Crashed

Call.

Call End.

Call.

Call End.

Fuck me!

I squeeze my eyes shut, head fuzzy from however much I’ve drank. And I start to laugh at what I’ve been reduced to. Me and the floor are becoming best fucking friends. Fuckin’ A.

It’s not hard to go up when you’re already at fucking rock bottom. Time to ride the fucking elevator. I start laughing. I know there’s only way to clear my head—my only other fucking high besides Rylee—that will help keep the demons at bay for a bit. And as much as I need Rylee right now, I need to do this first to get my shit figured out. My right hand fucking trembles as I go to push Call, and when I do, I’m scared out of my fucking mind, but it’s time.

Head straight.

Then Rylee.

Motherfucking baby steps.

“Hey, douche bag. I didn’t realize you knew my phone number it’s been so fucking long since you’ve called me.”

Such a fucking old lady. God, I love this guy.

“Get me in the fucking car, Becks.”

His laughter stops in an instant, the silence assuring me he’s heard me, heard the words I know he’s been waiting to hear since I got the all clear.

“What’s going on, Wood? You sure?”

What’s with everyone fucking questioning me tonight? “I said get me in the goddamn car!”

“Okay,” he drawls out in his slow cadence. “Where’s your head at?”

“Fucking seriously? First you push me to get in the fucker and now you’re questioning the fact that I want to? What are you, my goddamn wet nurse?”

He chuckles. “Well, I do like my nipples played with, but shit, Wood, I kinda think you touching them would give me a reverse boner.”

I can’t stop the laugh that comes. Fucking Beckett. Always a bucket of fucking laughs. “Quit fucking with me, can you get me on the track or not?”

“Can you get the slur out of your voice and put down Jack, because that’s a dead giveaway your head is still fucked up … so I’ll repeat my question again. Where’s your head at?”

“All over the fucking place!” I shout at him, failing miserably to not sound drunk “Goddamn it, Becks! That’s why I need the track. I need to clear the shit from it to help fix me.”

There’s silence on the line, and I bite my tongue because I know if I push he’ll hang the fuck up on me. “The track’s not going to fix that fucked up head of yours, but I think a certain wavy haired hottie could do that for you.”

“Drop it, Becks.” I bite the words out, not in the mood for another shrink session.

“Not on your life, fucker. Baby. No baby. You really gonna push the best thing you got going for you out the fucking door?”

And session number two begins.

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks. You’re not my type.”

His condescending tone pisses me off. “Stay the fuck out of it!”

“Oh! So you are going to let her go? Isn’t that a song or some shit? Well hell, since you’re gonna let her go, I guess I’ll give her a run then.”

Motherfucker. Are my buttons that easy to push tonight? “If you’re smart, you’ll shut the fuck up. I know you’re pushing me … trying to get me to call her.”

“Wow! He does listen. Now that’s a news fucking flash.”

I’m done. “Quit fucking around, do your job, and get me on the goddamn track, Beckett.”

“Be at the track at ten tomorrow morning.”

“What?”

“It’s about time. I’ve had it reserved for the past week waiting for your ass to get with it.”

“Hmpf.” He had me pegged.

“You won’t show.” He laughs.

“Fuck off.”

“You wish.”

I blow out a breath and roll my shoulders, welcoming the burn as I stretch my warm and thoroughly tired muscles. I desperately needed this run—the escape into our backyard and through the gate of the neighbor behind us so I could get away undetected from the persistent press.

I look up from my stretch and something across the street catches my eye. I’m immediately on guard when I see the dark blue sedan across the street with the man leaning against it, camera in hand with a telephoto lens blocking his face. Something about him strikes me as familiar, and I can’t put my finger on it … but I know my little piece of freedom—by secret passage—has been compromised.

The thought pisses me off and although I’ve yet to engage with any press, my feet have a life of their own and start walking toward him. My mind running the verbal lashing I’m about to give him over and over in my head. He watches my approach, the shutter clicking at rapid fire pace, the camera still blocking his face. I’m just about to start my spiel when I’m about fifty feet away and my phone rings in my hand.

Even after many days of no contact, my pulse still races at the sound, hoping it’s Colton but knowing it’s not before I even look at it. But I’m taken back a bit when I look at the screen and see Beckett’s name. I stop immediately and fumble with my phone, worried that something’s happened.

“Becks?”

“Hey, Ry.” That’s all he says and falls silent. Oh shit. Dread drops like a lead weight through me.

“Beckett, what’s wrong with Colton?” I can’t stop the worry that weighs heavy in my voice. The silence stretches and my mind runs as I glance at the photographer momentarily before turning my back and hurrying home.

“I just wanted you to know that Colton’s on his way to the track right now.”