Page 11 of Raced (Driven 3.50)
I’d run too, sweetheart. That’s nothing compared to the poison inside of me.
I look down at the empty glass in my hand while Raquel tugs on my arm, urging me to follow her. I resist the desire to huck it against the wall and hear the crash as the glass splinters into a thousand tiny fucking pieces.
What the fuck are you doing, Donavan? Since when do you care what people think? Fucking voodoo pussy, man. That’s got to be it. Got to be the only reason I want to chase the one thing I’ve never wanted. Never cared to.
Until now.
Fuckin’ A.
I look up and meet the blonde friend’s eyes. She just arches her eyebrow at me as if to say “You fucking idiot.” And she’s right. I am.
I look over to Raquel. And feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. No buzz. No charge. No ache to take.
I look into the mass of people where Rylee left and I catch a glimpse of her head as she weaves through the crowd. My chest tightens. My fingers rub together. My body craves. And the need humming through me is so strong, all I can do is shake my head at Raquel. My eyes telling her the only words that need to be said.
And then I walk away.
There’s not even a choice to be made.
It was made for me. The moment she fell out of that damn storage closet and into my life.
Fucking Rylee.
Fucking voodoo pussy.
The two thoughts are on repeat in my head as I push through the crowd to try and find where in the hell she went.
I’m annoyed I can’t find her. Pissed because Colton Donavan does not chase and fuck if this woman hasn’t had me on the run since the get-go.
It’s easy to tell myself to let her go. Fuck the hassle. So why can’t I?
I scan the crowd and through a break I see her at the bar. I push through, tell myself I’m chasing because of the challenge and from the need to show her that she wants this … even if it’s just because she’s so goddamn nonchalant about rejecting me.
Women aren’t blasé when it comes to wanting me. She tried to be but I saw her nipples tighten through her top, her pulse beat in her throat. I know I affected her.
Blasé my ass. She’s fucking lying and another shot, another drink, another woman isn’t going to convince me otherwise.
I’m used to getting what I want and right now, I want this fucking woman more than any other.
I reach the bar and she catches sight of me, turns, and then hurries to the exit.
Fuckin’ A. She’s running again and I’m chasing.
And the thing about chasing in racing is sometimes it’s a bitch to win a race from behind. But then again, chasing can let you draft, fly beneath the radar, and then slingshot to take the lead and control the race when it matters the most.
Time to slingshot.
I push through the exit moments after her. We’re in some type of hallway but I don’t take notice because our eyes lock. I see the hurt flash before she turns and keeps going.
Uh-uh. No way. She’s not walking away from me again because I may have seen hurt, but I also saw something else. And I need to know what that something else is.
But why, Donavan? Why the fuck do you care when you can have any woman you want? Snap your fingers and another one will replace the current one?
I grit my teeth as I chase, the view of her walking away becoming a familiar one but hell if it’s not hot as fuck to watch her ass sway. And therein lies the motherfucking problem. That view is what keeps me coming back for more. And I lie to myself again because I know it’s so much more than just the curves that keep me chasing.
Let her go. Let her keep on walking out of the hallway, out of my life.
But I don’t want her to. There’s just something about her that I can’t quite put my finger on. Something about her holds me captive, tempts me, demands that I sit up and pay fucking attention.
