Page 95 of Sweet Ache (Driven 6)
“No.”
“Dump you?”
“No.”
“Be an asshole?”
“Well, he is a guy,” I say, cracking a slight smile.
“I take offense to that comment,” he says with mock irritation. Or at least I think it’s mock.
“Well, considering you used to be the king of assholes when it came to women, you shouldn’t be.” I shrug, suddenly thankful for his intrusion into my misery. He grunts at my answer and accepts it without further argument. “It’s hard to explain,” I confess but for some reason I don’t want him to know the whole extent of it. I’ve got to get my head on straight. Why in the hell am I protecting Hawkin when he played me like a fiddle?
Well shit. I guess there’s another instrument I can add to our band—unfortunately this one didn’t bring me pleasure.
Colton scrubs a hand over the stubble on his jaw, so out of his element right now, uncomfortable at having to give advice to a female.
“Dude, you’re not George Clooney or Jason Statham so that look went out last year. Time to shave,” I tease, trying to ease his uneasiness, and at least I get a chuckle from him.
“You know you’re kind of being a bitch when I just stopped by because I’m worried about you.”
And that comment right there knocks the snarky wind from my sails because he’s right, I’m being an ass because I’m hurt. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” I blow out a breath and watch my fingers tracing the pattern on the couch. “This is just …”
“What happened?” he asks, scooting to the edge of his chair.
“I was the stake in a bet.”
“Excuse me?” The pitch of his voice escalates and his posture changes instantly, going into full-force protective brother mode. I cringe; I didn’t want to go there with him, but I want to confide in him at the same time. “His name.” It’s not a question.
“Hawkin Play,” I say ever so quietly but Colton does a double take when he hears the name.
“As in lead singer of Bent, Hawkin Play?” I just nod. “Shit, I liked their music too. Dare I ask what the bet was?” He’s feeling me out and I just sigh.
“No, you don’t want to know.”
“Fuckin’ A,” he growls, the muscle in his jaw pulsing as he tries to rein in the rage for my sake. “I don’t need to ask…. I’m a guy. I can imagine….” His voice trails off as I watch him struggle with the dueling emotions, to sympathize with me through anger or through comfort. I just nod when his gaze meets mine, saying yes to all of the above. “You know I’m going to kick his ass now, right?”
That first day I drove Hawke home flashes through my mind, when he commented that my brother must have gotten in a lot of fights protecting my virtue. The irony.
I don’t say anything, just keep watching my fingers trace the fabric aimlessly. “You really like him, don’t you?” The solemnity and compassion in his voice make my heart swell. My lack of an answer is one in itself. “Shit, Q, if Rylee were here she’d say some shit like ‘Never give up on someone that you can’t go a day without thinking about.’”
I groan, as that’s the last thing I want to hear. “And you’d say?” I lift my eyes to meet his.
“Fuck, I suck at this shit.”
“Yes you do, but other than ‘what’s his address’ so you can go knock his teeth out”—Colton’s face lights up at that comment—“I want to know what advice you’d give me. Please.”
He rolls his eyes and it looks so out of place on the badboy thing he has going. He leans forward and places his elbows on his knees as he twists his lips in thought. And I have to admit it’s pretty damn cute that he’s actually being serious and thinking of some big-brotherly advice.
/> “You really like the guy?” he asks.
“Yeah, I do,” I murmur without even having to think about it, sadness once again owning my heart.
“Even though he fucked with you?” He stares deep within me, and even though I’m ashamed about the situation, I can’t turn off my feelings.
“Mm-hmm.” I want to avert my eyes, feeling ashamed, but I know Colton won’t pass judgment on me since he’s done a whole helluva lot worse than still care for someone who’s wronged him.
“Look, the way I see it, trust is kind of like a piece of paper. Once you wad it up, tear it, mark it … sure you can fix it, flatten it out, tape it together, do what-the-fuck-ever to it, but it will never be perfect again…. So the question you need to ask yourself is can you live with the marks on the paper? Can you move forward knowing it’s imperfect from here on out?”
