Crashed(book three)

“Oh, buddy, I’m so proud of you!” I fight back the wave of guilt that rolls over me. I missed helping Connor study for a test in his most dreaded subject—math. “I knew you could do it!”


“I just used that little trick you told me about and it worked!” The pride in his voice brings tears of joy to my eyes, and at the same time, grief over not being there.

“I told you it would! Now go get ready for baseball. I’m sure Jax is waiting for you already!” He laughs telling me I’m right. “I promise I’ll see you a little later in the week, okay?”

“’Kay. I Lego you.”

“I Lego you too, bud!”

I hang up and look out toward the patio as laughter filters in above the crash of the waves—years worth of friendship breaking though Colton’s bad mood. I’m so thankful to Beckett for stopping by. I hear them belt out another laugh, and as much as I wish I was the one putting the smile on Colton’s otherwise scowling face of late, I’m just grateful that it’s there.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

I watch them clink the necks of their beer bottles over something and I sigh out loud, wanting the tension between Colton and me to go away. I’m sure it’s because we’re both sexually frustrated. To need and want and desire when temptation is right beneath your fingers, but to not be able to take and devour, is brutal in every sense of the word.

And yes, his more than skillful fingers brought me a small ounce of the release I needed the night before last, but it’s not the same. The connection was made but not cemented, because when Colton is in me, literally stretching me to every depth imaginable, I am also completely filled figuratively in every sense of the word. He completes me, owns me, has ruined me for anyone else ever again.

I feel closer to him right now—spending so much time with him—and yet further away. And I hate it.

I shake myself from my pity party and think how much worse things could be right now. I slip my shoes off and head out onto the deck for fresh air. I walk between Colton and Beckett’s lounge chairs and sit in one of my own, facing them.

Behind my sunglasses I take in the sight before me, and I know there isn’t another woman in the world that wouldn’t want to be in my shoes right now. Both men are relaxed, clad in board shorts, ball caps, and sunglasses. I let my eyes roam lazily with more than ample appreciation for the defined lines of their bare torsos and fight the smile that wants to pull at the corners of my mouth.

“Well if it isn’t Florence Nightingale,” Beckett drawls in that slow, even cadence of his as he brings the bottle to his lips.

“Well I think if I was Ms. Nightingale, I’d be telling my patient, Mr. Donavan here, that he probably shouldn’t be drinking alcohol with all of those pain meds running through his blood.”

“More like Nurse Ratchet.” Colton snorts, looking at me from beneath the shadow of his bill, green eyes running over the length of my legs stretched out on the chaise in front of me. A quick dart of his tongue over his lips tells me he wants to do a whole lot more than just look.

“Nurse Ratchet, huh?” I ask as I slide my foot up and down the calf of one of my legs trying to not feel insulted.

“Yep,” he says, pursing his lips as his eyes watch me over the top of his beer bottle. “If she gave me what I really wanted, I’d be able to recover that much quicker.” He raises his eyebrows at me, the suggestion in his eyes devouring me.

“Well shit,” Beckett swears, “if I’m not trying to get the two of you back together, I’m f*cking trying to keep you apart.”

“F*cking,” Colton drawls in Beckett fashion, “now there’s a word.”

Becks just snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes. “Definitely a good word indeed.”

Colton breaks our eye contact for the first time and angles his head over to look at his oldest and best friend. “Rest assured, bro, when the doc clears me, nothing—and I mean nothing—is going to be coming between Rylee and me for a long f*cking time, except for maybe a change of sheets.”

My cheeks burn red at his frankness but my body clenches at the promise of his words. And I don’t care that Beckett just heard because I’m focused on the words long, f*cking time.

“So noted,” Becks says as he takes another tug on his beer.

“I gotta take a piss,” Colton says, shoving himself up from the chaise. As I’ve learned to do over the past days, I force myself to remain seated as Colton struggles momentarily with his lack of balance and the sudden dizziness that I know assaults him. After a few moments he seems steady and goes to place his beer bottle on the table next to him. About a foot from the table, Colton’s right hand’s grip gives way and the bottle clatters to the deck below.

Becks’ eyes flash to mine momentarily, concern passing through them before he laughs and pretends not to notice. “Party foul!” he laughs. “I think Nurse Ratchet just might be on to something in regards to mixing all those drugs with that alcohol.”

“F*ck off,” he tosses over his shoulder as he turns toward the house. “Just for that I’m grabbing another!” I watch Colton walk into the kitchen, and when he thinks no one is looking, he looks down at his hand and tries to make a fist out of it before shaking his head.

“How’s he doing?”

I turn to face Becks. “The headaches are coming less and less but he’s frustrated. He keeps finding little things here and there he can’t remember. And he’s feeling confined.” I shrug. “And you know how he gets when he feels confined.”

Beckett blows out a loud breath with a shake of his head. “He needs to get back out on the track as soon as possible.”

I stare at him, mouth lax. “What?” slips from between my lips, feeling a stab of betrayal at his words. This is his best friend. Doesn’t he want to keep him safe? Keep him alive?

“Well, you say he’s feeling confined … the track is the one place he’s always been free of everything,” Becks says, holding my stunned stare. “Besides, if he doesn’t get behind the wheel soon, he’s going to let that fear he has eat at him, embed itself in his head, and f*cking paralyze him so when he does actually think he can get back in the car, he’ll be a danger to himself.”

I’m an intelligent person and maybe if I weren’t still surprised by Beckett’s first comment, I would really hear what he’s saying—see the whole picture—but I don’t. “What are you talking about? Since he’s been home all he’s been grumbling about is getting back on the track.”

He just chuckles and even though it’s not condescending, I feel like my back is up against the wall here and grit my teeth at the sound. “F*ck yeah, he’s scared, Ry. Scared out of his f*cking gourd. If it’s not his hand that he uses as an excuse, it will be something else … and he needs to get over it. If he doesn’t, the fear is just going to eat him alive.”

My mind jogs back to the past week. Things Colton has said about racing. Actions that contradict the words he’s saying, and I begin to realize that Beckett is right.

“But what about my fear?” I can’t help the desperation that laces through my voice.

“You think I’m not scared? That it’s going to be easy for me too?” The bite in Becks’ voice has me turning to look at him. “You think I’m not going to relive those seconds over and over in my mind every time I buckle him in the car? Every time he flies down the chute? F*ck, Ry, I almost lost him too. Don’t think this is going to be easy for me because it’s not. It’s going to be f*cking brutal but it’s what is best for Colton.” He shoves up from the his seat and walks over to the railing, hands spread out supporting himself as he leans into them. “Until you came along it was the only thing he cared about. The only thing that kept him f*cking sane.” He blows out a biting breath. “It’s the only thing he knows.” He turns back around to face me, eyes hidden behind aviators. “So yes, he needs to get his ass on the track and I’ll be his biggest f*cking cheerleader, but don’t let that fool you into thinking my heart’s not going to be racing every goddamn minute he’s out there.”

My eyes follow him as he paces to one end of the patio to let his agitation abate and then back toward me before grabbing his bottle and turning the end up, downing the remainder of his beer.

“Racing’s about eighty percent mental and twenty percent skill, Rylee. We’ve got to get his head back in the game, thinking he’s ready, then he’ll be ready.”

I see the logic behind his reasoning, but it doesn’t mean I’m not scared to death.