Driven

“My inner slut,” I reiterate, nodding my head, “I like that, but I think she’s lost.”

“Oh, we can find her, sister!” she snickers. “She’s probably hiding behind the layers of cobwebs covering your crotch.”

We both laugh out loud before we slowly start giggling uncontrollably. My overwrought emotions from the week welcome this release. I giggle until tears seep from the corners of my eyes. Just when I think my laughter is going to subside, Haddie shakes her head, “You have to admit, Ry, the man is fucking hot!”

I start giggling again, “Scorching hot!” I confirm. “Man, I can’t wait to see him naked!” The words are out before my fuzzy brain has had a chance to filter them.

Haddie stops mid-laugh, a knowing smile playing her lips. “I knew it!” she yells at me, pointing at my face, “I knew you wanted to fuck him!”

“Well, duh?” I respond before we collapse again in another fit of giggles.

“Let’s get you drunk tomorrow night at the event, and then we’ll drunk dial his ass for a booty call.”

“Oh God, no!” I blanche. What have I gotten myself into?

CHAPTER 10

The light that fills the room is way too bright when I open my eyes the next morning. The pounding in my head makes me groan out loud and grab my pillow from under my head, pulling it down over my eyes. I curse myself for the numerous glasses of wine that Haddie and I drank last night but smile remembering the tears, the laughs, and the friendship.

And Colton. Hot, delectable Colton.

Hmmm, I sigh at the memory of yesterday and him. He’s going to have do something to take care of this ache he’s churned inside of me. I press my thighs together to abate it without success.

Since I can’t get him out of my head, my hopes of falling back asleep are now gone. I reach my hand out blindly and fish around for my cell phone on my nightstand, knocking over an empty bottle of water. It clatters loudly on the hardwood floor, the sound making me cringe. I lift the pillow slightly to glance at the screen of my phone, wanting to know what time it is.

I lift the pillow further when I see my screen. I have numerous missed calls and texts from last night. I scroll through them quickly noting Haddie’s texts getting more frantic as time passed. There are several from Dane and as I scroll to the next screen, the very last alert shows me there is a text from an unknown number. It was sent after I’d gotten home last night, in the midst of my discussion with Haddie. I open the text, and a reflexive smile spreads on my face. The text is from Colton:

Ryles—Thanks for the unexpected picnic. Since you seem most comfortable telling me what you think through music, I’ll do the same. Luke Bryan, “I Don’t Want This Night to End”—take it for what it is. *Ace

I smile at his words when I realize he heard the words I sang to him yesterday in the car. I’m unaware of the song he’s mentioned, so I scramble quickly, ignoring my hangover to grab my MacBook Pro. I pull it off my dresser and plop back on my bed, anxiously waiting for it to power up. I immediately google the song. I’m surprised to find that it is a country song—Colton does not seem like a country music kind of guy to me, more hard rock or something with a thumping base. I click on the link and within seconds the song is playing.

I lie back on my bed, close my eyes, and listen to the words of the song. A soft smile plays on my lips as the song washes over me. My first hint inside of Colton’s head—sure, he verbally tells me he wants me, but the gist of the words is that he enjoyed his time with me last night. That he didn’t want the night to end. I enjoy the little boost to my ego and the flutter in my stomach of excitement from the thought that Colton wants to get drunk on my kiss.

Don’t jump to conclusions. I warn myself from being giddy. This is the same man who warned me off of him. That tells me I need to research my dates to know who’s dangerous and will hurt me when I least expect it.

I sit back up and grab my computer. I immediately replay the song and open up another window to search Google. I type in “Colton Donavan.” The search is immediately populated with page upon page of links referencing him; racing sites, the Speed Channel, fan-created sites, and so many more.

I decide to narrow the search and type in Colton Donavan Enterprises. I click on the company’s website. The opening page is a back-dropped picture of what I assume is Colton’s racecar next to a picture of the office facility. I click through the menu and am led through a corporate mission statement, history, products, media, and race team information. It’s all very impressive, but I stop when I click on the tab “drivers” and Colton’s face fills the screen. It is a close-up, candid shot of him in his fire suit. He is looking intensely at something off-camera, and his green eyes are clear and intrigued. He has a half-smile on his face as if he is remembering a fond moment, the dimple in his right cheek winking. His hair is in need of a cut and curls over the neck of his suit.

I suck in my breath. My God, the man is sex on a stick.

I bookmark the picture for good measure before I force myself to change the page and search anew. I switch to Google Images and reluctantly type in his name, afraid of what I’ll see. The page refreshes and dozens of images of him pop up on the screen, most of them with a gorgeous woman draped on his arm or looking up in obvious adoration of him. I know I have no reason to be jealous for these pictures are dated, but I find myself rolling my shoulders to ease my agitation. Knowing I should close the page, I do just the opposite and find myself clicking on each picture. Staring. Comparing. None of the captions refer to the women as girlfriends, rather as just dates or companions.