Page 90 of Crashed (Driven 3)
What the fuck? “Dude, did you just actually compare yourself to fucking herpes?” I lean my head back and look at the stars in the sky before angling it over to stare at him and shake my head. “Because at least with herpes, my dick gets serviced first. With you, it’s more like being bent without any fucking lube.”
He laughs that laugh of his that tugs a smile up at the corner of my mouth. The stubborn fucker is getting to me when all I want is to be left the fuck alone.
“Well at least it’s nice to know you’ll let me in somehow,” he says, winking and staring at me until I can’t take it. I let out the laugh I’ve been holding in.
“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” I say, uncapping another bottle of beer.
“You wouldn’t want me any other way.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I say as I down half of the bottle letting the night’s silence settle around us. As much as I want to be left alone—to deal with the fucked up shit in my head that’s telling me a decision’s going to have to come sooner than later—it’s nice that Becks is here, even if he’s a fucking pain in my ass. I drum my thumbs to Seether playing through the speakers as he gives me a couple of minutes before he starts playing shrink to the fucking poisonous shit in my head.
“Remember that girl, Roxy Tomlin?” he asks finally, throwing me for a loop.
“Hoover?” I laugh, curious as to why he’s bringing up the blow job queen from our past. The one who sucked Becks off just to get to me. And normally, I’d be shoving that shit out the fucking door with a stunt like that, but after he’d bragged she gave the best head he’d ever had, I took advantage of the more than willing offer.
“Yeah, fucking Hoover. The suction that never stopped.” He laughs with me, shaking his head at the memory. “Still pretty goddamn high on the ranking scale in my book.”
“No fucking Rylee, but yeah.” I shrug. “She was decent.”
“Decent?” he barks out. “I swear to God, the woman had no fucking gag reflex.”
“Maybe that’s ’cause you’re not big enough to reach the back of her throat.” I quirk my eyebrows as I finish another beer. He wants to come to my house and fuck with my head, I sure as shit am going to fuck with his.
“Fuck off, Wood.”
His bottle cap hits me in the chest as I sit back and smirk. “I’ve had much better offers, my friend, but thanks anyway.” My head’s spinning trying to figure out where the hell he’s going with this line of thinking, but fuck if I can figure it out.
“I ran into her the other day.” His calm cadence makes me to turn my head and look at him.
“And …?”
“Shocked the shit out of me is what she did.”
“Why’s that?” I pretend to be interested but he’s losing me. I glance up at the bedroom window behind me where the light’s still off, and even though I’m way beyond the road to drunk, I like knowing Ry’s up there. I try to focus back on Becks but why the fuck do I care about the easy piece we both had way back fucking when with a head so screwed up it rivaled mine?
“I barely recognized her. Still gorgeous as fuck. Filled out in all the right places now.”
Yeah, yeah, get to your fucking point, Beckett.
“And she had three kids in tow.”
“Look, dude, I know there’s some kind of six degrees of Kevin Bacon fucking happening here right now, but I’m not fucking following you so just spit out your goddamn point.” Then it hits me. Oh shit! “They’re not your kids are they, Becks?”
“Jesus Christ, Donavan, you’re fucking drunker than I thought.” He chokes out a cough before raising his hand in the air and pointing to himself. “King of double bag before you stab, right here!”
“And who taught you that, douche bag?”
“Apparently not you since you obviously didn’t practice what you fucking preach.”
His unexpected words cause a twinge in my gut that I fucking hate. The same fucking twinge I get every time I think of Rylee lying there on the goddamn floor all by herself, for who knows how long, and every time I think of the small piece of me dying inside of her. I gulp down the beer, pushing the thoughts from my fucking head and force myself to breathe.
“Where the fuck are you going with this, Daniels, because I’m drunk, have no fucking patience, and kind of think you’re trying to push my buttons to get me to react to whatever fucking point you’re taking your sweet ass time getting to. So just fucking get to it.”
“Remember that one night we all got plastered at Jimmy’s bonfire?”
“Beckett!” I growl at him because my tolerance ran out like five fucking minutes ago.
“Chill out, shut the fuck up, and listen.” I snap my head over to look at him because I’m in no fucking mood. “We were wasted and she started talking about the shit that had happened to her—bad shit—you remember?” I give him a measured nod, still not following the fucking road map he’s lost himself on, but recall the story of abuse in all forms. A conversation I took no part in. “And she said she never wanted kids, that life’s too fucked up and she didn’t want them to go through the shit she did. And now she has three kids, is married, and seems genuinely happy.”
