Fueled(book two)(176)

I start to hear what Haddie is saying. When the hell did dating become so complicated? When the someone you’re dating is so incredibly worth the fight.

“I hear what you’re saying, Haddie, but what about tonight then? The kiss. The…he cheated on me.” I breathe the last part out.

“Did he though?” she says, and it lingers on the line between us.

“Fucking Christ, Haddie! You’re not helping me here.” I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“I’m not in your shoes, Ry. I can’t tell you what to do—what to feel—all I can tell you is to use your gut instinct.” She sighs. “Women are vicious bitches and men are confusing bastards—you just have to figure out which of the two you trust the most.”

“Fuck!” I groan, feeling less resolved than when our conversation began.

“Love ya, Ry.”

“Love ya, Had.”

I hang the phone up and walk some more along the edge of the golf course thinking about Haddie’s comments and lack of advice. I wander around the grounds of the resort, attempting to stop my mind from thinking, but I’m unsuccessful. I walk past one of the hotel cocktail lounges and uncharacteristically find myself turning into it and taking a seat at the bar. The lounge is not overtly busy, but it’s not quiet by any means either. Both the bar and the various tables are peppered with patrons, some alone and others coupled here and there.

It’s not until I take a seat that I realize how much the arches of my feet ache from my heels and my aimless wandering. I look up at the clock on the wall and am astounded to see that over two hours have passed.

I lean into the back of the chair and shake my head at the day’s chain of events that have hit me like a head-on collision. I order a drink and take a long sip on the straw as my attention turns to the television in the corner to the right of me. Of course the channel is on something or other pertaining to the race tomorrow—the whole city has been transformed for the road track—so I can understand why the television is tuned to it. Unfortunately for me, the panel of men on the program discuss one Colton Donavan and review his highlights from last year. Images of the number thirteen car at various venues flash on the screen. I swear I can’t escape the man no matter where I go.

Without thinking, I lean forward as I hear the announcers mention Colton’s name. “Well, Leigh, Donavan seems to be lighting up the track this week,” one announcer says. “He’s been like a man on a mission the way he’s barely letting up in the turns in his practice runs.”

“He’s obviously worked on his skills in the off season because it’s definitely showing. I’m just wondering if he’s running a little too hard. Going in with a game plan that’s a little too aggressive for the race tomorrow,” the other announcer observes. “Maybe taking too many risks. He’s definitely driving like a man scorned for sure though.” The other announcer laughs, and I just roll my eyes at the comment.

“If he runs laps tomorrow like he did today, he’s set to break a course record.”

The screen flashes to the media headshot of Colton and then flashes back to the highlights. Ludacris’ The Rest of My Life plays as the background music during the spotlight of Colton’s testing runs, and I shake my head for I couldn’t think of a more fitting song.

I sigh heavily and take another draw on my straw, averting my eyes that are drawn to the sight of his face on television.

“Rough day?”

I turn to face the masculine voice that has spoken to my left. I’m in no mood for company really, but when I see the set of chocolate brown eyes filled with compassion framed by a rather handsome face, I know that I can’t be rude. “Something like that,” I murmur with a slight smile before turning back to my drink, just wanting to be left alone. My nervous hands start to shred tiny pieces of my napkin apart. “Another please?” I motion to the bartender as she walks past.