Page 17 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
The night we met should have been an indication of our volatility when he mistook me for the wrong girl outside a club. Spun me around and knocked me breathless with his kiss long before he realized I wasn’t who he thought I was. I’ll never forget the look on his face when he realized it, eyes wide with shock and jaw slack. But then that lazy, arrogant smirk grew as we gave each other the once-over, and the look on his face mixed with the fuck-if-I-care attitude emanating off of him … I was lost to lust and not long after falling in love.
We were a predictable disaster: a mixture of spontaneity, recklessness, and youthful, carefree nature. The problem is, with Dante love was never easy. Our relationship came with tempers, constant unpredictability, and the attitude that attracted me eventually turned me off when the fuck-if-I-care was directed my way. He sabotaged us with his disregard for every staple that is needed for a successful relationship. And yet I loved him despite the emotional chaos he unleashed in my heart.
But love isn’t always enough. Especially when the one you love up and leaves without another word and disappears for months.
Hell yes, I loved Dante, but he taught me that when it comes to men, there are only three moods to be had: fuck you, fuck off, and fuck me. Thank goodness the fuck me part was pretty damn good or else the positive memories would be few and far between.
Fuck Dante.
Fuck Beckett.
I snort out a laugh because that’s exactly the problem—my body wants to do just that. And now, of course, I’m thinking of fucking, so my mind can’t help but wander to Becks and his adept demonstration last night. I adjust my hips as a sweet ache settles there at the memory of his hands on me, mouth on mine, cock buried in me. And the way he looked at me while waking up, the iota of hurt in his voice earlier on the phone.
I groan and throw an arm over my eyes as I try to block out the image of him, tan skin against white sheets, hard muscle against soft bedding. It’s useless. I don’t want any strings. None. So why the hell do I feel like he’s already woven them through my thoughts, binding us together somehow?
He’s a keeper. No doubt there. Too bad I’m looking for the disposable version. A Mr. Right Now. But the man won’t leave my mind. I lick my lips, taste Dante there but find myself wishing it was Becks.
This is so not fucking cool. My head had better start giving my body a damn road map and directions on how to get to the same place, and that place is nowhere connected to Beckett Daniels.
My onetime lap around the track with Becks is over.
Fuck.
Time to grab the wheel with both hands again and get control.
Chapter 7
I pushed myself too damn hard this morning. Ran too far at too accelerated a pace, and now my muscles are screaming with fatigue. But I was able to run out the emotion, put it at bay so that I can get through the initial sucker punch to the gut when I walk into the house.
The California sun is warm, beating through my windshield as I shift my sore muscles and stand from the car. I look down the street for a moment, take in the trees lining it and the dogs barking. The sounds of moms calling to their children and life being lived. I try to focus on that, try to block out the thoughts of elevated white blood cell counts and tumor markers. I force myself to remember Lex so brave and strong, saying, “Fuck cancer.” Her fighting like hell to beat, then to prolong, then to steal a few more moments, a few more breaths.
My fingers grip tightly to the top of the car door. Tears burn my eyes, and memories flicker to the unwelcome thoughts I wish I didn’t have. Ones I wish no one would ever have. Ragged gasps and morphine drips. Hushed promises and silent pleas for more time, for less pain. For a miracle.
The memories are still so raw, her touch still so tangible after just six months but so vague at the same time. Holding her hand, watching her slip away, telling her I loved her, promising her Maddie will grow up with her spirit a constant reminder. That it would be my mission in life for her daughter to know her, remember her, live a full life for her. Saying good-bye to her one final time as peace settled over her.
I suck in a deep breath, drowning in the grief when I should be dealing with it, moving on. But every time I come here, it hits me with such force. Walking into her house, seeing the touches of her personality when she’s gone forever.
And then I hear the squeal from the front door—the patter of little feet and cries of excitement—and it all eases some when I look down into my sister’s eyes mimicked in her daughter.
I catch the running bundle of love and life in my arms and squeeze her to me. Breathing her in, in that quick second I get before she starts in on me with the barrage of questions and smiles full of love.
“Whoa!” I nuzzle my nose into her hair and just breathe her in for another moment as she starts wiggling to get dow
n.
“Auntie! I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, the words tumbling out in a burst of excitement as I set her down on the ground. Her hand finds mine immediately, brown eyes fringed with long lashes look up to me, and her heart-shaped mouth spreads in a grin. She begins tugging on my hand toward the front door and her love, her happiness, her ability to thrive are contagious, even if only momentarily.
We clear the foyer, Maddie’s incessant chatter sounding sweet, heartwarming, and overwhelming all at once. Hand in mine, she pulls me into the family room, never breaking stride in making her requests for the day.
“Daddy! She’s here! She’s here!”
I hear Danny’s chuckle before I see him, my eyes slowly taking in the wall across from me, where pictures clutter the area. My heart squeezes at the images, the memories, the lack of new ones, and I force myself to look away and over to my brother-in-law.
I meet Danny’s gaze, the soft smile on his lips, the love for his daughter evident on his face, but when his eyes meet mine, the devastation is there, a reflection of the constant sadness. “Hey, Danny, how’s it going?” I say the words, the simple greeting, but what I’m really asking, what my eyes are saying, is How are you holding up?
“Good. I’m good,” he says as I start the count of how many times he’s going to use that word in the next five minutes. My gauge of how crippling his grief is today. “Good,” he reaffirms with a nod of his head as Maddie releases my hand and jumps up and down in excitement.
“Good,” I say softly, my own anguish weighing heavy on me. Emotions war within, not understanding how he can live day to day in this house full of her and at the same time feeling like I’d never be able to live anywhere else.
