Page 40 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
His immediate response? A snort to signify that his chiseled abs and the tall, dark, and handsome thing he’s got going on are nothing more than average.
“Last warning, Socks.” His eyes flash with mirth. And what looks like desire.
An unexpected part of me—the one who usually hides and doesn’t ever take a chance—wants to say it again. Just to see what he’d do if I did.
“So damn pretty.” I don’t know who’s more shocked at my comment, him or me, but we stand there for a moment, gazes locked, unspoken words warring across the distance between us.
He walks toward me with a predatory gleam in his eyes and a salacious smirk on his lips that catches me off guard. “I know I said you were brave, Getty, but now you’re just playing with matches.”
I draw in a long inhalation as he steps right in front of me. I can’t look at him. My nerve is suddenly gone. Outside, rain pelts the roof. The constant drip into the bucket in the hallway serves as a metronome to this anticipatory silence we are dancing in. The goose bumps on his chest are the only thing I can focus on.
When his thumb and forefinger direct my chin up so I’m forced to meet his eyes, every part of me hums from his touch. From the want of something I don’t quite understand myself and couldn’t ever put into words. Our eyes meet—his intense, mine searching for answers that aren’t his to give—before his gaze flicks down to my mouth and then back up again.
“Not yet, Getty.” He closes his eyes for a beat, and I see what I think is restraint reflected in his grimace, before a ghost of a smile spreads on his lips. “I don’t think you’re ready to light this fire just yet.”
And once again, he nods his head, tongue licking out to wet his bottom lip, before turning his back and walking down the hallway without saying another word. I watch him move, turn into the bathroom, shut the door. Hear the shower turn on, the pipes creak. But I don’t move a muscle. His words—all of them—repeat in my mind and stoke the sweet ache they created that my body can’t deny.
With a loud sigh, I shake my head and walk to my bedroom.
I think we’re going to need a damn hose in the house to keep this fire out he’s already lit in me.
Chapter 10
ZANDER
Shane said you’re not answering his texts. So now you get me, the best brother. Hope you’re figuring everything out. We’re all worried. Just want the best for you. Dude, you keep standing me up for our we
ekly round of golf, so I’m taking lessons while I wait for you to get your ass back home. It’s up to you how many I take . . . so please, take your time. I’ll be at scratch before you know it. Besides, lessons are being charged to your membership anyway. Miss ya, bro. Oh, and be prepared, if you don’t answer, we’ll just keep moving through the ranks until you do.
The smile comes easily. Thoughts of my second to littlest shit of a brother, Scooter, who’s getting too damn decent at golf for his own good and way too big for his damn britches, by the words in his text. Scratch golfer, my ass. There’s no way he’s even close to par.
He can’t be. I haven’t been gone that long.
And with the smile comes the anger. The guilt. The how can he care about me when I was such an asshole to him?
I glance up from the sawhorse to the beach for a moment. Rein in my temper. And let myself miss home for a split second. The constant ribbing between all of us brothers and the relentless bitching to mind your own business from at least one of them.
Shit, I got what I wanted. To be left alone. To not be nagged and coddled and asked for the hundredth time what my problem was. To not have to see the hurt and disappointment in their eyes when I fucked up again.
But all these goddamn texts—the ones I get every few days or so from one of my brothers like they’re on a schedule—make it all that much worse. I don’t deserve their concern after the way I treated them.
They should kick my ass is what they should do. For the birthday party I missed. The phone calls I didn’t return. For showing up at Ricky’s house plastered and picking a fight. I’ve done so damn much I hardly recognize the man I was to them.
And yet today, another text. Another reminder of the family I don’t deserve. And of the weight I carry until I can make this right again.
I look back down to the message on my phone, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Fuck. What do you write when you don’t know the right words to say what you need to say? I set my cell down. Pick it back up. Exhale a breath. Shake my head. Type Thanks. Delete it because it’s lame, and yet while I don’t know what to say, I still need to say something. Anything. To let him know I’m trying to sort myself out. And not ignoring him. To thank him for sticking with me when I don’t deserve it.
Thanks for giving me time.
Chapter 11
GETTY
With my hands covered in streaks of pinks and peaches and oranges that match the sky at sunset on the canvas, I’m shocked at the time when I glance over at the clock. But my art always allows me to get lost in it, so I shouldn’t be surprised that four hours have passed when it felt like only forty minutes.
A Sunday off from work and away from the bar meant the urge to paint has been overwhelming. But I’m not sure if it was the creative outlet or my desire to avoid Zander that really fueled my need to be locked away in my room.
Because I am avoiding Zander—and his matches and fire and swoony words and defined chest and bashful kindness. In fact I have been for the past week; the few extra shifts at the bar I picked up have made it that much easier for me to do so.
