Crashed(book three)(24)

He stops and sniffles before turning around to look at me. “That f*cker is stubborn in everything he does—everything—he better not disappoint me now.” He shifts his attention to Colton and strides to the side of the bed, the grief turning into anger with each passing second. “It’s always got to be about you, doesn’t it, Wood? Self-centered bastard. When you wake the f*ck up—and you will wake the f*ck up because I’m not letting you go out like this—I’m going to kick your ass for making us worry.”

He reaches his hand out and, in contradictory fashion to his gruff words, lays a hand on Colton’s shoulder for a brief moment before turning and walking out of the room.

I’m left alone with the man I love, the weight of the unknown pressing down upon us but hope finally starting to bleed through the edges of the pain.





I can feel the car—the engine’s rumbling in my chest that tells me I’m alive—before I even see it slingshot out of the backside of the turn. I focus on my hands. They’re shaking, f*cking trembling. I can’t hold onto the wheel, to my thoughts, to f*cking anything at all. The wheel shudders beneath my goddamn fingers. Fingers that can’t quite grip to control the f*cking chaos unraveling around me.


The confidence I own in a place that’s always been my salvation is f*cking gone. Dust in the motherf*cking wind.

What the f*ck is going on?

The sound of metal giving—f*cking shredding—mixed with the squeal of rubber sliding across asphalt echoes all around me. Jameson’s car slams into mine. And with the impact—the jolt of my body, the theft of my thoughts—my memories crash and collide like our cars do.

The thought of Rylee sucker punches me first.

The f*cking ray of light against my goddamn darkness. The sun shining through this crash-crazed haze of smoke. The one and only exception to my f*cking rule. How can I hear her sobs through my headset and yet see her doubled over in shock from a distance? Something’s f*cked up here. Like bat-shit crazy f*cked up.

But what? How?

And even though there’s all this smoke, I can still see her face clear as day. Violet eyes giving me something I don’t deserve—motherf*cking trust. Begging me to let her in, to let her help heal the parts of me forever damaged from a past I’ll never outrun—never escape—even when slamming head first into the f*cking wall.

I see my car rise above the smoke—above the goddamn fray of broken trust and useless hope—and I lose my f*cking breath and my chest feels like it’s exploding, detonating like the shrapnel of memories embedding themselves so deep in my mind I can’t quite place where they land. Even though I’m watching it, I can still feel it—the force of the spin, the strain on my muscles, the need to hold tight to the wheel. My future and past coming down all around me like a goddamn tornado as I roll out of control struggling to fight the fear and the f*cking pain I know is coming next.

That I can’t ever escape.

Debris scatters … on the track and in my head.

Collateral damage for another poor f*cking soul to deal with. I’ve had more than my share of it. I choke on the bile that threatens—the soul siphoning fear that stabs into my psyche—because even mid-flight, when I should be free from everything, she’s still there. He’s still there. Always a constant reminder.

Colty, when you don’t listen, you get hurt. Now go be a good boy and wait for him. When you’re naughty, naughty things happen, baby boy.

The crunch of metal, his masculine grunt.

The smell of destruction, his alcoholic stench.