Page 25 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Oh no. We’re not together. I mean it was a mistake—”
“Your shift’s over, Getty,” he says with a knowing smile, saving me from my flustered response. “Go grab a glass of the poison of your choice. Enjoy the full house while I sort your tips out.”
“Thanks.” He retreats to the other end of the bar while I’m left trying to figure out what just happened.
* * *
It’s the hum of the bar that I love, just not the people who make the sound. But I’m not caring whatsoever, because the Tom Collins in my hand is empty and my head is slightly fuzzy. Definitely one good thing about never being allowed to drink: You get buzzed off your first one.
And luckily tucked in the corner on the side of the bar like a hermit, I get to keep mostly to myself and enjoy the atmosphere but not really be a part of it.
“We never got to finish our conversation.” I don’t know why Zander’s voice is akin to nails over chalkboard to me—possibly because I’ve been sitting here stewing about him and how much I don’t want to be—but the minute he slides into the booth beside me, I jump. Without a single word, I rise from my seat, walk behind the bar and through the door to the back room that serves as a quasi break room and a storage area.
“What’s your problem?” His voice is too close behind me—obviously he’s following me when he’s not allowed back here.
For some reason I don’t take him as one who follows rules.
“I just want to get away from you.” I turn around to face him, realizing all of a sudden how small this room feels with him occupying it. “I told you, I don’t like you.”
And why is that, Getty? Because he makes that fluttery feeling happen in your stomach? He only has eyes for you. Because you don’t want to think about him or care about his white squalls and yet you do?
I shake the thoughts from my head, my own little devil and angel warring within me. It’s the last thing I need when I have a fight right in front of me that needs my attention.
“You’re obviously angry at me for something. An argument goes a little smoother when both people know what the fight’s about. . . .” He lifts his eyebrows and all I see is a taunt instead of a question.
“Shall we start with the word again? Darcy.”
“You mean name.”
“This is exactly why I don’t like you. You’re frustrating and arrogant and you think you can waltz back here, tell me what is going to happen, how to fight, what to do, after you don’t even have the courtesy of telling me who you are.” My words fall out in a tirade that makes no sense even to me. Why am I hurt, though? Is it because he didn’t trust me enough to tell me?
And neither did Darcy, her nonresponse flickering through my mind: “That’s for him to tell you. Just as your story is for you to tell him, if you want.”
It’s not like you’ve told him anything either.
“Does it matter who I am?” His shoulders square as he takes a step closer, hands at his side, eyes searching mine for the truths behind my words.
&n
bsp; “No. Yes. Damn.” Brilliant.
“That’s a great answer. Very decisive.” The smirk is back. So is the seductive scent of his cologne.
“Quit mocking me.” I fight against the urge to walk out and leave this argument behind, uncomplicate things that are already so damn complicated.
“Does it matter who I am? What my job is?” I can sense he cares about my answer for some reason.
“No. Of course not. But you could have at least told me.”
“It doesn’t change anything, Getty, other than now you can go search on the Internet about me, about my past, and read shit that may or may not be true. Is that what you want? Because I have a feeling there is a helluva lot more you want to say, so have at me.”
“Oh.” It’s my only response, and our eyes lock. The prospect of looking him up never really even crossed my mind. But now of course that he’s mentioned it . . . the idea will nag at me. And in that instant I think of myself, how upset I’d be if someone told him who I really was and how vulnerable and betrayed I’d feel. And then I wonder if that’s his whole game plan here: make me feel bad so that I walk away from this argument feeling sorry for him. I don’t think he has any clue that I’ve spent so many years being the wallflower in the corner, taking the blame, not fighting back, and I just can’t do that right now.
Silence fills the space between us. Part of me wants to ask more and the other half that doesn’t want to give more becomes a conundrum all in itself. The quid pro quo that I won’t let happen. So instead I focus on him being in my space, in my house, in my life, when he shouldn’t be. When I don’t want him to be.
And yet he’s still here, still waiting for my answer, still taunting me by his mere presence. A constant reminder of everything I don’t want, can’t have in my life, don’t have the luxury to even consider.
“So can you tell me what my driving a race car for a living and Darcy have in common?” His voice pulls me from my thoughts, brings me back to him standing a few feet in front of me. “Are those what caused that huge chip on your shoulder to weigh you down so much you’re being irrational and picking a fight with me for no apparent reason?”
