K. Bromberg - Crashed

“Well if it isn’t Florence Nightingale,” Beckett drawls in that slow, even cadence of his as he brings the bottle to his lips.

“Well I think if I was Ms. Nightingale, I’d be telling my patient, Mr. Donavan here, that he probably shouldn’t be drinking alcohol with all of those pain meds running through his blood.”

“More like Nurse Ratchet.” Colton snorts, looking at me from beneath the shadow of his bill, green eyes running over the length of my legs stretched out on the chaise in front of me. A quick dart of his tongue over his lips tells me he wants to do a whole lot more than just look.

“Nurse Ratchet, huh?” I ask as I slide my foot up and down the calf of one of my legs trying to not feel insulted.

“Yep,” he says, pursing his lips as his eyes watch me over the top of his beer bottle. “If she gave me what I really wanted, I’d be able to recover that much quicker.” He raises his eyebrows at me, the suggestion in his eyes devouring me.

“Well shit,” Beckett swears, “if I’m not trying to get the two of you back together, I’m fucking trying to keep you apart.”

“ Fucking ,” Colton drawls in Beckett fashion, “now there’s a word.”

Becks just snorts a laugh and rolls his eyes. “Definitely a good word indeed.”

Colton breaks our eye contact for the first time and angles his head over to look at his oldest and best friend. “Rest assured, bro, when the doc clears me, nothing—and I mean nothing—is going to be coming between Rylee and me for a long fucking time, except for maybe a change of sheets.”

My cheeks burn red at his frankness but my body clenches at the promise of his words. And I don’t care that Beckett just heard because I’m focused on the words long, fucking time .

“So noted,” Becks says as he takes another tug on his beer.

“I gotta take a piss,” Colton says, shoving himself up from the chaise. As I’ve learned to do over the past days, I force myself to remain seated as Colton struggles momentarily with his lack of balance and the sudden dizziness that I know assaults him. After a few moments he seems steady and goes to place his beer bottle on the table next to him. About a foot from the table, Colton’s right hand’s grip gives way and the bottle clatters to the deck below.

Becks’ eyes flash to mine momentarily, concern passing through them before he laughs and pretends not to notice. “Party foul!” he laughs. “I think Nurse Ratchet just might be on to something in regards to mixing all those drugs with that alcohol.”

“Fuck off,” he tosses over his shoulder as he turns toward the house. “Just for that I’m grabbing another!” I watch Colton walk into the kitchen, and when he thinks no one is looking, he looks down at his hand and tries to make a fist out of it before shaking his head.

“How’s he doing?”

I turn to face Becks. “The headaches are coming less and less but he’s frustrated. He keeps finding little things here and there he can’t remember. And he’s feeling confined.” I shrug. “And you know how he gets when he feels confined.”

Beckett blows out a loud breath with a shake of his head. “He needs to get back out on the track as soon as possible.”

I stare at him, mouth lax. “ What? ” slips from between my lips, feeling a stab of betrayal at his words. This is his best friend. Doesn’t he want to keep him safe? Keep him alive?

“Well, you say he’s feeling confined … the track is the one place he’s always been free of everything,” Becks says, holding my stunned stare. “Besides, if he doesn’t get behind the wheel soon, he’s going to let that fear he has eat at him, embed itself in his head, and fucking paralyze him so when he does actually think he can get back in the car, he’ll be a danger to himself.”

I’m an intelligent person and maybe if I weren’t still surprised by Beckett’s first comment, I would really hear what he’s saying—see the whole picture—but I don’t. “What are you talking about? Since he’s been home all he’s been grumbling about is getting back on the track.”

He just chuckles and even though it’s not condescending, I feel like my back is up against the wall here and grit my teeth at the sound. “Fuck yeah, he’s scared, Ry. Scared out of his fucking gourd. If it’s not his hand that he uses as an excuse, it will be something else … and he needs to get over it. If he doesn’t, the fear is just going to eat him alive.”

My mind jogs back to the past week. Things Colton has said about racing. Actions that contradict the words he’s saying, and I begin to realize that Beckett is right.

“But what about my fear?” I can’t help the desperation that laces through my voice.

“You think I’m not scared? That it’s going to be easy for me too?” The bite in Becks’ voice has me turning to look at him. “You think I’m not going to relive those seconds over and over in my mind every time I buckle him in the car? Every time he flies down the chute? Fuck, Ry, I almost lost him too. Don’t think this is going to be easy for me because it’s not. It’s going to be fucking brutal but it’s what is best for Colton.” He shoves up from the his seat and walks over to the railing, hands spread out supporting himself as he leans into them. “Until you came along it was the only thing he cared about. The only thing that kept him fucking sane.” He blows out a biting breath. “It’s the only thing he knows.” He turns back around to face me, eyes hidden behind aviators. “So yes, he needs to get his ass on the track and I’ll be his biggest fucking cheerleader, but don’t let that fool you into thinking my heart’s not going to be racing every goddamn minute he’s out there.”

My eyes follow him as he paces to one end of the patio to let his agitation abate and then back toward me before grabbing his bottle and turning the end up, downing the remainder of his beer.

“Racing’s about eighty percent mental and twenty percent skill, Rylee. We’ve got to get his head back in the game, thinking he’s ready, then he’ll be ready.”

I see the logic behind his reasoning, but it doesn’t mean I’m not scared to death.

I lift my face up to catch the last rays of sun before they dissipate and sink into the horizon. I hum along to Collide playing softly on the outdoor speakers as my mind wanders to Beckett and our conversation, to how I’m going to feel watching Colton get behind the wheel again and if he’ll fear it as much as I do.

“Hey, what are you doing out here all by yourself?” Colton’s rasp pulls at me on every level, and I open my eyes to find him looking down at me from my comfortable spot on the chaise. Warmth spreads through me when I see the pillow crease in the side of his cheek, and I can’t help but wonder what he was like as a little boy.

“Did you have a good nap?” I scoot over as he sits down beside me, but I purposefully don’t move too far so I can snuggle up closer to him.

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me in. “Yeah, I was out.” He laughs pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “But no more headache so all is good.

“I can’t imagine why you’d have any type of pain with the amount of beer you two put away.”

“Smart ass.”

“I’d rather be a smart ass than a dumb ass.”

“Aren’t we feisty tonight?” he says as he tickles my rib cage. “You know what feisty does to me, baby, and I sure as fuck could use it right now.”

I squirm out of his grasp. “Nice try, but we most likely only have a couple more days and then I’ll be any kind of feisty you want me to be,” I say with a raise of my eyebrows as his fingers ease up and smooth down my back.