Raced (13 page)

“Now that’s a good image to have,” I say, my mind immediately back on her in that fucking outfit from Skype.

“Down, boy. Poetry, not pornography,” he says, tapping the neck of his bottle against mine before sitting back in his chair. “Not with me anyway.”

“No worries there. You’re cute and all but not my type.” I lean back and fall into thought before I start laughing. Look at us. Two guys in our thirties making up fucking nursery rhymes. This is some funny shit.

Becks chuckles to himself, his eyes closed, and I wait for him to speak. “Roses are red, violets are blue, get in my bed and be ready to screw.”

“How fucked-up are we?” I laugh.

“Hey, this is poetry in its truest form.” He lifts his beer to me, his eyes still closed as the alcohol mixed with the clock hitting past midnight begins to get to him. “In fact, you should send her one of them tomorrow. That’s something a good
boyfriend
would do.”

“You and your boyfriend bullshit,” I tell him, taking my hat off and tossing it on the table. “I’m so good, dude, labels like that don’t apply to me.”

“Oh Jesus.” He throws his hands up, his beer splashing up the top of his longneck that has him sputtering to wipe it off his shirt. “Forgive me, Oh-King-of-All-Things in his own mind.”

“Damn straight,” I say, loving to get his feathers ruffled.

“Let me ask you something,” Becks says as he props his feet on the table. “Do you fuck her regularly?”

I nearly spit my beer out but don’t because I may be feeling more than good, but no one talks about Ry this way. I make sure my eyes tell him exactly that.

“Oh, excuse me, choirboy Colton. Let me rephrase. Are you having
regular relations
with her?” he asks in a prim and proper voice.

I can’t help but laugh.
Fucker
. He just stares at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to answer. “Every chance I get.”

He nods his head and works his tongue in his mouth while he thinks. “What’s she doing tonight?”

What’s up with the questions? “She’s was at The House until nine and then heading to dinner with Haddie. Why?”

“So you know her schedule then?”

“And your point is …?” He’s starting to irritate me with this cryptic bullshit.

“When’s her birthday?” He ignores my question by asking another, a regular fucking Socrates.

“September fifteenth.” Becks chuckles and I blow out an exhale at the condescending sound of it.

“Impressive.” He nods his head in approval. “Now I know you’ll know her bra size, but what about her shoe size?”

“What the fuck dude? What are you getting at?”

“Patience, young grasshopper. Bra and shoe size?”

“I’ll
young grasshopper
your ass if you don’t get to the fucking point.”

He leans forward and lifts a beer from the bucket toward me in offering. I nod my head and take it. Fuck it. I might as well answer him than deal with his crap. Besides, I’ve gotta admit I’m curious where he’s going with this. “Thirty Six D and size nine and half.”

“Nice,” Becks says, drawing it out in a sound of approval. “What are her parents’ names?”

“Daniels,” I grit out, patience lost amidst his amusing twenty questions.

“Last one, I promise.” He puts his hands up in surrender.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas.”
Take that
. I can be a smart ass just like you.

“Just answer.” He sighs in exasperation.

“If I answer, are you going to get to your point?” He nods his head, his grin spreading even wider as I tell him their names.

“Huh.”

“Huh?” After all the build up, that’s all he’s going to give me? I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees waiting for an answer.

He angles his head and looks me in the eyes for a beat. And despite the spinning in my head, curiosity is killing the cat. And of course cat leads me to thinking of pussy and pussy to Rylee.
Fuck
. I’m definitely drunk.

“Boyfriend,” he says, breaking through my thoughts, know-it-all grin spreading from ear to ear.

“
Fuck off
.” It’s the only comeback I have because he just baited the hook and I thought he was going to tell me something unexpected. What an ass. I throw the pillow beside me at him and flop back on the cushions.

He catches it and laughs loudly. “Those are things boyfriends know. Not fuck buddies, not random assholes—although, you qualify for the asshole part too—but boyfriends.”

“Isn’t it time you head back to your room? Isn’t your hand and some lotion waiting for you there?”

“Best offer I’ve had all night,” he says, pushing himself up off the couch, and I laugh when it takes him a moment to steady his feet. “I think I’ll try to enjoy it before I pass the fuck out …”

“You go do that,” I tell him, slipping my shoes off and turning my feet so I can lift them onto the couch and lie down. “Tell Rosy and Palmela to do you right,” I tease, making the jerking-off motion with my free hand.

“No worries, they never disappoint,” he says and so many comebacks flicker in my mind but are just beyond my drunken haze so I nod my head instead. “You just lie there and enjoy thinking about the sex you have regularly now with the woman you claim isn’t your girlfriend but who really is.” He opens the door. “Catch ya in the morning,
boyfriend
.”

Asshole is the word that comes to mind but all I say is, “Hmm …” as the door clicks shut and my eyelids begin to feel heavy. I start to doze, my mind on Rylee, wondering if the boys were good during her shift today. If she made it home okay afterwards. Shit! I’m thinking about stuff I normally don’t give a flying fuck about … stuff a
boyfriend
would think about.

There’s that fucking word again.

Thoughts come and go but they’re all focused on the one person I never expected to be thinking about. The damn voodoo she’s grabbed me by the balls with and is now somehow twisting around my hardened heart.

… If you were one of my boys and you wanted to tell me you loved me, or vice versa, you’d say ‘I race you, Rylee’…

The words flicker through my buzzed mind. I try to shake them, try to forget that look in her eyes when she made the statement. Try to focus on the incredible sex we had afterward.

But as I fall asleep on the couch in some overpriced hotel suite in Nashville, my mind should be focused on tomorrow’s negotiations and the upcoming season. I should be dreaming of great sex with a hot blonde.

But I’m not.

I’m thinking of roses and violets, of
my
girlfriend,
and learning that maybe Spiderman and racing off the track just might have a thing or two in common.

The well-loved hotel fight scene in FUELED. What did Colton think when he saw Rylee with Parker in the bar? Was he trying to fix things or looking to make it worse? Why in the hell did he tell her he slept with Tawny? Why did he shut Becks the hell up so the misunderstanding couldn’t be resolved?

Yes, Colton was an ass for kissing that girl so blatantly in front of Rylee earlier in the night, but at the same time I feel for him in this scene. When he stands in front of Rylee and Parker and silently asks her the same thing she asked him about Raquel at the Merit Rum party: choose.

As usual Colton is all over the place mentally and emotionally, but we also see something else here: We see defeat and desperation. Two things that as a reader calls to my sympathy, my compassion, my desire to see them figure it all out … and possibly makes his earlier actions more tolerable.

“I told you, Becks, I’m sick of her shit. I’m not buying the
I’m innocent
act she pulled in the team meeting.” I glance over to him as we walk down the hallway, enough alcohol humming through my veins for me to speak my mind.

Then again, I don’t need alcohol to do that.

“What the fuck did Tawny do now?”

“I don’t know, man, but she’s being squirrely and fuck if I can figure out what she’s up to.”

Sammy snorts behind me and I turn to look at him, figure what the hell he means by it, but he just looks right past me like it’s not his place to say anything. Ha. Like he’s held back before.

Becks catches my eye with his raised brows as we turn a corner because I’m heading in the opposite direction of our wing of rooms for the team. “You can deal with it when we get back home. I need your head focused on the race.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” I shake my head, eyes scanning over all of the places I’ve seen Rylee since she’s arrived. I need to see her, need to set the shit right that I did earlier. My dumb-ass move to kiss bar-girl just to make Rylee jealous, show her that I can have anybody I want.

Even though it’s her I want.

So I hurt her on purpose as a payback for her twisting the knife a little more every time I see her. Sitting at appearances, promoting the fundraiser—everything beside me—but the minute the attention is off of us, she disengages. Goddamn frustrating woman.

So why are you looking for her, then? Why do you still care, Donavan? She doesn’t believe a fucking word you say, said she’s done, so how are you going to prove otherwise?

Fuck if I know but I’m so sick of this ache in my chest that I’m trying to ignore regardless of how much it continues to burn.

“So you ever going to tell me what the fuck happened between you and Rylee? Why you’re moping around like I kicked your dog?” Becks asks for the hundredth time, even though he knows Baxter would bite his ass if he kicked him.

I don’t want to talk about this. Never do. I just want it all back how it was. Ry and me in a good place. Then why the fuck did you kiss that chick? Pull your head out and fight for what you want.

I glance over and Becks is giving me the look like he’s waiting for an answer. My head’s so fucked-up right now I forgot to respond.

“Nothing. Something.” I exhale. “She thinks I cheated on her.”

Becks starts laughing and pats me on the back. “Dude, does she not see how goddamn pussy whipped you are? I saw you shove Tawny off you like a hot fucking coal that night she kissed you.” He laughs at the memory that caused the
morning after
that still haunts me. When Tawny opened the fucking door when Rylee knocked. “If you’re not having your fallback girl, you sure as hell aren’t locking lips—or anything else for that matter—with anyone else.”

I sigh, that ache returning with a vengeance.

“It’ll sort itself out as long as you don’t go and do something stupid, Wood.”

“I won’t,” I lie, then cringe at the memory of Rylee’s eyes filled with hurt as I
locked lips
with that bimbo earlier. Fuckin’ A.

“Because she sure as hell wouldn’t do something stupid like …” Becks’s words trail off as we pass the bar before he takes an abrupt turn down the hall in the opposite direction. I start to follow when I see him glance at Sammy. I stop and turn around, the unspoken words causing the heart I’ve thought dead for so long to roar to life.

I see her instantly, body turned, knees touching, and face close to some fucking douchebag sitting beside her in the bar. I freeze for a moment when I see her leaning forward.
The kiss I see is all
in my fucked-up mind
but I don’t fucking care because I see it anyway, feel it hit me like a goddamn sucker punch. Just like she must have felt when I did it to her earlier.

The hurt barrels through me. Grabs hold and doesn’t let go.

And I don’t allow myself to get hurt.
Ever
. I lived a lifetime of fucking pain caused by the one that was supposed to care about me the most. I know better now. Know that the minute someone gets too close, I push them away. The minute I feel like I’m going to be hurt, I lash out without regret.

… and I let Rylee in close enough to hurt me …

She senses me, looks up, and our eyes lock. I see defiance, finality, and fuck if I’m going to let that bastard sitting beside her reinforce it being there. She told me she was going to find a guy for the night to see if it helps with her pain. Apparently she was serious.

But this isn’t like her—acting like me, throwing the confession I gave her about how I cope back in my face—so it kills me to see her do this to spite me.
To hurt me on purpose
.

Bar-boy leans in closer, his mouth near her ear, and she breaks her eyes from mine. And now that ache turns into motherfucking pain.