Down Shift (17 page)

T
he music thumps out a bruising rhythm in my earbuds. A hard beat pairs with a screaming guitar and angry lyrics. Energized, I welcome the weight of the wrench in my hand and the distraction of fixing Getty's car to quiet the noise in my head.

But at least this noise differs from the racket that's been filling my head as of late. Giving me a reprieve of sorts.

My mind is in constant overdrive. The photos play on repeat through it like negatives on a reel—a ghost of a memory I can almost see but not clearly.

I prefer the almost-there ones to the in-living-color nightmares any day.

With my head under the hood and grease on my hands, I feel a little more connected to my old life. Feel a bit like my old self as I work on the engine.

Something to my right catches my attention and I startle when I look up to find a woman standing a few feet away. Her hands are clasped in front of her, an envelope somewhere in their mix, a nervous smile on her lips as she stares at me.

Stepping out from beneath the hood, I take my earbuds out and wipe my hands on a red rag and wait for her to say something. Anything. But she just stands there,
feet fidgeting, and smile widening while her cheeks slowly turn red.

Fangirl down. It's the term my brothers use when they come to a race and witness the tongue-tied, finger-twisting, feet-shifting phenomenon that happens occasionally when I come face-to-face with female racing fans. The pang of regret is there instantly. Over how I've shut my brothers out. But I needed to. And I know they'll forgive me. This is nothing compared with what we've all been through before.

“Can I help you?” I ask as I take a step forward.

“Yes. I'm—hi—hello,” she says, and then rolls her eyes with a chuckle as she smooths down the skirt over her hips. “I'm Mable from Mable's Closet in town.”

The storefront comes to mind. Resale clothes on mannequins. Lacy curtains that look like they belong in a funeral home. A local townsperson or two always going in or out. Quaint. Classy. Completely feminine. And definitely a place I've steered clear of.

“Oh yes. Hi. Zander,” I say as I hold out my hand and then lift my eyebrows in apology for its greased-up state. She reaches out anyway—a nervous chuckle, cheeks turning redder—and shakes it. “Can't say that I've been in there, but I know the store. What can I do for you?”

“Everyone here on the island is so excited that you're here. I haven't seen this much chatter since . . . since I can't remember when. Maybe when Dolly Parton came through a few years back.”

My ego dies a slow, silent death. A few months off the gas pedal and I've become irrelevant enough that I'm being compared to Dolly Parton? But my reaction goes unnoticed as Mable continues on without a care in the world and without any need for me to be an active participant in our conversation.

“I mean you should see the phone calls and texts that buzz around Main Street when you go on your morning run. Or to the hardware store. I mean the thought right there—of you in a tool belt and no shirt—is enough to make the women around here suddenly need to nail something. I mean hammer something. Or . . . you know what I mean.”

I can't help it. I throw my head back and laugh at this frumpy woman with round cheeks and a kind smile who means no harm with her ramblings that are making me blush. In an instant I realize just how small of a town this really is and how oblivious I was to everything going on.

She looks at me, lips in a perfect-shaped O and eyes narrowing as I shake my head back and forth. “You are exactly what I needed right now.” My smile widens with each passing second.

“Well, I am a married woman, but I always wanted to try the cougar thing.” She offers me a wink. “I've never been town gossip before . . . just the one spreading it, but you're easy on the eyes . . . and I could probably teach you a thing or two. . . .”

“I like you, Mable from Mable's Closet,” I laugh, and think about how much I already love this new friend I've made.

“I like you too,
hottie
, as the ladies are calling you in town.” She chuckles and shakes her head. “How was the food at Mario's last night? That new cook they hired sure can whip up some
mangia bene
.”

And once again I'm reminded of the size of this town and how everyone knows everyone else's business. It's definitely annoying and yet a part of me likes the predictability.

“Yes, ma'am.” I nod. “Now, I know you didn't come here to talk about pizza, so what can I do for you?”

“Oh, sorry. I'm sure you have plenty of stuff to do and I'm here blathering away taking up your time. I came to see Getty. Is she home?”

“I'm sorry, Mable, but she's at work right now. Took an extra shift. Is there anything I can help you with?” I ask out of courtesy, surprised the town gossipers didn't already know Getty's whereabouts.

“No. Yes.” I can sense her hesitancy. “She normally stops by once a week to pick up her check and so I wanted to make sure she was okay but feel stupid now because obviously she has you here to occupy her time now and—”

“Check?” My interest is piqued. “She works at the store?”

“Oh no, honey. That's silly. I sell all of those designer clothes she has on eBay for her. I'd do it for free for her, but she gets upset if I don't take ten percent for my time. And so this here is a check for that pile she brought me last week to try to get the money to fix that heap over there you're working on.”

Her words take a moment to sink in. And before I can fully process everything, Mable continues on. “What I'd give to have her eye. To be able to go to an estate sale and find these beauties . . . except I'd have a much harder time parting with them.”

“She sure does have a good eye, doesn't she?” I murmur in agreement even though I already know she hasn't gone to any estate sales.

The piles of clothes around her room. My assumption that she was a spoiled trust fund kid with so many designer threads she didn't need to take care of them. The obvious burner cell phone. The lack of interest in having Internet access.

She's not just starting over after a messy divorce. She's running from someone.

I'm such an asshole. Like a royal prick of an asshole.

It's the thought that's on repeat in my mind as I try to wrap up the conversation with Mable, who keeps chatting away.

Getty's not a spoiled brat in the least.
Her only use for the clothes from her past is to sell them to help secure her new future.

Like selling clothes to get her car repaired. Talk about feeling like a jerk after my “call Daddy and ask for money” comment the other night.

Yes. That's me. Asshole with a capital
A
.

“I can give her the check, Mable. I'll just set it inside on the counter for her.” It's the least I can do. Her eyes narrow, and I kind of like that she cares enough about Getty that she's worrying over whether to trust me. If she only knew the purse I win in a single victory on the track. “I assure you I'm not going to take it.”

“You sure?”

I should feel insulted, but I don't. “I promise.”

She looks down at the sealed envelope in her hand and then extends it out to me. “Okay, well, you make sure she gets it. She's a sweet girl and deserves for good things to happen for her.”

“Agreed. I'm glad she has you looking out for her, Mable.”

*   *   *

I let out a whoop as Getty's car sputters to life. It may have taken longer than I figured it would between Mable's pit stop and a quick run over to the auto parts store for some oil to service her car while I was at it, but mission accomplished.

And I'll take anything to make me feel useful, considering my carpentry skills are definitely still being called into question and I feel like a fish out of water away from my everyday life. That damn deck is going to be the death of me.

When I rev the engine a few times, the sound reaffirms that I'm a bit less of a dick since Getty can save that money Mable brought her today for something more important, like treating herself.

After I let the car idle for a few minutes to make sure she's running okay, I turn her off in order to get cleaned up in time to pick Getty up from her shift. I owe her an apology but don't know how to go about bringing it up without the walls around her going up too.

When I slide out of the car and out from behind the raised hood, I do a double take at the black luxury town car parked across the street with dark tinted windows. I stare at it momentarily, thinking how out of place it seems in this quaint little town, before shutting the hood and heading for the shower.

Time to eat some crow, Donavan.

Maybe I need a beer first to make it go down a little smoother.

Or maybe I just want to watch the woman who's pouring it for me.

My bet's on the one that wears the sexy socks.

“I
've got a surprise for you.” I grow still at the sound of Zander's voice at my back and have to close my eyes momentarily. Tears of frustration over the encounter with my father have been burning the back of my throat for hours, and yet the immediate relief at knowing Zander's here tells me how much I've grown to depend on him in a sense.

And with the relief comes a reminder of last night's dream in full 3-D color.
Oh God help me.
There's no way I can look him in the eyes and not blush. Or think about the imaginary warmth of his mouth on my breasts. Hands on my thighs. Tongue on my—

“Getty?”

When I turn around from straightening bottles behind the bar, the first thing I see is that boyish grin of his. It distracts me momentarily as it tugs on my heart in ways I never expected. I look up to meet his eyes and blush like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar, guilt presumably written all over my face.

Our eyes hold for a moment, his searching, mine feigning normalcy, and in that flash of a second, I realize the anxiety I've felt all day over my father's arrival is gone. While it may be a momentary respite, it's pretty powerful that Zander can do that for me.

Then reality returns when he lifts an eyebrow and waits for a response.

“A surprise, huh? I could use one after today.” I try to sound unaffected and yet I know he'll catch the tinge of resignation in my voice. “Super busy here.”

“That so?” Impenetrable blue eyes search mine. Gauge if I'm telling the truth. And I'm not sure if he believes me.

With the regulars sitting at the opposite end of the bar, the longer our gazes hold, the harder it is to bite back all the secrets I'm holding from tumbling out. Because right now I need someone more than ever. Sure, it was tough in the beginning when I left my old life, but for some reason it's easier to run when there's no one in front of you bringing you back to that person you used to be.

And so right now I just need someone. A friend.
Him.

“Lotta tourists today.” I break our gaze and focus on wiping down the rest of the bar top. Doing my best to keep it together.

“Looks empty now.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Something happen today, Socks?”

“Nope,” I say, tight smile back in place. But when I look back up, it softens at the concern in his voice. “Does this surprise have anything to do with chocolate?”

His smile deepens. “Even better.”

I untie my apron and throw it into the bin for laundering, which completes my cleanup duties, since I'm not closing tonight. “Better than chocolate? How about a foot massage?” My aching feet guide my thoughts.

His laugh mixes into the noise around us as I wave bye to Liam and come around the bar. “Definitely better, but I can make both of those happen if you really want them to.”

“Really?” While I'm referring to the surprise being better than what sounds like nirvana to me, the fact that he even offered puts a genuine smile on my lips.

“Really,” he affirms as he places his hands on my shoulders and directs me to the side exit of the bar. The heat of his hands, the sudden public display of whatever-this-is-between-us, and the quick little squeeze he gives
them leave me knowing I needed this comfort from him at the end of my day.

But when I push open the door and see my car sitting in the parking spot across from me, the emotion I've been holding back comes crashing down on me. I gasp his name; then my hands automatically go to my cheeks where the tears I've fought all day finally win the battle.

The means to escape sits right in front of me. Zander has given me a working car to pack my shit in and drive away from the sight of my father and the impending dinner date tomorrow night. Forgo the fear and just move to another town, another place, create another life until I'm strong enough to not give in to the conditioning I've spent a lifetime living under.

“Getty?” Concern. Worry. “I hope that means you're happy.”

I wipe away the tears coursing down my cheeks so that I can look at him with a smile. Zander. The man who represents new beginnings and the ability to make a choice when I never even realized I wanted this choice to make.

Run or stay.

And this right here, his selfless act, somehow triggers my confidence. Tells me to throw my doubt aside and choose to stay. Keep this new life I've created on my own. To straighten my spine in opposition to my father, show up for dinner instead of be a coward and run again, and prove to him I'm much more than he ever thought of me.

I choose to stay.

Emotion washes over me. The kind that chills your skin and warms your soul all the while stirring that slow, sweet ache in your lower belly because every part of you has just awakened to things you were sleeping through.

Without preamble, I step into him, bring my hands to his cheeks, lift onto my tiptoes, and press a chaste kiss to his lips in silent thank-you. My reaction seems to stun him and a part of me likes being able to do that. Smiling through the tears, I step back, top teeth worrying my bottom lip, eyes locked on his.

“Thank you.” My voice comes out a whisper and I feel
like I've said this to him so many times since I held him at mini-blind wand point, but this time it means so much more than he can even fathom.

Something glances through his eyes and his lips transform with a shy smile when he reaches out to wipe the tears off my cheeks. With a simple nod he accepts my gratitude. “Wanna take a ride?”

My back is aching and feet are sore and all I'd thought about was heading home to soak in a hot bath, but nothing has ever sounded better. “Only if you take the wheel.”

“Deal.”

With the sun slowly dropping toward the horizon, the coastline stretches for miles ahead of us. The ocean is all I can see out the passenger window besides interrupted snippets of the pine trees standing tall in the rocky terrain. The windows are down and the chilled air whips through my hair, but I welcome it after the scent of alcohol all day long in the bar. And the blast of air is so loud in our ears that it's too hard to talk, so we drive in a comfortable silence, both contemplating our own thoughts.

And thoughts are something I have a lot of right now, when I wish I had none. I replay the scene with my father in my head just like I did a hundred other times during work today. No, my resolve hasn't wavered, but at the same time I wonder what he's going to say, how he's going to try to force my hand into returning to my duties and the marriage he refuses to accept is over.

The emotions rush through my mind like the wind through the window, constant and powerful.
Shut it down, Getty. Let it go.
So I try to do just that. I glance over to Zander and smile before closing my eyes, resting my head back on the seat, and allowing myself to enjoy letting someone take control of the wheel for a bit so I can just be a passenger.

I'm not sure how long we drive, but the deceleration of the car and a sudden bump of the shocks have me opening my eyes. Zander has pulled off the main road that meanders along the entire coastline of the island onto a rutted asphalt road. I look around in curiosity, but all I see are dense trees and a dirt road sloping downward in
front of us. And just as I'm about to ask what's going on, the trees open up into an isolated clearing.

The waves churning in the ocean beyond us provide a breathtaking view. It's a clear day and whitecaps dance on the water and the wind rustles the trees. It's an astoundingly beautiful scene.

“Wow.” One word. That's the only possible way to describe it.

“Yeah. Wow.” But when I glance over at him, he's looking at me, and for a brief moment the thought ghosts through my mind that he's not talking about the view. I maintain our connection for a beat before shifting my gaze back to the water, a surge of sudden attraction causing my nerves to hum when they shouldn't.

“Mable dropped a check by the house today while you were at work. It's on the kitchen counter.”

The subject change comes quickly enough to give me whiplash. And while I try to remain outwardly calm, my insides are vibrating with anxiety. So I sit there and wait for the questions to come, the barrage over what she's paying me for. Why I'm so broke. “Thanks.” Time to change the subject. “How'd you know about this place? It's incredible.”

“Liam told me about it.”

Oh.
“When were you talking to him?” I feign disinterest as warning bells sound. Worrying that maybe Liam said something to Zander about walking in on me in the stockroom today when I was with my father. Or maybe he asked Zander who it was, since I made sure to suddenly become busy any time he asked about the unfamiliar man.

“You were in the back, I think. He came over and asked me a few things, said it was a cool place to watch the storms move in.”

I chew the inside of my lip as I stare out at the tranquillity of the sea. “But there's no storm moving in.”

“Isn't there, though?”

Oh. Shit.
The question and the searching tone in his voice catch me off guard and I'm instantly leery of stepping into this conversation. At the same time I long to talk to him about it. I keep my eyes focused anywhere but
on him, draw strength from the beauty around me with the trees rustling high above us making the only sound.

“Who came to the bar today, Getty?”

Panic flutters. My mouth goes dry. My fingers twist together in my lap. My thoughts collide with fear. I want to tell Zander but am afraid what he will think of me once he knows how weak and stupid I was in the past. How I allowed myself to be treated.

No self-respecting woman puts up with what I did. So what does that say about me as a person?

“I told you I was adopted.” Zander's unexpected comment startles me enough that I shift and turn to look at him, wondering where he's going with this. “If you were half as nosy as most people these days, you'd already have pulled all of this up, but I respect you more because you haven't. I appreciate you letting me tell you on my own terms. Especially because the reason I came to PineRidge won't be in any of those articles. I'm the only person who knows why.”

I nod slowly, curiosity piqued. “I'd rather you tell me . . . when you want to.”

He's leaned back in the seat, one elbow propped on the window frame with his hand on his forehead, while the thumb on his other hand is tapping on the bottom part of the steering wheel. When he turns his head slightly and looks at me, there's a far-off look in his eyes and his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. “I grew up on the wrong side of town. Drugs, alcohol, violence, you name it—they were always in my house for as long as I can remember, but that's not to say I remember much. When I was almost eight, I woke up in the middle of the night. My mom was screaming for help. She'd been stabbed. Many times. My dad was covered in her blood. He threatened to come after me if I ever told anyone.”

“Oh, Zander.” My comment is reflexive. So is the movement of my hand that reaches out to squeeze his thigh in sympathetic and silent support. I can't even attempt to wrap my head around what his eyes have seen or the pain he's lived with. Both as a little boy and as a grown man.

“I'm not . . . it was . . .
shit
,” he says as he blows out a
sigh and shakes his head. “I don't mean to sound so matter-of-fact about it, but that's the only way I can not let it get to me . . . because it does that enough already.”

I keep hoping he'll look my way so that I can tell him somehow with my eyes how sorry I am. . . . I know my words won't amount to much. But he doesn't look my way. In fact he seems to focus everywhere else but on me as he works through the memories in his mind.

“I didn't talk for months. Couldn't. I was seriously messed up when I was placed in that home for boys I mentioned. All of their stories were equally as horrible as mine and with no other suitable family members to adopt us, we kind of adopted each other.
And we had Rylee.
” A smile ghosts his lips and softens his features momentarily. The love he has for her is blatantly obvious. “She ran the House and was a mother to all of us in a sense. Her patience and compassion were—are—the reason we all made it. How we survived.” The smile grows wider. “One day this man came to the house to see her. When he walked in, I knew who he was immediately. It was Colton Donavan. You see, the one thing that my dad did with me was watch racing, and so the minute I saw Colton, for a second, I forgot about everything my dad had done. I was sad and scared and lonely and heartbroken and there was this larger-than-life person in this new place. And I know it makes zero sense, but seeing him made me feel close somehow to the little bit of good in my old life. He knelt down . . . and there was something about him—a connection, a moment, a something that somehow made a little boy want to speak for the first time in months. . . . It wasn't much, but it was a start.”

Now it's my turn to smile as the comfortable silence settles around us. To imagine what Zander looked like as a scared little boy looking up to this giant persona and having a connection. And there are so many questions I want to ask him, so many things I want to say, and yet I do neither because I'm utterly fascinated how that broken boy could be the kindhearted man sitting beside me. The one who would mess up a silverware drawer just because it affected my own triggers somehow.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For telling me.”

He looks my way for a split second and then shifts in his seat so his back is against his door, gaze focused to his thigh where his fingers intertwine with mine. I can sense he's uncomfortable by his lack of response, that he hates discussing his past, and yet for some reason he's doing it, so I sit patiently and wait.

“At some point Rylee and Colton started dating and they seamlessly included us in their relationship. All of us boys felt like we were a part of it with them. It was so cool as a kid to come from this broken life and then be a part of something we all knew was special. Fairy tales weren't a popular topic in a house full of boys, but we knew theirs was one.” His smile flashes again, good memories leading the way. “Once I'd found my voice again, I was able to give a statement to the police about what happened. Formally identify my dad as the killer. And true to his words, he came back for me.”