Down Shift (2 page)

The look on Colton's face and his eyes trained on the image on his phone unnerve me. The anxiety breaks through the hold the anger has on me. Worries me. Makes me shift my feet in anticipation of something I know has to be bad to earn me this speech.

Thoughts ghost through my mind. A hot blonde. A dick-hardening kiss. A pissed-off boyfriend. Testosterone-laced tempers. My words,
“I'm Zander fucking Donavan.”

This can't be good.

“Cut the dramatics and just show me.”

“Dramatics?” Colton thunders farther into the room as he holds the phone out so I can see it. I reject the image immediately. A moment of clarity amid the confused haze. Know it didn't happen the way the picture shows.

Just the same way your dream about your mom was different than reality too.

I stare at the image, my body tense, my jaw clenched, and try to fill in the missing holes between what's in my mind and what the picture shows. The worst part is I can't know for sure that I didn't do that.

“Is that dramatics, Zander? Looks pretty crystal fucking clear to me.”

It's me all right. Fist clenched, arm cocked, a rage on my face like I've never seen before—but it's nothing like the look on the woman's face in front of me. Scared. Stunned. Fearful.

“That's not what . . .” I shake my head. Try to
rationalize that her asshole of a boyfriend must have been next to her, out of camera range. The one my cocked fist was aiming toward. For a split second I see my dad in my face. My biological dad. The monster. The abuser. Everything I promised myself I'd never be.

I reject the thought immediately.

“It is you, Zander. Take a closer look. You think losing a sponsor is bad? Let this image get out—just how you think a lady should be treated—and you'll lose a shit ton more than that. You raised your fist to a woman.” He shakes his head and chuckles in shocked disbelief. “And you don't think you're out of control?”

Push

“You need help.”

Push

“To talk to someone.”

Push

“This isn't the son I raised—”

Snap.

“I'm not your goddamn son, so quit acting like you're my father!” I shout at the top of my lungs with every ounce of rage and hurt and confusion that I've been fighting back down the past few weeks. Something, anything, to make this stop. To make the pain stop. The confusion end. Keep the past from tainting my future.

The lies from being true.

He stumbles back a few feet, eyes wide, mouth lax. For just a moment he stands there staring at me. Reining in his temper. Trying to comprehend what I just said.

The look on his face alone should knock the fight out of me—shock, hurt, disbelief—but the truths he just threw in my face, the ones I have to acknowledge but don't want to hear, are like kerosene to my anger. They create a back draft loaded with resentment that explodes instantly, wiping out all reason.

“Excuse me?” He straightens his spine. His voice comes out with a controlled calmness. And I should heed the warning. The loud, angry wrath of my dad is one thing, but the cool, even quiet manner is much scarier when you're on the receiving end of it.

But I don't.

“You heard me.” Our gazes lock. Our mutual anger feels heavy in the room as I lash out the only way I know how to right now.

“Loud. And. Clear.” The tone remains even, though his eyes reflect a wounded fury I refuse to acknowledge. He tucks the phone into his back pocket, nodding his head the whole time as I stand there wanting everything he means to me gone: salvation, hope, family, friendship, unconditional love. All I can feel is the crushing disappointment from everything I've done to purposely try to fuck this all up.

“You've left me no choice.” When he looks back up, his expression is blank, shoulders squared, eyes hard.
“You're fired.”

“Come again?”
He wouldn't dare.
I'm leading the points. I'm the reigning champion. There's a reason they call me Indy's Golden Boy.

But as the silence stretches out and nothing about his posture changes, the lump in my throat gets bigger and it becomes harder to swallow.

“You heard me.”

My laugh is loud enough to sound condescending. Part of me is in disbelief, but he wants to be a prick and go this route? Fine. I'll show him I don't need him or his lies. I don't need anything from him.

It's not like I've never been on my own before.

Blood. Scissors. Band-Aids.

But first, self-preservation. The hurt radiates through me. The stain on my soul darker than ever before.

“Fine. Got it.” I shake my head, our eyes locked, with his saying,
Let me help you
and mine telling him,
I don't need your lies.
Confusion turns to anger. “I don't need you anyway.”

“Good luck with that, son—Zander,” he corrects himself quickly. The sting at the sound of my name on his lips is more than obvious. “And don't bother trying to approach any other teams. One, it's midseason and two, they won't hire you anyway.”

“You can't do that.” Anger turns to rage. He wouldn't threaten other teams to not hire me.

“Watch me.” That cocky-bastard flash of a grin that unnerves his competitors is directed my way. He takes a step closer. “I've been around a lot longer than you have. No one would cross that line even for a
sure thing
like you. Oh, wait. . . . You're not exactly a sure thing anymore when you're losing sponsors, blowing off testing, and there's concern whether you'll even show for race day. It's not like you've been exactly discreet with your bullshit.” He takes another step, a mocking laugh falling from his mouth. “Take it from a team owner. You've become a risk. A liability. And no one wants a loose cannon on their team regardless of how good of a driver you are.”

Rage turns into a ball of disbelieving fury; I want to lash out at him with everything I have, regardless of the damage it causes. Self-preservation at its finest.

“Fuck you,
Colton
.” His name is a sneer loaded with disrespect. I come out swinging with words I can't take back. Needing to save face when everything about me is being questioned. “It's always about the team with you, isn't it? The next victory. The next paycheck. Fuck the racers, right? Screw them and any shit they have going on—
lie to them if need be
—so long as they perform for you. Isn't that right,
boss
?”

“Sticks and stones,”
he says with a lift of his eyebrows. The taunt of a smile. The ice in his voice. “You think that's going to get your job back? Think again.”

“Fuck. You.” I'm overheated, but my body breaks out in goose bumps, because the chilling look in his eyes tells me this isn't a joke at all. Not some psychobabble bullshit he's using to try to get me to talk like he has in the past.

He chuckles long and low again and the sound grates on my nerves as I try to wrap my head around everything that's happening: the dreams, the picture, Colton's no-bullshit punches.

“It's not just me you're hurting, but everyone else that depends on you. I'm leaving your car without a driver. Won't fill your spot. If I worried only about money, that wouldn't be the case, now, would it? What I'm worried about is you. You're out of control and pushing the limits, and I can't stand by to watch you crash and burn without
stepping in. I'm sorry it has to come to this, but I don't mind being the asshole if it's going to save you. I've done it before and I'll do it again in a second.”

We stand in silence, hearts torn apart, and so much of our connection shredded on the floor between us. For the first time since he's walked in here, I notice how tired he looks. Concern etches the lines of his face. And the need to say any more, damage us more, dies on my lips despite the discord still echoing within me.

With a nod of his head, he turns and walks toward the door. My eyes follow him despite the desperation for him to be gone so I don't have to see the defeat in his posture. He grabs the handle and hangs his head. “Take the time, Zee. Fix what you need to fix. Deal with whatever shit you need to deal with. Let someone in instead of shutting everyone out. It doesn't have to be me. Or Rylee. Or anyone we know, but let them in; you'll be a better man because of it. Sometimes it takes a new ear, a fresh voice, to put things in perspective for you. Shit, take a drive, a trip—I don't care—but use the time to make
you
right. Don't come back until you are. I don't know what's going on and I wish like hell you'd talk to me about it, but I understand better than most that sometimes you can't. My only advice is not to let the dark eat you whole. You deserve better than that.” He clears his throat from the emotion clogging it, and I hate everything about this conversation more because of that disconcerting sound. “Regardless of what you think, you are my son and it doesn't matter how bad you fuck up—I'll always love you.”

The door opens. Closes. The dust dances again. The silence suffocates me.

I fight the urge to go after him. I resist unleashing more of my anger and the need to yell and shout and trash the room to get it all out. None of it will fix a goddamn thing.

Grabbing the bottle of Jameson, I lift it to my lips until I remember it's empty. The crash of the glass shattering as it hits the wall across from me is deafening.

Shaking my head, I fall back on the bed. Try to make sense of what just happened. What I've let happen. What I didn't stop.

To my mom back then and to my family now.

The loudest thing I hear is the rejection from the man I've looked up to, idolized, who helped me heal. The man who just walked out of this room and hurt me more than he'll ever know.

Can you blame him, Zander?

I close my eyes and rub my hands over my face. My buzz is gone. The haze removed. Everything important taken away from me with the slam of the door: my family, my ride, my anchors. And the sting is real.

But so is the anger. The inability to rationalize. To accept. To ask the things I need to ask.

To apologize.

Fuck that. I'm not apologizing. I'm not the one who lied.

And I would never threaten to hit a woman, let alone actually follow through with it. The image on Colton's phone flashes through my mind. Another lie to throw in the pot.

The rage is instantly back. Misdirected but back. My body feels restless, but my mind is whipped to the point where I can't think about this any more. Don't want to. I just need another bottle to get lost in. Then I'll figure where to go from here, since it looks like I have some time off coming to me.

And yet I don't get up from the bed to walk down to the bar. I can't, because somewhere deep down that voice of doubt grabs hold of my heart and squeezes tight. Twists it. Letting me know there are two truths I have to accept before I can move forward.

I am Colton's son.

And I'm the one who killed my
mom.

“Y
ou good, Getty?”

Good?

My mind flashes to a few hours ago. How jumpy both my heart and the rest of me felt when the man from table nine simply touched my forearm as he reached to get my attention for another round. The crash as the bottle of triple sec hit the hardwood floor. The immediate waves of panic. The rush of memories.
The fear.
From another place, another time, to rattle nerves already on constant edge.

And until now I was doing so well hiding my uneasiness behind my tough-girl facade.

But I saw the customers' stares. Heard my stammered excuses. Suffered the immediate regret of giving them a glimpse of the secrets I've kept hidden. Of the life I left behind.

So,
good
? Not by a long shot, but I'm not about to let Liam know. Besides, I'm making progress. It's been three months and I've already got a job, a place to live, and more freedom than I've felt in forever.

Baby steps.

Trudging uphill and through what feels like barbed wire.

But it's progress nonetheless.

I collect my distracted thoughts—exhale a sigh to cover up my preoccupation—before turning to look at the Lazy Dog's owner, walking beside me. A tight smile hits my lips when I nod. “It's debatable if I'm good,” I finally say, trying to make light of the earlier incident. Add humor so that he doesn't ask more questions. It's something I've learned how to do way too well. “But I do know I deserved to be fired after dropping that bottle.”

The laugh I force—the one that used to be my everyday normal— sounds hollow to my own ears. Funny how it seems so odd in this new life I've created for myself.

“Nah. Everyone makes mistakes.” Liam's voice pulls me back from my thoughts. “It's no big deal. Really.”

“I can add an extra hour on my shift or help cover during a game night if you get too busy. It's the least I can do.” I slow down my footsteps as we approach the fork in our paths on the walk home from the bar.

“Not necessary. Besides, you should come in during a game. Be a customer. Most of us here are a little obsessed with the Mariners. It's a good time.”

“Nah. Not my thing.” Too many people crowded in one spot. At least when I'm working, I have the bar counter as my barrier. A space between me and any unwanted contact.

Who am I kidding
? All contact is unwanted these days.

“Are you telling me you don't like my bar?” he laughs in mock offense as we stand on the corner beneath the streetlight.

“No. Not at all,” I correct myself. “I mean—”

“Relax. I'm just teasing you.” He reaches out to touch my arm and I freeze at his motion. Then curse myself. Shit. He obviously notices my reaction, because he pulls his hand back immediately, but his gaze remains locked on mine. Searching. Asking. Wanting more.

“I, um—thanks for walking with me. I'm beat and—”

“Getty?”

“Yeah?” My voice is cautious because I know what comes next and don't really want to venture there.

“If there was some kind of problem . . .” I'm not sure if the flash of hurt in my eyes stops his words, but they stop
nonetheless. He nods in silent understanding. “Well, if you need any kind of help, I'm here, okay?”

“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I murmur softly. “Good night.”

I walk away, knowing he hasn't moved and is watching me make my way through the night toward my house. He's sweet and kind. So very different from what I'm used to, and so I need distance between us. It would be way too easy to lean on him, use his friendship to get through this, when I know better than anyone that the only person I can depend on is myself.

And yet the weight of his stare and the concern in his eyes are like magnets pulling me backward, begging me to find someone I can confide in, when all I really need to do is learn how to manage this new life on my own.

Keep walking, Getty.
You can let him in once you figure yourself out.

I look out toward the moonlit ocean view beyond and take stock as to why I'm here. It seemed like the stars aligned when my mother's oldest friend offered to let me stay in the vacation house she and her husband were renovating before they could flip it. And because of that, I have a roof over my head. A place to reflect on what I want. A solitary space where I'll be able to come to terms with the mistakes from my past so I can have a better future.

You don't know they're mistakes until you make them. Or learn from them. Let's hope I've done both and can move forward.

I walk down the alleyway, past my car, parked in the narrow, shrub-lined driveway, to the front door of the old cottage. Skipping over the third step to avoid the broken wood slat, I remind myself that should be first on the very long list of repairs that I need to schedule for the house.

It's the least I can do, considering she's letting me stay here for free during the renovation.

Exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks once I'm inside. I move through the darkened foyer quietly, in practiced precision, as if I'm still back in the Palo Alto house. I flick the light off in the kitchen, surprised I forgot to turn it off before I left, and ignore my grumbling stomach for the
enticing hot water of the shower. Hopefully the muscles in my lower back will get used to my standing on my feet for eight-hour shifts soon, because this constant ache is annoying.

But it also means I'm doing this. Changes are really happening.
And the past is over.

In a show of defiance no one will ever see and only I will understand, I make a trail of my discarded clothes as I walk down the hall toward the bathroom light I purposely left on at the end of the hallway: a beacon of imagined hot water calling my name.

Shoes. Shirt. Bra. Skirt. Panties. All come off one by one, throwing them to the floor in a messy trail as I go.

I'm exhausted, my mind still preoccupied with the mistake I made tonight dropping the bottle, so that when I clear the doorway, it takes me a second to come to my senses. The reaction is instantaneous—an earsplitting scream, a physical jump back, a shock to my heart, and hands immediately reaching to cover my pelvis and breasts—at the sight of the man standing in my bathroom.

And not just any man.

No.

But a buck-naked man. Dripping in water. I see a flash of ink on his back in the partially fogged-up mirror's reflection. One hand holds a towel up to his wet hair. The other is doing I don't know what, because I'm so fixated on his presence that thinking clearly isn't a priority.

“HELP!” I scream the moment I get my wits about me, body frozen in fear, mind reeling.

And even though his blue eyes look as shocked as mine probably do, his mouth spreads into a slow, disbelieving but definitely cocksure smile. “I've had women go to extremes before,” he says with a chuckle, silencing my next shriek for help, “but this takes it to a whole new level.”

In my confusion, my guard comes up instantly, although for some reason I don't actually feel threatened like a rational person would. I'm naked, hunched over trying to cover all my lady bits, caught between stepping back down the hallway and grabbing my last discarded
item to cover myself up. But I know damn well my panties sure as hell aren't going to make a very good shield. Add to that there's no way in hell I'm giving him the wrong impression, that I'm retreating in fear.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I'm shaking with adrenaline as I hop around in the I'm-naked dance, every ripple and roll of imperfection on my body on display in the wash of bathroom light into the hall. My eyes flicker desperately to assess the situation I have absolutely zero control over. I want more lights on to flood the house and don't want them on at the same time.

“I believe I should ask you the same question,” he says as he slowly lowers his hand, the towel now hanging at his side. Of course I look.

And there it is. . . .

I jump back like my eyes have been burned and yet first impressions are hard to erase: cut abs, that V of defined muscles, a trail of happy, and a more-than-impressive package. What the hell is wrong with me? There is a man in my house. He obviously just showered in my bathroom.
And I'm staring at his dick.

“Put that thing away!” I command, with my hand reaching out to gesture at his waist before I realize that I've just removed my hand from my own breasts and offered a peep show of my own. Of course I replace it promptly but not before the man throws his head back and emits a deep laugh. It causes his Adam's apple to slide up, then down, chest to heave, and dick to bob.

I force myself to look away because . . . well, because he's a stranger. In my house. Naked. And oh my God, something is wrong with me, because I'm not running and calling 911 like I should.

When his chuckle subsides, he brings his head back down, so I can see the tears in his eyes from laughter. “That
thing
is my cock, and since this is
my
bathroom and you seem to be attempting to seduce me in
my
house, I don't think you have any right to tell me what to do.” And with that, he leans a hip against the counter and folds his arms across his chest, eyes locked on mine and one eyebrow lifted. Everything else is left hanging out there in the wind.

“Your house? Seduce you?” At that point I realize I'm sputtering and shaking my head. “This is my house. You're in
my
house.”

Confusion drifts across his face and his jaw falls lax. “Hold up.” He lifts his hands in the
Hold on a minute
position, drawing my eyes back to where they don't want to be. If this whole situation weren't so unbelievable, it would be comical, and yet as true as that is, I don't seem to be laughing at all. “I think there seems to be some misunderstanding.”

“No shit.”
Sarcasm is my fallback and it doesn't disappoint me now. A lot of good it does me, though, as I'm still doing the naked dance while trying to react to this surreal situation.

The look of disdain he gives me at my comment earns him no points in my book. “While I'm digging the socks with your outfit,” he says with a smirk, eyes veering down and then back up to my strategically placed hands, “you should cover up.” I catch the towel he tosses me and immediately wrap it around myself. I'm certain my mismatching knee-high socks make a statement about me, but I'm beyond caring, because I'm still alone in my house with a strange man and have no answers as to how this has happened.

With one hand clutching onto the towel at my collarbone, I use the other to motion to him. “You too.”

A lightning flash of a grin glances across his lips. “Sorry, but you just took the only towel left.”

Why is this funny to him? This is not funny. Not in the least. And neither is my procrastination over folding the load of towels currently sitting in the dryer.
Shit.

I glance around quickly. Needing to keep an eye on him for safety's sake and not wanting to look too closely for obvious reasons. Instinct tells me he's not a threat and yet sensibility tells me he is. So I do the only thing I can, look slyly around for a weapon. Something. Anything.

But I'm in a hallway. Pickings are slim. When I take a step back, the ancient mini-blinds behind me rattle as my butt hits them. The sound clicks my mind into gear and I reach back and pick up the broken wand that opens the
blinds sitting on the windowsill. Without thinking, I hold it up in front of me like a swashbuckling sword.

“How'd you get in here?” I demand in my deepest, growliest voice.

“With the key under the frog on the back deck.” He doesn't even fight the smile on his face or make an attempt to cover himself up. Nope. He just stands there nonchalant as day, like he's used to women staring at his naked body.

Maybe he is. He said he thought I was here to seduce him.
Is he some kind of male escort or something? No. Wait. I have that all mixed up. He would be seducing me, then.

Focus, Getty.
Focus.

“What key?” How come I didn't know there was a key under the frog on the back deck? I jab the wand toward him to emphasize each word. “And the wood on the deck is broken. How'd you climb—”

“How'd you get in here?”

“I've been here and I'm the one asking questions.”

That laugh again. Full-bodied. More than amused. Enough to make me wonder what it sounds like when he really means it. “Right. I forgot. You're one to give orders in a bath towel, socks, and holding that fierce sword of yours.”

I fight back the urge to drop the wand regardless of how stupid I look, because I don't know this guy from Adam. “Answer. Me.”

“Testy.”

“Now.”
I jab the wand to show him that I mean it. The smile again, but this time he bites his bottom lip to prevent it from spreading all the way to dimple territory.

“Smitty gave me instructions on where to find the key. We made a deal. I get to stay here so long as I make some repairs for him.”

What?
“There's some kind of misunderstanding. Smitty messed up. I'm already living here.”

“So I gather by your Custer's Last Stand demonstration,” he says with an indifferent wave of his hand.

“How do you know him?” I already have a sinking feeling that something is seriously screwed up here and that I'm not going to like his answer.

“He's like an uncle to me.” He shrugs. “You?”

“Darcy's like an aunt,” I mimic him in reference to Smitty's wife.

We stare at each other as the knowledge that we've both been given access to this house settles into place between us.

“Well, Smitty must have forgotten that Darcy told me I could stay here, so you're going to have to find somewhere else to crash for the weekend.” There. I said it. Take that.