Page 2 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
The pounding on the door startles me. I know I should have expected it. Know I’m fucking up again. But does it really matter in the grand scheme of things?
I know who it is before he even speaks. Somehow I knew he’d find me. Just like I know he’s going to be pissed before I hear his voice.
Ask me if I care.
“Zander.” Boom. Boom. Boom. His fist on the hotel room door sounds like thunder in my head. “Open up.” Boom. Boom. Boom. “Open the goddamn door!”
And when I open it, there’s the lightning: The bright light of the hall blinds me after so much darkness. I block the glare with my forearm. It’s futile until he shifts his stance and blocks its blaze.
Colton.
My mentor. My boss. The person who knows me best.
My dad. Well, adopted dad, but does it really matter?
We stare at each other. His green eyes fill with concerned disgust as he gives me a once-over to take in my rumpled clothes—the same ones from last night—and makes a show of sniffing the air to let me know he can smell the stench of alcohol that’s probably seeping out my pores.
Yes. It does matter.
Lies always matter. Especially when they’re from people you thought loved you.
“You forget something?” There’s a bite of anger to his question, and I’m buzzed enough that I don’t think twice about my smart-ass response.
“Not that I can think of.” My hand’s on the door, swinging it shut in his face before I finish the sentence.
If I thought the sound of his fist knocking on the wood was loud, the sound when he slams it back against the interior wall is deafening. I deserve nothing less than his wrath, but it’s proving really hard beneath this alcoholic haze to find any fucks to give.
He shoves past me, flicking the light switch on and bumping me in the chest with his shoulder as he passes by. It’s all I have not to take everything out on him right now. Use my fists to relieve the anger and disbelief and hurt and every damn thing bottled up inside me.
Like all the shit that’s definitely my fault but that I’d rather blame on him. On my adoptive mom, Rylee. On the whole fucking world.
The thoughts stagger me. I shake my head, try to figure out how I could want to raise my fists at the man who has helped to give me everything, and yet the images fill my head again: the blood, the Band-Aids, the scissors.
My mom.
The truth my mind has been hiding from me.
The one he has obviously been keeping from me too.
With my fists clenched and entire body vibrating, I force myself to remain where I stand and hold back the anger that’s been running like a river through my veins the past few weeks.
“You know what I can’t figure out?” he asks nonchalantly as he picks up the empty bottle of Jameson before tossing it on the perfectly made bed with a chuckle. And then a sigh. “Why?”
Such a loaded question. One I’m not quite positive I feel like pulling the trigger on answering. And yet my finger’s itching to. I’m just not sure I can handle the blowback right now.
So I don’t answer. The question hangs in the stale air of the hotel room, his silence weighing on me as he surveys the space. After a few seconds his eyes find mine and ask the question again. But I choose to be the asshole. It’s just so much easier than having to admit out loud what I still don’t want to believe myself.
“Why what?” I finally answer. Sarcasm tinges my tone. Along with a healthy dose of It’s none of your fucking business.
“This isn’t a joke, son.” A lift of his eyebrows. Another shake of his head. His face a mask of disgust.
Just more shit I don’t want to deal with. Questions bubble up inside me. Fester like infected wounds. Eat at me until I can’t bite back the anger.
“Nope. It seems I’m the joke these days.” The autopsy report flashes in my mind’s eye. Fuels my fire.
He narrows his eyes. Tries to figure out where my hostility is coming from. “Damn straight, you are,” he says, and for the first time I notice his lucky shirt and workout pants. His superstitious pre–fire suit getup.
Then it hits me that I’ve just royally fucked up. The thoughts flash through my mind. It’s daylight. I’m supposed to be somewhere, do something other than get lost in this bottle.
