Down Shift (10 page)

Get that through your head, Zander, and leave her the fuck alone in
all
aspects.

You're roommates. You're both dealing with shit. Sleeping together—because let's face it, that would definitely not be a hardship if the way she kisses is any indication—isn't going to fix either of you. It would just complicate matters when they're complicated enough as it is.

But fuck, is it tempting.

Lost in thoughts of her, I jump when my door suddenly flings open. Getty is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips, cheeks flushed. And fully clothed. So obviously my thoughts of her being in the shower were purely for my own sexually frustrated benefit.

She flicks on the switch just inside the door. Light floods the room.

“And the wonder boy has come back from his stint as Popeye!” she says with dramatic flair as she waltzes in, catching me off guard.

“What can I do for you, Getty?”

“Do for me?” She laughs, her eyes moving wildly around the room before she beelines straight for my dresser. “You know what you can do for me,
Mander
?” she says over her shoulder and with a bit of contempt. She picks up some racing magazines I have stacked on the desk, lifts them a few inches, and then drops them back down with a thud. The top one slides to the side; the bottom one is askew. “You
can stop making everything so damn
perfect
. You can stop lining up your shit on the bathroom counter so it's all
perfectly
straight. When you empty the damn dishwasher, you can stop making the forks in the drawer sit
perfectly
on top of each other. Lined up. You can—”

“Getty?” She's going postal on me. While I've been with enough emotional women that her display doesn't completely rattle me, something about her acting like this registers on my radar.

“Hmm?” She says it like she has not a care in the world. Maybe she's not frantic after all. Maybe she knows exactly what she's doing—and that's even scarier. Also intriguing.

“What are you doing?” My curiosity is definitely piqued. I don't mind her touching my things. I invaded her privacy first. Her paintings were ten times more personal than my cologne and magazines, and yet I ask because I'm fascinated over what has caused her to storm into my bedroom like hell on wheels and start ranting.

“Perfection is overrated,” she states as she picks up a folded shirt from the top of the dresser and tosses it carelessly onto the chair beside it. While I know she's referring to my stuff and how I prefer everything to be in its place, the sound in her voice makes me think she's talking about a lot more than just organization.

“Good thing I'm far from fucking perfect, then.”

“That makes two of us,” she says with a bit of a giggle, mood changing now that she's done whatever she set out to do. Turning around, and for the first time since coming into my room, she locks eyes with me. There's something off about her, something I can't place, but I know the minute she notices what I'm wearing.

Or rather,
not
wearing.

Her eyes widen, then roll as she throws her head back and laughs in disbelief. “Seriously? This
again
? I mean I may not know much, but I know
that's
more than above average in size.” Her giggle fills the room as she motions her hand out in front of her and gestures to my dick, bobbing her head for emphasis. When she lifts her gaze back up from the overtly long stare at my package, it's then that
I notice her eyes are a bit glassy. Realize her last words were a tad slurred.

Well, shit.
Seems Getty has had a few to drink.

I fight the grin on my lips, her compliment boosting my ego, but the sight of her tipsy is even better.

“Don't think I can't see you laughing at me, wonder boy. Do you really think I'm going to fall for your bullshit again?
Beautiful paintings, Socks,
” she says, mimicking my voice. I can't help but laugh. “. . . then run away.
I don't want to kiss you, Socks.
Kiss me and run away to a boat. A boat? What are you, Captain Jack Sparrow? And now? Now you probably planned this so the towel conveniently slips off so I fall at your feet. And then what? We're gonna sleep together and then you'll run away again?” She steps forward and right into my space, finger poking my bare chest. “Dream on, Mander.”

And while her acting bit is pretty damn comical, it's got nothing on the image she's put in my head of her on her knees and the towel at my feet and her lips around my . . .
Fuck
.
Stop thinking about it.
This towel won't hide shit if I'm flying half-mast from the thought.

“First Popeye and then Captain Jack? Every woman's fantasy.” I laugh. “You been drinking tonight, Getty?” She sways a little when she shakes her head, and I hold on to her shoulders before she falls full-court press into me. She shrugs out of my grip immediately, but not in the startled way she did the other day. More bothered because she doesn't want any help.

“Maybe.” Her grin tells me
definitely
, but I let it slide. “Just a little. Liam wanted me to settle in on the other side of the bar, watch the game, be a local. So I did. And it was fun. So
screw Ethan
. Screw him and his
A lady would never be caught drinking
bullshit. I did. So what would he think about that?”

Ethan?
The name throws me. My quick reply fades as I focus on the name and how it reveals a tiny piece of her past that she guards so closely. A part of me wants to ask more, question her when she's more apt to talk . . . and while I may have no problem skirting the line of morality, this is one line I won't cross.

“Nothing's wrong with a few drinks and watching the game.” I play it safe. Prefer to let her business stay her own. No fair taking advantage of someone in any capacity when she's drunk. “You should have told me. I could've used a beer or two and would've liked to catch the game.”

“I thought you were busy sailing the seven seas or something.” She snorts when she laughs and it's fucking adorable.

“Not hardly. You should've asked.”
What are you doing, Zander? Thought you were going to try to steer clear of her.

She looks at me for a second, eyes narrowed, as thoughts visibly war across her face before she walks to the window. She looks out to the lights in the bay for a few moments before turning back around. “Sorry, but that might have
complicated
things.”

She shifts her eyes to mine when she says the words, a lift of one eyebrow and a purse of her lips to reinforce her sarcasm. We stand in silence, letting her taunt ricochet in the space between us, building tension with each passing second.

“Define
complicated
.” I can't resist. Know I shouldn't push the buttons I don't want pushed, but fuck if I don't like tipsy Getty a whole helluva lot.

Her smile is fast and devious as she steps toward me, and I fucking love it. “
Complicated
,” she says as she walks right up to me again without hesitation and lifts onto her tiptoes so that her mouth is right at my ear when I lean down, “would be if I kissed you right now.”

Fucking Christ. I'm standing in a towel, can feel the heat of her breath on my ear and her tits brush against my chest when she breathes in, and she goes and says that? I must be off my game, because there's that split second where we both freeze, both know we want it to happen, but I don't think I could stop at just a kiss.

Hell no. Not right now. Not with the bed behind me and that playful dare off her lips. Not with her drinking. Not with my promise to myself.

But hell if she's not making things painfully hard. In
all
areas.

She retreats a few steps, eyes still locked on mine, like a slightly different woman stands before me from the one I'm used to. The mismatched knee-high socks may be the same, but the defiant smirk on her lips, the flushed cheeks, and the eyes full of life are all different. There's a newfound confidence about her right now. A lack of inhibition. Her constant guard has relaxed. A hint of the real her that she hides beneath whatever bullshit she's dealing with is peeking through.

“You didn't answer,” she says, and she's right. There's no way I can, because hell if she's not making
complicated
look welcome.

“Is that what you want?” I'll play her game, answer her question with a question. With her eyes trained on me, I lean back and grab a pair of gym shorts from the bed. Her gaze flickers down to watch as I slide them on under my towel before letting it fall. Now I can get that earlier image out of my head. At least we're on a bit more of an even playing field. But the one I really want to be on is the horizontal one behind me.

“I want a lot of things. . . .” Damn. The way she says that—throaty, full of invitation—causes a chill at the base of my spine.

“You and me both, Socks.”

“I don't want to like you, you know.” She tries to stifle the yawn but fails miserably.

“I don't like me either lately, so no worries.” The admission is out of my mouth without thought. Her head jogs back and forth at it, eyes narrowing in a way that causes a little crease in her forehead.

“What do you—whoa!” That carefree laugh of hers fills the room again—breaking the moment—as she holds her hand to her head. “Did you feel that? The room just moved.” Her hushed whisper makes me laugh too, thankful for the interruption.

“It didn't move at all, but you're probably going to want to go lie down.”

“Oh, is that what I'm supposed to do?” She's looking at me with eyes widened in question, lips pursed in an O shape, and surprise written all over her face.

Innocent. Trusting. Beautiful. Time to step back. Regain that distance.

“Let's get you to bed.”

“Don't tell me what to do, Zander. No one gets to tell me what to do ever again.” She crosses her arms and gives me a death glare that's so damn cute I want to laugh at her. And then she sways. “I think I'm going to go to bed.”

“Good idea.” I follow her out of my bedroom door and watch her open hers. “I'll go get you some Advil.”

I grab two pills and when I shut the medicine cabinet, my eyes veer to the bathroom countertop. To my deodorant and lotion and hair gel all lined up in a perfect little row against the wall.

Her words come back to me. Bug me. Make me wonder if they're another hint at the life she lived before this cottage. I walk halfway down the hall before stopping, shaking my head, and going back to the bathroom. Not certain why I'm doing it other than that I know what it's like to have a trigger—a thing to remind you of something you'd rather forget—I knock over my deodorant onto its side and slide my gel out of line.

I stare at them for a beat. Question why I'm even bothering.
For the same reason you're bringing her Advil. Because you care.

Fuck.

When I knock on her door, it swings inward and she's dead center on her bed, sound asleep. There's something so peaceful about her. Something that makes me want to just sit here and stare at her, because it's kind of calming.

Jesus, Zander. You're really doing well on the distance thing, aren't you?

Repair List

Replace Front Step—third one

Replace Missing Roof Shingles

Back Deck = Death Trap

Fix Lock on Patio Door—Sorry, Mr. Ax Murderer

Fix Bathroom Mirror

Rain Gutters

Repair Shutters

Add Handrail to Front Steps & Paint

Add Light in GS

Connect Internet for God's Sake

Bulldoze House and Rebuild

The last line makes me laugh out loud into the empty kitchen, the whole thing amusing. I drop the pad with Zander's scrawled penmanship and pick up my coffee.

“What's so funny?”

I cringe inwardly at the sound of his voice floating down the hall, flashbacks from last night coming back to me in bits and pieces. While I may not remember it all, I sure as hell remember sliding my hands up his bare chest and whispering in his ear. Attempting to be sexy. Trying to play him like he did me. And of course with a few drinks under my belt I may have felt like I pulled it off,
but I have a feeling I looked more like an idiot. I keep my eyes angled out of the window when Zander enters the kitchen.

“The last thing on your repair list,” I murmur.

He makes a noncommittal sound in agreement. “How's your head this morning?”

“Okay. Not bad. Just a little headache. Thanks for leaving the Advil on the nightstand. That was nice of you.”

“No biggie.”

God. We're doing the as-few-words-as-possible thing here. I must have really been an ass last night. Or pissed him off. With a sigh I turn to face him and damn if I wish I hadn't stayed facing the window. He has bedhead and his eyes are a bit swollen from sleep with a pillow crease on his cheek. His shorts are slung a tad too low on his hips, so that damn happy trail of his is highlighted in all of its glory, drawing my attention to what's below it when I shouldn't be looking there.

I may not know much, but I know that's more than above average in size.

My comment from last night flickers through my mind. The sight of him all rumpled from sleep looking like something you want to crawl next to and cozy up with pushing it to the forefront.

Can I die now, please?
If I said that, what else came out of my mouth?

“About last night . . .” I fumble for what to say as the intensity in his blue eyes holds me hostage. “I'm sorry if I said or did anything that was . . . I don't normally drink. So—”

“No need to apologize. You were cute. Funny. Carefree. I liked it.”

Carefree?
Me?
I'm practically stuttering as I try to respond with a rush of heat to my cheeks as I blush. “Do you really know how to do all of that?” I ask, motioning to the fix-it list to try to change the subject.

“Nope.” He answers the question, but his eyes are still locked on mine, still asking unspoken questions about the last topic, when I don't want him to.

“Then how are you going to fix it all? Hire someone?”

“Nope.”

“You're awfully talkative this morning,” I huff, and somehow the exasperation helps me find a little more footing in this back-and-forth that has become our norm.

“I'll look on my laptop. Google it if I have to. I'm not worried about it—I'm pretty good with my hands.”

“Oh . . .” I scrunch my nose up, trying to keep my mind on track and not the skill of his hands. “There is no Internet in the house.” Why do I feel so stupid saying that? Admitting that I'd rather be closed off from the world for a bit than have it at my fingertips with a search engine.

“I noticed. I'm going to get that set up while I'm here too. In the meantime if I need it, I'll just do what you do.”

Huh?
“What I do?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs like I should know. “Use your hot spot on your cell.”

“I don't have Internet on my cell.”

He whips his head up and stares at me like I have three heads, mouth open, surprise he can't quite figure out how to verbalize fleeting through his eyes. “What do you mean you don't have Internet?” His voice sounds like his face looks: astounded.

“No biggie.” I repeat his words back to him as I try to scramble to explain and sound credible. I can't just come out and tell him my cell's a burner phone so just in case my dad or Ethan tried to track or trace me somehow, they wouldn't be able to. I've already been there and done that with them, learned my lesson.

Besides, it's not in my budget right now.

“So what happens when you're driving and you get lost?”

“Who said I wanted to be found?” The quip is off my tongue without thought. Suddenly a wave of memories hits me hard and fast.
How do you think I knew where you were today, Gertrude? One little click and the app installed on your phone just like that without you ever knowing. I know everything you do. Everywhere you go. Every move you make. You are mine. Don't ever forget that.

I push the memory away. Shove the panic down. And am met with Zander's unforgiving eyes, which reveal that he's making assumptions I'd rather him not make about my remark. I attempt to save face, change the direction of the questions I know are coming. “That question is ridiculous, really. If I were lost, I'd just pull over and ask for directions.” I force a laugh, but I don't think he's buying it.

“No. Let's go back to the first comment.” He braces his hands on the counter and leans across it so I'm unable to hide from his stare.

“Let's not.”
End of topic, Zander. Let it go.

“Who'd be looking for you, Getty?” His tone—the
don't hide this from me
part—makes me want to scream and yell and stomp my feet and tell him he's crossing those boundaries I don't want crossed.

Instead, I make sure my voice is implacable when I answer him. “No one.”

“Is that what
Ethan
would say?”

Everything about me freezes—my mind, my heart, my lungs—at the sound of the name. My past, my fears, the place I never want to see again, rush through my mind like I never left.

“Did he send you here?” My voice is quiet steel when I speak, although my insides are a twisted mess of anxiety.

“Who is he, Getty?” His voice softens, but the determination in his eyes never wavers.

“No one you want to know and none of your business.” I force myself to stop fidgeting with the pad on the counter, my unease clear as day.

“Except for the fact that he's the reason you're running.”

“Butt out, Zander.” I begin to round the L-shaped counter so I can exit the tiny kitchen, but he just steps in front of me to block my path.

But unlike with Ethan, I feel no fear of him. I don't have to scramble to see where I can disappear to. Rather there is the need to protect my secrets, keep my place and identity here limited to only what I want people to know about me.

“If you're in trouble, Getty . . . please, I can try to help you. All you have to do is ask.”

His words tug on every part of me that's tired of fighting this alone, tired of being lonely. And yet I know more than anyone that all it takes is one person to know, for that person to comment offhand to someone else, and somehow, someway, Ethan would find out.

“Boundaries.” It takes everything I have to utter that single word. Body tense. Pulse racing.

“You don't want me to step on your boundaries, then don't come in my room a little tipsy and act all hell on wheels and compare me to your ex. Because he is your ex, right, Getty?”

“I said it's none of your business.” I grit the word out between my clenched teeth. Hating myself and worrying over whatever else I said last night and at the same time needing to stop this conversation before he pushes too hard.

“Like hell it is. Don't you think it's important for me to know if some man is going to waltz in here to try to take you back or whatever the fuck is going on here, so that I know how best to protect you?”

Put the wall up, Getty.
You need no one.
That's how you're going to survive this—heal from this—by depending solely on yourself. Push him away. Protect yourself.

“First off, Ethan is no one to me. Secondly, no one is going to be waltzing in here, and more importantly, I'm not yours to protect.” I hold his stare, meet it with a resolve I definitely don't feel. His words start to sink in and break a chip off the walls I have up around me. I can't think about it now, about how a man I just met is offering to protect me when the ones that should have done it never did.

“You keep thinking that, Socks. Keep thinking that just because you're not mine . . . whatever the fuck that means to you . . . that I shouldn't defend you, and I'll keep pretending you're not running from anything, and we'll see how far that gets us.” There's a bite to his voice telling me I've offended him, and I welcome the sound. If I've pissed him off, then maybe he'll keep his distance.

“Can I go now?” I'm a bitch in how I say it, put out, annoyed, but I can't be any other way. There's a flicker of
something in his eyes—hurt, distrust, disbelief. I can't put my finger on it, but I really can't care, because I need to escape this situation.

This time when I try to move past him, he lets me. And thank God for that, because a few seconds longer and he'd see the tears welling in my eyes and my hands shaking and I don't want him to.

I don't want him to know how much hearing that simple name has affected me. How in a split second it's like Ethan is here, his voice angry in my ear, and all the progress, all the strength I've gained, disappears.

With my bedroom door closed at my back, I slide down it until I'm sitting on the floor.

The mental chastising begins immediately. The disbelief of how stupid I could have been to drink enough to say something about Ethan. What else did I say that I don't remember? What other information did I give Zander to be curious about?

Then comes the worry. The fear. The doubt. Zander mentioned Ethan one time and I go into shutdown mode: lash out, be a bitch, protect myself, push away. I thought I'd gotten further than this emotionally.

Just proves the invisible scars are the ones that cut the deepest and stay with you the longest.

A part of me wants to go back, talk to Zander, apologize, thank him for his concern. But I know I can't. I know my biggest asset right now is my isolation. My aloofness. The knowledge that I need absolutely no one.

So I hold on to my anger and fear. Hold on to the memories of the mansion in the hills where everything from the outside looked perfect, but on the inside life was as cold and controlled as a prison.

Stay strong, Getty. Stay strong and smart and alone and he'll never be able to hurt you again.

*   *   *

The sky rumbles angrily as I look out the front door. Hues of gray and charcoal mar the horizon—there's another storm about to hit PineRidge. Grateful to have heard Zander leave earlier to get his run in before the storm hits, I know I have no chance of bumping into him before I
leave for work. No opportunity for him to ask more questions.

I head back into the kitchen and grab my keys out of the basket there, resigned to having to drive my car to work so that I'm not stuck walking in a downpour tonight when I get off shift. Besides, it's probably best to run it, considering I've barely used it since I've come here.

When I put the key in the ignition, the engine turns over a few times but never starts. Panic tickles the nape of my neck. It's just that I haven't used it in a few weeks. That's all.

But after the third or fourth time, still nothing.

No. No. No. The word repeats over and over in my head as I fight back the tears that sting and the emotion welling up like a dam, which I fear I'm not going to be able to stop once it starts.

Can this day get any worse? First Zander pushing boundaries with his mention of Ethan. The confrontation with him buckled my resolve, like a slap in my face, showing me how quickly I can be pulled back into that dark place I'd emerged from—the fear and the lack of control—making me realize that I'm nowhere near as strong as I thought I was. And now there is something wrong with my car when I don't have the money to pay someone to repair it.

And I
need
my car. It's my only way to run should they find me. The symbol of my freedom and a reminder of that first step I took to make my life my own.

Ethan and my father would turn their noses down at this old car and maybe that's part of the reason I love it so very much. The symbolism. The defiance.

The fuck-you to them.

“One more time,” I murmur as I turn the key again. Once again there is nothing but the sound of my choked sob when the first tear falls. And being in emotional-overload mode, I'm mad at myself for crying. Pissed at the car. Unfairly furious with Zander because he started my day like this and the ball just kept on rolling downhill.