Page 86 of Slow Burn (Driven 5)
He blows out a loud sigh as he sits across from me and motions to Viv with his hand to come near. “I know—it fucking blows—and I’m sorry, but, dude, I’m married now. I promised Ry. I was put in a fuck-all spot between you and her.”
“And she is the one sucking your dick. I get it.” I say the words, knowing they’re crass and not caring because I’m still amped up on adrenaline.
“Let me know when your mouth is done running and using up all your energy so I can kick your ass for talking about Rylee like that.” The warning is delivered loud and clear. “It seems to me you still have some fight left in you. I promise you I have a harder left than that fucker does,” he says, lifting his chin toward the other side of the bar, where Dante is nursing his bloody nose, the bouncer at his side, coaxing him out the door.
“Sorry…. This whole thing blows…. I’m just …” Colton nods his head at me in acknowledgment, forgiveness laced with the guilt that’s eating at him reflected in his eyes. And it makes me feel a tad better to see it there. Like teeny tiny. I grab my right wrist with my left hand and flex it. The fucker hurts like a bitch from punching Dante.
“Fuck.” He blows the word out, making it sound exactly how I feel.
“What can I get you, boys?” Viv’s back and in front of us, trying to act like everything is normal—like the melee never happened—and I just hang my head, drowning in my own thoughts, too occupied to be embarrassed.
“Macallan neat,” Colton says, my shoulders tensing at the significance of his request.
“One shot for each of you, handsome?”
“Two glasses, one bottle, please. And a bag of ice for his hand.”
Both Viv and I raise our heads and look at Colton, her for the tip she might be getting and me because I don’t want to sit here and drink. I want Colton to drive me to Haddie’s. Like ten fucking minutes ago.
“That’s pretty pricey for—”
“Not a problem. Thanks,” Colton says with a flash of his “public” smile as he dismisses her.
“Thanks, Wood, but I don’t want to drink anymore. I need you to bring me to see Haddie.” I start to stand, and Colton is up just as fast, his hand on my shoulder pushing me back down, before I can even get steady.
“No can do, brother.” He gives my shoulder an extra shove before he sits back down. “First off, you’re drunk. Not a smart move to show up at her house right now. Alcohol makes you say shit, man … like profess your love when the last thing she wants to hear out of your mouth now is that you love her, … She’d think it’s out of pity, …”
I keep staring at the table as Viv slides two glasses in front of us. She starts to pour, and Colton tells her thanks but takes the bottle and pours them himself so that we have privacy.
He slides the bag of ice over to me, but I just look at it. I deserve the pain in my hand. Haddie has cancer. Her hurt’s going to be a whole lot worse. I wish a simple bag of ice could fix it for her.
“… you telling her that means you’re only doing it because she’s sick. Not because you really feel that way.”
I wince at the word sick and then blow out a breath, knowing he’s right … that the last thing she needs is me drunk and blubbering all over her. But, Christ, all I want to do right now is see her, touch her, talk to her.
He pushes the glass in my hand and wraps my fingers around it when I don’t respond. But if I don’t drink, then I sober up faster, and get to see her that much sooner.
“I already told her.” The words come out in a whisper as I stare at the Macallan in my glass. I don’t even realize I’ve said the words until Colton sputters beside me.
“Fuck me, dude. I think we’re going to need another bottle of this shit.” He taps his glass against mine. “Bottoms up.”
I’m on autopilot as I swallow the Scotch. It’s a shame to waste it on me right now. I don’t appreciate the taste or how damn smooth it is because all I keep thinking about is Haddie.
The neck of the bottle clinks as Colton refills our glasses. “Breathe, brother,” he tells me, my fingers gripping the glass so hard, I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter in my hand.
“What am I … how am …” I blow out a breath in frustration because I can’t process the thoughts whipping through my mind fast enough.
“Ry’s with her. She seems to be dealing, you know. She’s a tough chick, Daniels.”
“Yeah, but fuck …” I can’t even speak in complete sentences. I toss back the second pour of the Macallan. This time the burn’s a little less, and the warmth’s a little more.
“I know, Becks.” It’s all he can really say, and I appreciate the fact he’s not bullshitting me, telling me she’s going to be okay, telling me I’m a stupid fucker for going and falling for her.
My eyes burn just as much as my throat right now. So many questions I want—no need—to ask her, and the one in the forefront is like a ghost that keeps slipping through my fingers. The alcohol dims my logic enough to figure out what the hell my subconscious is trying to tell me, but my mind isn’t grasping it.
“She kicked Dante out last week.”
Well, fuck. That works. I can’t think straight enough to figure it out. The question is just out of reach.
