Page 112 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Hey, Getty, Liam’s looking for you.”
“Thanks, Tracey,” I say with a smile and a sigh at my constant mental games.
Within seconds, I’m back at the counter, hands full of empty glasses and bottles I’ve cleared along the way. Liam’s face is alive with excitement when he looks up from the phone at his ear to meet mine.
“Phone’s for you,” he shouts above the clamor of the bar, holding the phone up so I can see what he means in case I can’t hear him.
And of course my heart drops. Why would someone call me at the bar? I move behind the counter and realize he wouldn’t be smiling if it weren’t good. “Who is it?”
“Take five and head to the back so you can hear,” he says, shoving the phone at me. “I’ve got to go change all the TV channels.”
The minute I clear the back room and shut the door, I put the phone to my ear. “Lazy Dog, this is Getty.”
>
“You’re very sexy when you sound all official. You wearing your socks, Socks?” His voice is like liquid sex coming through the phone: low, suggestive, and one hundred percent attractive male.
“Zander! Why are you—?”
“If you’d answer your cell, I wouldn’t have to call the bar,” he says with a laugh that has me digging into the back pocket of my shorts to see several missed calls from him on the screen.
“What the hell?” I comment more to myself than to him as I check my phone. “Sorry. I think I hit my Do Not Disturb button when I put it in my pocket. I’m such a dumbass.”
His laugh coming through the line makes him feel close, like he’s right behind me. The damn doubt I’ve been trying to ignore for the past two days disappears at the sound of his voice. “Today’s been ridiculously crazy, so I don’t have much time and I know you’re probably swamped with orders, but I wanted to call to say hi and tell you to make sure you watch the race today.”
“Okay. Sure. I’ll get Liam to tune one of the screens near the bar to it. Why, what’s up?”
“Because I’m in it.”
“You’re what?” I don’t know why all of a sudden my stomach drops at the same time my eyes widen and heart races with excitement. “How is that even—”
“It’s a long story, but you were right, Getty. About all of it. All my dad wanted was the best for me. I was blinded by the pain I was in.” Tears burn in my eyes. His voice sounds so surprised. So untroubled. And the sound of it truly makes me happy. “He’ll never admit it, but I found out he’s been hauling my car to every race. Paying my crew to show up, just in case I did.”
The awe in his tone makes me smile to myself. Even if a part of me is sad that I’ll never have that kind of love, it makes me so happy that he does. After everything he’s been through, he deserves to realize its presence in his life.
And while to others that may sound like some weird show of affection between a father and a son, I understand how important this is to Zander. He accused his dad of loving racing more than him. And yet his dad took that love, hauled it from city to city around the country. And waited for him. He had faith in the son that he’d raised into a man to know he’d figure his problems out and come back around.
He believed him to be the man he knew he could be.
“Oh, Zander.” My eyes well with tears over what I’ll never have and for what he always will.
“I know,” he says with that tone of his that allows me to see him nod. I can picture the soft smile on his lips and the appreciative look in his eyes.
There’s a blast of noise in the background. A voice on a PA system. The roar of a crowd in response. And it shocks me back to the here and now and the excitement he must be feeling and the sense of rightness with the world he’s gotten back.
“So, oh my God, you’re racing! Does it feel good to be back in your car?”
“No. Not my car.” He laughs. “When I get back, we’re going to sit down and I’m going to teach you all about what I do.”
I hear nothing else except for when I get back—the words I didn’t even realize I was waiting to hear—and it takes me a minute to wrap my head around them while he’s talking.
“. . . so it’s too late for me to race my car. I didn’t qualify, so she’s out. But unlucky for him and lucky for me, Alan came down with the stomach flu early this morning. They’ve been pumping him with IVs to try to hydrate him, but he’s still sick as a dog . . . so I’m going to drive his car. I’ll have to start in the back since I’m a different driver than the one who qualified for the race, but I’m confident I’ll be able to move up the pack pretty quickly.”
My head is spinning and my cheeks hurt from grinning. “I’m nervous.”
His laugh fills the line again and calms my anxiety. “Me too, Socks. But nerves are a good thing. They keep you on your game. Make you focus.”
“Then stay super nervous so you stay safe for me.”
