Driven

The boys are in their various afterschool modes and I’m at the table finishing my review of Shane’s paper for school. Jackson’s shift ended and hour ago and his replacement, Mike, is at a routine counseling appointment with Connor.

I resume looking over Shane’s paper, thoroughly impressed with how well he is improving in school, a result of our numerous one-on-one sessions with him. I glance over to the family room area where Kyle and Ricky have entered with their box of baseball cards. They sit down on the floor next to the coffee table and turn their attention to the basketball game that is playing on the television. Zander is in his usual place, stuffed animal held to his chest, and eyes staring unfocused into space. Scooter is laying on the carpet, coloring in one of his Spiderman coloring books. I listen for the telltale sign of music in the back bedrooms to tell me that Shane is in his room. I finish making comments on Shane’s paper and shift my attention over to start reviewing the meal and afterschool activity schedules for the next week.

I hear a knock at the front door and before I can even put my pen down, I hear Shane yell, “I got it!” from his bedroom. I smirk because I know he’s hoping it’s his “girl that is a friend,” as he puts it. She came over last week, and I think that Shane is still on cloud nine.

“Look before you open,” I tell him as I rise from the table and walk toward the hall. As I reach the corner of the hall that leads to the foyer, Shane breezes past me, disappointment on his face. “It’s for you,” he says plopping on the couch.

I turn the corner, figuring that there’s a delivery of some sort as The House is always receiving legal documents via courier in regards to our kids’ situations. I look up and see the foot of someone standing outside the doorway. I reach the doorway and when I step out I come face to face with Colton. Despite his sunglasses, I know he’s looking me up and down. A lazy, lopsided grin on his face that causes his dimple to deepen is the only show of emotion on his face.

Damn my breath for catching at the sight of him. As much as I don’t want him here, don’t want the complication of what he has to offer in my life—a quick fuck that’s easily discarded—I am giddy at the sight of him. And this turn of events is not looking good for me.

I stop in the doorway, a smile spreading on my face despite my resolve that he’s bad news for me. We stand, looking at each other, taking each other in for several moments. He’s in a well-worn pair of jeans and a black t-shirt clings over his muscular torso. The simplicity of his clothing only adds to his devastating looks. His dark hair is windblown, wild and sexy as hell.

Everything about him screams here comes trouble. And I’m standing right in his path like a deer in the headlights. Unable to move and drawn to his light. Willpower is only going to last me so long. I’m seriously screwed.

“Hello, Rylee.” The simple rasp of his voice saying my name has me flashing back to his mouth on mine. His hands on me. Has vibrations propelling shockwaves through my body.

I cock my head to the side regarding him. “Hi, Ace,” I say guardedly. “Since when did you add stalker to your repertoire of talents?”

I slip my hands into the rear pockets of my jeans as I lean against the doorjamb. He removes his sunglasses, his emerald eyes blazing into mine, and then folds them to hang in the neck of his shirt. Their weight pulls the neckline down so several dark hairs curl out over the edge. I drag my eyes from the sight back up to his.

He flashes me a lightening fast grin. “I’d be more than happy to show you my talents, sweetheart.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Womanizing is not a talent.”

“True,” he draws the word out and nods his head in a slow acknowledgement, “but you’ve yet to see the true depths of my many others.” He arches an eyebrow, a roguish smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “And since you keep running, I can’t show you and we can’t solve our little problem about that date you owe me.” He takes a step closer to me, a playful look dancing in his eyes. I retreat a step into the foyer, leery of this dance we are engaging in. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, Ryles?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Donavan. I’ve been warned about guys like you.”

He smirks at me, finding my comment amusing. “You have no idea,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine and the patronizing manner of his smile irks me. He takes another step closer, causing my pulse to quicken.

“What do you want? Why are you here?” I huff.

“Because I want my date with you,” he says annunciating every word, “and I always get what I want.” He places both hands on the doorjamb, leaning into it, his silhouette blocking the afternoon sun. His dark features haloed by the bright light.

I shake my head at his nerve and boundless conceit. “Not this time,” I disagree. I push the front door to shut and turn on my heel back down the hallway.

In less than a heartbeat, Colton grabs my upper arm, whirls me around, and has me pressed up against the doorjamb. “Keep fightin’ me, sweetheart. The feistier you are, the harder you make me.” There is a dangerous amusement to his tone that scrapes over me and prickles my senses.

Shit! How can he make those words sound like a seductive promise?

He presses his hips against mine, holding me against the hard, unforgiving wood. We’re both breathing harshly, and I’m unsure if it is from the physical exertion or from our proximity to each other.

Colton releases my upper arm and brings both of his hands to cradle my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing at my jaw line. The implied intimacy of this touch has me momentarily closing my eyes, absorbing the sensation. His translucent eyes burn into mine, and I can sense an internal struggle in him, his jaw tensing in deliberation.