Page 119 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
The problem isn’t him. Well, more so, the problem is the person taking the selfie that included Zander. Her blond head of hair looks mussed, painted blue eyes are smudged, and pulled tightly around her braless breasts is a white T-shirt with the distinctive Lazy Dog Bar logo. The one that Liam gave Zander before he left.
I swear I must blink my eyes a hundred times while I try to process how the image could be misleading. But when I scroll down to the caption, my heart and stomach drop.
@ZanderDonavan definitely not a lazy dog in the sack. This girl wore his ass out. Thanks for the shirt @LazyDogBar. It looks better on me than him. He looks better on me too. #RacerDown #VictoryLane #SexyZexy #MisterOrgasm #MansGotGoodHands #SexGod #NailedHim #SorryLadies #TeamDonavan
I lick my lips and strive for some kind of composure. The noise of the bar sounds like a jet engine roaring in my ears and I’m having trouble fighting the tears that burn at the backs of my eyes. I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Every single emotion I’ve reveled in over the past twenty-four hours has just come crashing down around me.
I’d love to refute it. To say the picture is fake. That it can’t be real. And yet I know it’s him. Those tattoos. Plus the fact that’s his preferred position to sleep. And I recognize the thumbnail turned blue from where he hit it with the hammer a few weeks ago. Know the shirt is real because it’s the same one I have on.
It’s a struggle to breathe. To comprehend. To function. And yet I feel so damn much. More than anything I’ve ever felt in my life and in a way I never want to feel again.
Liam tries to take the phone from my hand, but I hold tight to it, not wanting to let go just yet and wanting to stomp my heel into the screen at the same time. I take one last look at the picture, at her Instagram account name, @RaceBunnyBabe, and give it to Liam without a fight.
“Can I . . . I need to take a break?” I ask him as I walk to the back room without waiting for an answer, feeling the weight of all the stares from the patrons on my back.
“Getty,” Liam calls after me, but I really don’t want to talk to anyone. “Getty.” Again. All I want to do is cover my ears and close him out. “The bar’s slow today. Why don’t you head home?”
My eyes flash up to his. His face expresses complete concern and apology, and I look away as quickly as I can while I untie my apron strings. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
Anger hits me on the brisk walk home. And not just anger, but a rage I’ve never kn
own before. Not even toward Ethan. Like the air you inhale feels like fire and your chest hurts and your eyes burn and your whole body trembles, but you can’t stop any of it from happening.
How could he? That’s all that repeats in my head over and over and over. Am I really that gullible? Am I really naive to think this famous race car driver and desirable man could want to stay with me of all people? A shell-shocked woman recovering from her abusive past in this small island town? That he’d want to give up his lifestyle of fast cars and obviously faster women for this?
He played me for a fool. Took the small comfort zone I’d made in this little town where gossip thrives and made me a mockery to everyone. Paraded me around to just make fun of me in the end.
The ache in my chest increases tenfold as the questions run rampant in my head. How could I be so wrong? Why did he call me and say he wanted more? Was that his way of trying to make me feel better? But even that makes no sense.
Flinging open the door to the house, I finally allow the angry tears to run down my cheeks. I’m restless despite the crying jag. Antsy. Want to lie down and cry from the hurt that won’t stop, and at the same time can’t sit still.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s an explanation.
How?
So I run back into the kitchen and grab my phone out of my purse. With trembling fingers and blurry eyes I pull up the Instagram app. Have to wait for it to download onto my phone. I search for the name @RaceBunnyBabe. I don’t understand the screens or the pages but see that there is only one picture under her account. The one of her and Zander this morning. I’d had a small ounce of hope this was wrong, but it’s shattered by this.
Then I notice the comments below the pictures this time. The jealous women wishing they were her. The crass comments about if he’s really golden in bed. The Where was this taken?
And it’s that comment that draws my attention. Because there was a response. I don’t want to click the button to find out the answer, but I have to. The Four Seasons.
All my hope leaves with the next sob that falls from my mouth. My fingers switch over to the Messenger app. I don’t care if he’s in the air right now. I text him: Don’t bother coming home. I don’t want to see you. You made your point. Have a nice life.
Pacing the house, I check my phone constantly. Know he’ll have landed and will be heading this way soon—through the traffic, on the ferry, to the house. I can’t focus on anything else. Can’t concentrate. I know he will text me back. Not what he will say. It’s not like there’s a suitable explanation anyway.
It’s on what feels like the five hundredth pass through the kitchen that I see his damn to-do list. The Miss the handyman while he’s gone item he added onto it. And a fresh set of anger erupts within me. What a joke he played on the naive roommate. The fun he must have been having, calling to sweet-talk me while she was probably sitting in the hotel room beside him!
I don’t know what provokes me but I see paint front handrail and since he’s basically finished with the back deck, I know that’s the one major thing he has left to do. Well, screw him. I’ll do it for him so he has no excuse or need to be here at all.
None.
Suddenly I’m a woman on a mission. A mission fueled with spite and anger. I head to the shed for the paintbrushes and scan the cans for the wood stain. When my eyes hit a can with a tester drop of Pepto-Bismol pink on the lid, I grab it without any thought of right or wrong. Morality is out the window by the amount of pain he’s caused me with his betrayal.
All I can think of is I’ll show him. Focus on how his stupid list will be complete, so he can keep his word to everyone else but me, and then he’ll be done here.
I’ll never have to see him again.
I stroke the brush over the sanded wood. The settled paint doesn’t spread well and I have to close it back up and shake it the best I can. Get my aggression out on a can that’s years old from the previous owners. But I don’t care. Because I’m doing something. Anything. To try to stanch the hurt. Dull the pain. Stop my feelings of stupidity.
