Aced (The Driven #5) (38 page)

No small talk. No bullshitting. Just a turn of his steering wheel when I indicated to take a right or a left as we drove.

So why am I here? Why am I chasing this goddamn ghost when the man beside me is all I’ve ever needed?

It all comes back to full circles. Eventually everything connects. Now I just need to see the connection for myself before I leave it there and walk away for good.

My elbow rests on the doorjamb, my hand rubbing back and forth on my forehead as I stare at the dilapidated storefront. The mechanic’s bay is open on the side, a late model sedan up on a lift, rusted parts just to the outside of the door, but it’s the pair of boots I can see standing on the other side of the car that holds my attention.

Buck the fuck up, Donavan
. It’s now or never.

“Be right back,” I say as I open the door, realizing I never answered his question. With my heart in my throat and a pocketful of confusion, I walk across the sidewalk and up to the open bay, wondering if I’m about to come face to face with my worst nightmare or a man who has no clue I even exist.

Flashbacks hit me like a car head-on into the wall: fast as fuck, out of the blue, and knocking the wind out of me. Memories so strong I feel like I’m back there in
that room
, full of shame, shaking with fear, and fighting the pain.

My feet falter. My pulse pounds. My conscience questions me. My stomach rolls over.

And just as I’m about to turn around and retreat, the man comes walking around the front of the car. I freeze.

“Get the fuck out of here!” he growls. And at first I think he’s talking to me but then I see him kick the flank of a mutt standing just inside the door. Its yelp echoes through the garage and fades but tells me so much about this man in the few seconds I’ve been in his presence.

Only assholes kick an animal.

He sees me the same time I see him. Our eyes meet, green to green. Just like mine. Curiosity sparks. His greedy eyes flicker to the expensive car behind me, to my watch, and over my clothes

My first thought:
It’s not him
. He’s not the fucker who haunts my dreams and stole my childhood. The exhale I thought I’d give doesn’t come. Relief mixed with confusion adds to the pressure in my chest.

We stare at each other like caged animals trying to gauge the situation. Figuring out why it feels like there is a threat when none has been made.

I take in every detail about him: hair slicked back, cracked hands stained with grease, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a teardrop tattoo at the corner of his left eye, and the unmistakable stench of alcohol. A sneer is on his lips and a chip weighs visibly on his shoulder.

My second thought:
I know your type
. Your lot in life is everyone else’s fault. Bad luck. Hard time. Never your fault. Entitled when you don’t deserve shit.

I stare at him—jaw clenched, eyes searching—and wait for a reaction. Anything. Something. The little boy in me figuring that in some fucked-up way he’d know I was his son. Some kind of recognition. A sixth sense.

But there is nothing. Not even a flicker in his dead eyes.

Seconds pass. But the emotions rioting within me make it feel like an hour. And I’m not sure why all of a sudden my temper is there. Fuse snapped. Confusion rising.

But it is. My temper is front and fucking center
.
Anger is alive.

He takes a step forward, gaze still flicking back to the car and my watch, mind still figuring how much he can take me for in bogus repairs. Because that’s what he sees: rich guy, expensive car, and a chance to fuck me over. Nothing else even computes. He looks down at the red rag he’s wiping his hand on before meeting my eyes again. Cocky bastard of a smirk on his lips.

“Can I help you with something? Car having some trouble?” His voice sounds like years of cigarettes ground into the gravel.

I can’t tear my gaze from him. Hate that I keep waiting for something to spark in his eyes when I don’t want it to. Just something to tell me I mattered at some point. A flash of a thought. A pang of regret. A question of what-if over time.

There’s absolutely nothing, just his words hanging in the air. He narrows his eyes, broadens his shoulders.

I shift my feet. Swallow. Decide.

“No. I need absolutely
nothing
from you.”

One last look. A first and last goodbye. Circle completed.

Fuck this shit.

I turn on my heel and walk away without another look. With my hands shaking and my heart conflicted, I slide into the passenger seat. I can’t bring myself to look at my dad.
My real dad
. The only dad I have.

“Just drive.”

The car starts. The world zooms by as I move back into the comfort of the blur. The place I haven’t returned to in so very long. My dad doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask a thing. He just drives and leaves me alone with the motherfucking freight train of noise in my head.

Regret. Doubt. Confusion. Anger. Hurt. Uncertainty. Guilt. Each one takes their time in the limelight as we drive.
Shut it down, Colton
. Lock it up. Push it away.

The car pulls to a stop. The blur fades to clear. The beach stretches before us off Highway 101.
It’s my spot
. The place I go when I need to think.

Of course he’d know to bring me here. That
this
is what I needed.

I sit for a moment, quiet, unmoving, before the guilt eats up the air in the car until I can’t breathe anymore. I shove the door open and stumble from it, needing the fresh air, the space to think, and the time to grieve when there’s nothing really dead to grieve over.

And that’s the goddamn problem, isn’t it? Why in the fuck am I upset? What did I expect? A reunion? An
attaboy
? Fuck no. I didn’t want one either. And yet that teeny, tiny piece of me wanted to know I mattered. Wanted to know that the blood we shared tied us together somehow.

But it doesn’t. Not in the fucking least. I’m nothing like him. I know that from the two minutes I came face to face with him, looked him in the eyes, and felt only indifference.

Does he even know I exist
? The thought comes out of nowhere, and I don’t know if it makes the situation worse or better. Ignorance over abandonment.

Fuck if I know
. Hell if I care.

But I do.

My chest hurts. It’s hard to breathe. I sit down on the seawall separating the asphalt from the sand and tell myself this is exactly what I wanted. To prove he’s nothing to me. To close the circle. And walk away.

So what in the hell is wrong with me?

It’s the man in the car behind me. That’s who. How could I betray him? How could I let him drive me there? Would he think I didn’t believe he was enough for me when he’s given me
everything
?

I’m such a selfish prick. To think I was looking for more when I’ve had it right in front of me since the day he found me on his steps.

The ocean crashes on the beach and I lose myself in the sight. Find comfort in the sound. Use the one place I’ve always escaped to, to quiet the shitstorm in my head.

I hear him before I see him. The fall of footsteps. The scent of the same soap he’s used since I was little. The shuffle as he swings his legs over the wall to sit beside me. The sounds of his thoughts scream in the silence.

“You okay, son?”

His words are like poison lacing the guilt I already own. All I can do is blow out a breath and nod my head, eyes staring straight at the water.

“Was that your father, Colton?”

I take a moment to answer. Not because I have to think about it but because how I respond is important. Was he my father? By blood, yes. And yet when I hold Ace, even though I’m scared shitless and don’t know what the fuck I’m doing and still fear I’m not going to be the man he needs me to be, I still feel connected with him. An indescribable, unbreakable bond.

I didn’t feel it with the man at the garage.

But I do feel it with Andy.

I look over to him. Our eyes hold, grey to green, father to son, superhero to saved, man to man, and I answer without a single fucking ounce of hesitation.

“No.
You are
.”

“A
RE YOU SURE YOU’RE ALL
right and don’t need any help?”

No. Yes.

Silence fills the space where my answers should be. “Yes. We’re all fine, Mom. I’m just . . . I’m just trying to get him on a schedule and want to do that before people start coming over.”

I grit my teeth. The lie sounds so foreign coming from my mouth. Like an echo down a tunnel that I recognize but can’t place as my own voice when it comes back to me.

“Because it would be perfectly normal for you to need help, sweetheart. There is no shame in needing your mom when you become a mom.”

“I know.” My voice is barely above a whisper. The only response I can give her.

“You know I’m here for you. Any time. Day or night. To be there with you to help or just to sit on the other end of the phone line.”

“I know.” The emotion in her voice—the swell of love in it as she searches if I’m being truthful—almost undoes me.

Almost.

“Okay, then. I’ll let you get back to my handsome grandson now.”

Silence.

“Mom?” Fear. Hope. Worry. All three crash into each other and manifest in the desperate break in my voice.

Tell her something’s wrong with you. That you don’t feel right.

“Ry?” Searching. Asking. Wanting to know.

No. You’re perfectly fine. You can handle this. Your hormones are just out of
whack
. This is normal.

“You still there, Rylee? Are you okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” A quick response to mask the unease I feel. “I was going to . . . I forgot what I was going to ask. Bye, Mom. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Silence again.

The music from the baby swing where Ace sits floats in from the family room. He begins to cry and yet I sit and stare out to the beach beyond, lost in thought. Convincing myself that I’m fine. Telling myself that empty void I suddenly feel is normal. Wondering if I’m not hardwired correctly to be a mother.

That maybe, just maybe, there was a bigger reason as to why I lost my other two babies.

That’s crap and you know it.

But maybe . . .

“Ry?” Colton calls out to me as the front door slams.

Ace’s cries pick up a pitch at the sound of his dad’s voice, and all I can do is close my eyes from where I’m still sitting, lost in staring at the clouds out the window. I open my mouth to tell him I’m in the living room but nothing comes out.

“Rylee?” Colton’s voice is a little more insistent this time, concern lacing the edges, and it’s just enough to break through the fog that seems to have a hold over me. I put my hands on the arm of the chair to stand but can’t seem to get up.

There is a change in Ace’s cry. It’s garbled at first and then muffled, and I sag in an unnatural relief, knowing Colton has given him his pacifier. And the relief is quickly followed by an intense wave of self-loathing. Why couldn’t I have done that? Pick up Ace. Why did I have to wait for Colton to walk in the front door to take care of him? That’s my job. Why couldn’t I make my legs walk over there to do it myself? I’m failing miserably at the one thing I’ve always wanted and always knew I was born to be: a mother.

The tears well in my eyes and my throat burns as I shake my head to clear it from thoughts I know are ridiculous but feel nonetheless.
Snap out of it, Ry
. You’re a good mom. You just need a little more time to recover. It’s your hormones. It’s the exhaustion. Possibly a touch of the baby blues. It’s the need to do every little thing for Ace yourself because you don’t think Colton can at this point with everything he’s going through. You’re just trying to step up to the plate and do it all when you can’t and that’s driving your type A, controlling personality batty.

“Rylee?” Colton shouts my name this time, panic pitching his voice.

“Coming,” I say as I force myself to stand up and swallow over the bile rising in my throat. I close the fifty or so feet to the family room to find Colton awkwardly holding Ace, trying to keep the pacifier in his mouth so he stops crying.