Fueled (Driven, #2)(95)

The bar is dark inside when I open the door. Nobody turns to look at me. They all keep their heads down, crying into their own f*cking beers. Good. I don’t want to talk. Don’t want to listen. Don’t want to hear Passenger on the speakers above singing about letting her go. I just want to drown everything out. The bartender looks up, his sallow eyes sizing up my expensive clothes and registering the desperation on my face.

“What’ll you have?”

“Patron. Six shots. Keep ‘em coming.” I don’t even recognize my voice. Don’t even feel my feet move toward the bathroom in the far corner. I walk in and up to the grungy sink and splash some water on my face. Nothing. I feel absolutely nothing. I look up at the cracked mirror and don’t even recognize the man in front of me. All I see is darkness and a little boy I no longer want to remember anymore, don’t want to be anymore.

Humpty f*ckin’ Dumpty.

Before I can stop myself, the mirror is shattering. A hundred tiny f*cking pieces splinter and fall. I don’t register the pain. I don’t feel the blood trickling out and dripping from my hand. All I hear is the tinkling as it hits the tiles all around me. Little sounds of music that momentarily drown out the emptying of my soul. Beautiful on the surface but so very broken as a whole. Irreparable.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Humpty back together again.

The bartender eyes my wrapped hand as I walk up to the bar. I see my shots lined up by some fellow patrons, and I walk to the other vacant end of the bar and sit down. My stomach churns at the thought of sitting between the two men there. The barkeep picks up and delivers my shots to me and just stares as I place two one hundred dollar bills on the bar top. “One hundred for the mirror,” I say, lifting my chin toward the bathroom, “and one hundred to keep them coming, no questions asked.” I raise my eyebrows at him, and he just nods in agreement.

The bills slip off the counter into his pocket before my second shot is being tossed back. I welcome the sting. The imaginary slap to my face for how I just left Rylee. For what I’m going to do to Rylee. The third one’s gone and my head still hurts. Pressure’s still in my chest.

You know that you’re only ever allowed to love me, Colty. Only me. And I’m the only one who’ll ever really love you. I know the things you let them do to you. The things you enjoy them doing to you. I can hear you in there with them. I hear you chanting ‘I love you’ over and over the whole time. I know you’re convinced you let them because you love me, but you really do it because you like how it feels. You’re a naughty, naughty boy, Colton. So very bad that no one will ever be able to love you. Will never want to. Never. And if they did and found out all of the naughty things you’ve done? They’d know the truth—that you’re horrible and disgusting and poisoned inside. That any love you have inside of you for anyone but me is like a toxin that will kill them. So you can’t tell anyone because if you do, they’ll know how repulsive you are. They’ll know the Devil lives inside of you. I know. I’ll always know and I’ll still love you. I’m the only one that is ever allowed to love you. I love you, Colty.

I try to push the memories from my mind. Push them back into the abyss that they’re always hiding in. Rylee can’t love me. No one can love me. My head f*cks with me as I glance down the bar. The man sitting with his back to me causes sickness to grapple though me. Greasy dark hair. A paunchy gut. I know if he turns around what he’ll look like. What he’ll smell like. What he’ll taste like.

I toss back the seventh shot, trying to force the bile down. Trying to numb the f*cking pain—pain that won’t go the f*ck away even though I know in my right head that it’s not him. Can’t be. It’s just my mind f*cking with me because the alcohol hasn’t numbed enough yet.

I push my forehead in my hands. It’s Rylee’s voice clear as day that I hear in my head—but it’s his face that I see when I hear those three words.

Not Rylee’s.

Just his.

And my Mom’s. Her lips and that ragged smile giving me her constant affirmation of the freakish horror inside of me.

The blackness has already poisoned me. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let it kill Rylee too. Number ten goes down and my lips are starting to not work.

A catastrophic exit. The perfect f*cking meaning to Ace. I start laughing. It hurts so f*cking much that I can’t stop. I’m barely holding it together. And I’m afraid that if I do stop, I’m going to fracture just like the goddamn mirror.

Humpty f*ckin’ Dumpty.





“This is the way you want it to be. Guess you don’t want me,” I sing solemnly with my old standby, Matchbox Twenty, as I drive home after my shift the next day. I still haven’t heard from Colton, but then again I hadn’t expected to.

I pull into my driveway, the past twenty-four hours a blur. I should have called in sick to work as it wasn’t fair to the boys to have a guardian around who’s so wrapped up in their own head they weren’t really present.

I’ve relived the moment so many times that I can’t think about it anymore. I didn’t expect Colton to confess his undying love for me in return, but I also didn’t think he’d act as if the words were never spoken. I’m hurt and feeling the sting of rejection and am uncertain where to go from here. I took an important moment between us and f*cked it up. What to do now? I’m not sure.