Raced

Here is a new chapter from FUELED. Rylee received the extremely ‘romantic’ poems that Colton composed in Nashville, but this scene takes you to how exactly those poems came about. A bit more bromance here, but also the reason behind Colton’s slip the next morning when he casually called Rylee his girlfriend. I hope you enjoy this new piece of the puzzle.

“You know what I think?”

“Huh?” I look over to where Becks is sitting on the chair across from me, but I move too fast and the room spins for a minute before I can focus again.

“I think,” he says, laughing and tilting God knows what number beer we’re on at me, “I think we need to have a moment of silence.”

“Who died?” I’m drunker than I thought. What did I miss? I lift my bottle to my lips and try to figure out what he’s talking about.

“Your single, non-pussy-whipped self.”

“Bullshit!” I spout through his damn laughter that’s a little too loud right now for my drunk ears.

“Bullshit?” he says as he scoots to the edge of his chair, and I want to tell him not to stand, that he’ll fall on his ass. Then again, he’s fucking with me and I could use a good laugh at his expense so I refrain. “Were you just not looking at your phone like you wanted to call her and get off?”

I lay my head back and laugh because hell if he’s not right. It’s been five fucking days since I’ve had her, since she stayed the weekend at my place. Hours occupied with sex that rocked my world and downtime where she challenged me, pushed me, laughed with me. A first for me on so many levels, but the most important one was that I wasn’t freaked the fuck out about it.

And that never happens.

“It’s called Skype,” I tease, closing my eyes momentarily. No amount of alcohol can fuck with the perfect image in my head of answering my iPad to find Rylee sitting on her bed, lace and garters and come-fuck-me-gear on the other end of the picture connection. Manicured fingernails parting pink flesh to show me just what I’m missing. Dirty talk I’d never expect to fall from her lips but perfectly fitting in that telephone-sex rasp of hers.

“Exactly. When have you ever had Skype-sex? You usually snap your fingers in whatever town you’re in and you can pick from the hundred that come running and drop to their knees.” I hear the pop of a bottle top and then another and open my eyes to see him holding a fresh one out to me.

I think for a second as I accept it and fuck if he’s not right.

“See? I told you. When you brought her to Vegas with us I thought she was just a passing fad. Thought you were testing the waters because you weren’t used to having a challenge and it got a rise out of you. Literally,” he deadpans, drawing a shake of my head. “But, Wood, after the past few weeks, you bailing from work early to go to go-kart tracks and shit … It’s more than obvious that we need to say our parting words and have a moment of silence for your dearly departed dick.”

“Becks—”

“Shh!” he responds¸ trying to hold his pointer finger to his lips but his depth perception is so off I laugh when he tries several times to get it there despite his dead serious face. “A moment of silence is needed to kiss your unvoodooed ass goodbye.”

“You’re such an asshole,” I tell him but know I’m lucky to have him as my partner in crime.

“Shh!” he says again, and I give up. I take a deep breath and roll my eyes but humor him and remain silent. I swear he’s passed out but he’s still sitting at the edge of the chair and hasn’t fallen over.

Yet.

But his eyes are still closed when a huge-ass grin turns his mouth up and he claps his hands together and rubs them. “Shit, that was easier than I thought.”

“What was?” My buzz is humming now and I’m finally relaxed after a fuck-all day with the Firestone guys and negotiations over shit they’re going to cave on in the end anyway.

“Getting you to admit you’re a kept man now.”

“Fucking Christ, dude!” I spit my beer out. “Kept? You’re calling me kept?” That’s like the equivalent of telling Jenna Jameson she’s a virgin.

“It’s pretty fucking obvious when there’s a huge neon sign above your head flashing no vacancy for your stabbin’ cabin that you’re a kept man. Have a woman now.”

“A woman now? I’m sure Ry would love to hear you refer to her as that.”

He eyes me over his bottle. “So she’s not your woman, then? Because usually when you hang up the phone you don’t think twice, back to business. Now you hang up with a little smirk on your face and you’re lost in la-la land for a bit.”

“La-la land?” I laugh.

“What would you call it, then? Girlfriend-ville?” He eyes me. Dares me to deny his reference since I’m the self-proclaimed don’t do the girlfriend thing kind of guy.

I begin to argue but then stop. Fucking Becks. He knows me like the back of my hand and yet this is uncharted fucking territory for me. A woman that I want to color outside the lines with. No, scratch that. A woman that fucks with me on so many levels that I’m so busy being challenged and seduced by her words, her body, and her defiance that I don’t even realize the parameters I’m used to controlling don’t really matter anymore … because she does.

Fuckin’ A, he’s right, but hell if I’ll tell him that.

“We’ll go with woman,” I concede, but the word girlfriend rolls around in my head, sticking here and there as I get used to the idea of it.

“Holy shit!” Becks says, pounding on his chest acting like he’s choking and I just stare at him unamused despite the smile on my lips. He stops laughing and tosses a bottle cap at me as he leans back in his chair. “Well, admission is half the battle. Keeping her is the other half.”

“Keeping her?” Dude’s got my head spinning. I mean, fuck, I just told her I’d try, asked her to spend the weekend at Broadbeach with me when no one ever has, and he’s talking about how to keep her? I didn’t realize she was going somewhere.

“Baby steps, Becks. Don’t give me a heartache here. I hear keeping her but I think rings and strings and weddings and shit.”

And he only thinks my reaction makes the whole situation funnier by how he curls up and can’t stop laughing. “The look on your face is priceless,” he finally gets out, “but I’m not talking about marriage.”

Thank fuck for that. We can put away the defibrillators now. I look over at him, eyes telling him to get to the fucking point so I can enjoy my beer again without any more cardiac arrests.

“I’m talking about romance. Shit girls like, man.”

“You don’t need romance when you have my skills,” I tell him, already waiting for the smart-ass comment to come from his mouth.

“Okay, one-pump chump.”

“Fuck off!” I sneer and flip my middle finger up, but he’s laughing so hard he doesn’t even see it.

“Shit. I’ve got to take a piss,” he says and rises on unsteady feet to head to the bathroom of my suite.

I lift my feet up and prop them on the table in front of me, hands clasped behind my head. Through the open balcony doors I can hear Bruno Mars’s newest song playing in the bar across the street, but in the muted silence I start thinking about the word girlfriend. Wondering if that’s a definition we really need when we have our own language between us. Then Beckett’s words start running over again in my head until he comes back out zipping up his fly.

He walks over to the open doors and I feel a slight pang of guilt that he wanted to go hang out at the bar and I just didn’t want to deal with the crowd tonight. I’m usually interested in the eye candy and playing the game.

But I just don’t feel like it this trip.

I shake my head. What in the fuck is Rylee doing to me? All her talk about Scooter saying I Spiderman you and that look on her face as she sat naked on her knees beside me undoes me bit by bit when I’m already a mess of unraveled memories.

I lean forward and grab another beer from the bucket of ice in front of me and stare at the label for a few minutes. “So uh, romance, huh?”

I see his body register my words, but he keeps his face toward the street because he can tell I’m so far out of my fucking element here, the periodic table wouldn’t even be able to help me.

Romance? I don’t do it. Flowers die, food gets eaten. It’s not real. I’ve watched people flip the switch on and off enough in my life between my dad’s movie sets to women wanting something with me that I’m not fucking stupid enough to see the farce.

So why the fuck am I wondering what Becks thinks I’m screwing up here?

“What are you not saying to me? You think I’m not giving her the flowery shit a girl wants so she’s gonna bail?” The thought doesn’t settle well in my stomach. In fact it makes me shove up out of my chair and walk back and forth.

Well more like stumble.

“I didn’t say shit, dude.” Becks keeps looking out the window. He knows he’s questioned me and I don’t take too easy to that.

And fuck if he doesn’t have me questioning myself now. I told her I’d try to give her more. That has to be enough in the end here. I’m already pushing myself past my comfort zone and now I have to think about this kind of shit?

I’m annoyed with Becks for butting his nose in and irritated at myself for not even thinking about it. But I shouldn’t have to, should I?

I roll my shoulders and plop back down on the couch. Did he really have to ruin my stellar buzz by bringing this up? Then again, the room’s still moving a bit so maybe he didn’t.

“What do you think I should do? Send her poems and shit? C’mon, dude, that’s not me.”

He snorts out a laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure a classy ‘roses are red’ poem is just what a lady like her wants.”

I sit there in silence, ignoring the dig, thoughts running through my semi-cloudy mind and plaster a grin to my face when the words connect. “Roses are red, tires are black, you’re the only pussy I wanna ride bareback.”

Becks spits out the beer in his mouth in a huge spray out the balcony doors. He wipes his mouth as his laughter falls to match mine. He turns to face me and raises an eyebrow. “That was pretty fucking good. If you’re that witty when you’re drunk, I think we should work under the influence more often.” He walks toward me and I can already see his mind turning, trying to match my poem. “I’ve got one. Roses are red, violets are fine, you be the six, and I’ll be the nine.”

“Now that’s a good image to have,” I say, my mind immediately back on her in that fucking outfit from Skype.

“Down, boy. Poetry, not pornography,” he says, tapping the neck of his bottle against mine before sitting back in his chair. “Not with me anyway.”

“No worries there. You’re cute and all but not my type.” I lean back and fall into thought before I start laughing. Look at us. Two guys in our thirties making up fucking nursery rhymes. This is some funny shit.

Becks chuckles to himself, his eyes closed, and I wait for him to speak. “Roses are red, violets are blue, get in my bed and be ready to screw.”

“How fucked-up are we?” I laugh.

“Hey, this is poetry in its truest form.” He lifts his beer to me, his eyes still closed as the alcohol mixed with the clock hitting past midnight begins to get to him. “In fact, you should send her one of them tomorrow. That’s something a good boyfriend would do.”

“You and your boyfriend bullshit,” I tell him, taking my hat off and tossing it on the table. “I’m so good, dude, labels like that don’t apply to me.”

“Oh Jesus.” He throws his hands up, his beer splashing up the top of his longneck that has him sputtering to wipe it off his shirt. “Forgive me, Oh-King-of-All-Things in his own mind.”

“Damn straight,” I say, loving to get his feathers ruffled.

“Let me ask you something,” Becks says as he props his feet on the table. “Do you fuck her regularly?”

I nearly spit my beer out but don’t because I may be feeling more than good, but no one talks about Ry this way. I make sure my eyes tell him exactly that.

“Oh, excuse me, choirboy Colton. Let me rephrase. Are you having regular relations with her?” he asks in a prim and proper voice.

I can’t help but laugh. Fucker. He just stares at me, eyebrows raised, waiting for me to answer. “Every chance I get.”

He nods his head and works his tongue in his mouth while he thinks. “What’s she doing tonight?”

What’s up with the questions? “She’s was at The House until nine and then heading to dinner with Haddie. Why?”

“So you know her schedule then?”

“And your point is …?” He’s starting to irritate me with this cryptic bullshit.

“When’s her birthday?” He ignores my question by asking another, a regular fucking Socrates.

“September fifteenth.” Becks chuckles and I blow out an exhale at the condescending sound of it.

“Impressive.” He nods his head in approval. “Now I know you’ll know her bra size, but what about her shoe size?”

“What the fuck dude? What are you getting at?”

“Patience, young grasshopper. Bra and shoe size?”

“I’ll young grasshopper your ass if you don’t get to the fucking point.”

He leans forward and lifts a beer from the bucket toward me in offering. I nod my head and take it. Fuck it. I might as well answer him than deal with his crap. Besides, I’ve gotta admit I’m curious where he’s going with this. “Thirty Six D and size nine and half.”

“Nice,” Becks says, drawing it out in a sound of approval. “What are her parents’ names?”

“Daniels,” I grit out, patience lost amidst his amusing twenty questions.

“Last one, I promise.” He puts his hands up in surrender.

“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas.” Take that. I can be a smart ass just like you.

“Just answer.” He sighs in exasperation.

“If I answer, are you going to get to your point?” He nods his head, his grin spreading even wider as I tell him their names.

“Huh.”

“Huh?” After all the build up, that’s all he’s going to give me? I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees waiting for an answer.

He angles his head and looks me in the eyes for a beat. And despite the spinning in my head, curiosity is killing the cat. And of course cat leads me to thinking of pussy and pussy to Rylee. Fuck. I’m definitely drunk.

“Boyfriend,” he says, breaking through my thoughts, know-it-all grin spreading from ear to ear.

“Fuck off.” It’s the only comeback I have because he just baited the hook and I thought he was going to tell me something unexpected. What an ass. I throw the pillow beside me at him and flop back on the cushions.

He catches it and laughs loudly. “Those are things boyfriends know. Not fuck buddies, not random assholes—although, you qualify for the asshole part too—but boyfriends.”

“Isn’t it time you head back to your room? Isn’t your hand and some lotion waiting for you there?”

“Best offer I’ve had all night,” he says, pushing himself up off the couch, and I laugh when it takes him a moment to steady his feet. “I think I’ll try to enjoy it before I pass the fuck out …”

“You go do that,” I tell him, slipping my shoes off and turning my feet so I can lift them onto the couch and lie down. “Tell Rosy and Palmela to do you right,” I tease, making the jerking-off motion with my free hand.

“No worries, they never disappoint,” he says and so many comebacks flicker in my mind but are just beyond my drunken haze so I nod my head instead. “You just lie there and enjoy thinking about the sex you have regularly now with the woman you claim isn’t your girlfriend but who really is.” He opens the door. “Catch ya in the morning, boyfriend.”

Asshole is the word that comes to mind but all I say is, “Hmm …” as the door clicks shut and my eyelids begin to feel heavy. I start to doze, my mind on Rylee, wondering if the boys were good during her shift today. If she made it home okay afterwards. Shit! I’m thinking about stuff I normally don’t give a flying fuck about … stuff a boyfriend would think about.

There’s that fucking word again.

Thoughts come and go but they’re all focused on the one person I never expected to be thinking about. The damn voodoo she’s grabbed me by the balls with and is now somehow twisting around my hardened heart.

… If you were one of my boys and you wanted to tell me you loved me, or vice versa, you’d say ‘I race you, Rylee’…

The words flicker through my buzzed mind. I try to shake them, try to forget that look in her eyes when she made the statement. Try to focus on the incredible sex we had afterward.

But as I fall asleep on the couch in some overpriced hotel suite in Nashville, my mind should be focused on tomorrow’s negotiations and the upcoming season. I should be dreaming of great sex with a hot blonde.

But I’m not.

I’m thinking of roses and violets, of my girlfriend, and learning that maybe Spiderman and racing off the track just might have a thing or two in common.