Crashed (44 page)

“You going to sit out here and drown your fucking sorrows all night like a whiny little bitch or what?”

The voice coming from the pitch black night scares the shit out of me. “Fucking Christ, Becks!” I bark as I turn to see him walking down the side of the house. “What the fuck, dude? You ever heard of the front door?”

“Yeah, well, you ever heard of answering your fucking cell phone? Besides, knocking’s for friends and I’m fucking family so quit your bitching.”

“I’ve been in the hospital more than enough over the past two months, a heart attack’s not part of my fucking game plan.” I take a long tug on the beer, my head finally becoming fuzzy enough that when I think of Rylee, the image of her cold, covered in fucking blood, and unresponsive isn’t what comes to mind first.

“Well, what is part of the game plan then?” he asks as he opens the beer he’s pulled out of the fridge, that fucking smirk on his face telling me he has a point and
fuck me
, I don’t need any more points or advice or fucking anything right now.

“Really, make yourself at home,” I tell him. “Steal my beer.”

“Nah, just borrowing it,” he says as he plops down in the chair beside me and we sit in silence, trying to gauge the other’s mood. “We didn’t get a chance to talk much at the hospital.”

“Yeah? Well, I had more important things on my mind than shooting the shit with you.” And fuck if I’m not being an asshole. I needed him there too, but I’m not real comfortable with where the fuck he’s going with this. I feel a Becks’ dress down coming.
Fuck!

“She asleep?” he asks, lifting his chin up toward the second story.

“It’s past midnight, what do you think?”

“Don’t be such an asshole. Look, you’ve been handed a lot of fucking shit to deal with and—”

“Butt the fuck out, Becks. Let me just drink my goddamn beer in peace.” I toss my empty bottle toward the trash can and fucking miss. I must be drunker than I thought. Fuckin’ A.

“No can do, brother.” He sighs as I mutter
fucker
under my breath which garners a drawn out chuckle from him. “You’ve fucked this up one too many times so I’m here to help.”

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,
sweetheart
.” I just want to be left the fuck alone. Me, my beer, my dog, and my fucking peace.

“Nice try but you’re stuck with me. Kind of like herpes, only better.”

What the fuck?
“Dude, did you just actually compare yourself to fucking herpes?” I lean my head back and look at the stars in the sky before angling it over to stare at him and shake my head. “Because at least with herpes, my dick gets serviced first. With you, it’s more like being bent without any fucking lube.”

He laughs that laugh of his that tugs a smile up at the corner of my mouth. The stubborn fucker is getting to me when all I want is to be left the fuck alone.

“Well at least it’s nice to know you’ll let me in somehow,” he says, winking and staring at me until I can’t take it. I let out the laugh I’ve been holding in.

“You’re a sick fuck, you know that?” I say, uncapping another bottle of beer.

“You wouldn’t want me any other way.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I say as I down half of the bottle letting the night’s silence settle around us. As much as I want to be left alone—to deal with the fucked up shit in my head that’s telling me a decision’s going to have to come sooner than later—it’s nice that Becks is here, even if he’s a fucking pain in my ass. I drum my thumbs to Seether playing through the speakers as he gives me a couple of minutes before he starts playing shrink to the fucking poisonous shit in my head.

“Remember that girl, Roxy Tomlin?” he asks finally, throwing me for a loop.

“
Hoover
?” I laugh, curious as to why he’s bringing up the blow job queen from our past. The one who sucked Becks off just to get to me. And normally, I’d be shoving that shit out the fucking door with a stunt like that, but after he’d bragged she gave the best head he’d ever had, I took advantage of the more than willing offer.

“Yeah, fucking Hoover. The suction that never stopped.” He laughs with me, shaking his head at the memory. “Still pretty goddamn high on the ranking scale in my book.”

“No fucking Rylee, but yeah.” I shrug. “She was decent.”

“Decent?” he barks out. “I swear to God, the woman had no fucking gag reflex.”

“Maybe that’s ’cause you’re not big enough to reach the back of her throat.” I quirk my eyebrows as I finish another beer. He wants to come to my house and fuck with my head, I sure as shit am going to fuck with his.

“Fuck off, Wood.”

His bottle cap hits me in the chest as I sit back and smirk. “I’ve had much better offers, my friend, but thanks anyway.” My head’s spinning trying to figure out where the hell he’s going with this line of thinking, but fuck if I can figure it out.

“I ran into her the other day.” His calm cadence makes me to turn my head and look at him.

“
And …?”

“Shocked the shit out of me is what she did.”

“Why’s that?” I pretend to be interested but he’s losing me. I glance up at the bedroom window behind me where the light’s still off, and even though I’m way beyond the road to drunk, I like knowing Ry’s up there. I try to focus back on Becks but why the fuck do I care about the easy piece we both had way back fucking when with a head so screwed up it rivaled mine?

“I barely recognized her. Still gorgeous as fuck. Filled out in all the right places now.”

Yeah, yeah, get to your fucking point, Beckett.

“And she had three kids in tow.”

“Look, dude, I know there’s some kind of six degrees of Kevin Bacon fucking happening here right now, but I’m not fucking following you so just spit out your goddamn point.” Then it hits me.
Oh shit!
“They’re not your kids are they, Becks?”

“Jesus Christ, Donavan, you’re fucking drunker than I thought.” He chokes out a cough before raising his hand in the air and pointing to himself. “King of double bag before you stab, right here!”

“And who taught you that, douche bag?”

“Apparently not you since you obviously didn’t practice what you fucking preach.”

His unexpected words cause a twinge in my gut that I fucking hate. The same fucking twinge I get every time I think of Rylee lying there on the goddamn floor all by herself, for who knows how long, and every time I think of the small piece of me dying inside of her. I gulp down the beer, pushing the thoughts from my fucking head and force myself to breathe.

“Where the fuck are you going with this, Daniels, because I’m drunk, have no fucking patience, and kind of think you’re trying to push my buttons to get me to react to whatever fucking point you’re taking your sweet ass time getting to. So just fucking get to it.”

“Remember that one night we all got plastered at Jimmy’s bonfire?”

“Beckett!” I growl at him because my tolerance ran out like five fucking minutes ago.

“Chill out, shut the fuck up, and listen.” I snap my head over to look at him because I’m in no fucking mood. “We were wasted and she started talking about the shit that had happened to her—bad shit—you remember?” I give him a measured nod, still not following the fucking road map he’s lost himself on, but recall the story of abuse in all forms. A conversation I took no part in. “And she said she never wanted kids, that life’s too fucked up and she didn’t want them to go through the shit she did. And now she has three kids, is married, and seems genuinely happy.”

“The fucking point?” I growl at him

“Quit being so goddamn stubborn, Donavan, and connect the fucking dots, will you?”

“I’m not a fucking constellation. Your dots aren’t drawing a picture so help me the fuck out.”

“You look like the Little Dipper to me.” He smirks.

I pick up the pillow next to me and chuck it at him. “Fuck off! Big Dipper’s more like it.” I take a long tug on my beer. Fuck, it’s empty. They’re disappearing faster than I can count them. Usually I’d just crash right here, but fuck Ry’s up there. No way I’m sleeping without her next to me. I sigh, Becks’ words running circles in my head, hinting at his point but never really landing on the fucking bull’s-eye. “Seriously, Becks, what are you trying to tell me here? Just spit it out.”

“Things fucking change, dude! Life changes. Priorities change. Pre-fucking-conceived notions change. You have to adjust and change with them or your ass gets left behind.” He shoves up out of his chair and walks to the railing and looks out into the blackness beyond. When he turns back around, he is dead serious. “We’ve been best friends for what? Almost twenty years. I love ya, man. I never interfere with the shit you’ve got going on … which woman’s warming the sheets, but fuckin’ A, Wood …”

I’m not liking where this conversation is going. Deflection is my only thought. “I thought you told me I needed to fuck a B instead,” I say, trying to add some humor to this serious conversation, and fuck all if I can follow how we went from Hoover Tomlin to Becks sticking his goddamn nose where it doesn’t fucking belong.

He laughs—has the balls to fucking mock me—before walking over to me and shaking his head at me. “You don’t get it, do you? Fuck the A or the B, you have the
whole goddamn alphabet
upstairs and she’s asleep in your fucking bed right now, but the only letter that can fuck this up is U!” he shouts at me.

What the fuck? He’s taking her side? I swear to God, Ry’s worked her fucking voodoo pussy magic on him and he’s never even had it before. Talk about super powers and shit.

“Becks? How am I going to fuck this up? She’s here isn’t she? I want her here, brought her here, so what the hell else do you want from me? And how the fuck does Hoover factor into this shit?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he swears as he paces in front of me and takes a long pull on his beer. “She’s here for now! She’s here until you start thinking too fucking much about how, now that she might be able to have a baby, she just might not want you anymore because you’ve never wanted one. Until you start pushing her the fuck away and trying to hurt her so she makes the decision for you so you don’t have to fucking make it for yourself. But things fucking change, Colton! Look at Roxy ‘Hoover’ Tomlin. She never wanted kids because of the shit that happened to her as a kid and now her kids? They’re her whole goddamn world!”

“Fuck. You.” The ice in my voice rivals the chill of the fucking polar ice cap.

“No, fuck you, Colton! You sat in that goddamn hospital room when she needed you the most and sure as fuck you were there … but fluffing pillows doesn’t fix the shit that’s hurting inside of her. Or in you. I sat there and plain as fucking day watched you start to pull the fuck away from her.”

“I’m warning you, Becks!” I say, standing up, fists clenched, fury racing through my veins. His words hit a little too close to fucking home. A little too close to a truth I always said I never wanted—would never tolerate—but now all of a sudden I can’t get out of my mind. Ideas of a life I never even thought could exist for me. But how is that even fucking possible? The broken merry-go-round in my head keeps whirling, but all I can think about is shutting Becks the fuck up because he’s right about me pulling away. About me not being there for her when she needed me most. So fucking right my stomach is a motherfucking mess.

“Truth hurt, dude? You want to throw a punch at me? Take the truth you don’t want to fucking face out on me?”

I grit my teeth and throw my bottle into the can and watch it shatter into a million fucking pieces. And once again I’m back here—broken glass, broken mind, and fucked up all around. He pushes my shoulder from behind, egging me on, and I take the fucking bait so quick it’s not even a thought. I whirl around, arm cocked back, fists clenched, and a fucking freight train of anger tears through me.

And Becks just stands there, eyes locked on mine, chin raised in that
fuck you
position daring me to take a shot. “What’s your problem, hotshot? Not so tough now, are ya?”

My body fucking hums, vibrates with every fucking ounce of emotion I’ve held in over the past week, but all I can do is stare at him, wanting so desperately to expel the motherfucking guilt eating at every goddamn piece of me.

Guilt that all of this happened because of me—not stepping up to be a man, leaving her alone with Zander, not getting to The House quick enough, not getting to the bathroom quick enough. The guilt clings to so many fucking things inside of me—the poison and the hope— that the only thing I want to do is drink another fucking beer, numb myself, and push it away.

“You wanna fight? How ’bout you save it? How about you fight for what fucking matters? Because she,” he says, pointing up to the bedroom window and lowering his voice to a quiet fucking steel, “she’s worth the fight, dude. Worth every goddamn fear eating at you. Every piece of it, Colton—A to motherfucking Z.” He steps into me and jabs a finger into my chest. “Time to deal with your past, because Rylee?” He points up to the room again and then back at me. “She’s your goddamn future. It’s fight or flight time, man. Let’s just hope you’re the man I’ve always thought you were.”