Aced (18 page)

But I begin to forget.

About Eddie. The pressure to fix it all. And the thousands of men jacking off to the image of my wife holding her tits as she comes. And the rage over how she lost her job. And becoming a father. The need to win the next race. Being told to bite my tongue with the press.

And God does it feels good to forget.

I’m lost in thought, trying to figure out how many shots we’ve downed, when my phone rings. I fumble with my cell before answering.

“If it’s good enough to make me sober, Kelly, I just might forgive you for ruining my buzz,” I say into the phone with a laugh.

“You drunk?”

“Well on my way.”

“Understandably,” he says in his no nonsense tone. “Eddie checks in with his parole officer once a month.”

“Mm,” I say as visions fill my head of waiting for him outside the social services office and greeting him with a fist to the face.

“Don’t even think about it, Donavan. You got the restraining order for Rylee. Leave it at that. Just like I’ve told you all week long, you touch him, he’s going to sue you like he owns the Fluff and Fold and take you to the cleaners. It’s not worth it.”

Quit fucking telling me what to do.

“Let him try,” I sneer, admitting to myself he’s right but also knowing revenge gives its own special satisfaction. I begin to say something else when the thought hits me that I might be able to get him back and not lift a fucking finger. The problem is I want to lift more than a finger at him. I want a whole knockout fist.

“Thanks, Kelly. Keep me up to speed.” Thoughts try to connect through my fuzzy mind on how I can make this all work to my advantage. Fuck Eddie over. Redeem Rylee. Get back the happily ever after.

My plan could work.

“Everything okay?” Becks asks, as he looks up from his own phone.

Later, Donavan. Figure it out later. Right now? Drink.

“Fucking peachy,” I say, copying one of his go-to sayings. “Kelly’s got a line on Eddie.”

“And that pisses you off, why?”

“Just thinking.”

“That’s scary,” he teases and I slide my glass across the table so it clinks against his in response. “What is it?”

“Bad juju, man,” I finally say, trying to put into words what I think’s been bugging me the past few days. The drinking to forget didn’t numb this. “I’ve got this feeling that won’t go away.”

“I’m not following you.”

“Things have been too goddamn perfect for us. I have the fucking fairy tale, Becks. The princess, the castle, the—”

“Jackass,” Becks snorts as he points my way, causing me to laugh. Asshole. “Sorry. I couldn’t resist,” he says, putting his hands up in a mock surrender. “Please, continue.”

“Nah. Never mind.” Shut it down, Donavan. You sound like an idiot. A drunk one at that.

“No. Seriously. Go on.”

I concentrate on drawing lines in the ridges of the worn tabletop. “Shit in our life was just too good. Too perfect. And now with the tape and Ry’s job and . . .” My voice fades as I try to explain the feeling I don’t understand, but that all of a sudden feels like it’s clinging to me like a second skin. “I just keep waiting for the other shoe to drop to make this fairy-tale life of ours come crashing down. It’s a shitty feeling.”

“Feelings are like waves, brother. You can’t stop them from coming but you sure as fuck can decide which ones to let pass you by and which ones to surf.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just hope I don’t wipe the fuck out by picking the wrong one.”

Becks and I decide we’re looped enough to brave the chaos.

We push open the back door of Sully’s and are met with blinding flashes of light and a roar of sound. I wince. The alcohol makes the clicking shutters and shouts of my name sound like they’re coming through a megaphone. They stagger me. Blind me.

Anger the fuck out of me.

Sammy’s here. Pushing people back to let Becks and I inch toward the Rover. But each step, each push of the mob against me fuels my fire.

Take a step. A camera hits my shoulders. My fists clench.

“Colton, how does it feel to be the most downloaded video on YouTube in over five years?”

Another step. Questions shout. Sammy’s hands moving people back.

“Colton, are you and Rylee thinking of making a porn soon?”

One more step. A single thought: Rylee dealt with this on her own yesterday on the beach. Motherfucker.

“Colton, how is Rylee handling all of this?”

Another step. The car within reach. Flash in my eyes. Fury in my veins.

Fuck Chase’s
no comment
advice. Fuck everyone.
I’m done
. Shoved way too far one way, and now I’m coming back swinging.

“You want a comment?” I shout. Silence is almost automatic. “Well, I’ll give you one.” I glance over to where Becks is standing in the open car door, eyes full of pride, telling me I’m doing the right thing.

“The question is, do you really want to know how we feel or are you just interested in twisting your story because sex sells so much better than the truth? I get it. I do. And if you take the selfless do-gooder who’s spent her life helping others and turn her into a whore who makes sex tapes in exchange for funding . . . well shit, that sells ten times more. But that’s not who Rylee Donavan is.” I take a breath. My body vibrates with anger. My thoughts slowly click together.

That revenge I was looking for just found the most perfect stage of all.

“How about I give you a better story? How about you focus on the sick bastard who released this video of a private moment between my wife and me? How about you go harass the bastard who did this rather than harass my wife? I’ll even give you a head start.
Eddie Kimball
,” I say, putting my plan in motion. “Focus on why he tried to blackmail us, because I assure you, he definitely had an agenda releasing this video. Sex sells. I get it . . . but uncovering the story behind his bullshit attack on my wife’s reputation would make much better copy.”

Good luck hiding now, you fucking weasel.

The night erupts in sound. But they give me a wide berth because I gave them something. I nod my head in goodbye.

The cameras flash. Each one causes me to feel more and more sober. Makes me to realize what I just did. Slide into the car beside Becks and catch his nod of approval. Rest my head back on the seat with a sigh.

Fuck. You. Eddie.

You want to play hardball? I’ve got your number, you spineless son of a bitch. Right now some little nosey reporter is digging for the story. They’ll connect the dots with your early release from prison. They’ll use your name in the press and it’ll shine like a fucking neon sign, notifying the many you owe a shitload of money to.

Oh, and how they’ll come
. I have no doubt about that with the amount of money you owe people. Plus three years worth of interest. They’ll flush you out of hiding and right into karma’s long reaching arms.

The best part is if I don’t want to, I won’t have to lift a single finger to give you what you deserve, because I just did.

Social media can be a bitch when you have shit to hide. Good thing I don’t.
Good thing you do
.

Revenge can be a mean, nasty fucker sometimes.

“You good?” Sammy asks as he pulls out of the alleyway, leaving the flashing cameras behind.

“Yup.” I sigh, long and loud as I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror.
It’s crazy how much I need Rylee, right now.
“Home please. I miss my wife.”

“D
AMN IT,” I SHOUT IN frustration as the flour flies all over the kitchen because I forgot to put the guard around the mixer’s blade. Tears sting the backs of my eyes as I look around at the mess. Normally I’d find this amusing, laugh it off, but not right now. Not with how this week has gone. Nothing can seem to pull me from this funk I’m in.

I squeeze my eyes shut and ignore the voices in my head telling me I’m going crazy because I fear that I am. The video’s ripple effect just continues to knock me on my ass. Gone are the things I normally use to center myself: my boys, my freedom outside this house, my work. Even Colton’s visit to Tawny derailed me momentarily. Yes, I felt validated Colton believed enough in my assumption that he went and talked to her, but at the same time, it still knocked me back a step seeing her again.

Shake it off, Rylee
. It’s temporary. Enjoy playing the domesticated role, take advantage of the quiet time now before the baby comes, and life is turned around with lack of sleep and two a.m. feedings.

I pick up the carton of eggs on the counter and blow the flour off them so I can put them away and start to clean up this disaster. Mind focused on the mess at hand, I don’t notice Baxter on the floor behind me. When I step on his paw, he skitters up and away from me with a yip causing me to lose my balance. I catch myself from falling by grabbing the edge of the counter, but all nine eggs in the carton fly across the kitchen making a distinct symphony of splats as they land on the tile floor, counter, and against the refrigerator door.

“Fuck!” Adrenaline begins to rush through my body, and just as quickly as it hits me, it morphs and changes into a rush of so many emotions that I’m suddenly fighting back huge, gulping sobs. And it’s no use to fight them because they already own my body, so I carefully lower my pregnant body to the flour-ridden floor beneath me. Leaning against the cabinet behind me, I let them come.

Wave after wave. Tear by tear. Sob by sob.

So many feelings—anger, humiliation, despair—come forth before being replaced by the next in line that have been waiting all week to get out. And I just don’t have the wherewithal to fight them anymore.

“Rylee?” Colton’s voice calls from the front door, and I just close my eyes and try to wipe the tears away but there’s no way I’ll be able to hide them from him. “What the . . .? Ry, are you okay?” he asks as he rushes to my side where I just shake my head, tears still falling, the agony all-consuming.

He drops to his knees beside me, and the concern etched in his face as he looks me over, ignites my irrational temper.

“Leave me alone,” I say between sobs.

“What’s wrong?” he pleads, reaching out to wipe flour from my cheek, causing me to cry harder.

“Don’t,” I tell him as I shake my head away from his hands, making him lean back on his haunches. And I can feel his eyes on me, assessing me, trying to figure me out, and for some reason that thought sets me off. I’ve had enough eyes on my body judging me this week—scrutinizing me—and the notion causes the distress to come to a head. “You want to know what’s wrong with me?” I yell unexpectedly, startling him.

“Please,” he says ever so calmly.

“That!” I yell, pointing at him. “You walking around this house like everything is all right when it’s not. You treating me with kid gloves and avoiding me every time I get emotional because you feel guilty about the video when it’s not your fault. I’m sick of trying to pick a fight with you because I’m going stir crazy in this goddamn house and you won’t take the bait. You just nod your head and tell me to calm down and walk away. Fight me, damn it! Yell at me! Tell me to snap the fuck out of it!” My chest is heaving and my body is trembling again. I know I’m being irrational, know I’m letting the hormones within me take charge, but I don’t care because it feels so good to get it all out.