die on me, Colton! I need you dammit!” I shout into the now sterile silence of the waiting room. “I need you so much that I’m dying right here, right now without you!” My voice cracks just like my heart, and as much as Dorothea’s arms, Quinlan’s hushed murmurs, and Andy’s quiet resolve helps, I just can’t handle it all.

  I push away and stare at them before I stumble blindly down the hall. I know I’m losing it. I’m so numb, so hollow, that I don’t even have the energy to argue with Beckett and refire the hatred I feel for Tawny. If I’m to blame for Colton being here, then she sure as fuck needs to share some of that blame too.

  I turn the corner to head toward the bathroom and have to push myself to move. I press my hands against the wall for support or else I’ll collapse. I remind myself to breathe, tell myself to put one foot in front of the other, but it’s nearly impossible when the only thought my mind can focus on is that the man I love is fighting for his life, and I can’t do a goddamn thing about it. I’m hopeless and powerless.

  I’m dying inside.

  My guiding hands hit a doorjamb, and I stagger between its frame and into the nearest stall, welcoming the cocooning silence of the empty bathroom. I unbutton my shorts, and when I shimmy them over my hips, my eyes catch sight of the checkered pattern on my panties. My body wants to quit, wants to slide to the floor and sink into oblivion, but I don’t. Instead, my hands grip onto the belt loops of the shorts still hanging off of my hips. I can’t catch my breath fast enough. I start to hyperventilate and get dizzy, so I brace my hands against the wall but nothing helps as the panic attack hits me full force.

  You can bet your ass that’s one checkered flag I’m definitely claiming.

  I welcome the memorized sound of his voice. I let his rumble permeate through me like the glue I need to hold my broken self together. My breath drags in ragged rasps between my lips as I try to hold onto the memory—that incredible grin and the boyish mischief in his eyes—before he kissed me one last time. I bring my fingers to my lips wanting to make a connection with him, fear of the unknown weighing heavy in my heart.

  “Rylee?” The voice jolts me to the here and now and I just want her to go away. I want her to leave me intact with my memory of the warmth of his skin, taste of his kiss, possession in his touch. “Rylee?”

  There’s a knock on the stall door. “Mmm-hmm?” is all I can manage because my breathing is still forced and irregular.

  “It’s Quin.” Her voice is soft and uneven, and it kills me to hear the break in it. “Ry, please come out …”

  I reach forward and unlock the door, and she pushes it open looking at me oddly, her tear stained face and smudged mascara only emphasizing the devastation looming in her eyes. She purses her lips and starts laughing, in a way that’s borderline hysterical so when it echoes off of the tile walls around us all I hear is despair and fear. She points to my half-shoved down shorts and checkered panties and keeps laughing, the tears staining her cheeks an odd contrast to the sound coming from her mouth.

  I start laughing with her. It’s the only thing I can do. Tears won’t come, fear won’t abate, and hope is wavering as the first laugh falls from my lips. It feels so wrong. Everything is just so wrong and within an instant, Quinlan—the woman who hated me at first sight—reaches out and wraps her arms around me while her laughter turns into sobs. Gut wrenching hiccups of unfettered fear. Her tiny frame shakes as her anguish intensifies.

  “I’m so scared, Rylee.” It’s the only thing she can manage to get out between hitches of breath, but it’s all she needs to say because it’s exactly how I feel. The defeat in her posture, the fortitude of her grief, the strength in her grip reflects the fear that I’m not able to express, so I cling to her with everything I have—needing that connection more than anything.

  I hug her and soothe her as best as I can, trying to lose myself in the role of patient counselor I know so well. It’s so much easier to assuage someone else’s despair than to face my own. She tries to pull away, but I just can’t let go. I don’t have the wherewithal to walk out the doors and wait for the doctor to report news I’m terrified to hear.

  I fasten my shorts and look up to meet my own reflection in the mirror. I can see the haunting memories flickering in my eyes. My mind flashes to a shattered rearview mirror, sun reflecting on its blood-specked, jagged edges as Max gurgles his last breath. And then my mind grasps onto a happier memory with another mirror. One used in the heat of passion to demonstrate why I’m enough for Colton. Why he chooses me.

  “C’mon,” she whispers, breaking my trance as she releases me but moves her hand down to wrap around my waist. “I don’t want to miss an update.”

  TIME HAS STRETCHED. EACH MINUTE feels like an hour. And each of the three hours that have passed feels like an eternity. Each swoosh of the doors has us all startling and then sinking back down. Empty Styrofoam cups spill over the wastebasket. Fire suits have be
en unzipped and tied around waists as the waiting room grows stuffy. Cell phones ring incessantly with people searching for updates. But there’s still no news.

  Beckett sits with Andy. Dorothea has Quinlan on one side of her and Tawny on the other. The waiting room is full of hushed murmurs and the television plays background to my thoughts. I sit by myself and except for the constant texts from Haddie, I welcome the solitude so I don’t have to comfort or be comforted—the schizophrenia in my mind only getting louder with each passing second.

  My stomach churns. I’m hungry but the thought of food makes me nauseous. My head pounds but I welcome the pain, welcome the drum of it to count to as I try to speed up time. Or slow it down—whichever is to the benefit of Colton.

  The electronic beep of the door. The squeak of shoes. I don’t even open my eyes this time.

  “I have an update on Mr. Donavan.” The voice jolts me. Feet shuffle as the guys stand and an understated anxiety hums through the room in anticipation of what is going to be said.

  Fear grips me. I can’t stand. Can’t move. I’m so petrified of the words that are going to pass through his lips that I force a swallow down my throat but remain paralyzed with trepidation

  I squeeze my hands, gripping them into the bare flesh of my thighs, trying to use the pain to bury the memories. Willing the past to not repeat itself—to not trade one wrecked car with a man that I love for another.

  He clears his throat and I suck in a breath—praying, hoping, needing some kind of scrap to hold on to. “Let me just say that scans are still ongoing at this point but from what we can tentatively see, it’s obvious that Mr. Donavan has suffered a sudden deceleration injury with an internal organ disruption from the force in which he hit the catch fence. The injury occurs because the body is forcibly stopped but the organs inside the body remain in motion due to the inertia. From what we can tell …”

  “English, please,” I whisper. My mind tries to comprehend the medical jargon, knowing that if I wasn’t swimming in this fog of uncertainty, I’d be able to process it. He stops at my comment and even though I can’t lift my eyes to meet his, I say it louder this time. “English, please, doctor.” Fear overwhelms me. I cautiously lift my eyes to meet his, the crew turning to look at me while I stare at the doctor. “We’re all very worried here and while you may understand what you’re saying, the terminology is scaring the shit out of us...” my voice fades and he nods kindly, “...our minds are too overwhelmed to process this all right now … it’s been a long wait for us while you’ve been with him … so can you please just tell us in simple terms?”