Fueled(book two)(83)

I stare at the back of his head, confusion bewildering me. What does he think is so horrible within him that he’s not worthy of me? The fact that after all of this time he still feels that he’s tainted by his childhood kills me. If only he would let me try and help him. I reach out and lay my hand on his back. “Colton, why would you say that?”

He looks back at me, his face guarded. “I like your naivety way too much to give you the sordid details.”

Naivety? Does he not know the horrors I have seen working at The House? Either that or it’s another excuse to run from his past. “Whatever it is Colton, it doesn't affect how I feel about you. I need you to know that—”

“Colton?” I startle as the intercom from the front of the car buzzes to us in the back.

“Drop it, Ry,” he warns quietly. “Yeah, Sammy?”

“ETA two minutes.”

He lowers the privacy partition dividing us. Sammy turns his head toward Colton. “Sammy, please get Sex here. I feel like driving tonight.”

Sex? Driving? What the f*ck is he talking about?

“Sure thing,” Sammy says, a crooked smile lighting up his face before the partition slides back up.

“Sex?” I look at him like he’s crazy, glad for the change of topic to add some levity to the sudden heaviness of our conversation.

“Yeah. My F12. My baby. That’s her name.” He shrugs as if it’s the most perfectly normal thing in the world, but he lost me at F12, baby, and sex.

“Ummm, can you explain that in a language for those of us with dual X chromosomes?” I laugh bewildered.

He gives me a boyish grin that would melt my panties if I had any on. “F12 is my favorite of all of my collection. She’s a Berlinetta Ferrari. The first time Beckett drove her he told me that the feeling was equivalent to the best sex he’s ever had. It was a joke at first, but the name stuck. So…” he shrugs his shoulders, and I just shake my head at him “...Sex.”

“Collection?”

“Women have shoes. Men have cars.” It’s the only explanation he gives. I’m about to ask more when he announces, “We’re here.” He shifts in his seat so that he’s closer to the door and butterflies take flight in my stomach. “Show time.”

Before I can mentally prepare myself any further, the door to the limo opens. Even though Colton’s body standing in the doorway partially blocks the flash of cameras, I am temporarily blinded by their intensity.

Colton calls out a casual laid-back greeting to the paparazzi as he buttons up his jacket before turning to help me. I take a deep breath as I take his hand and scoot out of the limo. I exit the car and look up at him, a reassuring smile on his face. Gone is the brooding guy in the car from moments before. Hello Hollywood playboy.

“You okay?” he mouths to me and I nod my head subtly, overwhelmed by the onslaught of people yelling at us along with the repeated camera flashes. He pulls me toward him, his mouth resting against my ear. “Remember to smile and follow my lead,” he murmurs. “You look stunning tonight.” He pulls back, squeezing my hand and graces me with one of his panty wetting smiles before turning to walk the carpet.

And the only thought that breaks through the buzz surrounding us is that from this point forward, I am no longer anonymous to the press.





My eyes still have bright white spots in my field of vision, but I survived the red carpet. I feel so disoriented and oddly taken advantage of by the press’ invasive questions and incessant picture taking. I have no idea how Colton can be so relaxed in such a situation. Maybe years of practice. He was calm and polite, and avoided answering the questions thrown at him—were we an item, how long had we been together, what was my name?—and deflected them with the flash of his smile, giving them the perfect picture for their cover page instead.