Page 18 of Aced (Driven 4)
He’s not in the office or kitchen, and I’m surprised when I find him upstairs on the upper patio, elbows resting on his knees, glass of amber liquid in one hand, phone to his ear with the other, and his head hung down in concentration.
“We were obviously played, CJ. Fucking full-court press without a goddamn ball.” The resignation in his voice causes the hair on my arms to stand on end because why does he sound so defeated when he figured this was going to happen in the first place? That the asshole was going to release the tape anyway? “I know, but . . . fuck this is a clusterfuck. I didn’t see this coming. Not from a million miles away.” He pauses as CJ says whatever he’s saying. “There is no controlling it. Don’t you get that?” he shouts. By the shake of his head, he obviously disagrees with what is being said. “This conversation is done before I say something I’m going to regret and that you don’t deserve.”
He drops the phone on the chair next to him and without even looking up, downs the rest of the alcohol, meeting my eyes in a fleeting glance before concentrating back on the glass he’s just emptied. “I’m assuming you didn’t get my zillion texts?” he asks, irritated and agitated.
“I was at the doctor.” Oh shit. I was so stressed about how I was going to relay Dr. Steele’s warning to Colton, I completely forgot to turn my ringer back on. “Sorry,” I say, cautiously stepping onto the patio. “What’s going on, Colton?” I ask, although by his conversation with CJ, I already know.
He scrubs a hand over his face and when I get a little closer to him. Something about his movements tells me he’s a little buzzed. And I hate that he can’t look me in the eye.
“The fuckers released the video,” he says, words mirroring the thoughts I had when I saw paparazzi outside. The grimace on his face only serves to heighten my sense of dread.
“Okay,” I say with a slow nod. “Well, you were right then.” What else can I say?
The low chuckle he emits is anything but amused, and I will him to look at me so I can see what he’s thinking. But he won’t. Instead he just purses his lips, eyes focused on the bottle of Jack next to him, and pours himself another drink.
“But I was so very wrong.” The words hang between us as he slowly raises his eyes to meet mine. And the look in them—absolute and utter apology mixed with regret and concern—causes more than just feelings of dread. Something is so very wrong.
“What do you mean?”
“They never wanted the money.” Another long pull on the whiskey and the fact he never even winces tells me he’s had more than a few already. “Nope. Not even close.” He shakes his head when all I want to do is shake the answer out of him as the silence stretches. “In fact,” he says as he raises his glass toward me, “they one-upped us.”
“What do you mean they one-upped us?” The teeter-totter of uncertainty we are standing on starts to crash without a stopping point.
“They reeled me in, Ry, like a fucking fish on a hook. Doctored the time stamp like they knew I’d notice it. Made me think that was the only video of that night . . .” His voice draws off as he finally meets my eyes. “But there was one more. Another angle.”
And that simple statement hijacks my breath and makes my heart thunder. “Another angle?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Fuckin’ A straight,” he barks out, his self-deprecating laugh back that sounds equal parts sinister and lost hope.
“What the fuck do you mean, Colton?” I ask, my own mind running a million miles per hour now. I’m scared, worried, uncertain, and it all comes through in the words. Another angle? What do paparazzi know out front that I don’t?
“Sit down,” he orders, as he reaches out to grab my hand and tries to make me.
“Don’t!” I warn him as I shrug out of his grip, letting the single word mean so many things. Don’t coddle me. Don’t bullshit me. Don’t tell me to calm down because I’m not an idiot. I know something is very wrong here.
His eyes hold mine while the silence that feels like hours stretches between us, unnerving me more and more with each and every second that passes. He starts to speak a few times and stops; the words he wants to use not coming to him.
“Just tell me,” I implore.
He closes his eyes momentarily before running a hand through his hair and taking a long swallow of his drink. I wrack my brain to remember the last time I saw him this stressed. It’s been so long that I feel completely out of practice in what to say or how to soothe him.
“They played me. Knew I was going to say ‘fuck them’ and not pay. They never wanted the money, Ry,” he says. Even though I’m not completely following him, I’m also mentally begging him to get to the point because I need to know why he’s this upset. “Nope. They wanted to prove what an arrogant son of a bitch I am. Prove that even when I do what I think is best for my family, I still can’t fucking protect you.”
“What’s on the tape, Colton?”
“Close-ups. Your face. Your body. Us together. The correct date,” he says so quietly, it takes me a second to realize what he is actually saying.
“No!” I shout. He reaches out for me but I step back. The pressure in my chest mounts and the buzzing in my head grows louder.
“Ry . . .” My name is a plea on his lips and even though I hear it, I can’t respond. My discordant thoughts are colliding together like a kaleidoscope—fractured images of unfinished thoughts that overwhelm me and confuse me all at once. “How was I supposed to know?”
The emotion in his voice pulls on every single one inside me, and yet I’m not sure which one to hold on to for a reaction. I wan
t to rage and scream while at the same time I want to run and hide and pretend I didn’t hear a thing.
I brace my hands on the patio railing; my eyes focus on the tranquility of the beach below, but all I feel inside is a dissonant storm of turmoil. “There’s no mistaking it’s me?” I ask, hoping against hope he’s going to tell me what I need to hear.
“There are close-ups of us getting off the elevator and walking toward the car. Of you during,” he says, voice empty, because how else can he possibly sound, “of us leaving after.”
