Spiderman, Batman, Superman, Ironman.

I jolt from the nightmare with a start, disoriented from the unknown passage of time. My heart thunders in my ears. My stomach churns. My head forgets specifics instantly, but the nightmare’s clutches of fear still hold me against my will, dragging me backwards through poisoned memories.

“Fucking Christ!” I yell out to the empty RV as I force myself to calm down and breathe. To try and forget the fear that’ll never go away. Never. Fear gives way to anger as I pick up the closest thing to me, one of the crew’s hackey-sacs and chuck it across the aisle as hard as I can. The thud it makes does nothing to abate the feelings clawing through me, embedding themselves in every fiber of my being, but it’s all I can do. My only source of release.

I’m helpless and hostage to the poison within me. Sweat trickles down my cheek. I’m fucking drenched with it. The smell of fear clings to me and my stomach twists in protest again. Shit!

I shove up from the couch and strip out of my fire suit as if the fabric is on fire. I need a shower. I need to clean the grime from the track and the stain of his imaginary touch from my unwilling flesh.

The water scalds. The soap does nothing to wash away the memories. I press my forehead against the acrylic stall, letting the water burn lines as it slides down my back. I will my brain to shut off and rest for five goddamn fucking minutes so I can have my own temporary radio silence.

Rylee’s words keep looping through my head, badgering me, questioning me, making me wonder if it’s a solution to the constant poison that I’m afraid is going to consume me. I pound a fist against the wall, the sound resonating through my fucked up thoughts. I drag myself from the shower, drape a towel around my waist, and grab my cell. I need to do this before I lose the courage. Before I puss out and think of the ramifications. The answers I’m afraid to find. The truth I fear will crumble me. I punch the number in my phone and swallow the bile threatening to rise, preparing myself with each passing ring of the phone.

“Colton? I thought you were testing today?”

Warmth spears through me at the sound of his voice, at the concern flooding into it. And then fear. How is he going to handle the questions I need to ask? The ones that Rylee thinks might help me, might ease the weight on my soul and torment in my mind.

I labor to ask the man who gave me possibilities about the woman who robbed me of everything. My youth. My innocence. My trust. My ability to love. My self.

Of the concept of unconditional love.

“Son? Is everything okay?” Concern creeps into his voice as a result of my silence. “Colton?”

“Dad…” I choke out, my throat feeling like it’s drowning in sand.

“You’re scaring me, Colt…”

I shake my head to get a grip. “Sorry, Dad…I’m fine. I’m good.” I can hear him exhale audibly on the other end of the line, but he remains silent, allowing me a moment to gather my thoughts. He knows something is amiss.

I feel like I’m thirteen and I’ve fucked up again. That adolescent fear fills me—the anxiety that if I push too hard or screw up one more time, they’ll send me back. They won’t want me anymore. The funny thing is I thought I’d conquered this fear a long time ago, but as the question weighs heavy on my tongue, it all comes back. The fear. The insecurity. The need to feel wanted.

Dread strangles my words.

“I...uh...just had a question. Don’t know how to ask it really…”

Silence fills the line and I know my Dad is trying to figure out what the hell has gotten into me. Why I’m acting like the little boy I used to be.

“Just ask, son.” It’s all he says, but his tone—that soothing, acceptance at all costs tone—tells me that he knows something has brought me back to that place in time. And even though all I feel is fear and uncertainty, all I hear is patience, love, and understanding.

I suck in a breath of air and exhale it shakily. “Do you know what happened to her? Where she is? What became of her?” My fingers tremble as I bring a hand to run through my hair. I don’t want him to worry or think that I want to find her and…I don’t know what with her. Reconcile? Fuck no. Never.

But it scares the fuck out of me that the idea of her—just the thought of her—can get me this worked up. Can fuck with my head more than the dreams. “Never mind, I—”

“Colton…It’s okay.” Reassurance fills his voice.

“I just don’t want you to think—”

“I don’t think anything,” he soothes in a way only a father can to a son. “Take a breath, Colt. It’s okay. I’ve waited a long time for you to ask—”

“You’re not mad?” The one fear I have bubbles out of my mouth.

“No. Never.” He sighs, resigned to the fact that a small part of me will always worry regardless of the passage of time.

I feel like a hundred pound weight has been lifted from my chest. Freed me from the fear of asking. “Really?”

“It’s natural to wonder,” he assures. “Normal to want to learn about your past and—”

“I know all I need to know of my past…” The words come out in a whisper before I can stop them. Silence hangs through the line. “I just…fucking Rylee…” I mutter in exasperation.

“You’re having dreams again, aren’t you?”

I struggle to answer. I want to tell him because I feel obligated to be honest after everything he’s done for me, and at the same time feel the need to lie so that he doesn’t worry about the memories that debilitated me as a child. So he doesn’t remember how detrimental they were. So he doesn’t find out everything that had happened. “I saw it in your eyes when I got back from Indonesia. Are you okay? Do you need—”

“I’m fine, Dad. It’s just that Rylee had asked if I knew what had happened to her. That maybe if I knew I might get some closure. Be able to shut some old doors…”

He’s silent on the connection for a moment. “I kept tabs on her for a while. I wanted to make sure when she got out of jail that she didn’t come back to find you or make trouble for you when you were just starting to do so well. I stopped about ten years ago,” he admits, “but I’ll call the PI that I used, he’ll know her habits better than anyone—and we’ll see what he can find. If that’s what you want…”

“Yeah. Thanks. I just…”

“No need to explain, Colton. You do what you need to fill in that piece you’ve always felt is missing. Your Mom and I knew this day was coming, and we want you to do whatever you have to do to find peace. We’re okay with it.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes, fighting the burn that threatens within. “Thanks, Dad.” There’s nothing else I can say to the man who gave me life after being dead for the first eight years of my existence.

“Sure, son. I’ll call you when I have any news. Love you.”

“Thanks, Dad. Me too.”

I’m just about to hang up when he speaks again. “Colton?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m proud of you.” His voice wavers with emotion, which in turn makes me swallow the lump in my throat.

“Thanks.”

I hang up the phone, toss it on the table, and lean my head back against the wall. The loud breath I exhale into the silence does nothing to ease the overwhelming emotions swimming through me. I sit there for a bit, knowing I need to apologize to Beckett and wanting Rylee in the worst way. Needing something to clear my head.

The idea hits me like lightning, and I’m up, dressed, and climbing out of the RV in less than five minutes. I see the guys working in the garage off to my right, but I can’t talk to anyone right now. Don’t want to. I walk into the open bay where the favorite of all my babies is parked—Sex.

I don’t even take a second glance to appreciate the F12’s clean lines and flawless fire engine red perfection, but I sure as hell will enjoy her speed in about one minute. I climb behind the wheel and when the engine rumbles to life, I feel a piece of myself return. Spark back.

I zip past the garage, noting Beckett’s refusal to meet my eyes—fucking stubborn bastard—and exit the track. I crank up the volume as The Distance comes through the speakers. Great fucking song. The minute I hit the 10 and see it’s unbelievably empty for this time of day, I drop the hammer and fly. Fly faster than is safe but the feeling—luxury cocooning me, perfection in my hands, and an engine that talks to me—clears my head, and eases the self-inflicted tension pulling from all directions.

Sex never disappoints me when I need her the most.

By the time I approach traffic, my head is a little clearer and my mind is made up. I pick up my phone and make the call.



As I look across the kitchen at Zander and his tutor working on his spelling words, I hear the front door slam open. The excited chatter of the boys fills the hallway. They are usually animated when they get home, but today the noise is off the charts. So much so that Zander looks up from his paper and raises his eyebrows at me.