Page 91 of Crashed (Driven 3)
“The fucking point?” I growl at him
“Quit being so goddamn stubborn, Donavan, and connect the fucking dots, will you?”
“I’m not a fucking constellation. Your dots aren’t drawing a picture so help me the fuck out.”
“You look like the Little Dipper to me.” He smirks.
I pick up the pillow next to me and chuck it at him. “Fuck off! Big Dipper’s more like it.” I take a long tug on my beer. Fuck, it’s empty. They’re disappearing faster than I can count them. Usually I’d just crash right here, but fuck Ry’s up there. No way I’m sleeping without her next to me. I sigh, Becks’ words running circles in my head, hinting at his point but never really landing on the fucking bull’s-eye. “Seriously, Becks, what are you trying to tell me here? Just spit it out.”
“Things fucking change, dude! Life changes. Priorities change. Pre-fucking-conceived notions change. You have to adjust and change with them or your ass gets left behind.” He shoves up out of his chair and walks to the railing and looks out into the blackness beyond. When he turns back around, he is dead serious. “We’ve been best friends for what? Almost twenty years. I love ya, man. I never interfere with the shit you’ve got going on … which woman’s warming the sheets, but fuckin’ A, Wood …”
&n
bsp; I’m not liking where this conversation is going. Deflection is my only thought. “I thought you told me I needed to fuck a B instead,” I say, trying to add some humor to this serious conversation, and fuck all if I can follow how we went from Hoover Tomlin to Becks sticking his goddamn nose where it doesn’t fucking belong.
He laughs—has the balls to fucking mock me—before walking over to me and shaking his head at me. “You don’t get it, do you? Fuck the A or the B, you have the whole goddamn alphabet upstairs and she’s asleep in your fucking bed right now, but the only letter that can fuck this up is U!” he shouts at me.
What the fuck? He’s taking her side? I swear to God, Ry’s worked her fucking voodoo pussy magic on him and he’s never even had it before. Talk about super powers and shit.
“Becks? How am I going to fuck this up? She’s here isn’t she? I want her here, brought her here, so what the hell else do you want from me? And how the fuck does Hoover factor into this shit?”
“Jesus fucking Christ!” he swears as he paces in front of me and takes a long pull on his beer. “She’s here for now! She’s here until you start thinking too fucking much about how, now that she might be able to have a baby, she just might not want you anymore because you’ve never wanted one. Until you start pushing her the fuck away and trying to hurt her so she makes the decision for you so you don’t have to fucking make it for yourself. But things fucking change, Colton! Look at Roxy ‘Hoover’ Tomlin. She never wanted kids because of the shit that happened to her as a kid and now her kids? They’re her whole goddamn world!”
“Fuck. You.” The ice in my voice rivals the chill of the fucking polar ice cap.
“No, fuck you, Colton! You sat in that goddamn hospital room when she needed you the most and sure as fuck you were there … but fluffing pillows doesn’t fix the shit that’s hurting inside of her. Or in you. I sat there and plain as fucking day watched you start to pull the fuck away from her.”
“I’m warning you, Becks!” I say, standing up, fists clenched, fury racing through my veins. His words hit a little too close to fucking home. A little too close to a truth I always said I never wanted—would never tolerate—but now all of a sudden I can’t get out of my mind. Ideas of a life I never even thought could exist for me. But how is that even fucking possible? The broken merry-go-round in my head keeps whirling, but all I can think about is shutting Becks the fuck up because he’s right about me pulling away. About me not being there for her when she needed me most. So fucking right my stomach is a motherfucking mess.
“Truth hurt, dude? You want to throw a punch at me? Take the truth you don’t want to fucking face out on me?”
I grit my teeth and throw my bottle into the can and watch it shatter into a million fucking pieces. And once again I’m back here—broken glass, broken mind, and fucked up all around. He pushes my shoulder from behind, egging me on, and I take the fucking bait so quick it’s not even a thought. I whirl around, arm cocked back, fists clenched, and a fucking freight train of anger tears through me.
And Becks just stands there, eyes locked on mine, chin raised in that fuck you position daring me to take a shot. “What’s your problem, hotshot? Not so tough now, are ya?”
My body fucking hums, vibrates with every fucking ounce of emotion I’ve held in over the past week, but all I can do is stare at him, wanting so desperately to expel the motherfucking guilt eating at every goddamn piece of me.
Guilt that all of this happened because of me—not stepping up to be a man, leaving her alone with Zander, not getting to The House quick enough, not getting to the bathroom quick enough. The guilt clings to so many fucking things inside of me—the poison and the hope— that the only thing I want to do is drink another fucking beer, numb myself, and push it away.
“You wanna fight? How ’bout you save it? How about you fight for what fucking matters? Because she,” he says, pointing up to the bedroom window and lowering his voice to a quiet fucking steel, “she’s worth the fight, dude. Worth every goddamn fear eating at you. Every piece of it, Colton—A to motherfucking Z.” He steps into me and jabs a finger into my chest. “Time to deal with your past, because Rylee?” He points up to the room again and then back at me. “She’s your goddamn future. It’s fight or flight time, man. Let’s just hope you’re the man I’ve always thought you were.”
My whole body tenses at his words, and I’m so fucking pissed at myself that I don’t immediately tell him he’s full of bullshit. I’m so motherfucking angry that for a moment—just a flicker of a moment—fear consumes me so I think of flight.
Think of flight when she’s done nothing but prove she’s a fighter—a fucking gorgeous, defiant, scrappy brawler when it comes to what’s hers—while I fucking hesitated. My teeth are gritted so goddamn hard I swear my molars are going to break, and I turn my back to him and walk over to the railing and cuss out into the darkness that rivals the black I feel in my soul right now.
I don’t fucking deserve her. Sinner and saint. My caution to her motherfucking checkered flag. And as much as I know this—as much as my fucking chest hurts with each breath because of this—she’s the only thing I see. The only one I want. My fucking Rylee.
“Cat got your tongue, Colt?” he taunts from behind me. “Are you that fucking stupid you’re going to walk away because she got pregnant? Because of some shit that hap—”
And I’m done.
Temper snapped.
Gas added to my fucking fire.
“You have no fucking clue about what happened!” I yell at him, my voice breaking as I turn to face him. “Not a fucking clue!”
Beckett’s in my face in five strides. “You’re right! I don’t have a fucking clue!” He grabs my shoulders so I can’t turn away from him, and as hard as I try I can’t shrug them the fuck off of me. “But, Colton, brother, I’ve watched you struggle for years with whatever the fuck that bitch of a mother did to you as a kid, but that’s not you anymore. You’re not that kid. Never again. And, dude, Rylee accepts that. Accepts you. Fucking loves you. Figure out how to accept it and the rest will figure itself out.” He reaches out and cuffs the side of my face with a hand before stepping back and shaking his head. “It’s time to man the fuck up and realize you fucking love her too, before it’s too goddamn late and you lose the one person who’s made you whole again. Figure out how to deal with your past so you don’t lose your fucking future.”
