Real (Real, #1)(36)

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to shut out the memories that I do have. The ones flickering like a strobe light through the haze of my time with Rylee. The tears turn to silent sobs and eventually even those dissipate into hitching breaths.

When I open my eyes, violet pools of concern are staring at me with a mix of confusion and sympathy. “Colton?”

Fuck. I don’t want her to see me like this. Remember me like this. Some pussified man bawling his eyes out for reasons she can’t fathom.

I can hear the worry in her voice but all her face shows is compassion, understanding, acceptance. And that makes what I have to say so much harder. The words are there on the tip of my tongue and I fool myself into believing that I’m about to say them.

Acid on my taste buds.

Bile in my throat.

The fracturing of my heart.

She reaches out and cups her hand to the side of my face, her thumb wiping away the stains—just like her heart has brushed away vile memories—and a soft smile ghosts her mouth.

I race you, Rylee.

The words feather through my mind and another tear slips over.

And I’ve never felt more exposed in my life.

Guard down.

Heart open.

Soul needing.

Accepting.

Wanting.

I’m so f*cking lost right now. Lost even though I’ve been found. Even though she’s found me.

And I get it now. Get why she can’t watch me get in the car again. Get why she’d be so selfless—encourage, push, help—even when it’s killing her. Breaking inside while pretending on the outside that she’s whole.

But I’m nowhere near okay.

Not going to be for a long time.

If ever again.

I open my mouth but I can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t bring myself to tell her this isn’t what she deserves. That I’m not what she deserves. That I could do so much worse—have done so much worse—and she can do so much better. That I understand she can’t go through this again. I’m not sure how to. I try to force the words off my tongue but they die, self-preservation at its finest. Silence is my only option. The only way to quell the guilt that eats at me every time she looks in my eyes and gives me the same soft smile she’s giving me now.

She has to be wondering why I’m crying. Why I’m being such a chick, but she doesn’t ask. Instead, she sits up slowly and looks around the private jet before rising and closing the distance between us. She gives me a look as if she’s asking if it’s okay and before I can even answer, she’s settling in my lap, nuzzling her head under my chin, wrapping her arms around me as best she can.

The soothing balm to my aching soul.

She doesn’t say a word, but just holds on, easing whatever she thinks is wrong with me by her mere presence. And of course now the tears well again like a f*cking broken faucet and I hate it. Hate myself right now.

And I am so wrong.

I thought I could live with the pain—manage—but holy shit I feel as if my body is broken—f*cking shattered into a million pieces, and I haven’t even told her yet. Haven’t even taken a step away but holy mother of God, I’m already knocked to my knees.

Already struggling to breathe when the air is cocooning me.

It’s time to hit the concrete barrier head on without a seat belt, without my lifeline.

How in the f*ck am I going to do this?





The almost but not quite sex scene in CRASHED. The racing term sex scene. Whatever you want to refer to it as, this was an often requested scene to read in Colton’s point of view.

He’s had this big accident, pushed Rylee away earlier in the night, and yet he wakes up and here she still is. She’s scared and he’s scarred and yet she’s still fighting.

It was fun and challenging writing this chapter from a male perspective. I had the constant fear I was making him sound too soft, too hard (no pun intended here, ladies … I’m talking about emotion—emotion here—get your minds out of the gutter), too crass, or not crass enough. I think I nailed it (ha, couldn’t resist), hope you think so too.



… dragons live forever, but not so little boys …

The lyrics filter into my head, my own dragons—and not the playful, puffy kinds—are front and f*cking center, but that’s not the problem. The problem is I’m not a little boy and yet I’m still living with this shit.

I slowly ease awake and can’t believe how nice it feels with her arms wrapped around me instead of that soul-jarring, mind-f*cked moment when you wake up alone with only your demons lurking in the dark corners to keep you company.

I close my eyes for a second, accepting that she’s still here after everything I’ve put her through.

“My dad used to sing that to me when I had nightmares.”

Her body jolts at the sound of my voice as I put my arm around her and pull her closer, skin to skin. My own personal balm to coat the inked reminders on my torso that reflect the stains on my soul.

“I know,” she whispers, “and you were.”

I press a kiss to the top of her head and leave my mouth there, breathing her in. Trying to wash the dream from my mind. Needing to.

I think of how I’d much rather dream about the crash than him. How almost dying, going headfirst into a wall, is ten times easier to cope with than the smell of the musty mattress, the feel of his hands on me, the taste of anticipatory fear.