Page 53 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
“Haddie, huh?” he says. I look over at him as he’s studying her. “Could do a whole helluva lot worse.”
I snort at him. “Yeah, well …” So many things are on the tip of my tongue. But they’d make me sound more interested than I am. Or rather than I want to let on that I am because I’m not opening that door for him to walk his sarcastic ass through.
“So what gives?”
“Apparently me.”
“Fuck, dude. That’s your problem right there. Quit being such a pussy. She’s already got one between her legs, so why would she need another one there?”
“Are you seriously insulting my manhood?”
“Well, you’re kind of being a chick right now. If you like her, take her. Shit, Daniels, what the fuck happened to you while I was on my honeymoon? Your nuts shrivel up and fall off?”
“Fuck off,” I tell him softly, his words hitting the mark and leaving me wondering.
I enjoy the beer sliding down my throat, as the previous ones start to hum in my veins and relax me—taking the edge off from walking in the kitchen and seeing her in that damn bikini. Those small scraps of fabric had my dick begging and my head thinking about how much I’d have liked to set her ass up on the edge of that counter, press myself between her thighs, and fuck her into tomorrow. My irritation over her leaving without a good-bye and ignoring my texts and calls urged me to take without giving her time to argue. To prove to her just why she needs me around.
But that in itself is so fucked-up. Since when do I want to make my claim on a woman so that I can mark her as mine? Usually I’m laid-back. A chick doesn’t like me? There’s plenty more who do. But with Haddie, hell if I know why I’m being so pansy-ass with her. I tell myself to let it go—let her go—and I realize I don’t want to.
Because she matters.
And hell if I’m going to admit that to Colton, but it’s the truth.
A bottle cap hits me midchest and draws me from my thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, a taunting smirk on his face.
“Scotch,” I answer, watching his smile fall as he tries to figure out what the hell I’m talking about. And I love that I knocked him off his game for a moment, the cocky fucker.
It takes a second but he laughs freely and just shakes his head. “Much better diversion tactic that time around. Mad props, dude.” He sits back in his chair and falls silent for a bit as we watch a heated exchange in the volleyball game that ends in a spike and a slew of curse words at a match point lost.
“So what happened? You must have whipped your little button mushroom of a dick out and scared her off—”
“Fuck off, dude. You wouldn’t know a big dick if it hit you in the face,” I rib him. If the asshole’s going to insult my manhood when I recall one drunken night in our younger years and a ruler that proved differently, I have to at least have a comeback.
The look on his face—shocked amusement—has me biting my tongue. “I assure you I will not be touching someone’s dick—with my face or any other body part of mine—now or anytime for that matter unless it’s me knocking yours into the dirt for being such a fuckwad.”
“The fact that you even think you can take me is amusing.”
“Wow,” he says, tipping his beer up to his lips and overexaggerating the satisfied smack of his lips. “You’re a cranky fucker, aren’t you? No wonder she’s over there and you’re over here. Have another beer, dude,” he says, tossing me one from the bucket on the table, even though I’m not done with the one in my hand.
“Your answer for everything, huh?” I hold up the beer and tip it toward him. “Have another beer?”
“You’re the one talking about Scotch, not me. So what gives?”
I’m torn, not wanting to talk about it but thinking it could help. Get another guy’s opinion—my best friend’s opinion—and as fucked-up as Colton used to be in the fuck-’em-and-chuck-’em department, as Rylee so politely used to put it, he knows me better than anyone. He’ll understand and set me straight. Pull me from the shit in my head that I keep running through over and over and over. Tell me what I need to hear.
Nut the fuck up or shut the fuck up.
I scrub my hand over my chin before shaking my head. “I don’t know, man. She’s spooked, and I can’t figure it out. And just when I think I do, something else happens to make me change my mind about what’s causing it.”
“Well, first off,” he says, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees,
“most of the time you kind of want your women spooked … prevents them from becoming repeat offenders occupying your bed.”
“That is just wrong in so many ways,” I tell him but can’t fight the laughter at his logic. I point to the ring on his finger. “Says the barebacking, married man, no less.”
He looks over at me with a smug smirk that brings me back to the first time we talked about him barebacking—screwing without a condom because he knew Rylee was the one. And I have to shake my head at that memory because that conversation led to the trip to Las Vegas, where later that night I got my first introduction to one fine-as-fuck Haddie Montgomery.
“Don’t be knocking the almighty voodoo, bro,” he says, pulling me from memory lane, and tilts his bottle in Rylee’s direction. “There’s some serious fucking power there.”
