“Fucking perfection.” It’s futile to fight the smug grin on my lips.
“So, is it true then?” I glance over to Becks, my beer now stopped halfway to my lips as I wait for him to explain. “That pregnant women are really that horny?”
My eyes flicker back toward the house at our backs. Laughter from the estrogen invasion floats down to us and I nod my head. “Brother, let’s just say that voodoo doesn’t hold a fucking candle to pregnant pussy.”
“No shit?”
“Nympho.” I draw the word out.
The look on his face right now—the raised eyebrows, slow nod of his head, slack jaw—is classic. “Damn. Just damn.”
“You have no idea,” I say with a laugh. “Shit. All the guys were warning me about hormones and mood swings, and I’m sitting over here with a cat-ate-the-canary grin on my face because pussy is my friend. Dude, the only pregnancy craving she’s having is for my cock, and I’m more than willing to help her out.”
“You lucky bastard.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Aren’t you afraid you’re going to . . .” His voice trails off but I can hear the amusement in his tone. “Never mind . . .”
“Finish what you were going to say, Daniels.”
“Well, I was going to say, aren’t you afraid all that sex is going to hurt the baby—poke it in the head or something? But then I forgot you’re only about three inches long so there’s no need to worry about that.” He stifles the chuckle.
“Fucker.” It’s my go-to comment with him and even with the dig, I can’t help but laugh because I wouldn’t expect anything less from him. Besides, I could use the distraction since I keep questioning whether I should have made the call to my private investigator, Kelly, this week.
Ball’s already rolling. Too late to stop it now.
I know nothing good can come from it. No happy endings to be had in this situation. In fact, I’m sure it’ll fuck me up before it makes me better. But maybe, just maybe, I can lay this one last thing to rest. Close this final circle before the baby comes and move on.
Full circles and shit.
At least once this one’s linked together; the goddamn ghosts can just chase each other over and over like a hamster on a wheel while I’m putting the pedal to the metal one hundred miles per hour in the opposite direction.
“Dude,” Becks says, pulling me from my thoughts, “you need to take advantage of the sex while you can because after the baby comes, you won’t be getting any for a while.”
“So I’ve heard,” I groan. How I’m going to go from my wife being a nympho to a nun is not lost on me. “Changes, man. They just keep happening. One day I’m single, the next I’m getting married, and now I’m about to have a baby. How the fuck did that happen?” Despite my words, the smile is wide on my face.
“Not sure how you found a woman who’s willing to put up with your crap but she deserves a damn medal for it.”
“Thanks for the support.” I tip my beer his way in a cheers motion.
“Always. That’s what I’m here for . . . but with all of these changes happening, I need to ask you, what’s gotten under your skin? Something’s up with you and I know you well enough to know it’s more than what you’ve just said.”
Here we go again. Let the Becks psych evaluation begin.
I refuse to look at him, not wanting him to know I’m not okay. That this banter is all a front because my head feels like it’s been put in a blender: too much, too goddamn fast, with too many doubts, and too many unknowns. My fucking past that never goes completely away.
Goddamn ghosts.
“Colton?” he goads.
My beer stops midway to my mouth as irritation fires anew and sarcasm becomes my friend. “Are you asking as my crew chief, my best friend, or my shrink?”
“I’ve got lifetime privileges for two of the three, so does it really matter?”
Fuck. He’s got me there. Why is he pushing the goddamn issue? Does he really want to know the truth? Because I sure as fuck would rather stick my head in the sand. Ignorance is bliss and all that shit.
“I’ll get the job done. No worries there,” I say way too easily and immediately curse myself because Becks will see right through that response in a heartbeat. I just wonder if he’s going to let sleeping dogs lie or if he’s going to jingle the leash so they come out to play.
“Ah . . .” he says, drawing the sound out. “But you forget, I do worry. It’s my job. You’ve got a lot of shit going on, and I need your head straight before you even board a plane to the Grand Prix.”
“Jesus Christ, Becks. Always worried about the track. Well, there’s other shit to life besides the goddamn track!” I snap at him, pissed he knows just what to say to set me off and at the same time hating that he’s right.
Baited hook? Meet line and sinker.
Motherfucker. You’d think by now I’d be immune to Becks pushing buttons, and yet every damn time I react on cue like a puppet.
“No worries. My head will be just fine,” I say, trying to gain some traction. “You satisfied?”
“You think I care about the fucking track, Donavan? You think racing rules my every thought? No. Not hardly. What does though is having to pick up a phone and call your wife who’s nine months pregnant and tell her I put you in a car knowing you had a fucked-up head, that you crashed and died because you were distracted and couldn’t focus on the task at hand. Now that? That’s what I worry about . . . so you can take out whatever it is you don’t want me to know and tell me I’m a selfish asshole for thinking about racing. What I really want to know is that your head is in the goddamn game enough that I don’t have to watch some medic put you in a fucking body bag because you can’t focus and won’t tell anyone why. Call me selfish, call me whatever the fuck you want to . . . talk to me, don’t talk to me . . . Christ . . . just make sure you’re good to go so that doesn’t happen.” And then in perfect Beckett fashion, he ends his tirade as quick as he starts it.