Fueled (Driven, #2)(48)
Shit, my head must really be f*cked up if all I want from Rylee is to hear her voice. I shake my head and scrub my hands over my face, feeling pussified from the thought. What I wouldn’t give to go back to a couple of months ago when sleep came easy.
When my dick and balls were firmly attached and in charge of my thoughts. When the choice between sleep, sex, or wanting to hear a specific woman’s voice was a no brainer; a few hours of uncomplicated sex led to the sleepless oblivion. Two down with one shot. And the woman’s voice? Who cared if she talked or what she did with her mouth as long as she opened wide and swallowed without a gag reflex.
Rylee flashes through my mind. Her dark hair on the white pillow as I hover over her. The look on her face—lips jolting apart, eyes widening, cheeks flushing with color—as I sink inside of her. How she tightens like a vice around me as she comes. Fucking voodoo *.
My dick stirs at the thought—wanting, no needing her—but my exhaustion overwhelms, and swallows me whole into its oblivion.
Spiderman, Batman, Superman, Ironman.
Spiderman, Batman, Superman, Ironman.
I jolt from the nightmare with a start, disoriented from the unknown passage of time. My heart thunders in my ears. My stomach churns. My head forgets specifics instantly, but the nightmare’s clutches of fear still hold me against my will, dragging me backwards through poisoned memories.
“Fucking Christ!” I yell out to the empty RV as I force myself to calm down and breathe. To try and forget the fear that’ll never go away. Never. Fear gives way to anger as I pick up the closest thing to me, one of the crew’s hackey-sacs and chuck it across the aisle as hard as I can. The thud it makes does nothing to abate the feelings clawing through me, embedding themselves in every fiber of my being, but it’s all I can do. My only source of release.
I’m helpless and hostage to the poison within me. Sweat trickles down my cheek. I’m f*cking drenched with it. The smell of fear clings to me and my stomach twists in protest again. Shit!
I shove up from the couch and strip out of my fire suit as if the fabric is on fire. I need a shower. I need to clean the grime from the track and the stain of his imaginary touch from my unwilling flesh.
The water scalds. The soap does nothing to wash away the memories. I press my forehead against the acrylic stall, letting the water burn lines as it slides down my back. I will my brain to shut off and rest for five goddamn f*cking minutes so I can have my own temporary radio silence.
Rylee’s words keep looping through my head, badgering me, questioning me, making me wonder if it’s a solution to the constant poison that I’m afraid is going to consume me. I pound a fist against the wall, the sound resonating through my f*cked up thoughts. I drag myself from the shower, drape a towel around my waist, and grab my cell. I need to do this before I lose the courage. Before I puss out and think of the ramifications. The answers I’m afraid to find. The truth I fear will crumble me. I punch the number in my phone and swallow the bile threatening to rise, preparing myself with each passing ring of the phone.
“Colton? I thought you were testing today?”
Warmth spears through me at the sound of his voice, at the concern flooding into it. And then fear. How is he going to handle the questions I need to ask? The ones that Rylee thinks might help me, might ease the weight on my soul and torment in my mind.
I labor to ask the man who gave me possibilities about the woman who robbed me of everything. My youth. My innocence. My trust. My ability to love. My self.
Of the concept of unconditional love.
“Son? Is everything okay?” Concern creeps into his voice as a result of my silence. “Colton?”
“Dad…” I choke out, my throat feeling like it’s drowning in sand.
“You’re scaring me, Colt…”
I shake my head to get a grip. “Sorry, Dad…I’m fine. I’m good.” I can hear him exhale audibly on the other end of the line, but he remains silent, allowing me a moment to gather my thoughts. He knows something is amiss.
I feel like I’m thirteen and I’ve f*cked up again. That adolescent fear fills me—the anxiety that if I push too hard or screw up one more time, they’ll send me back. They won’t want me anymore. The funny thing is I thought I’d conquered this fear a long time ago, but as the question weighs heavy on my tongue, it all comes back. The fear. The insecurity. The need to feel wanted.
Dread strangles my words.
“I...uh...just had a question. Don’t know how to ask it really…”
Silence fills the line and I know my Dad is trying to figure out what the hell has gotten into me. Why I’m acting like the little boy I used to be.
“Just ask, son.” It’s all he says, but his tone—that soothing, acceptance at all costs tone—tells me that he knows something has brought me back to that place in time. And even though all I feel is fear and uncertainty, all I hear is patience, love, and understanding.
I suck in a breath of air and exhale it shakily. “Do you know what happened to her? Where she is? What became of her?” My fingers tremble as I bring a hand to run through my hair. I don’t want him to worry or think that I want to find her and…I don’t know what with her. Reconcile? Fuck no. Never.
But it scares the f*ck out of me that the idea of her—just the thought of her—can get me this worked up. Can f*ck with my head more than the dreams. “Never mind, I—”