Down Shift (16 page)

I'm so lost in the photo I forget there are more behind it. Once I remember, I continue the process with each one, studying it, trying to pull a memory from the image, thankful for the chance to reconnect with a lighter side of my childhood.

I look like her.
That's what I see as I flip through them. The same eyes, the same-shaped mouth, a similar nose. It's weird to actually be looking at the pictures and be able to draw a comparison of myself with someone.

Then I come to a picture of my dad. He seems less scary then I remember. Faded jeans torn at the knees. Thumbs hanging in his pockets. A cigarette dangling from his mouth. His hair long and unkempt. His body scraggly. Bruises visible on the inside of one of his arms.

I stare at his face for the longest time, not to remember him, but rather to make sure I'm nothing like him. I take in everything about the picture, pick it apart, study it. And no matter how hard I try, all I see is the monster standing in the darkened doorway, covered in my mom's blood. And the vacant look in his eyes as he held a gun on Rylee when he tried to kidnap me so I couldn't testify after I'd regained my voice.

When I'm convinced we're nothing alike, I flip to the last picture in the batch. My mom's lying next to a sleeping me, my back to her front, her arm wrapped around my abdomen holding me close, and a soft smile on her lips.

Without thinking, I run my fingertip over her face and all of a sudden I can hear her voice humming “Are You Sleeping?” in my head. It's weird and I don't know what to make of it other than I vaguely recall how she used to
curl up beside me on my bed, her lips to the top of my head, and the heat of her breath warming my hair as she sang the song to put me to sleep.

My heart pounds from the memory I never knew I had. A disbelieving smile spreads on my lips as I close my eyes and try to recall more, flipping through the pictures over and over, hoping to jog something else loose.

Excited about the prospect of having more memories from my first seven years to block out all the pain, I move back to the box to see what else it holds. I grab a stack of papers, then notice the cover sheet on the first packet I pull is the rap sheet for one Lola Sullivan. I glance over petty misdemeanors and then toss it back in the box immediately. I have zero desire to taint the image I've just gotten back of her in my head. There are newspaper cuttings that mention the murder and the search for my dad. Tiny one-by-one squares with no compassion for the woman who at the time was my everything. The next packet of paper is thicker. It's a case file from the Los Angeles Child Protective Services.

With my name on it.

By the width of the file, I have a feeling its contents won't surprise the man I am but might derail the little boy in me still looking for closure. It might blow the only memory I have of my mother when she's not covered in blood—the one I just got back—to smithereens and I don't think I'm ready for that just yet.

So I take the pictures, the reports, everything I don't want to face, and put them back in the box, tuck in the flaps so they stay closed, and walk out of the room without looking back.

But I have a new memory to hold on to when there used to be none.

I'll face the rest another day.

T
he bar is packed. The warm weather and the cloudless sky in this unusual summer full of storms has caused a massive influx of tourists to flood the island.

The bar's abuzz as I take orders left and right from the other servers, so much so that I haven't had much time to think about last night.

Well, that's a lie. It's all I've thought about. A few botched orders more than normal prove the point. But the bar's so busy they've gone mostly unnoticed.

My mind drifts to Zander as I work. To our laughter at the restaurant. To the toast. To make-believe revelations about what outsiders would assume about us. To kisses that curled my toes and melted my insides. To honest confessions about what he can and can't give me. And then to the question he asked me to consider, if I could handle knowing there wasn't going to be more than the one thing he said was a disaster in the first place: friends with benefits.

A rum and Coke. A margarita with extra salt. A draft Guinness.

My knee-jerk reaction is yes. He was honest, up-front, and kisses me like the world is ending tomorrow—with every ounce of his being.

A Macallan neat. A gin and tonic. A round of IPAs.

Is that really smart, though, Getty? Wouldn't you become
too attached?
No. Yes.
No.
I'd use the sex to help me get over my issues. Prove to myself that not all men are like Ethan. I hope. But isn't that kind of whorish?

Definitely not something a Caster would do . . . which pushes me to want to do it even more.

A vodka cranberry. A Jack and Coke. A dry martini.

But am I really capable of such a thing ? I don't know how to have casual sex. I actually don't know how to have sex at all according to Ethan.

What am I doing even thinking about this? It's a stupid idea. Such a tempting one, though. My doubt is ugly.

And Zander is so pretty.

I snicker under my breath at the thought, knowing he'd reject the description immediately.

Oops. Jack and
Diet
Coke. Not regular Coke. Messed that one up. Two seltzer waters. One glass of merlot.

Then the dream comes back to me.
And damn.
All doubts go out the window. Yes, it was a dream. My rational brain reiterates the fact I know all too well, but at the same time, a man doesn't kiss like he does and not know how to make love.

Not make love, Getty.

Sex.

Just sex. No love involved. The L-word is never to be mentioned. Just nitty-gritty, scream-out-as-you-come, render-your-legs-boneless, romance-novel-type sex like I've never experienced before. That's all he alluded to.

That ache he caused between my thighs comes back with a vengeance. I shift some, spill the overfull drink onto my hands as I move it to the server's tray.

A Coors Light—in a bottle. Another rum and Coke for table six—this time with a lime. A strawberry daiquiri.

Just go for it, Getty.
You want to be spontaneous? Be
spontaneous. He rearranged the silverware drawer for you for God's sake.

Justification at its finest.

But it is a good point. If I'm going to sleep with someone, at least I'd know he's a good guy. And probably has some experience under his belt. By the way the bar suddenly fills up with the local women busily texting one
another when he comes in to watch a game or have a drink, I can assume he's had no shortage of women or experience in the sack.

An old-fashioned. Two Sculpins on draft. One Red Bull and Absolut.

Oh. But a lot of women means he's most likely used to experienced partners . . . and I'm far from that. I stop and stare off into space for a moment. Twist my lips. Remember how he kisses. His hands framing my face. The scrape of his unshaven chin against the skin of my neck. His cologne in my nose and taste on my tongue.

Done. I'm gonna go for it.

Really going to do it.

Screw the nerves and the doubts and my insecurities.
Easier said than done, but I'm not living, not proving the old Gertrude Caster-Adams is gone, if I don't take a chance.

So I'm taking the chance. Decision made. No backing out now.

Four microbrews on draft.

“Gertrude.”

That voice. The unrelenting condescension. The one that controlled my life for so very long. The one who believes I'm in the wrong.

I'm startled—my mind races, pulse thunders, nerves start to hum, body becomes flushed. But I don't move, don't waver. I keep one hand on the pull, the other holding the glass at an angle, and my eyes fixed on it.

I don't look up, just keep pretending I didn't hear what I thought I just heard.

There's no way. Can't be.

“Can you go grab me some more limes?” It's Liam's voice that pulls me from my panicked fog.

“Sure.” My voice is barely audible, because I'm afraid if I speak normally, my father will recognize my voice.

I all but run from the counter, a half-filled glass of beer left sitting on the catch grate, and my body trembles with that flustered shock. I never look up. Never acknowledge him.

My only course of action is to hope that if I stay in the storage room long enough, he won't be there when I come
back. Hearing his voice say my name would have been a figment of my imagination.

After I grab the limes, I sag back against the refrigerator, exhausted from all the emotions running through me: defiance, anger, fear, worry, homesickness when I shouldn't feel it. I close my eyes, lean my head back, and fight the urge to run out the back door and not come back. To not have to face him.

Because I knew my father would find me. He's Damon Caster after all. The man with no boundaries, no morals. Well, unless you are one of the lucky few he deems worthy of esteem according to his ridiculous standards. As for me? He rules his family like his real estate empire—with an unrelenting iron fist. I'm just surprised Ethan wasn't standing beside him.

Or maybe he was. It's not like I looked up.

The thought has bile rising in my throat.
Ethan.
The man my father had chosen to walk on water beside him. The one who broke every single part of me with his harsh demands and constant criticism.

“It's unacceptable for you to walk away from me.” Disdain drips from his aristocratic voice. I shouldn't be surprised he followed me in here.

I set my shoulders and straighten my posture before I lift my chin and open my eyes to meet the ones that mirror mine in color.

He looks older. The immediate thought surprises me. And I reject it instantly. Because that means my leaving has been hard on him, and it should be. He should have picked his daughter's well-being over satisfying his protégé and upholding his public image.

But that will never happen.

Hasn't been the case since my mom died what feels like forever ago.

“Father.”
My teeth are clenched and hands are squeezing the bag of limes so hard I wouldn't be surprised if the peels ruptured under the pressure. “How did you find me?”

The flare of his nostrils tells me I'm insulting his long-reaching fingers. “Easily enough. The diamond in your wedding ring was laser engraved with a serial number.
The pawnshop registered it. We went down to speak to them and followed the trail you left. The contact phone number was that bitch of a woman I refused to allow your mother to see. A quick search into Darcy's life revealed a new mortgage she'd taken out, and I'm sure you can figure the rest out.”

My resolve falters. I thought I had done everything right. “If I went to that much trouble to disappear, did you think for once, I didn't want you to find me?”

“Now, now. Let's stop your melodrama and focus on getting you home and away from the disgrace of this job behind a bar like some two-bit floozy hard up for money.” His disgust radiates off him like a venom, poisoning the small room around us.

No
It's great to see you, Gertrude.
No
You look good with a little sun on your face and your hair not slicked back to perfection.
No
I missed you, sweetheart.
The small part of me that hoped maybe my leaving might have changed him dies a quick death at his comments.

“A job's a job, Father. My bank accounts seemed to have been suspended somehow,” I say after clearing my throat to shake away the nerves vibrating in my voice. “Would you rather me have taken my clothes off to make money?”

The shock that passes over his face is priceless. Gertrude would never have spoken back to her father six months ago. “Remember who you're speaking to and that—”

“You deserve respect at all times,” I repeat the mantra of my youth to him but this time with a tinge of sarcasm. The years of conditioning have me wanting to cower from the glare in his eyes, but I do my best to hold my own.

I can fall apart when I'm alone. I can let go of my emotions. But not right now. Right now I have to be the same strong woman who left and walked out of the life she was told to live.

“Your insolence is—”

“Getty?” Liam narrows his brow when he notices my father—a stranger dressed in slacks and a dress shirt—standing just inside the door. “Everything okay?”

“Sorry.” I nod my head with dread in my heart that my
father is going to unleash his pompous self on my boss. “I was just coming with the limes.” I hold them up to show him the proof.

“Okay. You sure?”

I know he can feel the tension in the air, see the contempt on both of our faces. But I try to reassure him by meeting his gaze, and the look I'm giving him to convey
just leave it
prompts him to nod his head and return to the bar without another word.

“I have to get to work.”

“Actually you don't. You have obligations to fulfill and a husband to tend to and—”

“
Ex
-husband.”

“Casters
don't
get divorced, Gertrude.”

I shift my feet. Sigh audibly. Sweat mists down my back and my body vibrates in anger as we start the same argument we had days before I left. I try to head it off at the pass. “Why are you here?”

He startles his head like the answer's so obvious and I'm an idiot for asking—clearly I should be thanking him for coming to my rescue from this low-class life—and when I don't, his annoyance presents itself in the lift of one eyebrow. “To have you collect your things and bring you back home. Where you belong. Beside Ethan. As a part of the community.”

Walk back into the lion's den? No thanks.

“No.” Mentally I cringe and wait for the wrath of Damon Caster to come at me full-fledged. No one stands up to him, let alone his only child.

“You're being ridiculous and immature.” His voice is low and even, but his jaw ticks in irritation. “I'll make reservations for dinner tomorrow night. My car will pick you up at five and we will come to some sort of agreement on how to end this ridiculous charade of yours. Figure out a good explanation for your extended absence and I'll bring you home with minimal exposure.”

Always worried about what people think. I sigh. “And if I don't go?”

“You will be there or life might become difficult for you here on this island.” Our eyes meet and hold, his
threat loud and clear, his thumb pressing back down on me after less than ten minutes in his presence. Gritting my teeth is the only reaction I give him before skirting past him and out of the storage room.

But I don't head to the bar. Instead I make a right turn and head straight into the ladies' bathroom and shut the door behind me, make sure it's locked, and lean my back against it. Nerves and anger give way to the adrenaline-laced anxiety. My legs turn to rubber, and my frantic breaths make me dizzy before it all crashes down around me. I don't recognize the ragged sob that slips from my mouth as I slowly slide my shoulders down until I'm sitting on the tiled floor.

And that says a lot—that I'm sitting on this germ-ridden floor—but the complete onslaught of emotion overwhelms me.

Am I surprised he found me? No. But I'd expected to have more time before he did. And it's silly really, because more time wouldn't do anything to fix this situation. The letter I left for him, never mind the way that I left, should have been enough in itself to prove to him that I'm done living that life. Done being demeaned and ridiculed and thought of as a twisted dowry to keep the business intact.

I left to create a life with passion and creativity or so I could try something new without fear of mistakes. To live day to day without caring about social status or if I'll disgrace the family name by his outdated standards.

I hate that the minute I saw him my knees began to buckle and I wanted to run the other way. But I am relieved that I didn't. I showed that I'm not the same “yes, Father” woman I used to be, so fearful of the consequences of disobedience. Yet I'm furious with myself because I wasn't yet one hundred percent the woman I want to be: saying no, asserting my will, walking away without worrying I hurt his feelings because he's still my dad.

And deep down some part of me wishes—hope against hope—that he might wake up from his self-appointed power trip and accept me for me. Love me for me.

I swipe my tears away knowing there's no chance in
hell of that happening. He is who he is and is not going to change. Accepting that is the hard part.

At least he came by himself. Left Ethan—his puppet—home to run his empire.

Aware I need this job desperately, I shove up off the ground and square my shoulders.
It's a start, Getty.
Tomorrow night you won't be blindsided and will handle him better.

The little voice in the back of my head says I don't have to go to dinner with him at all if I don't want to.

Maybe I'll just listen to her.