Crashed (Driven, #3)(57)

“Fuck you.” I say it more to myself than to him, a quiet voice laced with hurt. I’ve had it. He can be upset. His horrible past can be dredging through his mind, but that doesn’t give him the right to be a f*cking * and take his shit out on me.

He turns to look at me, a picture of fury against the tranquility behind him. “Exactly.” He spits out. “Fuck me.”

And with those parting words, Colton yanks open the door to the deck. I don’t call out to him—don’t care to—and watch him jog down the stairs to the beach with a whistle beckoning Baxter.





The longer I sit and wait for him to come back the more nervous I become.


And more pissed.

I’m nervous because besides his swim earlier, Colton hasn’t exercised since being cleared … and he was only cleared yesterday. I know his anger will push him to run harder, faster, longer, and that only unnerves me because how much can the healing vessels in his brain withstand? It’s been almost an hour since he left, how much is too much?

And I’m pissed that after everything he said to me, I even care.

I shake my head, the words he said to me rattling around as I look down the stretch of beach. I get his anger, the inherent need to lash out over his rather fragile hold on his preconceptions, but I thought we were past that. Thought that after everything we’ve been through in our short time together that I’d proven otherwise to him. Proven that I am not like other women. That I need him. That I will never manipulate him to get what I want like so many other women in his life have. That I will not abandon him. And I so desperately want to leave right now—escape the argument and further hurt I fear will happen upon his return—but I can’t. More than ever I need to prove to him right now that I’m not going to run when he needs me the most, even if the thought of him having a child with someone else is killing me now.

I swallow the bile that wants to resurface again, and this time I can’t hold it down. I run to the bathroom and upset the contents of my stomach. I take a moment to compose myself, talk myself down from the ledge I want to leap from because this is too much for me. So many things are happening in such a short amount of time that my mind wants to shut off.

But if it’s true, what does that mean? To him as a person and us as a couple and to me as the woman who can’t ever give him that? And especially given to him by her? My stomach revolts at the thought again, and all I can do is drop my forehead on the lid of the toilet, squeeze my eyes close, and shut out images of an adorable little boy with inky hair, emerald eyes, and a mischievous smile. A little boy I’ll never be able to give him.

But she can. And if that’s the case, how in the f*ck am I going to be able to handle it? Love the man but not the baby that’s his because I’m not the mother—simply because he’s part Tawny—now what kind of horrible person would that make me? And I know that’s not true, know I could never not love a child because of circumstances he has no control over, but at the same time, there would be that constant devastating reminder of what someone else can give him that I can’t.

The ultimate gift.

Unconditional love and innocence.

I wipe away the tears I didn’t even realize were falling when I hear the distant bark of Baxter and make my way out onto the deck. The harmless beast of a dog clears the top of the stairs coming up from the beach and plops down exhausted on the deck with a groan. I take a deep breath and prepare myself for Colton’s arrival, unsure which version of him I will be facing.

Within moments he appears, hair dripping with sweat, cheeks red, and chest heaving from the exertion. I want to ask how he’s feeling, where his head is, but I think better of it. I’ll let him set the tone of this conversation.

He looks up and I see the shock flicker across his features when he sees me. He stands, hands propped on his hips, and just stares at me for a beat. “Why the f*ck are you still here?”

So that’s how this is going to be.

I thought I had calmed down, hoped that he had with his run, but obviously we’re both still bound with a barbed wire ball of hurt. We’re both still hell-bent on proving our points. The question is how is he going to handle what I have to say? Is he going to lash out again? Rip me apart for a second time? Or is he going to realize that despite Tawny’s bombshell, our figurative race doesn’t stop? That we can withstand the collateral damage?

“You don’t get to run anymore, Colton.” I hope my words—words he’d used with me before—will hit their target and sink in.

He stops mid-stride beside my chair but keeps his head angled down to avoid looking at me. “You don’t f*cking own me, Ry. You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do any more than Tawny can.” His voice is a whisper but his words sucker punch me.

“Non-negotiable, remember?” I warn him with challenge I don’t feel reflected in my eyes. He just stands there impatiently, muscles tense, and I feel compelled to continue. To either stop or start the fight brewing between us. “You’re right.” I shake my head. “I don’t own you … nor do I want to. But when you’re in a relationship, you don’t get to hurt someone because you’re hurting and then bail. There are consequences, there are—”

“I told you, Rylee …” He turns to face me now, his eyes still averted, but the tone of his voice—one of pure disgust—has me rising to my feet. “I do as I damn well please. It’s best you remember that.”