Page 106 of Crashed (Driven 3)
“Dude, you are one whipped motherfucker, aren’t you?”
I look over at him ready to defend my fucking manhood when I realize it’s right where I want it to be, held in Rylee’s fucking hands—the perfect mixture of sugar and spice. So I laugh out and just shake my head, bring the beer to my lips and shrug. “As long as it’s her pussy doing the whipping, I’m fucking game all day long.”
Becks chokes again but with laughter this time, and I pat him on the back as Ry looks over at us making sure he’s okay. “My God! That must be the best motherfucking voodoo pussy ever to tame Colton fuckin’ Donavan.”
“Tame? Never.” I chuckle and shake my head, leaning back on the chair behind me to look over at him. “But some asshole—er friend—made me realize how much I like the fucking alphabet.”
“That friend deserves a shitload of beer as a thank you then.” He shrugs. “That, or a mighty fine piece of ass in return.”
I snort out a laugh, grateful for his sarcasm to avoid talking about deep feelings and shit that I’m not really comfortable discussing. I’m just getting used to saying this kind of shit to Ry, I’m sure as fuck not going to be getting touchy-feely with Becks.
“She’s got a hot friend,” I tell him with a raise of my eyebrow, earning me a snort in return as I repeat what I said the night I talked him into inviting Ry to Vegas with us.
“She sure does,” he murmurs, but before I can respond, Aiden cannonballs into the pool and the splash hits us full on. We start laughing, comment forgotten, sunglasses now splashed with water.
“Hey,” he says, and I look back over at him. “I have to give you shit because that’s just the way we roll … but I’m really happy for you, Wood. Now don’t fuck it up.”
I grin at him. The fucker. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, dude.”
“Anytime, man. Anytime.” We sit in silence for a moment, both watching the boys around us acting like they’re supposed to be, kids. “So you ready?”
Becks’ voice pulls me from my thoughts and back to what I should really be focusing on: the race next week. First time back in the car since the accident. Pedal to the floor and the next left turn. And fuck if just the thought doesn’t make my blood pressure spike.
But I got this.
“Fuck, I was born ready,” I tell him, tapping the neck of my beer bottle to his. “Checkered flag’s mine for the taking.”
“Fuck yeah it is,” he says as he looks down at his phone that’s received a text, and my eyes drift back to Rylee and thoughts of a particular pair of checkered panties I never did get to claim. I sure as fuck need to fix that.
I shake my head as I sink back into my chair and watch the boys jumping in the pool and chicken fight one another. I sit and wait for it, but it doesn’t happen. That fucking pang of jealousy I used to get when I saw boys acting their age, acting how I never got to. Because even after I was adopted, the fear was still there, still raw as fuck.
Rylee catches my eye from across the deck and those fucking sexy-as-sin lips spread wide. Fuck me running. My balls tighten and chest constricts at the notion that I put that smile on those lips. The woman is my fucking kryptonite.
Who else would I allow to invite seven boys to my house for a pool party to celebrate summer being here? What other woman could I share my demons with and instead of running like a fucking banshee, she looks me in the eyes and tells me I’m brave? Who else would scar their skin to prove to me she’s in it for the long haul?
Motherfucking checkered flags and alphabets and sheets. When the fuck did all of this become okay with me?
I shake my head, pretending I don’t want it but fuck if I can’t look away from her for one goddamn second before my eyes find her again.
I lift the fresh beer Becks hands me and start to take a sip and look over at him as he shakes his head laughing at me. “What?”
“You are so going to fucking marry her.”
It’s my turn to choke on my beer. I double over in a coughing fit as Becks pounds me a little too hard on the back. “He’s fine!” I hear him say as I try to control the choking mixed with laughter burning its way up my throat. “He’s fine,” he says again, and I can hear the amusement in his voice.
“Fuck off, Becks!” I finally manage to get out. “Not gonna happen! No rings, no strings,” I say our old motto with a laugh. And then I look up to find Ry. She’s across the patio sitting on the edge of the pool, Diet Coke in hand, and is playing referee to the boys’ game of Marco Polo. Ricky gets caught as a fish out of water, and Rylee throws her head back in laughter at some
thing Scooter says to him.
And there’s something about her right now—hair highlighted from the sun, a carefree sound to her laugh, and obviously in love with everyone around her. Something about her being with the boys, making life normal for them at a place that has never really been a home until now—until her—hits me harder than that fucking rookie Jameson did in Florida. Has me thinking about the forevers and shit that six months ago would have never once crossed my mind.
It’s just gotta be Becks getting in my head. Fucking it up. The bastard needs to shut the hell up about shit that’s not gonna happen.
Never.
So why the fuck am I wondering what Ry’d look like wearing white? Why am I wondering how Rylee Donavan sounds out loud?
Never. I try to shake the thoughts from my head, but they linger, spooking the fuck out of me.
