Page 117 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
And then she laughs.
Giggles.
Music to my ears. I can breathe again.
“I miss you too.” There’s softness in her voice. The same tone she uses when we lie in bed and talk, her hair tickling my chest, her fingers tracing imaginary lines over my skin.
I heard her answer in her tone, but need to hear it from her lips as well. “So?”
“For you, I could get used to there being strawberries in the fridge.”
* * *
My body, sore from fighting the wheel all day and the g-force of the turns after I’ve been out of it for a few months, finally relaxes from it all. The shots at the club help. The celebratory toasts with the beer. Funny thing is, as much as that was my scene, tonight I’m just not in the mood for it. It feels different. Too many people. Too much noise.
The young, dumb, and full-of-cum vibe just doesn’t fly with me tonight.
Huh. Maybe I got too used to island life. The quiet nights. How we’d sit on the deck listening to the waves crashing in. The way I could tip my longneck at the girl who sent a drink over and not have her think I wanted to get in her panties, because she knew I was with the bartender.
The sound of Getty humming down the hall as she painted with her earbuds in.
Getty. It all goes back to her, doesn’t it?
Maybe I’m just getting old. Burned-out on the party scene. Then again I wouldn’t mind sitting in the club with Getty on my lap, having a few drinks, laughing with the guys.
I’d also like to have her sitting on my lap for other reasons when my flight gets home tomorrow.
“Hey you.”
I glance over to the blonde snuggling in beside me on the couch, low neckline, a nice rack pushed up, and big blue eyes wide with expectation. I don’t say a word. Just rest my head back, take a minute to let the room stop spinning before I look around the suite where the boys have decided to bring the after-party.
The room’s large by any standards, but there are way too ma
ny people in here, pit crew and race bunnies alike. All wanting something from one another—and, by the looks of a few of the people hooking up, already getting it.
From the number of times I’ve been propositioned tonight—batted eyelashes, downright offers, tight little bodies accidentally rubbing against me—I could be right there with them. Hand up a skirt. Tongue down a throat. No one has sparked an iota of interest. It’s gotta be that I’m exhausted. Drunk off my ass. Between the time change, the race, the stress over what I had to face in coming back here . . . But that’s not it. And I know it.
Long nails scratch up my thigh over my jeans. I glance at the hot blonde over the bottle of beer I have at my lips and just raise my eyebrows, silently asking What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?
“I could help you relax after a long, hard day on the track,” she purrs in my ear while her hand slowly slides toward my groin.
My hand’s on hers in a flash—locked tight onto her wrist as I lift her hand off my cock. “Watch it, sweetheart. Not all packages want to be opened.”
Her tongue runs over her top lip. She shifts so she’s even closer. “I think your dick begs to differ.”
All I give her is a shake of my head. A fucking warm breeze gets a man hard, let alone a set of nails scratching over the denim covering it. “Yeah, well, my dick’s not the one making decisions for me.”
“Maybe it should.” A single finger runs down my bicep. “I could show you a great time.”
I sigh. “While I appreciate your subtlety, I’ve got an early flight. Thanks but, uh, no thanks.” After that, I rise from the couch on wobbly legs, and I have to stand there for a second as the room spins like a crash that never stops.
“Get a man drunk enough and he never says no,” she murmurs behind me.
When I think I can walk without falling, I slowly make my stumbling way to the bedroom I’m sleeping in. Suddenly thankful I can shut the door on all this shit.
I brace my arm on the jamb for a minute before entering and locking the door behind me. I may be drunk as fuck, but I’m more tired than anything. I don’t remember making it from the doorway to the bed, much less how I got my clothes off and left them strewn Getty-style across the floor.
But somehow I did, because when someone pounds on the door what feels like seconds later, I trip on my clothes as my bleary-eyed, drunk-as-fuck self heads to open it.
