Page 3 of Sweet Ache (Driven 6)
When I run a hand through my hair, I catch a glimpse of the tattoo on the inside of my wrist. A treble clef and an okodee. My ever-present reminder of where I came from and what I need to do to get where I want to go.
If I’m honest with myself, I already know what I’m going to do despite the reluctance and my irritation at having a decision to even make.
If I thought it would fool him, I’d put on my stage face to convince him of my absolute certainty about going forward with this but we’ve been friends for way too long and have been through way too much shit together for me to pull one over on him. I infuse enthusiasm in my voice anyway.
Fake it until you make it. Sounds about fucking par for the course to me.
“I do love the classy, intelligent type,” I murmur.
“Who the fuck are you kidding?” Vince says, relief in his voice since he knows my comment is my way of telling him I’m going to do it. Sell myself to save everyone else. “If they have a pussy, they’re your type.”
I can’t fight the smile on my face. “True but dude, give me some credit here. You make me sound like I’ll play with any kitty that wants to be petted.”
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk of amusement on his lips. “This being said from the ringmaster of his own three-ring Cirque du Pussy.”
“You’re so wrong.” I laugh at our long-running joke about lead singers and their inherent draw for female fans. And thank fuck I’m on the lucky end of that deal. I’d best be happy that doing this seminar will keep me on the other end of the microphone instead of the wrong end of a jail cell. I roll my shoulders and feel the weight of the decision I’ve made begin to lessen some as the idea settles. Shaking my head, I walk back to the chair beside him and just stand there as I meet his eyes. I never doubt my decisions so I’m not quite sure why I’m doing it now.
“This is the right thing to do, right?” And I’m not sure if I’m talking about covering for Hunter or agreeing to do the seminar when I throw out the question, but he doesn’t ask. He just nods his head with unwavering support when he reads the turmoil in my eyes.
“Prison or pussy? Sounds like an easy decision if you ask me.”
Chapter 1
QUINLAN
“Whoever thought to put a race in wine country sure as hell knew what they were doing.” I take a sip of wine and glance over to meet my sister-in-law Rylee’s amused gaze.
“They did indeed,” she agrees, a laugh falling from her lips that sounds slightly on the giggly side, making me believe she’s riding the road to tipsy right beside me.
I lean my head back to appreciate the unprecedented cool breeze in the Sonoma valley mixed with the sun’s warmth on my face. It’s a welcome feeling compared to the endless hours in the classroom that wait for me in the coming weeks. Fluorescent lights, tedious hours researching for my dissertation, and the always draining sessions where I fulfill my teaching assistant duties loom on my mental calendar.
So I enjoy this, appreciate the downtime to spend with my family here at Colton’s race before I return to the crazy schedule of my graduate studies. An engine hums in the distance, the reverberation vibrating in my chest and the wine in my glass, as it approaches our location.
I lift my head back up just in time to see Rylee’s head snap to the left when my brother’s car moves past pit row, easing with a skilled finesse around the road course where we’re currently sitting in the infield. Her relaxed features immediately pull tight as she watches Colton’s open-wheel Indy car navigate the turns of the course until he goes out of sight again.
“Still worry you?” I ask her although I know the answer since the sight of him in the car makes my heart pound with anxiety despite the amount of times I’ve sat and watched him. Because regardless of how many times he’s crossed the finish line safe and sound, it’s the one time he didn’t that still holds my heart hostage. The crash when we almost lost him.
“Yes and no,” she says, a soft smile spreading on her lips, the love for my pain-in-the-ass brother evident there. “Yes because of the nature of what he does. The speed he goes. No because he loves it. I can’t tell him not to do what he’s so passionate about.”
And it’s as simple as that. Incredible that he found someone who could handle his flaws and soften all his hard edges.
Someday. Way far off I’ll find a person like that … but romance is not on my current horizon.
“You deserve a medal for putting up with his shit,” I tease her, our long-running joke causing her to laugh again.
“He has his merits,” she teases in return, her words reinforcing the affectionate smile on her lips and love written across her face. “So what about you? How’s things in the man department?”
I roll my eyes with a sigh. “I’ve written off men for a while.”
She snorts out a laugh. “Uh-huh.” She looks over her wineglass, eyebrows raised, eyes telling me to talk.
“I’m the furthest thing fro
m a doormat—”
“You can say that again!” She laughs.
I just shake my head, wondering why if that’s the reaction I get from her, why does every man I choose treat me like one. “It’s just too much work, honestly. You know me—I want some fun. I want some good sex. I just don’t think the cliché ‘happily ever after’ is for me.”
