Driven

“I’m sure you will,” I acquiesce is a hushed murmur, knowing he’ll probably get so much more than just that from me.

He stars at me for a moment, a mix of emotions flickering though pools of emerald before he shrugs nonchalantly and looks out to the ocean, effectively stopping any chance I have of reading what is in them. “At first my parents used Donavan as a way to try and protect me as a child. When we traveled or had to use an alias, we would use it. But as I got older,” he takes a sip of his beer, “and as I got into racing, I wanted to make sure that I was good because of me, not my dad’s name. I didn’t want to be seen as some spoiled Hollywood kid who was just using his name and daddy’s money to make it.” He looks up at me, snagging a fry off of my plate despite having a plethora himself. “I wanted to earn it. Really earn it.” He flashes that grin at me again. “Now it doesn’t really matter. I could care less what anybody writes about me. Thinks about me. But back then, I did.”

A silence falls between us. I’m having a hard time reconciling the arrogant, sexy troublemaker the media portrays with the man before me. A man comfortable with himself—and yet a part of me still feels like he is striving to find his place in this world. To prove he is worthy of all of the good and bad he has experienced in his life. I have a feeling that the real Colton is a little bit of both, angel and devil. “So Colton, how’d you find this place?” I pick up my glass by the stem and swirl the wine around absently in the glass before I take a sip.

“I found it on the way home from surfing one day when I was in college,” he muses, wincing at the small shriek from inside the restaurant as a woman recognizes him and calls out his name.

Ignoring the bystanders starting to gather inside to catch a peek at him, I continue seamlessly. “I don’t picture you in college, Ace.”

He finishes the bite of food he’s chewing before answering. “Well, neither did I,” he laughs, taking another swallow of his beer. “I think I broke my parents heart when I dropped out after two years at Pepperdine, sans degree.”

“Why didn’t you finish?” I flinch instinctively when a flash sparks through the dark night from someone’s camera as they try to capture a shot of Colton.

He casually shifts his chair in a move so fluid it’s obviously well practiced. He now has his back more angled to the center of the restaurant so that less of him can be seen. I don’t mind as it moves him closer to me so that now we both face the moonlight ocean off of the deck. He carries on without acknowledging the small crowd starting to murmur excitedly in the room behind us. “I can give you the bullshit answer about being a free spirit, et cetera,” he flutters his hand through the air with indifference. “It just wasn’t my thing,” he shrugs. “Concentrated studies, set formats, deadlines, structure …” he shivers in pseudo-horror at the last word.

I smirk at him and shake my head, leaning back into my chair where Colton’s fingers are now lazily running back and forth between my shoulder blades. “Yeah … I definitely can’t see you twiddling your thumbs in class.”

“God, my parents were pissed!” he exhales loudly at the memory. “They had spent all kinds of money on tutors to try and get me up to speed after they adopted me,” he shakes his head smiling, “and then I went and threw it away by dropping out.”

I bite off a piece of french fry. “How old were you when … I mean how did you meet them?” A shadow passes over his face and I mentally kick myself for asking the question. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

He stares out at the moonlit ocean in thought for a few moments, before answering. “No, there’s not much to tell.” He wipes his hands on the napkin in his lap. “I was—I met my dad outside his trailer on the Universal lot.”

“On the set of Tinder?” I ask referring to the movie that I’d learned about during my Google search of Colton. It knew it was the movie his dad had won an Academy Award for and but not where they’d met each other.

Colton raises his eyebrows, his beer stopping halfway to his lips. “Somebody was doing their homework,” he tells me and I can’t tell if he’s perturbed by the notion or amused.

I offer him a shy smile, embarrassment at getting caught adding a flush to my cheeks. “Somebody once told me that it’s not safe to go out with someone you haven’t researched first,” I offer as an explanation.

“Is that so?” he quips, leaning back in his chair. He crosses his arms across his chest, a beer in one hand, his biceps pressing against the hem of his sleeves.

“Yes,” I toy with him, “but then again, I don’t think it matters with you.”

“Why’s that?” he asks lifting a bottle to the smirk on his lips. My eyes are glued to the sight of them pursed over the bottle and then how his tongue darts out to lick them after his sip. I have to drag my mind out of the gutter from imagining those lips on me. Licking me. Tasting me.

“I don’t think it matters how much I learn about you,” I tell him, leaning into him so that my lips graze against his ear and whisper, “I still think you’re dangerous.” To me, I add silently.

He pulls back, eyes fused to mine as he leans in to brush a gentle kiss on my lips before resting his forehead against mine, “You have no idea,” he murmurs against my mouth. His words send a shockwave of confusion through me. One minute playful, the next minute guarded. To say he’s mercurial is an understatement.