K. Bromberg - Driven

Colton comes around the side of the car and opens the door, holding a hand out to help me from my seat. I clutch my purse to my chest, suddenly awkward in the moment as I make my way to my car with Colton’s hand on the small of my back.

I turn to face him, leaning my back against my car. I have my bottom lip between my teeth and worry it back and forth as my nerves seem to be getting the better of me. “Well … thank you for a nice evening, Colton,” I say as I look around the street unable to meet his eyes. Am I afraid that this might be it? Of course not, because I know I’ll have to see him for work. Then why do I suddenly feel a mixture of unease and sadness over parting with him? Why am I mentally kicking myself for not taking him up on the offer to go somewhere else?

Colton reaches out and places a finger under my chin, turning my face so that I’m forced to meet his eyes. “What is it, Rylee? What has you so afraid to feel? Every time you start to get caught up in the moment and hand yourself over to the sensation, something flashes across your face and has you withdrawing. Pulling back and becoming unavailable. Has you bottling back up all of that potential passion of yours in a matter of seconds.” He searches my eyes in question, his fingers firm on my chin so that I can’t avert my eyes. “Who did this to you, sweetheart? Who hurt you this badly?”

His eyes probe mine looking for answers I’m not willing to give him. The muscle in his jaw tics in frustration at my silence. His features, darkened by the night sky, are tense, awaiting my response. The flickering streetlight creates a stark contrast with his warring emotions.

I can feel my protective wall bristle at his unwanted attention. The only way I know how to deal, how to keep him at arm’s length, is to turn the question back on him. “I could ask you the same question, Colton. Who hurt you? What haunts those eyes of yours every so often?”

He quirks his eyebrows at my tactic, his concentrated stare never wavering. “I’m not a very patient man, Rylee,” he warns. “I’ll only wait so long before—”

“Some things are better left alone.” I cut him off, my words coming out barely above a whisper and my breath hitches.

He moves his thumb from my chin and drags it over my bottom lip. “Now that,” he whispers back to me, “I can understand.” His response surprises me, reaffirming my assumption that he is in fact hiding from something himself. Or running.

He leans in slowly, brushing a reverent, lingering kiss on my lips, and all thoughts in my head vaporize. His tenderness is unexpected, and I want to capture this moment in my mind. Revel in it. I sigh helplessly against his lips, our foreheads touching briefly.

“Goodnight, Colton.”

“Goodnight, Rylee.” He leans back, grabbing the handle of my door and opening it for me and ushering me in. “Until next time,” he murmurs before shutting the door.

I start the engine and pull away from the curb. Instinctively I reach out and push the stereo on, shuffling for the sixth disc in the changer. I glance in my rearview mirror as I make my way down this street, music flooding the car. I can see his figure as he rocks back on his heels with his hands in his pockets standing beneath the flickering streetlight. An angel fighting through the darkness or a devil breaking into the light? Which, I’m not sure. Regardless, he stands there my personal heaven and hell, watching me until I turn the corner and am out of his sight.

CHAPTER 9

I pull into my driveway and sit in the car for several moments humming to the music pouring out of the speakers, running through my time with Colton in my head. I subconsciously sing the song out of habit, for the words and the rhythm are comforting to me. I place my hands on the top of the steering wheel and rest my head on top of them. It’s not like I have been out with many guys in my life, but that was one of the most intense, passionate, and strangely comforting dates of my life. I shake my head as I replay it again.

Holy shit! That’s all I can really think about my evening. About Colton’s unexpected pursuit. The devil on my shoulder reiterates to me that this is all my fault. That if I’d acted like the ‘normal’ me, I would’ve never been willing victim to his deft hands in a backstage alcove. I would’ve never been in the position to tell him ‘thanks but no thanks,’ spurring on this whole chase—this whole challenge—a welcome change in his world of overly eager, willing women.

I scream out startled at the knock on my car window. I am so deep in thought, I never saw Haddie approach my car. My heartbeat returns to normal as I open the door to her.

“Hi, Had. Just a sec,” I say as I reach across my seat to grab my belongings.

I sense Haddie’s presence shift into the doorway as her body blocks the garage light, throwing the front seat in shadow. “Is that Matchbox Twenty?” she questions as she strains to hear the music playing quietly on the stereo system.

Uh-oh , I tell myself, she knows something is up . My subliminal predilection of listening to Matchbox Twenty whenever I’m upset or thinking things through has come back to haunt me. Haddie knows this all too well from the dark period of my life. She knows me so well that she understands certain songs represent certain things I’m working through.

I look over at her, hands on her hips, irritation emanating off of her in waves, and I’m not sure just how much she knows. And depending on what she knows is how hurt she’ll be that I’ve kept it from her.

There is no rationalizing with Haddie when she’s angry. When she feels wronged. I silently groan for I know my interesting day is about to get longer. She never backs down until she gets the answers she wants. She can fool everyone because behind her innocent beauty is her razor sharp wit—but not me.

I know better.

I flip off the car quickly before she can hear which song I have on repeat, Bent . At least it’s not Unwell . I have my bag in my hand but can’t exit the car because she is standing in the way.

“I think we need to have a little chat,” she says haughtily. “Don’t you?” She moves out of the way, her hands on her hips. All she needs is to tap her foot, and I’ll be transported back to being in the principal’s office in grade school.

I force a cheerful smile on my face, “Sure, Had—What’s up? You seem pissed at something?”

“You.”

“Me?” I respond walking to the front door, rolling my eyes since she is behind me.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me either, Ry,” she demands as we walk through the front door.

I laugh at her intimate knowledge of me and my facial expressions, and at the same time I steel myself for all that is Haddie Montgomery.

I drop my stuff by the tall table that stands against the entry wall. I skulk over to the couch in our front room and sink into, wishing I could just close my eyes and fall asleep. But I can’t for Haddie sits down on the other end of the couch and curls her lithe legs beneath her.

“When were you going to tell me?” Her voice is chillingly quiet. This is not a good sign. The quieter she is, the more pissed she is.

“About?” I prompt, figuring if she gives me what she knows, I can at least get credit for telling her the rest that she doesn’t know.

“Colton freakin’ Donavan?” she sputters, eyes wide, trying to suppress a grin that threatens to break through her implacable façade. “Are you fucking kidding me? And you didn’t tell me?” The pitch of her voice escalates with each word. She grabs her glass of wine on the end table next to her and sips it, never breaking eye contact with me over the rim. Her next word is quiet, hurt evident. “Why?”