Driven by K. Bromberg
“Is Quinlan adopted too?”
“No,” he drains the remainder of his beer, shaking his head. “She’s biological. My mom and dad decided one was enough for them with their busy schedules and all of the traveling to onset locations.” He raises his eyebrows, “And then my dad found me.” The simplicity in that last statement, the rawness behind the words, is profound.
“Was that hard? Her being biological and you adopted?
He ponders the question, turning his head to look around the restaurant. “At times I think I used it for all it was worth. But when it comes down to it, I realized that my dad didn’t have to bring me home with him that day.” He plays with the label on his empty beer bottle. “He could have turned me over to social services, and God knows what would have happened since they’re not always the most efficient organization. But he didn’t,” he shrugs. “In time I grew to realize they really loved me, really wanted me, because when it came down to it, they kept me. They made me a part of their family.”
I’m a little taken back by Colton’s frank honesty for I expected him to evade any personal questions as he has thus far in regards to his cryptic comments. My heart breaks for the struggles of the little boy he was. I know he is glossing over the turmoil he must have went through finding his place in an already established family. “How was it growing up with parents so much in the public eye?”
“I guess it really is my turn for the inquisition,” he jokes before stretching his arm out resting his hand on the back of my chair, idly wrapping one of my curls around his finger as he speaks. “They did the best they could to insulate Quin and I from it all. Back then, the media was nothing like it is today,” he shrugs. “We had strict rules and mandatory Sunday night family dinners when my dad wasn’t on location. To us, the movie stars who came over for barbeques were just Tom and Russell, like any other people you invite to a family function. We didn’t know any differently.” He smiles broadly, “Man, they spoiled us rotten though, trying to make up for all I had missed out on in my early years.”
He stops talking when the food is served. We both express our gratitude to the waitress and add condiments to our burgers, deep in our own thoughts. I’m surprised when Colton speaks again, continuing to talk about growing up.
“God, I was a handful for them,” he admits. “Always creating a mess of one kind or another for them to have to clean up. Defiant. Rebelling against them—against everything really—every chance I had.”
I take a bite of my hamburger, moaning at how good it is. He flashes a smile at me, “I told you they were the best!”
“Heavenly!” I finish my bite. “Sooo good.” I wipe the corner of my mouth with a napkin and continue my quest for information on Colton. “So, why Donavan? Why not Westin?”
“So why Ace?” he counters, flashing me a combative grin. “Why not stud muffin or lover?”
It takes everything I have not to burst out laughing at those words falling from his lips. Instead, I angle my head, eyes full of humor, as I purse my lips and stare at him. I was curious how long it’d take for him to ask me that particular question. “Stud muffin just sounds all kinds of wrong coming from you,” I finally laugh, setting my elbows on the table and my head in my hands. “Are you evading my question Ace?”
“Nope,” he leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving mine. “I’ll answer your question when you answer mine.”
“That’s how you’re going to play this?” I arch a brow at him, “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”
Colton’s eyes light up with challenge and amusement. “Baby, I’ve already seen yours,” he says, flashing me a lightening fast grin before closing the distance and brushing his lips to mine, and then pulling away before I get a chance to really sink into the kiss. My body hums in frustration and arousal at the same time. “But I’d be more than happy to see the whole package again.”
My thoughts cloud and my thigh muscles tense at the thought, sexual tension colliding between the two of us. When I think I can speak without my voice betraying the effect he has on my body, I continue, “What was the question again?” I tease, batting my eyelashes playfully.
“Ace?” he shrugs, darting his tongue out to wet his bottom lip. “Why do you call me that?”
“It’s just something that Haddie and I made up a long time ago when we were in college.”
Colton raises his eyebrows at me, a silent attempt at prompting me further but I just smile shyly at him. “So it stands for something then? And not just pertaining to me in particular?” he asks working his jaw back and forth in thought as he waits for an answer I’m not going to give him. “And you’re not going to tell me what though, are you?”
“Nope,” I grin at him before taking a sip of my drink, watching his brow furrow as the wheels in him mind turn in thought.
“Hmmmm,” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing at me. “Always Charming and Endearing,” he smirks, obviously proud of himself for coming up with what he assumes the acronym stands for.
“Nope,” I repeat myself, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth.
He smile widens further as he tips his beer at me, “I’ve got it,” he says, scrunching up his nose adorably in thought, “Always Colton Everafter.”
The smirk on his face and the charming look in his eyes has me laughing out loud. I reach out and place my hand over his on the table and give it a squeeze. “Not even close Ace,” I tease. “Now it’s your turn to answer the question.”
“You’re not going to tell me?” he asks incredulously.
“Uh-uh,” I tell him, finding his reaction humorous. “Now quit avoiding the question. Why Donavan and not Westin?”
He stares at me for a moment, weighing his options. “I’ll get the answer out of you one way or another Thomas,” he tells me, his tone hinting with promise of things to come—of tactics of persuasion that triggers that all too familiar ache he causes within me to return with a vengeance.
“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
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.
We finish out meal with idle chitchat, being interrupted only once by a fan asking for a picture and an autograph, which Colton gives obligingly. Rachel does a good job keeping the rest of his fans at bay, saying that the patio area is closed for a private party.
I can see why women are so taken with him. Why they try and stake their claim to him as Tawny surely had earlier. He leans back in his chair, stretching his torso up before swallowing the last of his beer. He glances over at me and grins at my slow perusal of his torso, over his biceps, and up to his face. My belly tightens at the sight of him and the memory of his body pressing me into the mattress.
“See something you like?” he asks, purposefully pulling up the hem of his shirt to scratch an imaginary itch on his washboard abs just above the waistline of his jeans. I breathe in deeply, his hand lazily scratching down to where his happy trail disappears beneath his button fly. Damn him!
I pull my eyes back up to his to see amusement laced with desire flashing there. Two can play this game. I think of Haddie and her skewed advice. Embrace your inner slut, I repeat like a mantra. Trying to summon my simmering sexuality so that I might somehow fall somewhere in the realm of appeal that Colton has.
I shift in my chair, folding my leg and placing my foot underneath me. I bend forward onto the table, braced on my elbows so that my cleavage is on display as I lean into him. I watch Colton’s eyes trace over my lips, down the line of my neck and straight to the curve of my breasts. His tongue darts out and wets his lower lip as they part in concentration. I continue forward until my lips are inches from his, “Something I like?” I reiterate breathlessly as I glance down to his lips and then back up to his eyes. “Hmmm,” I whisper as if I’m mulling it over, “I’m still testing the goods to see if they’re up to par.” My lips are a whisper from his and when he purses his to kiss mine, I conveniently shift back in my chair, denying him the contact.
Impatience flashes fleetingly in Colton’s eyes before the corners of his mouth curl up as he regards me, shaking his head. “That’s how you want to play this, Rylee?” His playful question is spoken without a hint of amusement. A hint of warning. The intensity in his eyes has my body reacting: my pulse, my breath, my nerve endings. “You want to play hard to get, sweetheart?” he asks as he removes his wallet out of his back pocket and pulls a generous amount of bills from it, and sets them on the table. He laughs. The low resonating sound reverberates through me as I continue to watch him silently, a coy smile on my face despite realizing that when it comes to Colton, I’m in way over my head if I’m trying to play games. He reaches out and cups the side of my face running the pad of his thumb over my bottom lip. Desire pools in my belly, aching for him to touch more of me.
Colton leans forward with determination in his eyes. He moves so that his mouth is next to my ear. I can feel the warmth of his breath and my skin prickles in anticipation of his touch. “You see, sweetheart, if you want to play hard to get,” he whispers, trailing a finger down my opposing neckline, “you’ve picked the wrong guy to play games with.” He closes his lips on my earlobe and sucks on it, the feeling mainlining right down to my sex. I arch my body in response; aware that at our backs is a restaurant full of people. “Didn’t your momma ever tell you that playing hard to get is a surefire way to get the man you want?” The taunting edge to his voice is seductive, mesmerizing, and sexy as hell. He continues to trace his finger down my shoulder and arm until it reaches my hip. He smoothes the palm of his hand over my thigh and slides it slowly forward until it reaches the apex. His thumb glances over my cleft, conveniently pressing the hard seem of denim against my throbbing clit. I suck in a breath at the sensation. “You wanna play hardball, sweetheart? Welcome to the big leagues.”
I exhale, his words foreplay to my already thrumming libido. He leans back and brushes a teasing kiss on my lips. He pulls back, triumph on his face. He quirks his eyebrows at me, glancing down to my chest and then back up. “Besides, Rylee, your nipples are betraying your ploy to play hard to get.”
What? I glance down to note that the tightened buds of my nipples are pressing tautly against my sweater in an all-out announcement to Colton of my arousal for him. Damn it!
Colton stands abruptly, smiling brazenly at me before reaching out his hand to me. “Come,” he tells me and all I can think is that I hope to very soon, my body yearning with the desire for him to touch me again.
We exit the restaurant from a rear door that Rachel directs us toward to avoid the paparazzi waiting at the front. We make it to his car unscathed, and Colton quickly maneuvers the car onto Highway One. We drive in silence, the air in the car crackling with the unrequited sexual tension between us.
We eventually exit the highway on the outskirts of Pacific Palisades and turn down a street a couple of blocks from the beach. Colton parks in front of a Tuscan-style townhouse and exits the car without saying a word. His home perhaps? By the glow of a streetlight I can see a stucco façade with wrought iron accents and a courtyard enclosed with a rustic gate. It’s comfortably charming and not at all what I think I expected of where Colton lives. I guess I figured him for modern architecture, clean lines, and monochromatic. He opens the door behind me and gathers our stuff before opening my door to help me out of the car. He grabs my hand to lead me up the cobblestone walkway without speaking or making eye contact.
I wonder if maybe I’m reading into things because suddenly I feel uncomfortable. Why the sudden change in behavior? Did I miss something? Nerves hit me as I realize that when I walk through this door my previous supposition of what I thought was going to happen has now changed. Shifted for some unknown reason. I stop behind Colton in the cozy courtyard where a small swinging bench seat sits amongst hydrangea and plumeria plants that are perfectly placed in an array of color.
I hear keys clinking, him swearing at trying the wrong one, and then Colton is pushing open the distressed front door before placing his hand on the small of my back and ushering me in. He enters the alarm code but it continues beeping as he tries the code two more times before the beeping disquiets.
The house is painted in soft browns and tans with a few bold splashes of color in pillows and vases. There are little touches here and there, feminine touches, that make me think maybe he had a female interior designer at some point. Or a female living with him. I ponder the thought as I walk hesitantly into the main room, my hands clasped in front of me, unsure what I should do or say. For the first time tonight, I feel awkward in Colton’s company. I hear the door close and then I hear Colton’s boots on the hardwood floor as he walks behind me and over to the kitchen area.