Page 60 of Crashed (Driven 3)
“Can you get the slur out of your voice and put down Jack, because that’s a dead giveaway your head is still fucked up … so I’ll repeat my question again. Where’s your head at?”
“All over the fucking place!” I shout at him, failing miserably to not sound drunk “Goddamn it, Becks! That’s why I need the track. I need to clear the shit from it to help fix me.”
There’s silence on the line, and I bite my tongue because I know if I push he’ll hang the fuck up on me. “The track’s not going to fix that fucked up head of yours, but I think a certain wavy haired hottie could do that for you.”
“Drop it, Becks.” I bite the words out, not in the mood for another shrink session.
“Not on your life, fucker. Baby. No baby. You really gonna push the best thing you got going for you out the fucking door?”
And session number two begins.
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks. You’re not my type.”
His condescending tone pisses me off. “Stay the fuck out of it!”
“Oh! So you are going to let her go? Isn’t that a song or some shit? Well hell, since you’re gonna let her go, I guess I’ll give her a run then.”
Motherfucker. Are my buttons that easy to push tonight? “If you’re smart, you’ll shut the fuck up. I know you’re pushing me … trying to get me to call her.”
“Wow! He does listen. Now that’s a news fucking flash.”
I’m done. “Quit fucking around, do your job, and get me on the goddamn track, Beckett.”
“Be at the track at ten tomorrow morning.”
“What?”
“It’s about time. I’ve had it reserved for the past week waiting for your ass to get with it.”
“Hmpf.” He had me pegged.
“You won’t show.” He laughs.
“Fuck off.”
“You wish.”
I blow out a breath and roll my shoulders, welcoming the burn as I stretch my warm and thoroughly tired muscles. I desperately needed this run—the escape into our backyard and through the gate of the neighbor behind us so I could get away undetected from the persistent press.
I look up from my stretch and something across the street catches my eye. I’m immediately on guard when I see the dark blue sedan across the street with the man leaning against it, camera in hand with a telephoto lens blocking his face. Something about him strikes me as familiar, and I can’t put my finger on it … but I know my little piece of freedom—by secret passage—has been compromised.
The thought pisses me off and although I’ve yet to engage with any press, my feet have a life of their own and start walking toward him. My mind running the verbal lashing I’m about to give him over and over in my head. He watches my approach, the shutter clicking at rapid fire pace, the camera still blocking his face. I’m just about to start my spiel when I’m about fifty feet away and my phone rings in my hand.
Even after many days of no contact, my pulse still races at the sound, hoping it’s Colton but knowing it’s not before I even look at it. But I’m taken back a bit when I look at the screen and see Beckett’s name. I stop immediately and fumble with my phone, worried that something’s happened.
“Becks?”
“Hey, Ry.” That’s all he says and falls silent. Oh shit. Dread drops like a lead weight through me.
“Beckett, what’s wrong with Colton?” I can’t stop the worry that weighs heavy in my voice. The silence stretches and my mind runs as I glance at the photographer momentarily before turning my back and hurrying home.
“I just wanted you to know that Colton’s on his way to the track right now.”
I’m standing outside in the open, but I suddenly find it hard to draw in a breath of air. “What?” I’m surprised he can even hear me, my voice is so soft. Images flash through my he
ad like a slideshow: the crash, the mangled metal, a broken Colton unresponsive in the hospital bed.
