Crashed (Driven, #3)(80)

Jax adjusts his baseball cap, sets his bat down and walks over to me. “Yeah, I got ’em.” He reaches out to me and we shake hands. “Thanks for …” He lifts his chin over in Shane’s direction.

“No prob.” I laugh. “He had nothing on my first dance with the bottom of the f*cking bottle, but I talked to him.”

“Thanks. Did Ry change her mind? Is she not coming?”

“No,” I shake my head as I watch Ricky take a swing and rip the ball out of the infield during his batting practice. I whistle so he knows I saw him and he has the cutest f*cking grin on his face when he looks at me. I know more than anyone that acknowledgment in any form goes a long f*cking way. “She is. I guess Zander had a rough morning so she didn’t want him paraded around in front of the press. So I brought the boys, hoping they’d follow me.”

Fucking vultures. I look out toward the parking lot by the Range Rover and see them all standing there, cameras slung around their necks, long range lenses pointing at me; hoping to catch … f*ck if I know what at a kids’ little league game. But f*ck, they maintain their distance and don’t bombard me when I’m with the kids, and I’m a little shocked. Since when do they have any goddamn manners? It’s not like I’m going to be doing anything exciting behind the bleachers and creating any more unfounded f*cking illegitimate children. “Anyway...” I shrug “...it seems to have worked.”

Jax laughs as he looks at the mob of them in the parking lot. “Ya think? Craziness, man, to live with that all the time. Do you ever get used to it?”

“Can a car drive without wheels?” Stupidest f*cking question ever but it’s Jax. Dude’s cool. Looks out for Ry.

“True,” he says with a nod.

I make a bit more small talk with him before I head out to give the parasitic shitbags by my car the close up pictures that’ll land them some money. That will hopefully keep them at bay for another goddamn day.

They hit me with their f*cking cameras as I walk by, and it takes everything I have not to throw a punch because f*ck if it wouldn’t feel good to just let loose and have at ’em. Fucking Chase. Her words stop me only because it will harm Ry if I pull the reckless bad boy gone crazy that they’re pushing for with their bullshit f*cking questions about her being a home wrecker.

Motherf*cking promises. Fuck them all to hell. This is why I never make them. Never did before Rylee anyway. Who’d have thought the day would come that I’d be * whipped and f*cking okay with it.

Add another layer of ice to Hell because it’s become the f*cking arctic circle with the shit she’s changing in me.

I told her I was trying to be a better f*cking man. Well, f*ck me. Little did I know we were going to get thrown into this shit storm that was gonna pull us every which way like a motherf*cking tug-of-war.

I’ve been good so far. Haven’t picked up my phone and ripped Tawny apart for this bullshit charade she’s pulling, for throwing Rylee to the f*cking wolves to try and hurt me. But I know if I do it’s just going to prove that she’s gotten to me. And to her, that’s winning half the battle.

“So when’s the wedding, Colton?”

“Does Tawny know you’re with Rylee today?”

“Have you picked out names for your son yet?

Another cameraman jostles me from the side, and I whirl on him, fists clenched, jaw grinding. “Back the f*ck off, man!”

Rylee. Rylee. My f*cking Rylee. I have to repeat it over and over to help me ignore their bullshit lies and prevent myself from losing my shit.

At least the guy backs off so I can open the f*cking door to the car. Thank God for expensive ass cars because the minute I slam the door shut the sound silences and the tinted windows make it hard for the cameras to get their shot of me about to go apeshit. As much as I need to sit here and calm the f*ck down, there’s no way I can with the circus surrounding me.

I rev the engine and hope they get the f*cking clue and back off so I don’t run them over. One more rev of the engine and the slight movement backwards has them all running off to get in their cars so they can chase me.

Fucking Christ.

Have drama, please f*cking follow. If I put stupid-ass bumper stickers on my car, that’s what it would say.

I check for kids and rev the engine once more before I quickly leave the lot. I get clear of the craziness when I lose most of the cars at a red light I fly through on the tail end of a yellow. I finally breathe a sigh of relief, can have a minute of peace humming along to Best of You on the radio, and then I look down at my phone.

And the air I just got back gets f*cking sucker punched right out of me. My foot falters on the gas like a f*cking rookie driver from the text displayed on the screen.

Sealed envelope sitting on my desk. Results are back. Call me.

My entire body freezes—lungs, heart, throat, everything. I stare straight ahead, my knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel, trying to get a grip on the onslaught of emotions burying me alive.

I force myself to breathe, to blink, to think. The minute my head’s commands to my body click, I swerve across the lane causing horns to blare. I pull into the closest driveway I see, a strip mall parking lot, and slam on the brakes.

I pick up my phone to call my lawyer but put it back down as I squeeze my eyes shut and try to get a handle on the nerves suddenly shooting through me. This is it. The answer on the other end of the line is going to be either my biggest f*ck up or my greatest relief.