Crashed (Driven, #3)(21)

Her hands are fiddling with her cell phone, my lucky shirt hanging off her shoulders, and I can see the trepidation in her eyes as they flit around everywhere but at me.

Breathe, Donavan. Fucking breathe. She didn’t leave. She’s still here. The neutralizer to the acid that eats my soul.

Her eyes finally find and lock onto mine. All I see is my future, my salvation, my singular chance at redemption. But her eyes? Fuck, they flicker with such conflicting emotions: relief, optimism, anxiety, fear, and so many more unknown.

And it’s the unknown I focus on.

The unspoken words telling me all of this is tearing her apart. That it’s not fair for me to put her through this again. But racing is my life. Something I need as much as I need the air that I breathe—ironic considering she’s my f*cking air—but it’s the only way I can survive and outrun the demons that chase me. The black ooze that seeps in every crack of my soul making sure it can never be eradicated. I can’t be selfish and ask her to stand by me when all I want is to be the most self-centered bastard on the face of the earth.

Urge her to go but beg her to stay.

But how can I let her go when she owns every single part of me?

I’ll gladly suffocate so that she can breathe freely. Without worry. Without the constant f*cking fear.

Be selfless for the first time ever when all I’ve been my entire life is self-serving.

I should have told her—got over the f*cking fear that consumes my soul—but I couldn’t … and now she doesn’t know.

… I Spiderman you …

Words scream through my head but choke in my throat. The words I don’t know if I’ll ever be healed enough to say.

She robbed me of that all those years ago.

And now I’ll pay for it.

By letting my one f*cking chance go.

Then I hear the sob wrench from her throat. Hear the disbelief and torment in that singular sound as her shoulders shake and her posture sags.

And I know what I want and what is best for her are two completely different things.





Out of nowhere the sob tears from my throat at the sight of him, lucid and groggily alert. My damaged man that is the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.


My heart tumbles even further if that’s even possible. And we just stare as the noise and excitement in the room abates, everyone taking a step back and silently watching our exchange.

Yet my feet are frozen in place as I try and read the emotions racing rapid-fire through Colton’s eyes. He seems apologetic and maybe unsettled, but there’s also an underlying emotion I can’t place that has trepidation eating at the corners of my mind.

A nurse whisks past me, brushing my shoulder and breaking Colton’s hold on me. She brings the straw from a cup of water to his mouth and he sips eagerly until it’s gone.

“Well, you’re a thirsty one, aren’t you?” she teases before adding, “I’ll go get you some more but let’s make sure this stays down before we waterlog you, okay?”

I try to quiet my hiccupping draws of breath but can’t seem to calm my anxiety. I feel Quinlan’s arm go around my shoulder as she sniffles herself, but I don’t even acknowledge her. I can’t bear for my eyes to focus on anything but the tear–blurred vision in front of me.

The nurse reaches over and takes a chart from Dr. Irons and leaves. I haven’t moved yet. I can’t seem to. I just stare at Colton as Dr. Irons examines him: tracking his eyes, testing his reflexes, feeling the strength in his grip as he squeezes. I notice he asks Colton to repeat the grip test for his right hand a couple of times, and I can see panic flicker over Colton’s features. I can’t drag my eyes away. I trace over every inch of him, so very afraid I’ll miss something—anything—about these first few moments.

“Well, all seems quite well,” Dr. Irons says eventually after he examines him some more. “How are you feeling, Colton?”

I watch his throat work a swallow and his eyes close with a wince before opening them again. I take a step forward, wanting to help take the pain away. He glances around at everyone in the room while he finds his voice. “My head. Hurts,” he rasps. “Hand?” He looks down to his right hand and then back up, confusion apparent in his eyes. “Happened? How long?”

Dr. Irons sits down on the edge of the bed next to him and begins to explain about the crash, the operation, and the amount of time he has been in a coma. “As for your hand, that could be a result of some residual swelling still in your brain. We’ll just have to watch it and see how it progresses over time.” Colton nods at him, concentration etched on his face. “Can you tell me the last thing that you remember?”

I suck in a breath as Colton blows one out. He swallows again and licks his lips. “I remember … knocking four times.” His voice comes out, his vocal chords scraping over gravel.

“What else?” Andy asks.

Colton looks over at his dad and subtly nods his head at him before squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. “It’s like snippets in my head. Certain things are clear,” he rasps before swallowing and then opens his eyes to look at Dr. Irons. “Others … they’re vague. Like I can feel them there but can’t remember them.”

“That’s normal. Sometimes—”

“Fireworks on pit row,” he cuts the doctor off. “Waking up overdressed.” Colton’s eyes lift and find mine with the words that let me know he remembers me, remembers my memorable pre-race wake-up call. A slight smile curls up one corner of his mouth looking so out of place against the pallid tone of his usually bronze skin.