Page 113 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
The line falls silent for a moment. There’s so much commotion in the background I wonder if he even heard me. And a part of me hopes he didn’t, because I just possibly went into boundary territory, implied too much between us. I close my eyes and mentally chastise myself.
“Sorry, but I’ve got to go to the drivers’ meeting in a sec.”
“Okay.” Don’t go yet. “Well, be safe and good luck. I’ll be watching.”
“Bye.”
* * *
I’m useless behind the bar.
Every rise in the pitch of the announcer’s voice has me leaning over the counter to look closer at the screen, in order to find the distinct lime green color of the car Zander’s driving.
And despite an already-packed house of tourists, word got around the island and all the locals have joined us here too. Wanting to cheer on the man they’ve adopted as their own. Zander has definitely won over this tough crowd.
Either way, every face in the bar is riveted to one of the multiple television screens. Even the tourists have gotten caught up in the atta-boys shouted in support as Zander methodically passes car after car, working his way up the field, during the first hundred laps of the race.
The atta-boys slowly morphed into sighs of frustration and groans of disappointment and gasps when he steered clear of a car touching the wall and careening out of control.
And now with fifteen laps—thirty-seven and a half miles—left in the race, the crowd is on edge. The announcers’ continual reference to the track’s Tricky Triangle hasn’t helped my heart rate slow down any either.
With a scattered mind and restless fidgeting, I make myself focus back on my work. On the next order. Not the next lap. At least I try to. I know Liam’s just as excited as I am about Zander’s unexpected entrance in the race—and not just because this has given the bar a little celebrity status in this typically uneventful town. But because he really likes him.
I grab a bottle of vodka. Pour a drink. A female tourist looks bored to tears as her husband watches with the rest of the crowd, and I silently thank her for being patient while I watch too.
Suddenly the bar gasps collectively and I’m around the counter in an instant with my eyes pinned to the television. Heart in my throat and afraid to look at the smoke and debris ricocheting off the track’s concrete barrier. My hands clutch the edge of the bar as I search for the unmistakable lime green car.
“Donavan’s through,” the announcer says, and while I breathe a sigh of relief, the car that flies out of the tunnel of smoke is red. It’s Colton. Chills rack my body as I walk closer to the television, twisting at the bar towel in my hands as the seconds tick by. “Mason, Jameson, Dallas, Dane, are all through. Zander, Green . . .” I don’t hear the rest because the crowd erupts in a communal sigh of relief.
Mine included.
A caution flag is waved and I step back behind the bar, my eyes trained on Zander as he pulls into the pits, and within the span of time from when I look down and back up—ten seconds max—he’s already driving again. The announcers shout in excitement as he gains two spots on cars with longer pit stops.
“Son of a gun,” one of them laughs out. “The Golden Boy’s here for one race and already Lady Luck is back on his side.”
The nickname makes me smile wider because I know how much he loathes it. Plays it up. Makes fun of it himself.
I try to fill as many orders as I can while the yellow flag is out so I can get caught up and watch the rest of the race without getting in too much trouble. But when the green flag waves again with only nine laps left, I don’t think Liam cares about the pace at which we’re filling orders, because he and everyone else in the bar are glued to the action.
They fly around the track. The mass of cars on the restart sit so close together that I worry about another wreck. About two tires touching and Zander going headfirst into the wall or even worse.
My heart bea
ts in my throat and I’m gripping the towel so hard my knuckles are white. Adrenaline runs through my system like a drug. I can’t stand still. And yet I don’t want to move in case it blocks my view of the television.
Six laps left.
The announcers are talking fast with excitement, but I can’t pay attention to them because my eyes are locked on the lime green car pushing boundaries like I’ve never seen before. And I know I’m not savvy about racing, know nothing about it, and yet Zander’s talent on how to read an opponent, when to push the car that much more to get an edge on the car beside him, is uncanny. He’s aggressive and arrogant with his attempts, but at the same time even a novice like me can see his knowledge and precision about when to take the risks.
He’s mesmerizing to watch. I’m sure the facts that my nerves are skittering out of control and that I have an emotional investment skew my opinion, but there’s something extremely sexy about watching him in his element. Doing his thing and taking charge. Especially when I know this domineering, skillful man also has a sense of humor . . . and calls himself Mander to ease an anxious woman’s nerves.
He passes two cars in front of him within a one-lap period, and with each one the bar becomes more and more frenzied. “C’mon, Zander” and “Just four more” sound out repeatedly until it’s practically a chant.
Four laps left.
“It’s like Zander Donavan returned on a mission to make the other drivers remember this young man’s incredible talent. And look at that! He’s making another move on the twelve car. There is no limit he’s not willing to push today. I’m sure his crew chief is having a heart attack, but man oh man . . . this is some spectacular racing, folks.”
“And he did it!” the second announcer yells in surprise as Zander skirts the high side of the track and just ekes by the twelve car.
