Crashed(book three)(66)

“Shh, it’s okay, Colton. You don’t need to explain anything.” I lean in and press a kiss to the tip of his nose as he does to me and then rest my forehead against his. “Just know I’m here for you if you ever want to.”

He exhales out a shaky sigh and pulls me tighter against him, trying to make me feel secure and safe when I should be doing that for him. “I know,” he murmurs into the darkening night. “I know.”

And it’s not lost on me that he let me kiss all of his tattoos—express love for all of the symbols of his life—except for the one denoting vengeance.





“Motherf*cker!”


Where the f*ck am I? I jerk awake and sit up. My heart’s racing, head’s pounding, and I’m out of f*cking breath. Sweat beads on my skin as I try to wrap my head around the jumbled images floating, then crashing through my dreams. Memories that vanish like f*cking ghosts the minute I wake up and leave nothing but an acrid taste in my mouth.

Yeah, the two us—nightmares and me—we’re tight. Thick as motherf*cking thieves.

I glance at the clock. It’s only seven-thirty in the morning, and I need a drink already—screw that—a whole f*cking fifth to deal with these goddamn dreams that are going to be the death of me. Talk about motherf*cking irony. Memories of a crash I can’t f*cking remember are going to kill me trying to remember them.

Can you say f*cked up with a capital F?

I laugh out loud only to be answered by the thumping of Baxter’s tail against his cushion on the floor beside me. I pat the bed for him to jump up on it, and after a bit of petting, I wrestle him to lie down, laughing at his wildly licking tongue.

I lie back on my pillow and close my eyes trying to remember what the f*ck I was dreaming about, what empty spaces in my mind I can try and fill. Absolutely f*cking nothing.

Sweet Jesus! Throw me a goddamn bone here.

Baxter groans beside me. I open my eyes and look over at him, expecting puppy dog eyes begging for attention. Nope. Not in the slightest. I can’t help but laugh.

Fucking Baxter. Man’s best friend and shit and also comedic relief when needed most.

“Seriously, dude? If I could lick myself like that, I wouldn’t need a woman.” My words don’t even make him hesitate as he finishes cleaning himself. After a beat Baxter stops and looks at me, head angled, handy tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. “Don’t give me that smug look, you bastard. You might think you’re top dog now with all that flexibility and shit, but, dude, you’d hold out too for Ry’s *. Fucking grade A voodoo, Bax.” I reach out and scratch the top of his head and laugh again with a shake of my head.

Am I that f*cking desperate that I’m talking to my dog about sex? And the doc says my head’s not f*cked up? Shit, I think he’s taken one too many right turns on an oval track.

Baxter stands and jumps off the bed. “I get it, use me and then leave me,” I say to him, and Rylee’s words to me the first night we met resurface. Fuck ’em and chuck ’em. Fucking Rylee. Pure class, gorgeous as f*ck with a defiant mouth and feisty attitude. How the f*ck did we get from there to here?

I swear to God life is a f*cking series of moments. Some unexpected. Most not. And very few inconsequential. Fuck if I would have ever expected a stolen kiss to lead to this. Rylee and me.

Motherf*cking checkered flags and shit.

Blowing out a breath as the headache starts, I roll over on the bed to grab my pain meds from the nightstand. It feels like my head explodes with a bright burst of white—a flash of memories from the drivers’ meeting hits me like a f*cking sledgehammer—and then disappears before I can hold on to more than a tenth of what flickered.