Page 12 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
Night, Socks.
The words tumble through my sleep-drugged mind and last night rushes back in full comedic color.
I must be dreaming. I’ll just go back to sleep, chase away the nightmare. Prove it didn’t happen.
Just as I snuggle deeper into my covers, the damn hammer starts again. Shocks my mind awake. Tells me Zander really is in the bedroom beside me. And that my damn neighbor, Nick, must be working on his house and has absolutely zero sympathy for the fact that I worked the closing shift last night.
Go away, Nick, I yell at him in my mind. Groaning out loud. But what if Zander’s not a morning person either? What if Nick keeps hammering and the noise drives him insane and pushes him toward the hotel in town?
Optimistic at the prospect, I slide out of bed, grab my fluffy purple robe, and wrap it tightly around myself. Already missing the warmth of the bed, I step over the wand and open my bedroom door so I can check if Zander’s door is still shut. It is.
Keep hammering away, Nick.
I tread lightly down the hall, brush my teeth as quietly as possible, and then head toward the front of the house just as the bang, bang, bang starts again. I know my intentions are bitchy and Zander’s probably a nice guy, but I really need to keep this place all to myself. Need to continue figuring things out on my own. I have to heal my body, mind, and heart so I can figure out what’s next for me.
Intending to sit on the front patio and let the steady pounding wake me fully, I pull open the door and am startled to see Zander with hammer in hand making the noise himself.
Are you kidding me?
Instantly discouraged, I know I should retreat. Go take advantage of the shower while he’s out here and think of a new game plan.
Yet I don’t move. Can’t. Even though it’s the last thing I want to be caught doing, I’m transfixed watching him: the sinews in his forearms as he swings the hammer, his hair falling over his brow as he leans forward, the drip of sweat that falls off the edge of his nose, and the bunch of his muscles beneath his T-shirt. The ones my mind can still picture bared like they were last night.
I’m pissed all over again. At him especially. About all those things inside me the sight of him hot and sweaty is stirring awake. At least last night there was humor and frustration. This morning is just a straight-up punch of—unwelcome—lust.
He definitely needs to go. To the hotel. To any of the other islands here off the coast of Washington State. Out to sea for all I care. Anywhere but here.
I take a step back into the house to provide some distance from his definitive virility and formulate a new plan to get him to leave. Hog all the hot water. Be a slob. Flush the toilet every time he’s in the shower. Burn some awful-smelling incense. I don’t know for certain, but the one thing I do know is that the longer I stand here and stare at him, the harder convincing myself to do something is going to be.
“Goddammit!” Zander swears, and drops the hammer with a clatter. The sudden noise has me stepping back into the doorway. He sucks on his thumb, swears again, and shakes his hand. “You just going to stand there and stare?”
The bite to his voice sounds very different from last night and for a moment I’m frozen in indecision. Then I swallow over the lump lodged in my throat, which used to be my norm, and tell myself that’s the old me. Time to buck up and remember why I’m here and why I need him gone.
“Yep. Sure am.” It’s all I say, all I can think to say, but at least this time I have clothes on when I face him down.
Luckily he does too. What’s unlucky for me is how perfectly they hug his biceps. And his pecs.
“You’ve lived here how long?”
I startle at the question. “Three months–ish.”
“And you never bothered to fix this step here?” I stare at him. Big, blank doe eyes are my only answer, because I knew it was there and hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Fixing myself is a big enough chore in itself. “Didn’t think so,” he responds when I don’t answer. “And you still think you deserve to stay here over me?”
Everything within me bristles at his comment. My need to stand up for myself versus my need to
not feel stupid are warring against each other, so instead of saying anything, I just shake my head and step back into the house without another word.
Ignoring Smitty’s explanation last night, I immediately fire off a text to Darcy, which helps me to feel like I’m being proactive. I know he said she’s not getting any service, but since I just walked away without a word from Zander when I should have stood up for myself, I figured I needed to do something to make me feel a little more in control of this out-of-control situation.
Needing time to think, I head to the one place in the house where I can block out the sound of the hammer and Zander’s annoying presence: the shower. I take my time, purposely letting all the hot water run empty before I get out. The sweat ring on Zander’s shirt says he went out for a run. A run means he’ll want a shower. And oopsie, this house has such a small hot-water heater that maybe he should go to the hotel down the street, where they have a massive abundance of it.
But he’s not waiting to take one when I leave the bathroom. In fact the hammer continues for a while, making it nearly impossible to ignore him. Or forget him. So in another attempt to shut him out, I close myself off in my room and take my time getting ready. I experiment with my makeup, as I find myself doing lately. It’s a newfound freedom being able to choose different eye shadows or shades of lipstick or to wear none at all when for so very long I had to abide by what I’d deemed the Stepford Wife daily makeup application.
My easel calls to me over the top of the vanity. Sketches in charcoal sit there waiting for me to paint them with bright and beautiful colors . . . although for some reason, I think they’d prefer to stay in their black-and-white state with smeared fingerprints and tarnished edges.
Kind of like me. Kind of like my face.
I stare at myself long and hard in the mirror, take stock of the reflection looking back at me: wide-set jaw, full lips, rosy cheeks, peaches and cream complexion, a dusting of freckles I’ve never cared for across the bridge of my nose, longish light brown hair. But the one thing that holds my attention rapt is my eyes; their deep chocolate brown hue looks much less haunted than when I drove onto the ferry, unsure of what awaited me on the island.
