Page 4 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
You’re not my old man. The words flicker and fade through my rage. Shock me. Plant thoughts in my head that I’ve never considered before. And even though they’re bullshit, they still linger. Still taint my anger and jade my words.
“I’m perfectly in control,” I grate out through gritted teeth. Anger. Spite. Frustration. All three spin on the merry-go-round in my head. Muck up the truths and feed off the confusion.
“Perfectly in control?” he asks with a disbelieving shake of his head as he reaches into his pocket and grabs his cell phone. Confusion and dread run through me simultaneously. It’s like deep down I know this can’t be good and yet can’t for the life of me figure out what he’s going to show me on the screen once he’s finished flicking through images. “Let’s just say you owe Smitty big-time, because I’m done paying for your fuckups, Zee. This was the only picture taken last night. Lucky for you, the VIP room was empty by the time this happened. Smitty was worried enough about you to stick around to make sure you didn’t get into trouble. The lone paparazzo who snuck through and snapped this had to forfeit his camera to the bouncer, because it was against house rules.”
The look on Colton’s face and his eyes trained on the image on his phone unnerve me. The anxiety breaks through the hold the anger has on me. Worries me. Makes me shift my feet in anticipation of something I know has to be bad to earn me this speech.
Thoughts ghost through my mind. A hot blonde. A dick-hardening kiss. A pissed-off boyfriend. Testosterone-laced tempers. My words, “I’m Zander fucking Donavan.”
This can’t be good.
“Cut the dramatics and just show me.”
“Dramatics?” Colton thunders farther into the room as he holds the phone out so I can see it. I reject the image immediately. A moment of clarity amid the confused haze. Know it didn’t happen the way the picture shows.
Just the same way your dream about your mom was different than reality too.
I stare at the image, my body tense, my jaw clenched, and try to fill in the missing holes between what’s in my mind and what the picture shows. The worst part is I can’t know for sure that I didn’t do that.
“Is that dramatics, Zander? Looks pretty crystal fucking clear to me.”
It’s me all right. Fist clenched, arm cocked, a rage on my face like I’ve never seen before—but it’s nothing like the look on the woman’s face in front of me. Scared. Stunned. Fearful.
“That’s not what . . .” I shake my head. Try to rationalize that her asshole of a boyfriend must have been next to her, out of camera range. The one my cocked fist was aiming toward. For a split second I see my dad in my face. My biological dad. The monster. The abuser. Everything I promised myself I’d never be.
I reject the thought immediately.
“It is you, Zander. Take a closer look. You think losing a sponsor is bad? Let this image get out—just how you think a lady should be treated—and you’ll lose a shit ton more than that. You raised your fist to a woman.” He shakes his head and chuckles in shocked disbelief. “And you don’t think you’re out of control?”
Push
“You need help.”
Push
“To talk to someone.”
Push
“This isn’t the son I raised—”
Snap.
“I’m not your goddamn son, so quit acting like you’re my father!” I shout at the top of my lungs with every ounce of rage and hurt and confusion that I’ve been fighting back down the past few weeks. Something, anything, to make this stop. To make the pain stop. The confusion end. Keep the past from tainting my future.
The lies from being true.
He stumbles back a few feet, eyes wide, mouth lax. For just a moment he stands there staring at me. Reining in his temper. Trying to comprehend what I just said.
The look on his face alone should knock the fight out of me—shock, hurt, disbelief—but the truths he just threw in my face, the ones I have to acknowledge but don’t want to hear, are like kerosene to my anger. They create a back draft loaded with resentment that explodes instantly, wiping out all reason.
“Excuse me?” He straightens his spine. His voice comes out with a controlled calmness. And I should heed the warning. The loud, angry wrath of my dad is one thing, but the cool, even quiet manner is much scarier when you’re on the receiving end of it.
But I don’t.
“You heard me.” Our gazes lock. Our mutual anger feels heavy in the room as I lash out the only way I know how to right now.
“Loud. And. Clear.” The tone remains even, though his eyes reflect a wounded fury I refuse to acknowledge. He tucks the phone into his back pocket, nodding his head the whole time as I stand there wanting everything he means to me gone: salvation, hope, family, friendship, unconditional love. All I can feel is the crushing disappointment from everything I’ve done to purposely try to fuck this all up.
