Down Shift (34 page)

“L
ook what the cat dragged in!” Garret shouts across pit alley.

“Motherfucker. He's alive! Alive!” Brad mocks me as he rolls out from his creeper at the nose of the car.

“The love. I feel it!” I shout back to them, grinning as I walk into the garage—my second home. Some crew members pat my back in greeting as I walk by. Loud welcomes surround me.

There are a few of the guys who peer at me from beneath the bills of baseball hats. Leery of my return. The ones I pissed off or let down. Or they know Colton's bite and aren't sure how he'll react to my being here.

I meet Smitty's surprised eyes over the lid of a Snap-on tool chest, but he doesn't say a word. Instead the questions are written all over his face. I lift my chin toward the stairs, asking him for a single answer, and when he nods again, I know where I'll find Colton.

Heart in my throat, I take a deep breath as I start the short climb. Uncertainty about how he'll react makes my gut churn.

I hear their voices before I reach the top—Colton and his best friend and crew chief and my pseudo-uncle, Beckett Daniels. They're talking about a competitor, trying to
figure the adjustments his team made that resulted in his trimming two-tenths off his lap time.

When I clear the landing, Becks is facing me, leaning against the counter behind him, and Colton is sitting with his back to me, feet propped up on the counter. Becks sees me first, his head startling, his conversation momentarily stopping midstream as his eyes lock with mine—a warning fired off to tread carefully—before he finishes his comment.

“You've got company,” Becks says casually as he stands and cuffs him on the shoulder. “We'll finish this later.”

“Get it ready, Becks.” Becks's feet falter at Colton's words as he walks toward me. He stops, looks toward my dad, who simply nods in response, before he continues to the stairs where I stand, and gives me a quick hug, then heads down the stairs without another word.

The hum of a far-off engine is the only sound in the booth as I stand there and stare at Colton sitting just as he was, back to me, head faced toward the track. “You just gonna stand there all day, Zander?” His voice is quiet, devoid of emotion, and I shouldn't be surprised he knows it's me. He points to the chair a few feet away from him without looking back. “Take a seat.”

But I hesitate, don't move. A part of me feels like I'm a completely different man from the last time we talked, almost four months ago, and if I do as he says, then I'm not projecting that. I wipe my hands on my jeans and set my shoulders as I prepare to say the things I need to say.

“Now's not the time to fuck with me. I'm not telling you to sit down as some sort of power play. I'm telling you to sit down because we're going to talk man-to-man. If you choose not to sit, you can turn your ass around and walk back out. Your choice.”

I clear my throat. And I move my feet until I'm seated in the chair beside him. When I finally risk a glance over to him, his eyes are still focused on the track below, but he nods his head ever so slowly to acknowledge my presence.

We have a battle of wills against each other through the silence. He had the final word last time we spoke, his reprimand still sharp in my mind, and so I struggle with how
to begin this when I know a simple “I'm sorry” isn't nearly enough.

“Did you see your mother?” he asks after a moment, eyes still pointed straight ahead.

“Yes.”

“Good. She's missed you.”

A part of me immediately starts wondering if he missed me too. My tongue is thick in my mouth. My heart pounds. And yet it feels so damn good to be here beside him. In that dominating presence of my teenage years where you're scared of the tongue-lashing you're about to get and yet revel in knowing he cares enough about you to give you one. His testosterone-laced version of love.

“I fucked up.” Those definitely weren't the words I had planned to start this conversation with and yet they perfectly sum up the truth.

He nods slowly. Purses his lips. “Yes. Sure as shit you did.”

“You were right,” I begin.

“Remember that.” He lifts a lone eyebrow but says nothing more.

“Something had happened and I didn't know how to cope. . . .” I carry on with my explanations for the second time in less than an hour. The difference is this time around it's much harder to explain.

I could read Rylee's body language, knew she understood, but he just sits face forward, expression stone cold, breathing completely even the entire time.

The silence stretches when I finish. My muscles are clenched so taut they ache. My knee jogs up and down.

“You came to me that morning . . . ,” I continue, knowing I need to address the things I said to him now that I've explained the background behind it. “and there's no excuse for—”

“You're goddamn right there's no excuse,” he shouts, his sudden reaction shocking me after his total silence. He turns to face me for the first time since I've been here. His green eyes burn with emotion. Fury. Disappointment. Hurt. Sadness. The same damn things that ran through his expression the last time I saw him.

I shove up out of the chair, the anger I thought I'd gotten rid of now back front and center and fueled with the bitter taste of rejection. My intention to come back here, explain what happened, and fix things without any more fallout suddenly feels way off base.

When I move across the small space, I can feel his eyes boring holes in my back the whole time. Taunting me. Daring me. Questioning. The stairs call out to me. I told myself that I was done with anger. I was over the pain. Why did I think it would be this easy to come back and apologize and step back into my place in his life?

My hands are on my neck. My head hung forward. Tension smothering the open air of the booth.

“Colton.” My voice breaks, tone solemn. His name is the olive branch I extend. Whatever I need it to be to try to make this right, because I can't do this anymore. I can't be at odds with him. And it hits me. Of all the words I need to say, I know the ones that will matter the most.

“Speak.”

“Thank you for coming to the hotel that day. For forcing me to hear truths I refused to listen to.
For firing me.
” I shake my head, drop my hands, and turn to face him. I need him to see my face when I say this. To see that I've become the man he showed me how to be. The one I want to be. Our eyes lock again, but there's hope now as he waits for me to continue. “I can give you every bullshit excuse in the world as to why I did what I did, why I was hurting how I was, but in the end, it doesn't matter. None of it does. They'd only be words. We all have bullshit we have to deal with. I left pissed, refusing to acknowledge you were right, and wanting to prove the point that I needed no one. That I could handle everything on my own. And I did. But I also learned that anger gets me nowhere. That the truth is harder to face on your own. And yeah, I can do it on my own, but I don't want to. That's what family is for. To lean on when life gets tough.”

“Are you fixed, then? Your shit all worked out?” His questions sound casual but have so much weight to them as we hold each other's glare.

“Yes, sir.” I nod to reinforce my answer.

“Good, because it's my turn.” A lift of his eyebrows in a nonverbal warning to see if I'm going to challenge him. “Number one: Family comes first. Always. We don't have to share the same blood, Zander, for me to care about you. You ever insult me again by telling me you're not my son, then there's going to be a whole helluva lot bigger problem than this. And then I'm going to be even more pissed because the fallout will break Rylee's heart, and that's something neither of us wants, so I suggest you watch your tongue next time you want to be an asshole to me. You can figure out something more creative to say.” His voice is a quiet steel that's barely audible and yet I hear every single word and the implication behind it.

He rises to his feet, shoulders square to me, eyes boring into mine. “Number two: You've got a problem? You need to talk? Fucking talk. You're pissed at me? Think I'm lying to you because I say the goddamn sky is green? Confront me. Yell at me. Tell me it's blue. I don't give a flying fuck so long as you don't turn your back from your family and you don't disrespect me. But if for one second I think the sky being green is going to prevent you from being hurt, then I'll fight you on it till the goddamn cows come home. Lie to you if I have to. And I'll never apologize for it. Not once. Because you being okay is part of my job and the only thing that matters. And speaking of that, you need to blow off steam? Get on the track. Race the fucking wind and outrun your demons there. Nothing good's ever come from throwing them onto someone else. Understood?”

To an outsider his words might seem harsh, but to someone who knows him, they sound like love. I nod my head.

“Third, you ever insinuate again that racing is more important to me than you, you'll never touch the track again—I don't care how good you are.” He stares at me, warning loud and clear, and waits till I nod in understanding before he continues. “A long time ago racing was all I had. It mattered more than anything to me. Then Rylee happened. And she changed everything. A man can love more than one thing, Zander. You need to remember that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lastly—your past?
You're. Not. Him.
A coward. A man who runs from his mistakes. I've spent too many nights in my life worried about the same fucking thing, so it's something you need to hear. You coming back here, having the courage to fix your mistakes, proves that point.” His voice lightens some and he takes a step closer to me as his words dig deep within me, a salve to help heal the cracks still on my soul. He reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Leaving that hotel room was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. It killed me to walk away from you when I knew you were hurting . . . but it was worth every day I worried about you, because I couldn't be more proud of the man who just walked in here. I'm sorry you went through losing your mom all over again on your own. But I'm glad you got the closure you needed.”

There's a moment that passes where I just shake my head disbelieving the last thing he said to me. But there's pride in his eyes now. Love. Acceptance.

He pulls me into a hug. And I feel like I can breathe for the first time since I stepped foot back on the track. I've righted a wrong and hopefully made my mom proud.

And him. And Rylee.

And Getty.

When he releases me, he hooks an arm around my neck and keeps me near him. “I missed you, Zee.” His voice sounds gruff, emotion clouding it, as he tugs a little tighter on my neck.

For months I let the fear and the worry and the angst over what was going to happen when I returned wiggle doubt into my mind over the connection we shared. I let the concern that I had ruined this relationship keep me up many nights I was away.

Who knew watching Getty's father's warped sense of family obligation and getting the nerve to come back and apologize with this new view of what family means were all it would take to get this feeling of
rightness
back between us?

“I missed you too,” I murmur with a huge, silent sigh of relief, a purge of the discord in my soul.

We stand together, father and son reunited—and better
for the time apart—taking in the one thing that flows through our blood just as strongly as our love for each other, the passion for the track. The adrenaline. The rush of speed.

So we stand in silence for a few moments, the sound track of our lives in a buzz all around us. It's comforting. In the same sense as the rustling of the trees on the island.

“So tell me about this girl,” he says unexpectedly.

“Getty?”

“Cool name. Yeah. Her.”

“There's not much to say really. There was a mix-up about the place and she was staying there. That's all.”

“Uh-huh.” It's all he says, followed by a nod of his head, before he steps away and takes a seat in his chair, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

“What?”

“She the one you talked to?”

“Your point is what?” And we're right back to where we were
before
, him egging me on, fucking with me when I don't know what those amused green eyes of his are saying.

“She okay being there? That prick going to come back?”

I do a double take until I realize that in my explanation and apology I gave him way more than I realized I had. I told him about Getty and her father and Ethan. Dumbfounded, I look back toward the track for a moment. When did I start thinking of my time on the island as pertaining to both of us? As ours?

“Zander?”

“Sorry. Yeah,” I stutter out an answer, try to clear my head. “I think he's gone for good. Besides, I had words with her boss, the bar owner; he's looking out for her while I'm gone.”

“You're going back, then?” I can't gauge the tone of his voice. Don't know if it's surprise, acceptance, or dislike, but the fact that I don't even hesitate when I respond has him raising his eyebrows.

“Yes. I still have a few things to finish on the house.”

“Just the house?”

I meet his eyes—goading green—which ask me so much
more than his question, but there's no easy smile in response, because fuck if I don't already miss Getty. Her long legs in those damn socks. Her soft hum as she paints. The scent of her perfume lingering in the hallway after she leaves for work. The feel of her body against mine at night. And that last little tidbit is something he definitely doesn't need to know.

“Yep.” I nod, look back out toward the track. “Just the house.”

“Uh-huh.” He chuckles. “You just keep telling yourself that and I'll pretend like the sky is in fact green.”