K. Bromberg - Driven

Oh my! His touch. His hard length of body pressed against mine, makes me need things I shouldn’t want. Shouldn’t need from him. But I don’t have the strength to fight it anymore. I suck in a ragged breath, not trusting myself to speak. “No,” is all I can manage to say for an answer. Between one breath and the next, Colton crushes his mouth to mine in a heat-searing kiss tinged with near violent desire. He kisses me as if we are in the privacy if his bedroom. His hands run up the length of my torso, flutter over my neck, and cup my face as he slowly eases the intensity of the kiss.

He places his now-signature kiss on the tip of my nose before pulling back, the devilish look still smoldering in his eyes. “Us bad boys?” he continues, while my head still spins. “We like to,” he leans in, his lips at my ear, the warmth of his breath tickling my skin. I think he is going to tell me something erotic. Something naughty he wants to do to me for his pregnant pause leaves me suspended in thought. “Eat dinner!”

I throw my head back and laugh loudly at him, using my hand on his chest to push him away. He laughs with me, taking the stuffed dog from my arm. “Gotcha!” he says as he grabs my hand, saying goodbye to the carnival.

We make our way to the car, chatting idly as we pull out of the parking lot. Colton turns the radio on and I softly sing along as we drive.

“You really do like music, don’t you?”

I smile at him, continuing to sing.

“You’ve known the words to every song that’s played.”

“It’s my little form of therapy,” I answer, adjusting my seatbelt so that I can turn and face him.

“The date’s that bad you need therapy already?” he jokes.

“Stop!” I laugh at him. “I’m serious. It’s therapeutic.”

“How’s that?” he asks, his face scrunched in concentration at the traffic we have hit on the I-10.

“The music, the words, the feeling behind it, what’s not being said,” I shrug, “I don’t know. Sometimes I think music expresses things better than I can. So maybe vicariously, when I’m singing, everything I’m too chicken to say to someone, I can relay in a song. That’s the best way to describe it, I guess.” A blush creeps over my cheeks, as I feel stupid for not being able to explain better.

“Don’t get embarrassed,” he tells me as he reaches out and rests a hand on my knee, “I get it. I understand what you’re trying to say.”

I pick imaginary lint off of my jeans, a nervous habit I have when I’m put on the spot. I laugh softly, “After the accident,” I swallow loudly, shocked that he makes me comfortable enough that I’m volunteering this information freely to him. Pieces of me that I rarely talk about. “It helped me tremendously. When I came home from the hospital, poor Haddie was so sick of hearing the same songs over and over, she threatened to put my iPod in the garbage disposal.” I smile at the memory of how serious she’d been. How fed up she’d been at hearing Matchbox Twenty. “Even now, I use it with the kids. When they first come to us or if they are having a hard time dealing with their situation, if they can’t verbalize how they’re feeling, we use music to help them.” I shrug, “Sounds lame, I know, but it works.”

Colton glances over at me, sincerity in his eyes. “You really love them, don’t you?”

I answer without hesitation. “With all my heart.”

“They are very lucky to have you fighting for them. It’s a brutal road for a kid to have to go down. It easily fucks you up.” He shakes his head, lapsing into silence. I can feel the sadness radiate off of him as he reaches back to some unfathomable memory. I reach down and link my fingers with the hand he has resting on my leg and give it a reassuring squeeze. What happened to this beautiful man who one minute is playful and sexy and the next quiet and reflective? What can put that haunted look in those piercing green eyes? What has given him that roughshod drive to get his way, to succeed at all costs?

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask softly, afraid to pry but wanting him to share what deep, dark secret has a hold on him. Me playing Ana to his Christian.

He sighs loudly, the silence thick in the car. I steal a quick glance over at him and see the stress etched in lines around his mouth. The lights of passing cars cast shadows on his face, making him seem even more untouchable than I feel he is from me despite his close proximity. I regret asking the question. Afraid I’ve pushed him further into his memories.

Colton withdraws his hand from mine and takes his baseball hat off, tossing it in the backseat, and shoves his hand through his hair. The muscle twitches as he clenches and unclenches his jaw in thought. “Shit, Rylee.” And I think that is all I’m going to get as the car descends back into silence. Eventually he continues, “I don’t …” he stops as he exits the freeway. I can see him grip the steering wheel tightly with both hands. “I don’t need to haunt you with my demons, Ry. Fill your head with the shit that’s a psychologist’s wet dream. Give you ammunition to dissect and throw back in my face at everything I do—everything I say—when I fuck things up.”

I immediately hear the when not if in his statement. The ingrained notion that he is a screwup. The raw emotions behind his words hit me harder than the insensitivity he spits at me. My years of experience tell me that he’s still hurting—still coping with whatever happened long ago.

We stop at a light and Colton scrubs both hands over his face. “Look, I’m sorry. I—”

“No apologies needed, Colton.” I reach out and squeeze his bicep. “Absolutely none.”

He hangs his head momentarily, closing his eyes, before lifting it back up and opening them. He glances over at me, a reserved smile on his face, sorrow in his eyes before mumbling, “Thanks.” He looks back at the road and steps on the accelerator with the change of the light.

CHAPTER 16

Our late dinner is sinfully good. Colton takes me to a small surf-shack type restaurant on Highway 1 slightly north of Santa Monica. Despite the busy Saturday night crowd, when the hostess sees Colton, she greets him by name and whisks us out to a rather private table on the patio that overlooks the water. The crash of waves serves as a soft background music to our evening.

“Come here much?” I ask wryly, “or do you just use the fact that the hostess is in love with you to get the primo table?”

He flashes a heart-stopping grin at me. “Rachel’s a sweet girl. Her dad owns the place. He has a ladder up to the rooftop. Sometimes him and I go up there and throw back a few beers. Shoot the shit. Escape the madness.” He leans over and taps the top of my nose with his finger. “I hope this is okay?” he asks.

“Definitely! I like laid back,” I tell him. When his grin only widens and his eyes darken, I look at him confused, “What?”

He takes a sip of beer from his bottle, amusement on his face, “I like you laid back too, just not in this environment.” His suggestive tone causes butterflies in my stomach. I giggle and swat at him playfully. He catches my hand and brings it casually to his lips before setting it on his thigh with his hand closing around it. “No, seriously,” he explains, “This is way more my style than the glitz and glamour of my parents’ lifestyle and expectations. My sister fits that lifestyle so much better than I do.” He rolls his eyes despite the utter adoration on his face when he mentions her.

“How old is she?”

“Quinlan? She’s twenty-six and a total pain in the ass!” he laughs. “She’s in graduate school at USC right now. She’s pushy and overbearing and protective and—”