Fueled (11 page)

Fucking temperamental women!

My lungs burn. My muscles ache. My feet pound into the treadmill belt as if I’m trying to punish it. It doesn’t matter. No matter how hard I push, my head is still fucked up. Rylee’s still mucking up my thoughts. Constantly.

What the fuck is wrong with me?
I asked for the goddamn
pit stop
. Took my shot at putting it back on more familiar footing. So why am I the one that feels like she’s left me behind?

Fucking women. Complicated. Temperamental. Necessary.
Fuck me.

The music pounds in my earbuds. The driving beat of Good Charlotte pushes me harder, but the pressure in my chest doesn’t dissipate. I count my footsteps when I run. Only to ninety-nine and then I start over again. I swear to God I’ve restarted the count a hundred fucking times so far and nothing has helped.

I’ve never played fucking games with women before, and I have no intention of starting now. I say when. I say whom. I give the terms.

I take what I want. When I want it.

And any and all of my previous bedside companions abide by my parameters without so much as a fucking flinch. No questions asked except for “Baby, how do you want me tonight? Knees or back? Cuffs or restraints? Mouth or pussy?”

All except for Rylee.

Fucking frustrating. First, I almost go to blows with her brother today, and then she walks away refusing to see me tonight. I know she wants me. It’s written all over her ridiculously hot body. It’s reflected in those magnificent eyes that draw you in and swallow you whole. And fuck me, if I don’t want her every minute of every hour.
But what the fuck?
She walked away, left me there, and didn’t even hesitate at saying no about tonight.

No?
Are you fucking kidding me
? When is the last time I heard that?
Oh yeah. Right
. From Rylee.
Shit
. Now all I can think about is her. Seeing her. Hearing her. Burying myself in her until she sighs that little sound right before she’s about to come. It’s so goddamn sexy it’s ridiculous.

I am not pussy-whipped. No way. No how. Not even close.

So why not call somebody else for a quick, uncomplicated fuck then?
Why does the thought not even sound appealing?
You’re losing it, Donavan
. I must’ve dipped my wick in the pool of crazies one too many times, and now it’s fucking up my head.

I shove a finger at the screen and bump up the incline, forcing myself into ignoring my own damn thoughts. The song switches to Desperate Measures but the sarcasm in the lyrics I usually love does nothing for me.

Goddamnit
! Nothing works. Music. Incline. Speed.
Fuck!
I keep seeing her in the bathtub, fingers firm on my balls, eyes heated with intensity, lips telling me how exactly she deserves to be treated. What she won’t put up with from me again.

That’s a first
. Someone setting parameters for me. Has hell frozen over and no one told me? She had my balls in a fucking vice, and all I could think of was how much I wanted her. In my bed. In my office. At the track. In my life.

And not just on her back.

She must have a voodoo pussy or something. Reeling me up and snagging me in her hooks without realizing it. I’m just fucking horny. That’s gotta be why my head’s all fucked up. A week’s a long time for me to go without sex.
Shit!
I can’t remember the last time I’ve had a dry spell like this.

So why’d you pit stop her then the other day, dumbass
? She’d have been beneath you tonight if you hadn’t. Why’d you open your mouth?

I groan in frustration at my stupidity. At my need for release that this stupid-ass treadmill is definitely not helping with.

I can’t stop rehashing the other morning.
Fuck!
It’s official. Rehashing shit?
I’m without a doubt a goddamn chick now
. I must have lost my balls somewhere in the past week.

Only chicks rehash shit, but I keep thinking about standing with her on her porch…how I was just trying to do the right thing—protect her by pushing her away from the train wreck in my head. Trying to allow her the chance to find someone else that can give her what she needs—what she deserves—but I couldn’t get the words out no matter how hard I tried. And then she stepped up and kissed me. Kissed me with such honesty and reassurance that I couldn’t breathe. All I could do was feel. The moment was too real. Too raw. Too close.

Yep. I have a pussy. No doubt about it now.

But fuck if that simple taste of her didn’t make me realize I’ve been starving for so very long.

And then I knew I had to put some distance between us and the foreign feeling of need that flashed through me. The need to covet. To protect. To care for. I had to push back from the one thing I know for fucking sure I don’t want.

Love. Love and the things required of you with it.

Crying
pit stop
was like crying fucking wolf. Trying to tell myself I needed space to bring us back to the only set-up I’ll accept. Back on arrangement status. I may have used her term to soften the blow, but my only thought was if I get us back to set parameters, then I’ll be able to get the control back I felt slipping away. Regain the need to rely solely on myself.

I push a finger to the screen and wait for the treadmill to stop. I stand there, chest heaving, sweat dripping, and feeling no better for the hour of punishment I just put in. I glance out through the wall of glass at the shop down below, watching the guys finish with some engine adjustments we’d decided on yesterday before scrubbing the towel over my face and through my soaked hair.

My body feels like I’m floating a little when I hit the floor after being on the treadmill for so long. I head through the door on my left and into the bathroom that connects the gym to my office. I take a quick shower, glance in the mirror deciding to forgo the shave, and throw some shit in my hair.

Does she know how fucked up I am? Does she have any idea what a bastard I am? How I usually take when I need to and then discard? I need to tell her. Somehow. Someway. I need to warn her of the fucking poison inside of me.

I’m pulling my shirt over my head when it hits me what I need to get out of my funk. I walk out into my office and head straight to my desk to grab my cell to make some calls and get the ball rolling. But first I need to send her a text. Need to give her a warning the only way she’ll hear it.

I pull up her name on my phone and type: Push – Matchbox Twenty. Then I hit send, my mind running the lyrics over and over in my head:
“I wanna take you for granted. Well I will.”

“What crawled up your ass?”

Despite its familiarity, I jolt at the sound of the voice. I whirl around to see Becks sitting in one of the chairs in front of my desk with his feet propped up on another.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I bark out, running a hand through my hair. “Fucking A, Becks!”

“From the looks of it, you need to fuck a B brother. It’s got an extra hole and you sure as hell look like you can use the added release,” he drawls out, amusement in his eyes as they narrow and study me trying to figure out what’s going on.

A sliver of a laugh escapes my lips as my heart begins to decelerate. I sink down in my chair and prop my feet up on my desk, mirroring him. We just stare at each other, years of companionship allowing there to be comfort in the silence as I weigh what to say and he measures how much to ask.

He finally decides to break the silence. “It’s a lot easier and cheaper to get it off your chest, Wood, than to break the fucking treadmill, you know.” I just give him a measured nod before glancing down at the garage again, one of my obsessive habits. “You gonna go all rogue on me with the silent treatment now?” When I look back at Becks, his eyes are now staring at the guys below, ignoring the sneer I’m giving him. “Or are you going to explain why you sat through that entire meeting after lunch with your head up your ass, giving little to no input and just being a dick in general. Only to end it without a decision so you could go break the treadmill?” He slowly moves his gaze back to mine with eyebrows arched in question and an appraising look in his eyes.

Leave it to Becks
. The only person that can put me in my place. The only person I’ll allow to call me on it. The only person that knows me well enough to know I’m pissed and to ask in our
guy speak
what the fuck’s wrong.

“It’s nothing,” I shrug.

He chokes out a long laugh and shakes his head at me. “Yeah. It’s nothing alright,” he says, unfolding himself from his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. “Since you’re so talkative, I think I’ll be on my way then.”

Fuck this
. Before Becks reaches the door, I’m shoving my wallet into my back pocket, grabbing my cell, and striding toward the door. “Let’s go,” I mutter as I walk past him, knowing that he’ll be right behind me. And I’m right because I hear his quiet laugh behind me. The one that says
yep, I was right
.

I give the universal ‘another round’ motion to the waitress with the nametag stating Connie. If she’s just going to stand there and stare, she might as well do something to earn the free show.
Shit
. My buzz is humming now and I’m just starting to relax. I’m not drunk enough to push away my shitty mood, but I’m making progress.

Connie swivels her hips as she comes over to the table with our drinks in her hands. She leans over the table to set them down, making sure that I get the eyeful of tits she’s putting on display. She’s unquestionably hot in all of the right ways and in all of the right places. I’d definitely hit it—another time, another place, maybe—but I stifle back the smartass comment on my tongue about how all of a sudden from the drink request to the drink arrival her shirt just got lower and her skirt just got shorter. “Is there anything else I can get you two gentlemen?” she asks with a suggestive tone to her voice and her tongue licking over her lips.

“We’re good here,” Beckett deadpans, shaking his head and breaking her attempt at flirting. He’s used to this shit and is a fucking saint for dealing with it all these years in his subtle, calculating way.

A text pings on my phone, and I reach for the fresh bottle as I look at it. “Smitty’s on board,” I tell him. I should be happy that Smitty’s coming to Vegas with us. We’ve shared plenty of wild outings in the past. He’ll definitely help get rid of my fucked up mood.

If I’m so happy, then why am I disappointed that it isn’t Rylee’s name on my phone’s incoming text?

“Cool. Almost the whole gang then,” Becks says, leaning back in his seat and taking a long pull on his beer. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting patiently for me to talk.

I lean forward and place my head in my hands for a moment, trying to shake my head out of where it keeps returning.
Fucking Rylee
.

“You want to tell me what the fuck we’re doing here, Colton, at almost six o’clock on a Friday night? Who the hell put that stick up your ass?”