Page 59 of Crashed (Driven 3)
“Okay … I’ve thrown a lot of shit at you, but it was time you heard it. And I’m sorry I probably fucked with your head more than you needed me to, but, son, only you can fix that now—deal with it now that all of the cards are on the table. But I have to tell you, you’re not your mother. DNA doesn’t make you a monster like her … just as if you were to have a child, your demons won’t be transferred to that new life.”
My fists clench and teeth grind at the last words—words that feed off the worst of my fears—the urge to break something returning. To drown the pain that’s back with a vengeance. I know he’s pushed me to the breaking point. I can hear his quiet sigh through the screams of every ounce of my being.
He stands slowly and I tell myself to look at him. To show him that I’ve heard him, but I can’t make myself do it. I feel his hand on the top of my head, like I’m a little boy again, and his uncertain voice whispers, “I love you, Colton.”
The words fill my fucking head but I can get them past the fear lodged in my throat. Past the memories of the chant I used to say that was followed by the brutality and unspeakable pain. As much as I want to tell him—feel the need to tell him—I still can’t.
See, perfect example, I want to tell him, to demonstrate how fucked up I am. He just bared his fucking self to me and I can’t give him a goddamn response because she stole it from me. And he thinks I could be a parent? She made my heart black and my core rotten. There’s no way in hell I could pass that on to someone else if there were the remote chance it could happen.
I hear the door shut and I just remain on the floor. The outside light fades. Jack calls to me, tempts me, allows me to drown myself in his comfort, no glass needed.
Confusion fucking swamps me. Drags me under.
I need to clear my fucking head.
I need to figure my shit out.
Only then can I call Ry. And God I want to call her. My finger hovering over the fucking Call button. Hovering there for well over an hour.
Call.
Call End.
Call.
Call End.
Fuck me!
I squeeze my eyes shut, head fuzzy from however much I’ve drank. And I start to laugh at what I’ve been reduced to. Me and the floor are becoming best fucking friends. Fuckin’ A.
It’s not hard to go up when you’re already at fucking rock bottom. Time to ride the fucking elevator. I start laughing. I know there’s only way to clear my head—my only other fucking high besides Rylee—that will help keep the demons at bay for a bit. And as much as I need Rylee right now, I need to do this first to get my shit figured out. My right hand fucking trembles as I go to push Call, and when I do, I’m scared out of my fucking mind, but it’s time.
Head straight.
Then Rylee.
Motherfucking baby steps.
“Hey, douche bag. I didn’t realize you knew my phone number it’s been so fucking long since you’ve called me.”
Such a fucking old lady. God, I love this guy.
“Get me in the fucking car, Becks.”
His laughter stops in an instant, the silence assuring me he’s heard me, heard the words I know he’s been waiting to hear since I got the all clear.
“What’s going on, Wood? You sure?”
What’s with everyone fucking questioning me tonight? “I said get me in the goddamn car!”
“Okay,” he drawls out in his slow cadence. “Where’s your head at?”
“Fucking seriously? First you push me to get in the fucker and now you’re questioning the fact that I want to? What are you, my goddamn wet nurse?”
He chuckles. “Well, I do like my nipples played with, but shit, Wood, I kinda think you touching them would give me a reverse boner.”
I can’t stop the laugh that comes. Fucking Beckett. Always a bucket of fucking laughs. “Quit fucking with me, can you get me on the track or not?”
