Driven(book one)(49)

Once I feel like I’m clear from view, I blindly push my way through the mass of people, hurt bubbling up to the surface. My heart aches with the knowledge that I’ll never be able to compete with someone like her. Never. I try to contain it as I push my way to the bar, wanting to numb the feelings I let myself believe were valid. Were reciprocated. Were possible again.

Shit! I swallow back the threatening tears as I squeeze into an open space at the crowded bar and by some miracle the opening is right in front of the bartender. He looks up at me and if he sees any despair in my face, ignores it. “What’ll you have?” he asks me above the noise.

I stare at him a moment, contemplating my options. I opt for quick and numbing. “Shot of tequila please,” I request, garnering the attention of the man standing next to me. I can feel him looking me up and down, and I roll my shoulders, bristling at the unwanted attention.

The bartender slides a shot of tequila across to bar top to me and I grab it, looking at it for a moment, silently saying our toast, for right now I definitely need the courage portion. Even if it’s false courage. I toss it back without hesitation and scrunch my face up at the burn. I close my eyes as its warmth slides down my throat and settles in my belly. I sigh deeply before opening my eyes, ignoring the offer of another drink from the man next to me.

I grab my phone out of my purse and text Haddie that I’m fine, to enjoy herself, and I’ll see her at home. I know that if she weren’t here for work, she’d be at my side, taking me home.

I glance up from my phone to look for the bartender. I need another shot. Something to numb the rejection. My eyes flicker down the length of the bar when in the mirror’s reflection, I see Colton striding purposefully toward me.

Despite the hope surging inside of me, I mutter, “Fuck!” and throw some cash on the bar before turning on my heel and veering toward the closest exit. I find one quickly, in the corner at the end of the bar and shove open the doors with a measure of force. I find myself in an empty, darkened corridor, relieved when the door shuts behind me, muffling the pulsating music. My moment of solitude is fleeting as the door is thrown open moments later, Colton pushing through. We lock eyes momentarily, I can see the anger in his and I hope he can see the hurt in mine, before I turn my back to him and rush further down the hallway.

I let out a strangled cry in frustration as Colton catches up to me and grabs my arm, spinning me around to face him. Our ragged breathing is the only sound in the hallway as we glare at each other, tempers flaring.

“What the f*ck do you think you’re doing?” he growls at me, his grip on my arm remaining.

“Excuse me?” I sputter, a look of incredulity on my face in response to his audacity.

“You have an annoying little habit of running away from me, Rylee.”

“What’s it to you, Mr. I-Send-Mixed-Signals?” I throw back at him, wrenching my arm from his grip.

“You’re one to talk, sweetheart. Is that guy—is he what you really want, Rylee?” He says my name like a curse. “A quick romp with Surfer Joe? You want to f*ck him instead of me?” I can hear the edge in his voice. The implied threat. In this dark corridor, his features hidden by shadows, his eyes glistening, he is every bit the intimidating bad boy that the tabloids hint at.

“Isn’t that what you want from me, Colton? A quick f*ck to boost that fragile ego of yours? It seems you spend an awful lot of time trying to placate that weakness of yours.” I hold his glare, contempt in my voice. “Besides, what do you care what I do? If I recall correctly, it seems to me you were pretty occupied yourself with the blonde taking up space on your arm.”

The muscle tics as he clenches and unclenches his jaw regarding me, rolling his head back and forth on his shoulder before answering me. “Raquel? She’s inconsequential,” he states as a simple matter of fact.

I can take that answer so many ways, so many variations, and all of them paint his opinion of women to be in a less than stellar light.

“Inconsequential?” I question, “Is that what I’d be to you after you f*ck me?” I stand my ground, shoulders squared to him. “Inconsequential?”

He stands there seething. At me? At my response? He takes a step toward me and I retreat one, my back pressing into the wall behind me. I have nowhere left to run. He reaches out a hand toward me and pulls it back in indecision, the muscles in his jaw clenching, pulse in his throat pounding. He angles his head to the side, closing his eyes, swearing silently to himself. He looks back at me—frustration, anger, desire, and so much more burning in the depths of his eyes. Their intensity as they look into mine is unnerving, as if he is asking for my consent. I nod my head subtly, giving him the permission to take. The next time he reaches out, there is no hesitation.

Within a beat, his lips are on mine. All of the pent up frustration, irritation, and antagonism of the evening explodes as our lips clash, hands fist, and souls ignite. There is nothing gentle about our union. Rapacious need burns through me as one of his hands snakes around my back, grasps my neck and yanks me against him so his mouth can plunder mine. His other hand slides between the wall and my arching back, splaying against me in a sign ownership. Gone are the gentle sips and the soft caresses from yesterday.

His lips slant over mine and his tongue darts in my mouth, tangling, teasing, and tormenting mine in a dizzying barrage. His hands slide over mine where they’re fisted in his shirt. He grabs my wrists and pulls them over my head, presses them to the wall, and handcuffs them with one of his hands. He brings his free hand down and cups my jaw as he breaks from our kiss. He draws his face back, and his eyes darkened and vibrant with arousal, hold mine.