Crashed (Driven, #3)(46)

Breathe, Donavan. Fucking breathe.

Thwack!

I’m alive. Whole. Present.

Thwack!

I take in a couple of deep breaths, sweat staining the carpet as it pours off of me. I struggle to sit up, to piece together the parts of me scattered all over the f*cking place to no avail, because it’s gonna take a whole hell of a lot more than a torch to weld me back the f*ck together.

And it hits me like a motherf*cking freight train what I need to do right now. I’m on the move. If I were more coherent, I’d laugh at my naked ass crawling across the floor to reach the television’s remote, at how f*cking low I’ve stooped.

But I don’t give a flying f*ck because I’m so goddamn desperate.

To find myself again.

To control the one fear I can control.

To confront the memories and take their power away.

To not be a f*cking victim.

Ever.

Again.

I reach the remote with more effort than it usually takes me to run my typical five miles, and I’ve only crawled ten f*cking feet. I’m weak as f*ck right now in so many ways I can’t even count them. I’m out of f*cking breath and the jackhammer is back to work in my head. I finally reach my bed and I push myself on my ass so I can prop my back against the footboard.

Because it’s time I face one of the two fears that dominate my dreams.

I aim the remote at the television, push the button, and it sparks to life. It takes me a minute to focus, my eyes have trouble making my double vision merge. My f*cking fingers are like Jell-O, and it takes me a few tries to hit the right buttons, to find the recording on the DVR.

It takes every f*cking ounce of everything I have to watch my car slingshot into the smoke.

To not look away as Jameson’s car slams into mine. Lighting the short fuse on a fireworks display.

To remember to f*cking breathe as it—the car, me—flies through the smoke-filled air.

To not cringe at the sickening sound and sight of me hitting the catch fence.

To watch the car shred to pieces.

Disintegrate around me.

Barrel roll like throwing a f*cking Hot Wheels down the stairs.

And the only time I allow myself to look away is when I throw up.





Expectation vibrates and contentment flows through me as I drive the sun drenched highway back to Colton’s house, back to what I’ve been calling home for the past week. A silent tiptoe within a monumental step of our relationship.


It’s just out of necessity. Not because he wants me to stay with him for an unspecified period of time. Right?

My heart is lighter after spending my first twenty-four hour shift in over three weeks with the boys. I can’t help but smile, recalling Colton’s self-sacrifice to get me out of the house and to the boys without a paparazzi entourage. As I was behind the wheel of the Range Rover and its heavily tinted windows, Colton opened the gate on his driveway and walked right out into the media frenzy, drawing all of the attention on himself. And as the vultures descended, I drove out the other side and left without anybody tailing me.

Anticipation is not inconsequential. The phrase dances through my mind, a parade of possibilities rain from the four words Colton texted me earlier. And when I tried to call him to ask what he meant, the phone went to voicemail and another text was sent in response. No questions. I’m in control now. See you after work.

And the simple notion that after being with him basically non-stop for three weeks and now I’m not allowed to talk to him—that in itself has created serious anticipation. But the question stands, what exactly am I supposed to be anticipating? As much as my body has already decided, vibrating at what it knows to be the answer, my mind is trying to prepare me for something else. I’m afraid that if I think he’s really been cleared by the doctor, and he hasn’t, I’ll be so frenzied with need and overwhelmed with desire that I’ll take what I want—am desperate to have—even though it’s not safe for him.

I can’t help but smile in satisfaction as I think of what tonight just might bring, on the heels of a great shift with the other men in my life. I felt like a rock star walking into The House from the warm and loving reception I received from the boys. I missed them so much and it was such a comforting sound to hear Ricky and Kyle bickering over who is the best baseball player, to hear the sweet sound of Zander’s voice in its sporadic but steady bouts, to listen to Shane rattle on about Sophia and Colton getting better so he can teach him how to drive. There were hugs and affirmations that Colton really is okay and all of the headlines in the papers saying otherwise were not true.

I turn up the radio when What I Needed comes on and start singing aloud, the lyrics bolstering my good mood, if that’s even possible. I look over my shoulder and change lanes, noticing the dark blue sedan for the third time. Maybe I didn’t escape the paparazzi after all. Or maybe it’s one of Sammy’s guys just making sure I get home okay. Regardless, I have a slightly unnerving feeling.

I start to get paranoid and reach for my phone to call Colton and ask him if he had Sammy put a security detail on me. I reach across to the passenger seat and my hand hits all of the homemade gifts the boys made for Colton. It’s then I realize that when I loaded my stuff into the back of the car, I set my phone down, and forgot to pick it back up.

I glance in my mirror again and try to shake the feeling away that eats at me, that makes me worry when I see the car still a few lengths back, and force myself to concentrate on the road. I tell myself it’s just a desperate photographer. Not a big deal. This is Colton’s territory, something he’s completely used to but not me. I blow out an audible breath as I make my way through the beachside community and onto Broadbeach Road.