Aced (The Driven #5)

by K. Bromberg

  Bingo. Dots connected. A confirmation. Now let’s try to complete the picture.

  “And you never thought to tell me?” I shout. My hands flex as I resist the urge to grab her shoulders and shake her in frustration.

  “It was a different time. You fired me shortly thereafter and I was furious, ashamed, disowned by my mother . . . so no, I’m sorry, Colton, I didn’t. I was so busy worrying about myself, being selfish.” She sighs, clasping and unclasping her hands in front of her. And I fucking hate when she looks up at me with clarity in her eyes I’ve never seen before. I don’t want to see it but I can’t ignore it either. “I was a different person back then. Time . . . things . . . kids, life, it changes you.”

  “Kids?” I snort out, holding my anger in front of me like a shield as I remember her shocking blindside all these years later. “You mean like the baby you lied about and tried to tell me was mine? Used as a pawn in your fucked-up games?” I take a step forward, fists clenched, anger owning me.

  “Yes, as in that one,” she says her voice barely audible. “I . . . I’m so—”

  “Save the apologies, Tawny. Your bullshit lies and accusations almost made me lose the most important person in the world.” The acrid taste of revulsion hits my tongue. “That’s something that doesn’t deserve forgiveness.”

  My words hit her like a one-two punch—hard, fast, and bruising. Does she think her quivering bottom lip will win me over? Make me forget the past?

  Not hardly.

  “I know,” she says giving me whiplash. I expected denial and defiance, attitude and arrogance, and she gives me neither. Our eyes hold for a long moment and fuck, all of a sudden I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time in a different light. Don’t fall for her act, Donavan. People like her don’t change. Can’t. It’s not possible.

  But you changed.

  The voice in the back of my head so very quiet, barely audible, sounds like a scream, causing me to bite back the snide comments as the unwelcome tang of doubt replaces them.

  The look on Rylee’s face flashes in my mind from the day Tawny came waltzing in the house to tell me she was pregnant with my baby. A manipulative game by one of the masters. Too bad for her I was a master at it myself. Had no problem going up to the plate against her curveballs. But Rylee . . . she didn’t even have a bat in her hand.

  I hold onto that thought—Ry’s tears, the nasty fight, the break we took—all of it, and tell the tiny ounce of pity I feel for Tawny to take a fucking hike. She brought this upon herself. Not me. Not Rylee. Just her.

  Tawny starts to speak and then stops. “If I had known that Eddie really had a tape . . . or what he was going to do, I would have told you.”

  I stare at her, leery of the sudden decency that doesn’t fit with the memory of the woman I used to know, and deliver a visual warning: You better not be fucking with me.

  “Tell me what you know.” My voice is gruff, incapable of believing her or that the years have changed her enough she’d actually look out for me. She’d have told me, my ass.

  Would she have?

  Does it really fucking matter, Donavan? Get as much info as you can, turn your back, and walk away. You don’t need to know if she’s changed, wonder if life has been rough for her, because the only thing that matters is the woman sitting in the car behind you.

  “Honestly—”

  “I’d like to believe that honesty is something you’re capable of but you’re not the one dealing with . . .” I let my words fall off, catch myself from letting her have a glimpse into my private life. Don’t want her to know about the butterfly effect this video she knew about is having on everything in Rylee’s life. Because if she’s playing me and is behind this—somehow, someway—then she’ll have gotten exactly what she was looking for: hurting Rylee, which hurts me. And while I may be sympathetic at times, it’s only toward my wife, only with the boys, and only with those I care about. Tawny and I may have a past together, but she is most definitely not any of those people.

  “Look, I know you don’t want to hear it but I fucked up. Was in a bad place with pressures you have no idea about and I won’t use as an excuse . . . but it was a long time ago. Like I said, I’m a different person now, Colton. I don’t expect you to believe me . . . to know I’m sorry for the games I played, but I am.” We hold each other’s gaze, my jaw clenched tight, pulse pounding.

  I expected to come here, fight with her, and threaten her to get some answers. Not in a million years did I expect her to be like this: apologetic, decent, sincere. And so the fuck what if she is? It changes nothing. Top priority is getting answers so I can try to make my wife whole again.

  “At first I thought he was lying about the tape,” she says, breaking through my warring thoughts. “I thought he was trying to get in my pants by feeding my spite over you choosing Rylee, because . . . well, because it was Eddie. You know how untrustworthy he was.”

  She leans her back against the doorjamb and I shift my feet, wanting to rush this, get the fuck away from here, but I need more. Seeing her causes the memories to resurface. The lies she told. Her manipulative ways. How I thought she’d been in cahoots with Eddie in stealing the blueprints way the fuck back when. Despite investigators and depositions, and every other legal means under the sun CJ couldn’t find shit to prove she was involved. To say I had a hard time believing she was innocent is an understatement. But I did. Had no choice.

  The question is, do I believe that now?

  “Did you ever watch it?” And it’s a stupid question, but the thought of her of all people watching Ry and me have sex seems ten more times intrusive than the other millions of people who have.

  “No. Never,” she says definitively, earning her a rise of my eyebrow in disbelief. “Really. That’s why I never thought twice about it.”

  Great. Now I’ve given her the idea to go watch it. Brilliant, Donavan. Fucking brilliant. But then again, I had to ask. Had to know.

  I blow out a breath, roll my shoulders, and ask the one question left that makes no fucking sense to me. “If he had the video though, why wait all this time?”

  She angles her head as she stares at me, feet shifting, arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t know, Colton. I just don’t know.”

  Impatient, uncomfortable, and still a little thrown by this new woman in front of me that looks the same but sounds so very different, I just nod my head, turn my back, and stride down the walk to my car. I don’t know what else to do. There is no good in goodbye here. There’s just the closing of a door on another chapter of my past.

  “Colton.”

  Every muscle in my body tenses—feet want to keep walking—yet curiosity stops me dead in my tracks. With my back to her, I wait for her to say whatever it is she wants to say.

  “It’s good to see you happy. It suits you. I know now that’s because of Rylee.”

  I lift my eyes to meet Rylee’s at the same time Tawny speaks. I hear her statement, take it for what it is, and don’t try to find a hidden meaning or an underlying dig. With eyes locked on Rylee’s, I nod my head in acknowledgement and walk toward the car.

  Time can change people. The woman with violet eyes staring back at me? She’s my living proof that I’ve done just that, changed.

  Tawny might have changed too, yet I don’t have the effort to care right now. I have a wife that is more important than the air I fucking breathe, and being this close to Tawny, I’m starting to suffocate.

  I need my air.

  “TALK ABOUT BLINDSIDING HER,” BECKS says.

  “Which one?” I ask with a laugh followed by a hiss as I throw back the Macallan. The shit’s smooth but burns like a motherfucker.

  “I was talking about Tawny but you’ve got a point there,” Becks says with a smirk. “I imagine Rylee got whiplash when she saw Tawny open the front door.”

  “I’m sure she did, but thank fuck she stayed in the car or who knows what would have happened.”

  “You’re a brave fucker taking Ry the
re after everything she did to the two of you,” he says as he lifts two fingers to our waitress for another round.

  “Brave or stupid. But this right here,” I say, holding my left hand in the air and pointing to my wedding ring, “means I didn’t dare visit Tawny without her. That would have been no bueno. Besides, she had a right to know since she called it.”

  “Dude, I still can’t get over the fact you saw Tawny after all this time.”

  “Yeah . . . well . . .” I shrug, thinking of all of the shit I said way back when about how I’d never step within a hundred yards of her again. “Sometimes the promises you make to yourself are the easiest to break. And shit, we were on the way back from the police station so I figured why not kill two birds with one stone since we’d dodged the vultures?”

  “I can’t believe the paps are still all over you. Is Ry okay after yesterday?”

  I blow out a breath. Fucking assholes. “A little shaken but she’s scrappy.” I clench my fist on the table as I recall her phone call yesterday. How she tried to take a walk on the beach to get some fresh air but paparazzi shifted from the gate to the sand and swarmed her before she could even reach the waterline.

  And I know how she felt—needing the fresh air—because I feel the same way. Isn’t that why I’m here right now? Decompressing. Grabbing a few minutes while she’s taking a nap after the excitement of my visit to Tawny today, to hang with Becks, shoot the shit, and get a change of scenery to make me a better man. Sitting in your own house day after day can wear on any man. Make you feel like an animal in the zoo: caged, pacing, and constantly toyed with by those on the outside looking in.

  I grit my teeth and thank fuck the back entrance of Sully’s pub was paparazzi-free so Sammy could drop me off and I could slide in and meet Becks without being mobbed. After yesterday and how they treated Ry, my fuse is short and ready to ignite at the slightest misstep.

  “Was it strange seeing her again after all this time?” Becks asks as he lifts his beer to his lips.

  “Is the sky blue? Fuck, man . . . it was weird. But she gave me what I needed to know so maybe she’s changed some.”

  “Don’t give her that much credit,” he murmurs.

  “I don’t give her any.”

  “Smart,” he says and slides the cardboard coaster around on the table. “Should have known Eddie would be the one to pull shit like this. Fucker.”

  “Fucker,” I repeat because anything else would be a waste of breath. I glance at my phone to make sure Ry or Kelly hasn’t texted since the noise in the bar is getting louder the longer we sit here.

  “Everything okay?”

  “After ten more of these it will be. Need to drink to forget,” I say, rolling my shoulders and letting out a frustrated sigh. Too much shit, too damn fast. I want my happy, baby-crazed wife back. Her job back. Our life back. “It’s not gonna help shit and I’ll be sicker than a dog in the morning, but sometimes, it’s just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Truth. And I’ve got just the prescription for us,” Becks says as he motions to the waitress again to head over to our regular table tucked in the back.

  “What can I get you boys?” she asks, smile wide and cleavage jiggling.

  “Bottle of Patron Gold. Two shot glasses, please. We need to forget,” Becks says.

  “That’ll sure do the job,” she says with a lift of her eyebrows. “Looks like you’re going to be stuck here for a while anyway with the way paparazzi are stacking up outside.”

  “Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Sorry, hon. We find out who in here called, we’re kicking their sorry asses to the curb,” she says louder than normal so those around us can hear her. She starts to walk away and then stops and turns around. “And we’ll stick ’em with your tab.”

  I throw my head back with a laugh. “I like the way you think.”

  She returns within minutes, our ongoing tab and prior large tips always earning us the best service. “Here you go, boys,” she says, as she sets two full shot glasses in front of us, and the bottle in between us. “May God rest your souls.”

  “Amen to that,” Becks says as he lifts his glass. “What’s the first thing we need to forget?”

  “Paparazzi.”

  “Cheers,” he says as we tap our glasses against each other’s. “Fuck you, paparazzi.”

  We toss the shots back. My throat burns as the warmth starts to flood through me. Becks lifts a lime from the bowl on the table and I mutter, “Pussy,” under my breath, earning me a flip of his finger. “Umm.” I think of what I want to forget next. “Fucking CJ.”

  “Okay,” he draws the word out as he pours us another shot, “but if I’m drinking to forget something, I need to know what I’m supposed to forget since I sure as hell hope you’re not fucking CJ.”

  “No. I’m not fucking CJ.” I belt out a laugh. My mind is starting to spin as I glance around the bar. “Because my goddamn hands are cuffed and not in a good way. He called earlier, said that in the eyes of the law, the tape was public. Eddie didn’t steal it from us per se. He uploaded it for free . . . isn’t making any money off it and so we can’t do shit about it. He gets his kicks fucking with us and we have no legal means to get back at him.”

  “Sure as shit there are other means though,” he says with a smirk and a raise of his fist.

  “Now that,” I say as I hold up my shot, “I’ll drink to. Cheers, brother.”

  “Cheers.”

  Our glasses clink. The tequila burns until it warms. Our laughter gets louder and our cheers get sloppier and take longer to come up with.

  But I begin to forget.

  About Eddie. The pressure to fix it all. And the thousands of men jacking off to the image of my wife holding her tits as she comes. And the rage over how she lost her job. And becoming a father. The need to win the next race. Being told to bite my tongue with the press.

  And God does it feels good to forget.

  I’m lost in thought, trying to figure out how many shots we’ve downed, when my phone rings. I fumble with my cell before answering.

  “If it’s good enough to make me sober, Kelly, I just might forgive you for ruining my buzz,” I say into the phone with a laugh.

  “You drunk?”

  “Well on my way.”

  “Understandably,” he says in his no nonsense tone. “Eddie checks in with his parole officer once a month.”

  “Mm,” I say as visions fill my head of waiting for him outside the social services office and greeting him with a fist to the face.

  “Don’t even think about it, Donavan. You got the restraining order for Rylee. Leave it at that. Just like I’ve told you all week long, you touch him, he’s going to sue you like he owns the Fluff and Fold and take you to the cleaners. It’s not worth it.”

  Quit fucking telling me what to do.

  “Let him try,” I sneer, admitting to myself he’s right but also knowing revenge gives its own special satisfaction. I begin to say something else when the thought hits me that I might be able to get him back and not lift a fucking finger. The problem is I want to lift more than a finger at him. I want a whole knockout fist.

  “Thanks, Kelly. Keep me up to speed.” Thoughts try to connect through my fuzzy mind on how I can make this all work to my advantage. Fuck Eddie over. Redeem Rylee. Get back the happily ever after.

  My plan could work.

  “Everything okay?” Becks asks, as he looks up from his own phone.

  Later, Donavan. Figure it out later. Right now? Drink.

  “Fucking peachy,” I say, copying one of his go-to sayings. “Kelly’s got a line on Eddie.”

  “And that pisses you off, why?”

  “Just thinking.”

  “That’s scary,” he teases and I slide my glass across the table so it clinks against his in response. “What is it?”

  “Bad juju, man,” I finally say, trying to put into words what I think’s been bugging me the past few days. The drinking to forget didn’t numb t
his. “I’ve got this feeling that won’t go away.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  “Things have been too goddamn perfect for us. I have the fucking fairy tale, Becks. The princess, the castle, the—”

  “Jackass,” Becks snorts as he points my way, causing me to laugh. Asshole. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist,” he says, putting his hands up in a mock surrender. “Please, continue.”

  “Nah. Never mind.” Shut it down, Donavan. You sound like an idiot. A drunk one at that.

  “No. Seriously. Go on.”

  I concentrate on drawing lines in the ridges of the worn tabletop. “Shit in our life was just too good. Too perfect. And now with the tape and Ry’s job and . . .” My voice fades as I try to explain the feeling I don’t understand, but that all of a sudden feels like it’s clinging to me like a second skin. “I just keep waiting for the other shoe to drop to make this fairy-tale life of ours come crashing down. It’s a shitty feeling.”

  “Feelings are like waves, brother. You can’t stop them from coming but you sure as fuck can decide which ones to let pass you by and which ones to surf.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s just hope I don’t wipe the fuck out by picking the wrong one.”

  Becks and I decide we’re looped enough to brave the chaos.

  We push open the back door of Sully’s and are met with blinding flashes of light and a roar of sound. I wince. The alcohol makes the clicking shutters and shouts of my name sound like they’re coming through a megaphone. They stagger me. Blind me.

  Anger the fuck out of me.

  Sammy’s here. Pushing people back to let Becks and I inch toward the Rover. But each step, each push of the mob against me fuels my fire.

  Take a step. A camera hits my shoulders. My fists clench.

  “Colton, how does it feel to be the most downloaded video on YouTube in over five years?”