Crashed(book three)(153)

“The f*cking point?” I growl at him

“Quit being so goddamn stubborn, Donavan, and connect the f*cking dots, will you?”

“I’m not a f*cking constellation. Your dots aren’t drawing a picture so help me the f*ck out.”

“You look like the Little Dipper to me.” He smirks.

I pick up the pillow next to me and chuck it at him. “Fuck off! Big Dipper’s more like it.” I take a long tug on my beer. Fuck, it’s empty. They’re disappearing faster than I can count them. Usually I’d just crash right here, but f*ck Ry’s up there. No way I’m sleeping without her next to me. I sigh, Becks’ words running circles in my head, hinting at his point but never really landing on the f*cking bull’s-eye. “Seriously, Becks, what are you trying to tell me here? Just spit it out.”

“Things f*cking change, dude! Life changes. Priorities change. Pre-f*cking-conceived notions change. You have to adjust and change with them or your ass gets left behind.” He shoves up out of his chair and walks to the railing and looks out into the blackness beyond. When he turns back around, he is dead serious. “We’ve been best friends for what? Almost twenty years. I love ya, man. I never interfere with the shit you’ve got going on … which woman’s warming the sheets, but f*ckin’ A, Wood …”

I’m not liking where this conversation is going. Deflection is my only thought. “I thought you told me I needed to f*ck a B instead,” I say, trying to add some humor to this serious conversation, and f*ck all if I can follow how we went from Hoover Tomlin to Becks sticking his goddamn nose where it doesn’t f*cking belong.

He laughs—has the balls to f*cking mock me—before walking over to me and shaking his head at me. “You don’t get it, do you? Fuck the A or the B, you have the whole goddamn alphabet upstairs and she’s asleep in your f*cking bed right now, but the only letter that can f*ck this up is U!” he shouts at me.

What the f*ck? He’s taking her side? I swear to God, Ry’s worked her f*cking voodoo * magic on him and he’s never even had it before. Talk about super powers and shit.

“Becks? How am I going to f*ck this up? She’s here isn’t she? I want her here, brought her here, so what the hell else do you want from me? And how the f*ck does Hoover factor into this shit?”

“Jesus f*cking Christ!” he swears as he paces in front of me and takes a long pull on his beer. “She’s here for now! She’s here until you start thinking too f*cking much about how, now that she might be able to have a baby, she just might not want you anymore because you’ve never wanted one. Until you start pushing her the f*ck away and trying to hurt her so she makes the decision for you so you don’t have to f*cking make it for yourself. But things f*cking change, Colton! Look at Roxy ‘Hoover’ Tomlin. She never wanted kids because of the shit that happened to her as a kid and now her kids? They’re her whole goddamn world!”

“Fuck. You.” The ice in my voice rivals the chill of the f*cking polar ice cap.

“No, f*ck you, Colton! You sat in that goddamn hospital room when she needed you the most and sure as f*ck you were there … but fluffing pillows doesn’t fix the shit that’s hurting inside of her. Or in you. I sat there and plain as f*cking day watched you start to pull the f*ck away from her.”

“I’m warning you, Becks!” I say, standing up, fists clenched, fury racing through my veins. His words hit a little too close to f*cking home. A little too close to a truth I always said I never wanted—would never tolerate—but now all of a sudden I can’t get out of my mind. Ideas of a life I never even thought could exist for me. But how is that even f*cking possible? The broken merry-go-round in my head keeps whirling, but all I can think about is shutting Becks the f*ck up because he’s right about me pulling away. About me not being there for her when she needed me most. So f*cking right my stomach is a motherf*cking mess.