Down Shift (28 page)

But not now. Not here. Not the new me.

“Now!” His demand eats up the air in the room, but I remain standing tall, jaw clenched, hands fisted, resolve unwavering.

“No.” It's the only thing I can say without betraying my courageous facade with the fear and panic and desperation overwhelming me internally.

Pain radiates as he tugs harder than before on my hair; I yelp automatically. But this time he steps up against me. “
Yes.
You remember how to do this. You'll get on your knees. You'll suck my dick. You'll take it all the way to the back of your throat. You will not gag. You will not move.”

He uses my silence to his advantage. To emphasize what he expects. To draw out my fear. To unnerve me. To let me think long and hard about what I know from experience will happen next.

“It's not my problem if you can't breathe, Gertrude. You just proved to me you can hold your breath an awfully long time . . . so no excuses. But be warned.” He chuckles maniacally, letting me know he's really getting off on this. “The next punishment hurts a helluva lot more than my dick blocking your thro—”

Y
our head's in la-la land, Donavan.
Better get it the fuck outta there quick or you're gonna forget a helluva lot more than just your cell phone next time.

You ask a woman what her point-of-no-return spot is and the answer is supposed to be simple.
My neck. My ear. My nipples. My clit.
Hell, even her G-spot if she's blunt.

But then there's Getty. Answering me with a sweet expression and innocent body language casual as can be . . . but her words? Fuck, they were a seduction all their own. A verbal striptease. Giving me an answer but then telling me so much more than a simple location on her body. Instead she told me how it made her feel.

Fucking feelings, man. They'll get you into trouble every damn time.

No exceptions.

Good thing I like a little trouble.

My mood's pretty damn great with my mind full of ideas of exactly how I want to touch her when she gets off work. The exact spots where I'll tempt and test. The decision I'll force her to make after I tease her mercilessly. Maybe edge her out, withhold her climax until she decides on her point of no return.

Damn. The options are endless. Lucky fucking me.

I glance at my watch as I jog up the front steps. Eight
minutes. Not bad time. The mechanic can't be too pissed for the short delay. After all it's his fault he doesn't remember the replacement engine parts Smitty is already having delivered so he'd know which ones he needs to order. But I do. On an e-mail, on my phone.

The phone I left on the kitchen counter.

So he can bitch all he wants about the twenty-minute round-trip for me to go back and get it. It's a helluva lot more convenient to wait the twenty minutes rather than eat the cost of shipping for duplicate parts he's supposed to remember.

“Just where I left it,” I murmur as I grab the phone and head back to the door, surprised Getty's not home getting ready for work. Maybe she's already come and gone. There are flowers on the counter, but there's no perfume. No barely there scent like after she usually sprays it. The thought lingers, bugs the shit out of me as I start to close the front door.

“It's not my problem if you can't breathe, Gertrude.”

The words ring loud and clear right before the door shuts. Instinct takes over at the sound of the unfamiliar voice down the hall. I've never heard it before but know instantly whom it belongs to.

“. . . hold your breath . . .”

I need to get to her.
Getty.

“. . . be warned . . .” His laughter.

“. . . The next punishment . . .”

There's a split second after I come through her doorway to assess the situation. My brain takes snapshots of the scene. Getty: eyes wide, lip trembling, fear on her face. Fear. Fear. All I see is fear. Ethan: pants pushed down, muscles tense, his hands on Getty.

His. Hands. On. Getty.

My only coherent thought. Then rage. Bloodred.

“Let. Her. Go.” My voice, but I don't recognize it. Don't care, because my only focus is getting him away from Getty. His hands off her.

All I feel is the sting in my knuckles as my fist connects with his cheek. His head snapping back. Getty cries out. The lamp crashes to the ground.

And all I can think is
more
.
Again.

Avenge. Retaliate. Protect.

His grunt. My growl. A burst of pain on my cheek. The whoosh of air he exhales as I hit his abdomen. He stumbles. I follow. Another shot: him to my gut, me just grazing his cheek.

“Don't you ever touch her again.” A threat. A warning.
Never again.

I get ahold of his shirt. Twist my hand in the fabric. The scatter of buttons on the floor. Ram him hard against the wall.

His laugh. Arrogant. Uncaring. Unaffected. Like she's nothing. A pawn. “You can have the frigid bitch.”

His words hit me, threaten to confuse me, but the rage is louder. Drowns out reason. Blinds me. Fuels me.

“Only a spineless son of a bitch sends his father-in-law to fight for the girl. But by the way you treat women, I guess
chickenshit
is pretty common in your world.”

His grin. Maniacal. Taunting.

Finish this, Zander.

My fist flies forward. The click of his teeth. The crunch of his nose. The warm spray of blood on my arm as his head swivels. The thump as his body hits the floor.

“Touch her again, and I'll kill you myself.” The words are out before I even think them. The threat is more real than anything I've ever said before in my life.

But he's knocked out. Will never hear it. Will never know how real it is.

Seconds tick by. My knuckles throb. My body vibrates from the adrenaline. My thoughts clear.
Getty.

Desperate to see her. To feel her. To make sure she's okay. I turn around. And there she stands.

Time slows down. Seconds stretch out.

Hair a mess. In her bra and shorts. One shoe on. Her brown eyes are wide. Her lips parted. They quiver. But it's the look she gives me that steals every last part of me.

“Oh, Getty.” It's all I can say, all I can think, as I cross the room.

“I'm okay,” she says. And just as I reach her, she collapses in my arms, against me. Into me. So I do the only
thing I can. Hold her. Breathe her in. Feel her heart pounding against mine. The warmth of her breath under my neck.

And I repeat her name again. Over and over. To tell her I'm here. That it's over. That she's okay.

“I'm okay,” she repeats, but I know differently. Can feel her body trembling. Can hear the hitch of her breath. How her fingers dig into my biceps.

“Let me look at you,” I murmur against the crown of her head as I breathe in the scent of her shampoo one more time before I take her shoulders and hold her away from me. “Getty. I— Did he hurt you?” My gaze roams over every single part of her. Checking. Looking. Making sure. “I forgot my phone. I didn't know—I would have—”

“No. No,” she repeats again, shaking her head, trying to stop me from blaming myself, but good fucking luck with that. “I'm okay. It wasn't that bad—”

“Wasn't that bad?”
Is she fucking serious? The fury returns again. The need to make him pay returns with a vengeance. But something flickers in her eyes.

And suddenly I'm struck with a memory of my mom with that same look. The same response.

It's hard to swallow after that. Hard to think. Hard to breathe as my worlds collide.

My hands are on her cheeks, eyes trained to hers. There are no tears. There is no show of emotion other than her fingers gripping my arms tight, telling me to not let go yet. I can't help myself, though. I need to touch her, feel that she's safe, to know she's really okay. I brush my thumbs over her cheeks.

“You could have told me, Getty.” I have to say it. Have to let her know I understand. I already knew. And it's okay.

“About what?” The aversion of her eyes. Dodging the question. The shifting of her feet.

“I would have understood. About him, about the abuse.” I realize I'm walking a thin line in this moment. One she can no longer deny after what just happened. One I've suspected all along.

“He's never hit me, Zander.” Her words are rushed. Panicked. Denying the obvious.

But I also see the shame. The fear I'll see her differently after knowing the truth. And it kills me. Fucking wrecks me that she'd think I'd put the blame on her.

Gently, proceeding cautiously, I use my hands to direct her gaze back to mine. To make sure she sees my eyes when I tell her what she needs to hear. What she needs to know. What she needs to believe.

“You don't have to hit to leave bruises, Getty.”

*   *   *

Stubborn fucking woman.

She ignores me like she's done since she got here, despite my constant glares from the far end of the bar. Just like she did when the cops left with Ethan in cuffs and I told her I'd already called Liam and she wasn't going in to work. Our conversation replays in my head.

“I'm going,” she stated, voice defiant, while pulling one knee-high sock up.

“No, Getty. I explained to Liam that something came up. He understood.” My frustration grew as she picked up her second sock. “What happened was serious. You need time.”

And then she leveled me with a look. The same one she'd been giving me since we called the cops. The
I'm fine.
The
it's not a big deal.
I know that look hides all the emotion she's trying not to show. But it wasn't until she finally spoke up that her reaction knocked me flat on my ass.

“No. I don't need time. I need to get to work. I don't want to sit here and think about it right now. I want to be busy.”

“But—”

“No, Zander. Don't you see? This was my life. For years this was all I knew how to do. How to cope. Tears weren't allowed. Something like this would happen and then I'd have to paint on a pretty mask, go to some event, and pretend I was okay.” Her breathing sounded shaky. I had to fight every instinct I had not to pull her against me because that statement made me see the brutal truth of
how she'd lived for so long. Not lived.
Survived.
“I'm putting on my mask, Zander. Let me do the only thing I know how to do so I don't fall apart. If I fall apart, he wins.”

And goddamn if her words didn't break parts of me that I never even knew I had. They tamed my temper. Made the order to stay home I was going to say next die on my lips. I had to switch gears.

“You're not her anymore, Getty.”

As I watch her move behind the bar, mask up, emotions under control, I'm not sure I'll ever forget how doubtful she looked when I told her she had nothing left to prove. Because with her strength, her resolve, and her tenacity, she'd already won against both Ethan and her father. And while she may be coping just fine, using the tourist-packed bar to keep her busy,
I'm not
. The longer I sit here, the more time I have to stew.
And the angrier I become.

At myself: for not seeing that I'd left my phone at home sooner. At not getting there quicker.

At Damon: for sending his son-in-law after his daughter, because he won't take no for an answer.

At the sheriff: for telling me what I already know—that Ethan will be out on bail in a matter of hours. And I appreciate the fact that he's going to push the envelope, wait until the last minute to give the fucker his one phone call to his lawyer, so that hopefully his ass will have to stay in a cell overnight. But I know the truth without the sheriff ever saying it. Money means privilege. And privilege means high-priced lawyers and special treatment.

I have a sinking feeling Ethan will get nothing more than a slap on his wrist.

At Ethan: because he's a royal fucking prick who needs far more than that slap on the wrist. All I can hope for is that as he settles back into his posh mansion high in the hills somewhere with a fading shiner, every time he looks in the mirror and sees the bump in the ridge of his nose from where I broke it, he'll remember me. That he'll remember my threat and never touch Getty again.

At Getty: for being so goddamn strong. The woman needs to break. To cry. To rage and scream so she can leave it behind.

She needs to need me.

The last thought comes out of nowhere. Blindsides me. And I cope with it the only way I know how, by lifting my hand to get Liam's attention.

I had no choice but tell him the bare minimum about what happened with Ethan when I called Getty in sick to work. I know how important her job is to her. Besides, the small-town gossip mill was likely already in full swing and so I figured why not tell the one person who hears it all so he can set anyone straight.

I'm sure Getty might feel differently, but while she's busy tucking everything away, I wanted to make sure the town knows the truth so they can back her if it's ever needed.

“You need some ice for that?” Liam motions to my knuckles where they're red and swollen.

“Nah.” I open my hand to stretch them and shake my head. “I'm good, thanks.” Actually I wish they were worse. I'd like to have gotten one or two more good ones in. For me. For Getty. Because he deserved so much more than that.

“For your cheek, then?”

Did he hit my cheek? Shit. Never even thought about it. When I open my mouth and stretch my cheeks, sure as shit, there's a burn of pain, but I just shake my head again and sigh as I glance back over to check on Getty.

“She still ignoring you?” He laughs and lifts his chin toward Getty. There's concern in his eyes, very different from the surprise that was there when Getty waltzed in an hour after I called to tell him she wasn't coming, and took her place behind the bar.

When he went to tell her to leave, that he'd covered her shift, the look I leveled stopped him dead in his tracks. And thankfully when I explained she needed to be kept busy, that I'd pay the extra set of wages if he needed me to, all he did was nod his head, point to an open seat near the end of the bar, and ask me what my poison for the evening was.

Definitely a good guy.

“Yep,” I sigh as my eyes find her again. “Stubborn damn woman.”

Liam laughs again as he lines up two shot glasses and takes the top off the Jägermeister. “You know what they say. . . .”

“What's that?” I'm distracted, eyes staring at the door to the storage room Getty just disappeared into.

“Men wear the pants in the relationship, but it's the woman that controls the zipper.”

I throw my head back and laugh. The rebuke on the tip of my tongue that we're not in a relationship remains unspoken because the stress relief is more important. “Very true.” I tap the top of my glass against his and toss back the shot.

The burn is quick, but I welcome it. It's real. That and the laugh Liam offered by trying to lighten the mood.