Down Shift (36 page)

“And the twelve car is trying to reclaim the second spot,” the announcer says as the camera cuts back to where Dane's car is edging its nose up alongside Zander.

My hand flies to my mouth. I stretch up on the tip of my toes and lean forward toward the television as if my silent pleas for him to go faster will make it happen. Will help him stay in second place.

“And Donavan pushes the car. How much more can his engine take?”

The network posts graphics on the bottom of the screen. The cars' RPMs sit side by side. Zander's shoots up as he pulls ahead and cuts back in front of the twelve car. Barely. While the customers hoot and holler, I close my eyes momentarily to rid my mind of the vision that had flashed through my imagination of his car smashed into bits.

Two laps left.

The cars catch up to traffic that's a lap down. And when the drivers come out the other side of it, they sit one, two, three—Colton, Zander, and Dane—like a train of race cars. They are so close. All I keep thinking is it
takes only one mistake. One blown tire. One rub. And then devastation.

One lap left.

I don't know what to watch. The cars in the center of the track. The RPMs on the bottom of the screen. Or the floor so I don't have a heart attack from the stress of it all.

The twelve car zags out behind Zander. And Zander reacts just as quickly, zagging out right in front of him with a perfect block. The cat-and-mouse game happens a few more times. Colton's red car pulls away some. Gets a car length ahead as Zander continues to hold steady and fend off the twelve car.

And the customers cheer in a flurry of noise and high fives and clinked glasses as Colton crosses the finish line in first and Zander a moment later in second place. Liam grabs me in a quick hug in his excitement before he realizes what he's just done and then immediately lets me go and clears his throat.

We both return to our opposite ends of the bar to fill the orders flying in from the servers now that the race is over.

But the TVs remain tuned to the race.

On Colton driving his car into victory lane. Getting out and pumping his fists. On the crew around him that high-five and pat him on the back, and the stunning woman with her hair pulled back into a baseball cap whom he pulls into a heartfelt embrace before kissing her soundly on the mouth.

I watch it all unfold when I should be pulling pints. There's no way I can resist taking in these important pieces of Zander's life with such a different perspective from that of everyone else in the bar.

And then the camera pans away. To a figure fighting his way through the crowd. In a dark blue ball cap and with a sense of urgency in his movements. Body language I know by heart. The crowd parts at its epicenter, where Colton stands, and Zander and his dad embrace in a long hug. The picture they portray conveys a message so much stronger than the words any announcer could ever say.

The rest of the world must see a son congratulating a father, but I know the backstory. I know the history. And so when I drop my eyes to hide the tears welling there, all I can think about is how happy I am that they worked it out. How lucky Zander is to have supportive parents who only want the best for him.

My muscles are sore from tensing them so much, my voice sounds hoarse, and the stupidly silly grin I can feel on my face isn't going anywhere. It's exhilarating. This feeling. Watching him race. And being comfortable enough to readily admit I'm in love with him.

How could I not be?

Colton's interview airs while I fill orders as fast as I can, trying to keep up with the demand, but when I hear Zander's voice fill the bar, I forget the pulled tap or the beer slowly sliding over the edge of the frosted glass.

He looks tired and sweaty but exhilarated and so damn handsome.

“So, not a bad finish when you've been off the circuit, wouldn't you say?” the announcer asks, sticking a microphone in Zander's face just as he lowers his bottle of Gatorade.

“Not at all. I would have loved the win today as a great way to make a statement for my team and all of the sponsors, but I can't complain with the Donavan Racing Team taking a one-two finish here in Pocono.”

“Some people are saying you could have taken the lead with how you were burning up the track.”

Zander nods and shrugs. “Perhaps. From where I was sitting, Colton had the one spot nailed.”

“So you weren't giving up the chance at claiming a victory today to block for the thirteen car?” he persists.

Zander flashes his grin. The dimple-territory grin, and I immediately understand the reporter is right. “You only get one family,” he says before the camera pans away, leaving me with the image of those dimples front and center in my mind.

“Y
ou should have seen the place. It was packed. Even the tourists were rooting for you, Zander! It's like you're the hometown hero, even though this isn't your hometown.”

The pang I feel as Getty's laugh fills the line is undeniable. I write it off, though. Deny it. I'm exhausted. I'm antsy. I'm high on the rush of the race. And I smile at the thought of the Lazy Dog, picturing the packed bar like she's described.

“How's your cereal?”

Again she laughs. And the pang deepens. “How do you know I'm eating cereal?”

“Because you always eat cereal when you come home from work.”

“Huh,” she says more to herself, apparently surprised that I know her that well, and even with the simple sound I can hear her smile clear as day through the line.

I can envision the red bowl on the coffee table, where it will sit with the last bit of milk in it until she finally gets up to take a shower. And then that leads me to another train of thought. Of her naked. Of how she feels when my soaped-up hands slide over her wet skin under the stream of hot water. And the heat of her body, the press of her curves against my dick, while we fall asleep.

Just the house, my ass.

Colton's words come back to me. My refusal to admit the reason I need to head back to the island. It's so much more than just keeping my word to Smitty and finishing the last of the to-do list. And that
more
is currently sitting on the couch, legs most likely still in those damn knee-high socks curled up beneath her on the couch, after a long day on her feet behind the bar.

The knock on the open door to my room pulls me from the enticing visual. “You coming, Zee?”

“I'll be there in a minute,” I tell Jon. I know the rest of the crew is ready to go out and party it up. Our typical MO after a good race. Bottle service in the VIP section. Rowdy and loud.

“You gotta go?”

Is that disappointment in her voice? Does she want to talk more?
The guys can wait for all I care.

“In a minute. All the hotels are full with the race in town. Some of the guys on the crew had a suite here at the Four Seasons, so I'm commandeering one of the rooms in it.”

“Pulling rank, are you,
Golden Boy
?” I roll my eyes and snort at the damn nickname but can hear the exhaustion in her voice. Those brown eyes of hers are probably closing slowly too.

“Something like that.”

“You guys going out to celebrate?”

Why do I hesitate to respond? I'm tempted to stay here with a few beers in the cooler and sit and talk to her.

“Yeah. Just going to go out and have a few drinks. I need to spend some time with my guys—my crew—make some apologies and mend some fences after what I did. Everything's been such a whirlwind, I haven't had a chance to address them, and nothing quite says
I'm sorry
like when another man buys you beer.”

“I work in a bar. I can understand that.”

“Oh, and tell Liam I'm representing.”

Her strong laugh belies how tired she must be. “You're really wearing the Lazy Dog shirt?”

“Yep. I told you I would.”

“Hmm.” Her response comes out so soft I can barely
hear it. Almost as if she's listening to me but thinking of something else. She clears her throat. “I'm really happy for you. I mean . . . it sounds like your mom and dad understood where you were coming from and you're on the way to fixing that. You had a great race today. I'm just . . .” Her voice fades off and I sit up immediately. Something's wrong.

“Hey, Socks? Everything okay?” My gut twists at the sudden suspicion that maybe that prick Ethan came back for her—snuck past the sheriff's watchful eye—and she's not telling me. And I'm not there to help her.

I sit forward on the couch, elbows on my knees, and wait for her answer, but she's stayed quiet. I hate that I want to be here at the race, back in my regular life, but I also want to be there on the island. No, not just on the island.
There with her.

The realization hits me harder than it should, considering she's constantly been on my mind since the moment I kissed her on the head and left for the airport.

So much for boundaries.

“I'm fine,” she finally says. “Just tired. Figuring a few things out.”

A thought ghosts through my mind. I shove it away.

It's just not possible.

Not feasible.

Could never work.

“Get your ass out here, Donavan! We need to drink!” I rise from my seat and hold my hand up in a
one minute
gesture to where the guys stand at the door of the suite. Some of them flip me off, some raise up a bottle of beer to entice me, and some make the universal motion that I'm jacking off.

I raise my middle finger and turn my back to them.

“I take it the natives are getting restless.” She laughs. It sounds forced. Or am I just reading into it? I can hear the bowl clatter in the sink. Know she's about to head toward the shower. “I'll let you go. It's kind of quiet here without the constant pounding of the hammer, so thanks for calling. I mis—and congratulations again on such an exciting race.”

“Getty, wait.”

Why can't it be possible?

“Yeah?” Is that hope in her voice? Want? I wish I could see her eyes, her face, the fidgeting of her hands, to know for sure what she's thinking.

I can't pin down the whirlwind of thoughts going through my head, but use the gist of them to stick myself out there and do something that never in a million years would I expect to be doing.

“What if I was wrong?”

“Wrong about what?” Her voice slows down, while my heart speeds up.

“What if I made a mistake when I made that toast?”

Silence again. Her mind trying to follow me. “You mean the
to us
part?”

When I pull the curtains aside and look down on a city darkened by the night, I know that I'd love for her to be going out with us tonight. Or just with me. It doesn't matter. I want her to be here to experience this. Meet my parents. My crew. To see what I do. To have her come give me a kiss on victory lane so everyone could see this incredible woman is with me.

And only me.

Holy shit. The world must be ending.

Because I've never wanted that before.

“No.” I struggle with what to say next. How to say it. “Yes.” She laughs in a way that makes me smile and relax a bit. “I mean about the ending-in-disaster part. What if I was wrong about that?”
You're not making sense, Donavan.
Stop. Think clearly. Try again. “What if I were to tell you that I really like the benefits part but not the friendship part?”

“Zander?” She's cautious. Fearful. Feeling me out here, since I'm fucking this up royally. “Can you just say what you're trying to say?” That laugh again. It's nerves mixed with hope. Exactly how I feel.

Am I really doing this?

How can I not?

“I'm saying that I miss you, Socks. More than I thought I would. Like I'd rather sit on the phone and talk about
nothing right now with you instead of go drink with the guys.” The admission comes out in a rush, but the simple “Oh” that falls from her mouth keeps me going. “So what if there wasn't going to be a disaster? What if we tried the friends thing and the disaster we expected never happened? Would you want to try more than that?” I pace the length of the room. Run a hand through my hair. Sigh as she once again gives me the patience I need to find the right words. And at the same time her silence is fucking killing me. “I mean, I'm here and you're there, and what if I said I wanted you here with me too? What if we figured a way to make this work somehow?”

She inhales a ragged breath and I cringe. The silence, her lack of response—absolute torture.

Dammit. What the fuck did I go and say that for? Why the hell did I just ruin whatever this was between us by creating a man-made disaster myself?

“Getty?” It's as close as I get to begging. I'm more nervous in this conversation than I was at the start of the race today.

A woman is not supposed to fuck me up this bad.

And then she laughs.

Giggles.

Music to my ears. I can breathe again.

“I miss you too.” There's softness in her voice. The same tone she uses when we lie in bed and talk, her hair tickling my chest, her fingers tracing imaginary lines over my skin.

I heard her answer in her tone, but need to hear it from her lips as well. “So?”

“For you, I could get used to there being strawberries in the fridge.”

*   *   *

My body, sore from fighting the wheel all day and the g-force of the turns after I've been out of it for a few months, finally relaxes from it all. The shots at the club help. The celebratory toasts with the beer. Funny thing is, as much as that was my scene, tonight I'm just not in the mood for it. It feels different. Too many people. Too much noise.

The young, dumb, and full-of-cum vibe just doesn't fly with me tonight.

Huh. Maybe I got too used to island life. The quiet nights. How we'd sit on the deck listening to the waves crashing in. The way I could tip my longneck at the girl who sent a drink over and not have her think I wanted to get in her panties, because she knew I was with the bartender.

The sound of Getty humming down the hall as she painted with her earbuds in.

Getty.
It all goes back to her, doesn't it?

Maybe I'm just getting old. Burned-out on the party scene. Then again I wouldn't mind sitting in the club with Getty on my lap, having a few drinks, laughing with the guys.

I'd also like to have her sitting on my lap for other reasons when my flight gets home tomorrow.

“Hey you.”

I glance over to the blonde snuggling in beside me on the couch, low neckline, a nice rack pushed up, and big blue eyes wide with expectation. I don't say a word. Just rest my head back, take a minute to let the room stop spinning before I look around the suite where the boys have decided to bring the after-party.

The room's large by any standards, but there are way too many people in here, pit crew and race bunnies alike. All wanting something from one another—and, by the looks of a few of the people hooking up, already getting it.

From the number of times I've been propositioned tonight—batted eyelashes, downright offers, tight little bodies accidentally rubbing against me—I could be right there with them. Hand up a skirt. Tongue down a throat. No one has sparked an iota of interest. It's gotta be that I'm exhausted. Drunk off my ass. Between the time change, the race, the stress over what I had to face in coming back here . . . But that's not it. And I know it.

Long nails scratch up my thigh over my jeans. I glance at the hot blonde over the bottle of beer I have at my lips and just raise my eyebrows, silently asking
What in the fuck do you think you're doing?

“I could help you relax after a long,
hard
day on the
track,” she purrs in my ear while her hand slowly slides toward my groin.

My hand's on hers in a flash—locked tight onto her wrist as I lift her hand off my cock. “Watch it, sweetheart. Not all packages want to be opened.”

Her tongue runs over her top lip. She shifts so she's even closer. “I think your dick begs to differ.”

All I give her is a shake of my head. A fucking warm breeze gets a man hard, let alone a set of nails scratching over the denim covering it. “Yeah, well, my dick's not the one making decisions for me.”

“Maybe it should.” A single finger runs down my bicep. “I could show you a great time.”

I sigh. “While I appreciate your subtlety, I've got an early flight. Thanks but, uh, no thanks.” After that, I rise from the couch on wobbly legs, and I have to stand there for a second as the room spins like a crash that never stops.

“Get a man drunk enough and he never says no,” she murmurs behind me.

When I think I can walk without falling, I slowly make my stumbling way to the bedroom I'm sleeping in. Suddenly thankful I can shut the door on all this shit.

I brace my arm on the jamb for a minute before entering and locking the door behind me. I may be drunk as fuck, but I'm more tired than anything. I don't remember making it from the doorway to the bed, much less how I got my clothes off and left them strewn Getty-style across the floor.

But somehow I did, because when someone pounds on the door what feels like seconds later, I trip on my clothes as my bleary-eyed, drunk-as-fuck self heads to open it.

“What?” I shout as I struggle with unlocking the door in the dark and flinging it open.

“Dude, someone's hooking up in the other bathroom. I'm gonna hurl.” Stevie hiccups as he pushes past me and runs to the en suite bathroom. I shut my door, blocking out the noise of the party still in full swing on the other side of it. Within seconds, Stevie's gagging sounds filter through the closed bathroom door and into my room, making me want to puke myself.

But I'm too goddamn tired to have the energy to throw up.

“Shut my door when you're done,” I shout to him as I stumble back to the bed.

Fall on it. Head to the pillow. Eyelids heavy.

“And lock it.”

The exhaustion captures me whole.