Page 13 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
I shake my head, pull myself back from thoughts about my old life. The designer clothes, five-star restaurants, and mandatory social-status outings—the finest of all things in life. But hand in hand with that went the complete and utter loss of control over my choices, the pretenses I had to keep, and the lack of truly living my life.
But here . . . here there is water and fresh air and space to create. There are genuine smiles and I’m just the new girl, Getty Caster, not Gertrude Caster-Adams of the renowned Caster family with expectations to fulfill and a husband with a reputation to uphold.
Zander’s voice swearing loudly through the open windows (Mrs. Brown next door is not going to take too kindly to it) causes the ghosts to skitter back into hiding. With a sigh, I look down at my makeup towelette smeared with various browns and blues and reds and decide that my lip gloss and mascara will have to do just fine for today, because coffee is more important than cosmetics at this point in time.
Besides, I don’t want Zander thinking I’m making any efforts for him. I won’t hesitate to do my makeup for work or because I want to, but never again because I have to for a man.
Going through my morning routine, I pretend like the house is still mine, still void of the distinct scent of masculinity, and still drenched in the solitude I came here to find. And when I walk out into the family room, all three of the things I’ve tried to ignore slap me squarely in the face when I come upon Zander making himself at home. He’s sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, and scowling at the television.
I notice it’s a race of some sort. I intend not to give it or him more than two seconds of my attention. And of course that’s impossible to do when I notice the huge gash on the side of Zander’s leg, running from his ankle to about halfway to his knee. It’s bruised and bloody and I immediately cringe at how bad that had to have hurt.
“What happened to your leg?” There’s concern in my voice along with a healthy dose of curiosity.
“Someone has lived here for three months and has yet to fix the step or caution it off so that others might not put their full weight on it and fall straight through to the ground.” He works his tongue in his cheek, but his eyes never wander from the television in front of him.
Oh shit.
“I’m sorry.” The words are off my tongue immediately—instant reflex—before I shake my head and bite back the gushing apologies that automatically cue in my mind out of habit. “I didn’t know. . . . I didn’t expect you. Are you okay? Do you need a doctor to look at it?” I move into the room toward him, truly apologetic, but at the same time knowing I can’t fix it now.
When he finally angles his gaze my way, the stare he gives me stops me dead in my tracks. “Don’t.” It’s a warning, loud and clear, and one I don’t need to hear twice.
We stare at each other, his oppressive mood filling the space between us in such contrast with the playful guy I met and actually kind of liked last night, regardless of how infuriating he was.
“It was an honest mistake. If I had known you were coming or going to get up that early, I would have . . .” My words fade off when his attention turns back to the television as clouds of smoke fill the upper right-hand turn of a track. Metal and tires fly as several cars connect with the concrete wall and one another.
He leans toward the television, jaw slack and eyes widening as if he were there, going through it himself, driving the car. “Unbelievable.” He says it like a swearword before he picks up the remote and turns it off. “The man can do no fucking wrong.”
Guess he really likes racing.
“Was that your driver?” I ask, hoping to break the tension.
His laugh fills the room. It’s full and rich but with a tinge of contempt that has me taking a step back, leery of everything about his demeanor.
I feel stupid. Did I phrase it the wrong way? “I meant to say, is that the driver you usually follow?”
He coughs out an amused sound but says nothing further. There’s something about his reaction that makes me feel like I’m being mocked. And then it clicks for me.
“Is that how you know Smitty? Doesn’t he race or something?”
“Something like that,” he murmurs, eyes back, fixated on the TV screen as if he’s still watching the race unfold in his mind.
“Something like that?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
Well, isn’t he Mr. Talkative? “What’s his—”
“No, Getty. We’re not going to do this right now.” He carelessly tosses the remote on the table with a clatter as he removes his feet from it, face wincing in pain. “We’re not going to do the get-to-know-you crap, because let’s face it, you’re going to be leaving in a few days. Then we’re never going to see each other again, so why waste our breath bullshitting each other? Neither of us is going to say anything more than what we want the other to hear anyway. From what I gather, we’re both here so we can’t lie to ourselves anymore, so let’s just save the pretenses. Deal?”
He rises to his feet, bringing our bodies near each other but everything else about us a million miles apart. I force a swallow down my throat because I hate so many things about the truth in his words. Despising that he’s hammered the nail on the head about my reasons for being here when he’s known me less than twenty-four hours. And hating that maybe I was secretly liking and loathing his company simultaneously. That maybe a part of me liked hearing another voice, enjoyed the laughter in his eyes last night, and the way he looked at me like I was more than just an object.
Does that even make sense? God, I’m so confusing. You either do or you don’t, Getty. Kind of hard to desire both solitude and some company.
While I’m at it, I might as well ho
ld a whole conversation in my head while he stares me down to make sure I understand where he’s coming from. And I do. I definitely do.
I nod my head as I wait for the words to come. And with the words come the anger that he’s an asshole and I shouldn’t want to like him, because who is that honest when you’ve just met someone? I’ve had enough assholes for a lifetime—forgetting one more shouldn’t be a problem for me.
