Fueled(book two)(145)

My mind fills with the many warnings he’s given me. “I sabotage anything that resembles a relationship. I’m hardwired this way, Rylee. I’ll purposely do something to hurt you to prove that I can. To prove that you won’t stick around regardless of the consequences. To prove that I can control the situation.”

I don’t remember steering the car in that direction, but before I know it, I’m turning down his street from memory. Tears spill over and down my cheeks as I grip the steering wheel tightly. The need to know outweighing the agony of acknowledging what my mind fears. What my heart worries. What my conscience already knows.

I pull up to the curb, a small sigh escaping my lips in momentary relief when I see that none of Colton’s cars are there. But then I see his garage door and wonder if it’s inside. I have to know. I have to.

I push my hair out of my face and suck in a deep breath before I slide out of my car. I walk on weak knees up the pathway and into the cobblestone courtyard. My heart pounds so loudly that its thundering is all hear, all I can focus on besides telling my feet to place one foot in front of the other.





My f*cking head. I groan as I roll over in the bed. Stop pounding on the f*cking drums. Please. Somebody. Anybody. Fuck me.

I shove the pillow over my head, but the goddamn throbbing continues in my temples. My stomach rolls and twists, and I have to concentrate on not getting sick because my head really doesn’t want me to get up just yet.

Fucking Christ! What the f*ck happened last night? Bits and pieces come back to me. Becks coming to get me to shake me out of the voodoo * funk. A funk I’m not really sure I want to be shaken from. Drinking. Rylee—wanting Rylee. Needing Rylee. Missing Rylee. Tawny meeting us at the bar for some signatures. A lot of f*cking alcohol. Way too much f*cking alcohol according to my head right now.

Pleasure to bury the pain.

I struggle to fight through the fuzz in my head to remember the rest. Snapshots of clarity amidst the haze. Coming back here. Palisades house closer than Malibu. Drinking more. Tawny not comfortable in her business suit. Getting her a shirt of mine. Standing in the kitchen looking at the f*cking Tupperware container of cotton candy on the counter. Memories of the carnival making the ache burn.

“Oh f*ck.” I groan as the next recollection flickers through loud and clear.

Sitting on the couch. Becks, the f*cker looking no worse for the wear even though he’s gone drink for drink with me, sitting in the chair across from me. His feet propped up and his head angled back. Tawny next to me on the couch. Reaching over her to the end table to grab my beer. Her reaching up. Hands around my neck. Mouth on my lips. Too much alcohol and a chest still burning with need. Hurting so bad because I need Rylee. Only Rylee.

Pleasure to bury the pain.

Kissing her back. Getting lost in her momentarily. Trying to get rid of the constant f*cking ache. To forget how to feel. All wrong. So wrong. Pushing her off. She’s not Rylee.

Looking up and meeting the disapproving eyes of Becks.

Fuuccckkk! I shove myself up from the bed and immediately cringe at the freight train that hits my head. I make it to the bathroom and brace myself on the sink for a moment, struggling to function. Images of last night keep flashing. Fuckin’ Tawny. I look up to the mirror and cringe. “You look like shit, Donavan,” I mutter to myself. Bloodshot eyes. Stubble verging on beard. Tired. And empty.

Rylee. Violet eyes begging me. Soft smile. Big heart. Fucking perfect.

I love you, Colton.

God, I miss her. Need her. Want her.

I brush my teeth. Trying to rid the taste of alcohol and misery from my mouth. I start shoving off my shirt and underwear—needing to get the feel of Tawny’s hands off of me. Her perfume off of me. Needing a shower desperately. I’m just about to flick the water on when I hear a knock at the front door. “Who the f*ck?” I grumble before looking over at the clock. Still f*cking early.