Page 51 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
Quit being such a pussy. Accept that whatever else is in that box doesn’t affect who I am or what I’ve made of my life. It is what it is.
Easier said than done.
God, how I wanted to pick up the phone and call her back. Ask her the questions I need to ask: Did she know? Why didn’t she tell me? What was her reasoning for keeping the truth from me all this time? Then I could get angry with her answers. Shout and rage and get all this pent-up emotion out. Then apologize ten times over for the ways I’ve hurt them . . . but pride is a hard thing to swallow when you feel like it’s all you have left.
Right now my own need to cope is more important than the urge to call her. But fuck if I don’t feel guilty at the sadness in her voice.
Push it away, Donavan. You’ve got to face the facts first and then you can face Rylee and Colton. Fix you, then them. You’ll know what to say then. How to say it. Accept who you really are.
When I reach the porch steps, I brace my hands on my knees and gulp in the bitter air. My chest hurts from pushing myself too hard. But after Getty last night and my less-than-satisfying jerk-off in the shower this morning while thinking of her, I needed to work off some of my frustration.
When I grab a Gatorade from the refrigerator, thoughts about our unexpected kitchen interlude litter my head. And isn’t this why I went on a run? To clear my head? But the minute I’m back here, with the scent of her perfume and a pair of her discarded socks sitting on the family room floor, she crawls right back into my damn head.
Everything about her gets to me.
The look on her face when I was close to her. Her ball-tightening kiss. That little jolt of fear that I felt go through her muscles and sweep across her face. Her fear over something. How I had to step back and take stock. Remember she’s not some road groupie wanting to get it on with points champion Zander Donavan. The Golden Boy. No, she’s clearly a woman on the mend from something. One running from a past that was obviously shitty.
That in itself is enough reason for me to pause and step back, because when she gets that look in her eyes, like she has to look over her shoulder and make sure no one’s there, she reminds me of my mom. The way I remember her to be: skittish, always apologizing, withdrawn. And that’s a huge problem. It’s a bright fucking beacon warning me away and yet I keep walking right into its light wanting to help, to be there for her, to get to know her better, when I shouldn’t. Hell, I’m the furthest thing from qualified to help her.
What I should be thinking about is sex, sex, and more sex. With her preferably and not my own hand and a bottle of lube.
I can’t get involved more than that. I have enough to do with my own issues that I need to figure out. And yet even though I warned her, I can’t figure out why she keeps occupying my thoughts.
Living day in and day out with her is like tempting an alcoholic with a bottle of gin. You want to taste, want to sample, but know it’s just going to bring you back to being selfish. Wanting only what you want without regard for anyone else or the damage it’s going to do. While gin’s not my thing, it sure as shit doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take a sip if I’m thirsty.
And last night, damn was I thirsty. What I wouldn’t have given to take advantage of the situation—a gorgeous woman whose kiss tastes as good as her laugh sounds—but I couldn’t willingly let her spread her legs without being up-front with her.
Well, I could have. I could’ve been a prick, enjoyed the coming weeks with her moaning beneath me without a scratch on my conscience about how my time here will come to an end. Have some fun, some great sex, and then part ways with nothing more than a thanks for the good time and an empty promise to call every once in a while.
But I can’t treat her like that. There’s something about Getty that has gotten under my skin.
At first I thought it was the want-what-you-can’t-have type of thing. The temptation after promising myself to cut out the complications of adding a woman to the mix. I’m supposed to be here for me. But it’s not that. Then I thought it was the innocent-woman thing. Her big doe eyes and blushing cheeks and obvious unease with men
tell me she’s not used to attention from the opposite sex. Fuck yes, it’s attractive, gives me visions of being the one to teach her a few things, but I’m not the kind of guy who racks up points for deflowering the virginal type. There’s nothing sexy in that. It’s not a game, not something you do knowing you’re going to walk away.
Maybe it’s just because I actually like her. Think she’s smart and naturally beautiful without trying to be, and when I can pry her out from behind the protective wall I know all too well, her personality is killer. And it’s the mad respect I have for her for doing what my mom never did: getting out of an abusive relationship. Because while she may have never said it out loud, the signs are there. The ones someone who has lived in an abusive household can spot like a road sign even all these years later. And a woman that does that deserves the happily-ever-after she never got the first go-round.
So I’m fucked. I want her but can’t give that to her, and hell if I’m going to be the one to add on to the hurt that already lingers in her eyes. I’m not that much of an asshole.
But I’m also not going to deny how much I wanted to slide between her thighs last night, clear the counter behind her with a swipe of my arm, and take and taste and satisfy until the sun came up. Instead I showed restraint like I’ve never had to before. I stepped back. Told her I wouldn’t be staying long term. Gave her an out if she wanted one. And hopefully earned my conscience the A-OK to be free of guilt when we do sleep together, because it’s her choice now.
A clear conscience, a conflicted heart, and a frustrated dick. Quite the trio. I have to hope that when she says yes, she still doesn’t get hurt in the end.
Because she will say yes. I saw the answer in her eyes and heard it in the way she called my name. But I still walked away, albeit with an ache in my balls, before shutting the door so I wouldn’t be tempted to go back.
Now I glance in her room before I enter mine. Recall how goddamn bad I wanted to slide into her bed last night, pull her against me, and comfort her after her nightmare. But that’s being selfish, because I’m lying to myself. I wouldn’t have been able to stop at just feeling her body against mine. Not hardly. Let’s be real here.
Go fix her car, Donavan. Do something useful other than waiting with your dick in your hand for her answer. No time like the present. Besides, I’m already sweaty and dirty.
Maybe even earn me some brownie points too.
When I walk into my room to grab a clean shirt, the box in the corner catches my eye. Especially the chicken-scratch writing on the envelope taped to the outside and the Los Angeles postal origin. The letter in said envelope, from the person who is technically my aunt, explained that my uncle, my only living relative, died of an overdose.
Is it bad that I couldn’t care less? Is it heartless that after a failed attempt to foster me when I was twelve for the monthly stipend to fund their habit, the both of them ceased to exist to me? That I’m grateful for their fuckups because it led to Rylee and Colton adopting me?
Why all this time later would she think I want to look at stuff she came across while cleaning out my uncle’s things? Maybe she’s just being decent, returning the contents because it’s all I have left of my childhood. Then again, an autopsy report? Placing it as the first thing in the box so I’d be sure not to miss it. Maybe it was her final fuck-you.
So it’s no wonder I’m hesitant to see the rest of the contents.
