Page 14 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Deal.” I purse my lips, shake my head, and turn on my heel without another word. Because he’s right—I don’t want to waste any more of my breath on him. I’ve already wasted enough that he’s made my head spin.
Chapter 3
ZANDER
Would it kill you to pick up your phone and text me back to let me know you’re okay? I get you’re pissed at the world. Believe me, I’ve been there. Don’t be a dick and try to deal with whatever’s going on all on your own. That’s what you have brothers like me for.
Staring at the text from Shane for the twentieth time in as many minutes, I hate that I want to respond to it and at the same time that I don’t want to. I love my brother to death, but I can’t deal with him just yet.
He’s the good guy. Checking up on me. Telling me he’s there for me. Being the good brother he’s always been to me.
And I’m just the asshole. Needing to fly solo for now.
I delete the text.
I don’t need another reminder of everything I don’t deserve.
Chapter 4
GETTY
All day the bar has seen a steady flow of tourists, likely in a last mad rush to soak up island life and relax with a few drinks before the ferry leaves for the mainland for the last run of the day.
I’ve gotten to know its schedule, the ebb and flow of foot traffic, and then after the tourists load up and get on board, the locals emerge from their hiding places. They fill the Lazy Dog to capacity and bitch about the trash left behind by visitors, while thanking God for the money brought to the island’s economy. It’s the weekend routine here, something I’ve come to appreciate and depend on as part of my new normal.
“You good, Getty?” Liam asks from above the roar of the customers as someone hits a long fly ball in a close game playing on every television screen in the bar.
“Yep.” I wipe down the bar top in front of me and take a few minutes to organize the clutter that amasses during a shift, thanks to the lull in orders with the bases-loaded situation in the game.
“Can you help me with service to table thirteen?”
“Sure.” It’s rare for Liam to ask me to step out from behind the bar. He knows I like it better behind the counter, but when it’s super busy like it is tonight, I’ll venture out into what I call the Wild West.
I hate it but know it’s pushing the boundaries of my comfort zone, forcing me to engage and not be so skittish.
With a fortifying sigh, I pull up my socks, one zebra striped and the other polka-dotted today, the Lazy Dog uniform of logo T-shirt and mismatched knee-high socks as much of a landmark here in PineRidge as the ferry’s horn that goes off every hour. I make my way across the crowded bar to the little alcove near the front. It’s one of the bar’s coveted spots, offering the table’s occupant both a view of the ocean through the open windows and a clear sight line to the ball game. I get distracted by a few comments on the way, have a few laughs, stop to watch the next pitch, before I finally arrive at the table.
“What can I get for you tonight?” I ask the top of the ball cap before glancing back over my shoulder as the room collectively groans when the cleanup hitter strikes out.
I withhold a groan of my own when the customer lifts his head and I find Zander’s vibrant blue eyes looking back at me. “Oops, we seem to be all out of alcohol,” I say, sarcasm impossible to ignore as I start to walk away and leave him parched.
“Socks.” His hand flashes out to grab onto my forearm the same time he says that stupid nickname he’s given me. And the instant I feel his fingers tighten on my arm, alarm surges through me and has me yanking my arm from his grasp like I’ve been burned by fire.
“Let go!” The minute the words are out, I regret them. And not just the words but the audible sounds of fear and desperation woven in them.
Zander removes his hand instantly, but the look in his eyes is almost ten times more intrusive than the unwelcome panic his touch sparked. I wait for the questions to come, the look that indicates I have no right to react this way, and yet he says nothing. He just keeps his eyes locked on mine, making assumptions I’d rather he not make.
“Sorry . . . I, uh, sorry. Too much coffee today. What can I get you?” Heat warms my cheeks as I hold his stare and try to feign that everything is okay. That my heart’s not racing and embarrassment isn’t the reason I’m shifting my feet.
“Don’t be,” he finally says, breaking the tension between us and allowing the customers around us who’ve taken notice of my reaction to ease back in their seats. But beneath his hat, his brows narrow as his eyes tell me he’s not buying the “too much coffee” line. “It was my bad. Whatever IPA you have on draft is fine. I’m not picky.”
I move away from the table as quickly as possible, purposefully avoiding the stares from the regulars, since that’s twice in two days they’ve seen me act like a skittish mouse. The last thing I need is to draw more attention to myself, so I’m thrilled that another server offers to take Zander his beer while I fill more orders behind the bar.
Once I get lost in the work, in the hustle and bustle of filling orders, I remind myself to ignore Zander’s looming presence. I know he’s watching me, can feel his eyes scrutinizing me from the other side of the room, even though every time I begrudgingly glance up, he’s not looking my way. But in between delivering drinks and watching a few key moments of the game, I happen to notice people stopping at his table—men and women alike—chatting and laughing, almost as if they’re enamored with him.
It’s tempting to roll my eyes and snort in disgust. If they only knew what a grade A asshole he is. But then I’m left to try to figure out how, if he’s new to the island, these people know him, because I’m sure it’s not his charismatic personality drawing them in.
Why do you care, Getty? He’ll be gone shortly and you won’t have to worry about it.
