Page 118 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“What?” I shout as I struggle with unlocking the door in the dark and flinging it open.
“Dude, someone’s hooking up in the other bathroom. I’m gonna hurl.” Stevie hiccups as he pushes past me and runs to the en suite bathroom. I shut my door, blocking out the noise of the party still in full swing on the other side of it. Within seconds, Stevie’s gagging sounds filter through the closed bathroom door and into my room, making me want to puke myself.
But I’m too goddamn tired to have the energy to throw up.
“Shut my door when you’re done,” I shout to him as I stumble back to the bed.
Fall on it. Head to the pillow. Eyelids heavy.
“And lock it.”
The exhaustion captures me whole.
Chapter 37
GETTY
Since things are slower at the bar, I use the extra time to scrape the paint off my hands that didn’t come off in the shower. I keep discovering it in new spots and yet I don’t care, because my mood is through the roof. Not even the annoying guys at table eight, who keep complaining that their beer has too much foam, can dampen my mood. Impossible when the man I’ve unknowingly fallen madly in love with wants to try to turn this friends-with-benefits thing we have going into something more.
To say sleeping was difficult is an understatement. And I’m definitely feeling it now, four hours into my shift, with weary eyes and an achy back. But after his phone call my mind kept wandering to all the possibilities life holds for us. Fate just might be on my side this time around. I spent hours on his painting of the Indy car. Wanting it perfect. No, needing it to be perfect, because it’s sitting adorned with a bow on his dresser for when he comes home. A “Congrats on the great race.” An “I’ve never painted anything for anyone and yet I feel so strongly for you that I had to create this for you.” A “Welcome home, I missed you, and I can’t wait for this next step with you.”
Excitement fuels me through the day. Plus the knowledge that he’s high in the sky somewhere right now flying home to me. Bringing his sweet kisses closer. His infectious laugh. The sense of calm and safety he carries with him.
My good mood has probably grown annoying to bystanders. And yet after so many years of my having to fake every emotion, it’s kind of cool to just feel everything and not hide anything.
When I return from the storage room, Liam and a few customers are crowded over something at the other end of the bar. The minute they see me, the huddle breaks up. So I stand there observing their suspicious activity for a moment. And I don’t know how I never realized it before, but when men don’t want you to know something, they’re not exactly subtle in trying to act like nothing is going on.
At a loss, I pull the bar towel from my apron and wipe my hands, eyes still scanning the group, trying to figure out what’s going on. It’s only when I walk their way that Liam lifts his eyes again and meets mine. The look on his face is all it takes for me to know I’m not going to like whatever it is.
“Liam? What’s going on? What are you hiding?” Tell me.
“Need something, Getty?”
My eyes narrow. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I don’t like the sudden twisting in my stomach. I glance around the bar. Looking for my father. For Ethan. I don’t see them. But one of them usually accompanies the uneasy feeling that’s swamped me.
“What’s going on, Liam?”
“Nothing,” Liam says the same time another patron says, “Hella free publicity.”
A guy I rarely see in here gets elbowed by Jim, sitting next to him, and leveled with a glare from Liam. It takes me a minute to place who he is. Jerk of a guy. Rumors of a controlling wife who doesn’t let him out much. Likes his whiskey cheap and tips even cheaper.
But right now I don’t care shit about who he is, because I want to know what he means.
“Free publicity? What do you mean?” I take another step closer as buttons on cell phones are pushed so that apps close out. Wide eyes greet me. Mouths remain silent.
“Just tell me, Liam.” I know he’s my boss, but something is wrong. And I don’t know what he’s protecting me from, but his sigh when he reaches for his phone causes goose bumps on my arms. He shoos the guys around the counter away, an extra glare given to Jim before he slinks away to another table.
“There was a picture posted on Instagram this morning. They tagged the bar, so some of the guys who follow my account saw it.”
“Okay . . .” I’m not seeing why this is such a big deal or what it has to do with me in any way, shape, or form. And then I get it. It’s probably a scantily clad chick and he’s embarrassed and doesn’t want to show me.
Now I feel like an ass for pressuring him. And overreacting to boot.
“I can handle it, Liam. I’m a big girl.”
He blows out a breath as I reach for his phone so I can see the picture. But when the screen flickers to life, it takes a minute for my mind to accept what I’m seeing. Or to process anything beyond the holy shit that keeps running on repeat through my shocked mind.
The selfie was taken askew. Zander’s head on a pillow, face angled to the camera, eyes closed. Sound asleep. The tattoos on his back are visible, sheet pulled down low so the top of his ass can be seen.
