Page 90 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
oint of no return.
Damn. The options are endless. Lucky fucking me.
I glance at my watch as I jog up the front steps. Eight minutes. Not bad time. The mechanic can’t be too pissed for the short delay. After all it’s his fault he doesn’t remember the replacement engine parts Smitty is already having delivered so he’d know which ones he needs to order. But I do. On an e-mail, on my phone.
The phone I left on the kitchen counter.
So he can bitch all he wants about the twenty-minute round-trip for me to go back and get it. It’s a helluva lot more convenient to wait the twenty minutes rather than eat the cost of shipping for duplicate parts he’s supposed to remember.
“Just where I left it,” I murmur as I grab the phone and head back to the door, surprised Getty’s not home getting ready for work. Maybe she’s already come and gone. There are flowers on the counter, but there’s no perfume. No barely there scent like after she usually sprays it. The thought lingers, bugs the shit out of me as I start to close the front door.
“It’s not my problem if you can’t breathe, Gertrude.”
The words ring loud and clear right before the door shuts. Instinct takes over at the sound of the unfamiliar voice down the hall. I’ve never heard it before but know instantly whom it belongs to.
“. . . hold your breath . . .”
I need to get to her. Getty.
“. . . be warned . . .” His laughter.
“. . . The next punishment . . .”
There’s a split second after I come through her doorway to assess the situation. My brain takes snapshots of the scene. Getty: eyes wide, lip trembling, fear on her face. Fear. Fear. All I see is fear. Ethan: pants pushed down, muscles tense, his hands on Getty.
His. Hands. On. Getty.
My only coherent thought. Then rage. Bloodred.
“Let. Her. Go.” My voice, but I don’t recognize it. Don’t care, because my only focus is getting him away from Getty. His hands off her.
All I feel is the sting in my knuckles as my fist connects with his cheek. His head snapping back. Getty cries out. The lamp crashes to the ground.
And all I can think is more. Again.
Avenge. Retaliate. Protect.
His grunt. My growl. A burst of pain on my cheek. The whoosh of air he exhales as I hit his abdomen. He stumbles. I follow. Another shot: him to my gut, me just grazing his cheek.
“Don’t you ever touch her again.” A threat. A warning. Never again.
I get ahold of his shirt. Twist my hand in the fabric. The scatter of buttons on the floor. Ram him hard against the wall.
His laugh. Arrogant. Uncaring. Unaffected. Like she’s nothing. A pawn. “You can have the frigid bitch.”
His words hit me, threaten to confuse me, but the rage is louder. Drowns out reason. Blinds me. Fuels me.
“Only a spineless son of a bitch sends his father-in-law to fight for the girl. But by the way you treat women, I guess chickenshit is pretty common in your world.”
His grin. Maniacal. Taunting.
Finish this, Zander.
My fist flies forward. The click of his teeth. The crunch of his nose. The warm spray of blood on my arm as his head swivels. The thump as his body hits the floor.
“Touch her again, and I’ll kill you myself.” The words are out before I even think them. The threat is more real than anything I’ve ever said before in my life.
But he’s knocked out. Will never hear it. Will never know how real it is.
