Down Shift

“K. Bromberg makes you believe in the power of true love. As she tells it, with a little hard work, a little trust, a lot of faith, anything is possible.
Down Shift
made me a believer.”

—#1
New York Times
bestselling author Audrey Carlan

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG

“An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”

—#1
New York Times
bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout

“K. Bromberg is the master of making hearts race and pulses pound.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Jay Crownover

“Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Kylie Scott

“Bromberg expertly captures the voice of a man torn between his tender heart and macho confidence . . . gripping.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“The more I read, the more I want. . . . Your emotions will be taken on one hell of an angst-filled, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, mind-blowing, and wickedly sexy, beautiful journey.”

—Book Crush

“There was a certain je ne sais quoi to the story that kept me reading till the very end.”

—Smexy Books

“[A] highly emotional yet satisfying series, oh, and let me not leave out SEXY.”

—Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews

“Well-written and with a great balance of dialogue and description.”

—Love Between the Sheets

“An emotionally charged, adrenaline-filled, steamy, and passionate read. . . . K. Bromberg deliver[s].”

—TotallyBookedBlog

“This series is
everything
a true fan of romance would want or need.”

—Sinfully Sexy Book Reviews

“An intense, emotional, riveting ride [that's] sexy, romantic, heartbreaking, and uplifting. This is the kind of book you don't want to put down.”

—Aestas Book Blog

Slow Burn

Sweet Ache

Hard
Beat

SIGNET SELECT

Published by Berkley

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

Copyright © 2016 by K. Bromberg

Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

Signet Select and its colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

eBook ISBN 9781101991770

First Edition: October 2016

Cover photos: Woman walking toward ocean by Chad Riley/Getty Images; man by George Coppock/Getty Images; seaside beach by Michael Melford/Getty Images

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

I'd like to take a quick moment to say thank you to the people in my life who have encouraged me to
just jump
over the years. Whether you are family, friends, bloggers, readers, an editor, my agent, a teacher, a coach, or other fellow authors, you have all cheered me on and supported me at some point so that I felt confident enough
to try
. And sometimes taking that first step is half the battle.

So thank you. I promise to pay it forward.

And if you're remotely wondering whether I'm referring to you in the above acknowledgment, then I most likely
am.

B
lood.

There's so much blood. Coating my hands. Soaking into my Scooby-Doo pajama pants. The ones with the hole in the knee from that nice lady with the funny glasses at the Salvation Army.

It's easier to think about her. Focus on her. Instead of the blood.

It's everywhere. And it keeps coming out. Keeps spreading.

It won't stop.

I can't make it stop.

Dust dances in the air. Little pieces float in the light showing through the crack of the blackout blinds of the hotel room. My eyesight is fuzzy. My mind exhausted.

And buzzed.

Because this alcohol-induced haze is much better than the dreams that won't stop. The ones that aren't really dreams anymore. The ones that started the minute I opened that box three weeks ago and pulled out the piece of paper that rocked my world.

I lift the bottle of Jameson to my lips. Take a swig. Except the burn's not there. The warmth is fleeting. But it's enough to numb my mind. To let the dreams fade.

To let the truth seem false.

The Band-Aids. They're everywhere. The box is almost
empty. The white pieces I peel off stick to my arms—but they don't matter. The blood keeps coming. It doesn't stop.

I can't make it stop.

Another sip. And then another.

I'm so tired. But I'm so sick of feeling this way. So sick of wondering if my adoptive parents knew. Of course they knew—so why'd they lie to me? Didn't I have a right to know what was on that paper? To accept? To deal with it?

Fuck no. Fuck yes. I just don't know.

Another sip. Then a gulp.

The scissors. The shine of silver lying next to her. The dark red coming through my closed fingers as I try to fix her. Help her. Save her. Stop. The. Blood.

The taste of fear. My scared pleas. The helpless feeling.

I can remember all that, so why can't I remember if I did or if I didn't . . . ? I must have. That's what the report said. Why would it lie?

Wait.
There's sunlight. I can see the dust dancing. When did that happen?

A lift of the bottle. There's nothing left. An deep breath. Slumping back in the chair. Now I can't forget anymore.
Fuck.

The pounding on the door startles me. I know I should have expected it. Know I'm fucking up again. But does it really matter in the grand scheme of things?

I know who it is before he even speaks. Somehow I knew he'd find me. Just like I know he's going to be pissed before I hear his voice.

Ask me if I care.

“Zander.” Boom. Boom. Boom. His fist on the hotel room door sounds like thunder in my head. “Open up.” Boom. Boom. Boom.
“Open the goddamn door!”

And when I open it, there's the lightning: The bright light of the hall blinds me after so much darkness. I block the glare with my forearm. It's futile until he shifts his stance and blocks its blaze.

Colton.

My mentor. My boss. The person who knows me best.

My dad. Well, adopted dad, but does it really matter?

We stare at each other. His green eyes fill with
concerned disgust as he gives me a once-over to take in my rumpled clothes—the same ones from last night—and makes a show of sniffing the air to let me know he can smell the stench of alcohol that's probably seeping out my pores.

Yes.
It
does
matter.

Lies always matter. Especially when they're from people you thought loved you.

“You forget something?” There's a bite of anger to his question, and I'm buzzed enough that I don't think twice about my smart-ass response.

“Not that I can think of.” My hand's on the door, swinging it shut in his face before I finish the sentence.

If I thought the sound of his fist knocking on the wood was loud, the sound when he slams it back against the interior wall is deafening. I deserve nothing less than his wrath, but it's proving really hard beneath this alcoholic haze to find any fucks to give.

He shoves past me, flicking the light switch on and bumping me in the chest with his shoulder as he passes by. It's all I have not to take everything out on him right now. Use my fists to relieve the anger and disbelief and hurt and every damn thing bottled up inside me.

Like all the shit that's definitely my fault but that I'd rather blame on him. On my adoptive mom, Rylee. On the whole fucking world.

The thoughts stagger me. I shake my head, try to figure out how I could want to raise my fists at the man who has helped to give me everything, and yet the images fill my head again: the blood, the Band-Aids, the scissors.

My mom.

The truth my mind has been hiding from me.

The one he has obviously been keeping from me too.

With my fists clenched and entire body vibrating, I force myself to remain where I stand and hold back the anger that's been running like a river through my veins the past few weeks.

“You know what I can't figure out?” he asks nonchalantly as he picks up the empty bottle of Jameson before tossing it on the perfectly made bed with a chuckle. And then a sigh.
“Why?”

Such a loaded question. One I'm not quite positive I feel like pulling the trigger on answering. And yet my finger's itching to. I'm just not sure I can handle the blowback right now.

So I don't answer. The question hangs in the stale air of the hotel room, his silence weighing on me as he surveys the space. After a few seconds his eyes find mine and ask the question again. But I choose to be the asshole. It's just so much easier than having to admit out loud what I still don't want to believe myself.

“Why what?” I finally answer. Sarcasm tinges my tone. Along with a healthy dose of
It's none of your fucking business
.

“This isn't a joke, son.” A lift of his eyebrows. Another shake of his head. His face a mask of disgust.

Just more shit I don't want to deal with. Questions bubble up inside me. Fester like infected wounds. Eat at me until I can't bite back the anger.

“Nope. It seems I'm the joke these days.” The autopsy report flashes in my mind's eye. Fuels my fire.

He narrows his eyes. Tries to figure out where my hostility is coming from. “Damn straight, you are,” he says, and for the first time I notice his lucky shirt and workout pants. His superstitious pre–fire suit getup.

Then it hits me that I've just royally fucked up. The thoughts flash through my mind. It's daylight. I'm supposed to be somewhere, do something other than get lost in this bottle.

“Ahhh . . . Did you forget about your scheduled track time this morning? Team testing for final adjustments? Or maybe you forgot about the race tomorrow altogether? After last night, I'd want to forget all about being here in Alabama too.”

His last comment jogs a memory. Images flash: loud music; huge VIP bar tab; race bunnies sliding up, wanting a piece of me.
Everyone wanting a piece of me.

Push. Push. Push. Everyone pushing.

Snap.

Smitty restraining me—biceps locked under my arms in a vise grip, pulling my shoulders back. But why? How?
What the hell happened? All I remember is him dropping me off back here. The hotel. My home for the week.

“Just having a good time,” I say with a sneer. Covering up for the blank spots in my memory. “What the fuck do you care?”

He's on me in a flash. Forearm pressed into my chest, my shoulders backed up against the wall. He's quick. Guess I've never tested this side of him before.

Our eyes hold—father to son, mentor to protégé, boss to employee, man to man—and for one split second I see the hurt in his eyes that I want to ignore.

“Why do I care?
WHY
do I care?” he growls, voice escalating on each word and forearm pressing harder against my chest. “Let me count the ways. Showing up late to training at home is one thing, Zander. Thumbing your nose to your sponsors by standing them up at the dinner they throw in your honor as you sat in the bar next door and laughed so loud they know it's you?
Inexcusable.
The endless stream of questionable women. Sweet Jesus, Zander . . . I was all for getting laid when I was your age, but even I had some standards.”

I roll my eyes. Snort in disbelief.
Does he think I'm buying his holier-than-thou bullshit right now when I've heard the old stories?
Like he didn't play the field in his day.

“You think this is funny?” he shouts with another hard shove to my chest. “My idea of funny isn't missing testing the day before a race when you're in the goddamn driver's seat to take another championship. Just blowing it off without a word. Letting your team down.
Your crew.
The hundred or so fans you had sitting in a VIP tent two hours ago waiting to meet their idol, and guess what? He didn't show because he was too goddamn busy getting shitfaced on cheap whiskey like a drunk. So you tell me,
Golden Boy
 . . . how is that
funny
?”

“Get. Off. Me.” I grit the words out even as I welcome the biting pressure of his forearm on my chest.

He steps back, but his hands take a little longer to let go from where they're fisted in my shirt. But I still don't move. His glare pins me motionless. There's disappointment there. Concern. And a shitload of anger.

I cling to the anger he's giving off, can relate to it, but for completely different reasons from the ones he has.
The irony.
He's pissed because he expects more from his son, and I'm furious because I expect more from my dad.

“You've been late, showed up to the track hungover, and have chewed out your crew and treated them like shit for no reason. You've blown off Rylee, been an asshole to me, and pulled away from your brothers. You've fucked up royally and
you're asking me
why I care? I think you need to ask yourself that question, son.”

“It's none of your business.”

“Bet your ass it's my business. Everything about you is my business and you're out of control.” He talks right over me. The resentment I can hear in his tone causes my chest to constrict. “You've stepped way over the line.”

“Like you are right now by getting in my business? Get the fuck out.” I spit the words out, not caring that my anger is misplaced or that I can't take them back.

He takes a step toward me, head angled, jaw clenched, hands fisted. The proverbial gloves are off. “You hurting, son? Want to lash out at someone for something you don't want to talk about? Trying to throw all your hard work away with your bullshit stunts? It's best you remember who you're talking to,” he says between gritted teeth, referring to the abusive childhood he survived before being saved and adopted. The implication being that he understands what's going on in my head. “I know rage like you feel, Zander. I know hate that burns in your gut and turns your heart black. But it fixes nothing.
Nothing.
I've tried to be patient. Tried to be here for you. Asked you to talk to me, let me be there for you in whatever you're going through, and you've refused. Now I'm watching you sabotage everything good you've got going for you, and you want me to stand by and let it happen? Are you out of your mind?” He takes a moment to catch his breath while I seethe over his words. Over my inability to get past this and just ask him the questions I need to ask.

Because hurt not only clouds your judgment, but can also blind you from the real reason you're mad.

“I've kept the press away. Held back Rylee from
interfering. Given you enough rope to hang yourself and now . . . now I can't help you. Congrats, there's no more rope left. You've lost your sponsorship.”

What?
The silence in the room screams around me. It's so loud I let it drown out what he just said. Don't want to believe it.

It's his fault.
That's all I can focus on. All I can rationalize. He didn't prevent it. He didn't fix this. He probably did it on purpose because he wants to control me. Control everything about me.

Including my past.

God, I need a drink. A whole goddamn bottle to make this just go away. To make sense of all the bullshit I'm selling myself when it sounds ridiculous just thinking it.

“You're lying!” My voice is completely opposite to his. Loud. Screaming. Enraged. And my head's so fucked-up that it hurts and craves the pain all at the same time.

“I'd never lie to you, Zander.” Calm. Even. Dead serious.

And those words—the ones I know to be a lie—are like a match to the embers that have been smoldering over the past few weeks.

“That's bullshit and you know it!” I shout. Become unhinged, fists itching to punch something, and I'm sure ruining the drywall of this fancy hotel wouldn't win me any favors. My body shakes with the anger. The rage inside me takes over. “You lied—”

“And you don't think you're out of control?” Colton says, taking an aggressive step into me. Taunting me in my irrational state. “Since when is it okay to even think about taking a swing at your old man?”

You're not my old man.
The words flicker and fade through my rage. Shock me. Plant thoughts in my head that I've never considered before. And even though they're bullshit, they still linger. Still taint my anger and jade my words.

“I'm perfectly in control,” I grate out through gritted teeth. Anger. Spite. Frustration. All three spin on the merry-go-round in my head. Muck up the truths and feed off the confusion.

“Perfectly in control?” he asks with a disbelieving shake
of his head as he reaches into his pocket and grabs his cell phone. Confusion and dread run through me simultaneously. It's like deep down I know this can't be good and yet can't for the life of me figure out what he's going to show me on the screen once he's finished flicking through images. “Let's just say you owe Smitty big-time, because I'm done paying for your fuckups, Zee. This was the only picture taken last night. Lucky for you, the VIP room was empty by the time this happened. Smitty was worried enough about you to stick around to make sure you didn't get into trouble. The lone paparazzo who snuck through and snapped this had to forfeit his camera to the bouncer, because it was against house rules.”