Page 36 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
use to get my umbrella.
“Getty?” I ignore his call and walk right past him, hating that he keeps seeing me in moments when I’m frazzled and a wreck. Footsteps on the wood floor tell me he’s following. “If there’s something wrong with the engine, it’s not a big deal. There’s a shop on the other side—”
“I need my car.” Knowing his eyes are on me, I’m flustered and for the life of me, I can’t remember where I left my umbrella. Like a madwoman, I start rifling through things, the clock ticking away and my urgency growing as the start of my shift looms closer.
“We live on an island. The bar is only a couple blocks away. Your car not starting isn’t the end of the world.”
“Leave me alone, Zander.” He wouldn’t understand.
My closet. The alcove in the hall. The family room. And I still can’t find the damn thing. All with him right behind me. Breathing down my neck. His presence adding pressure to his silent scrutiny.
“Why here, Getty? An island’s not exactly the best place to go if you’re running from something. That car of yours is only going to get you so far until the ferry comes.”
His taunting words knock the wind from my sails. Try to coerce an answer out of me. And I falter for a moment, eyes searching and mind questioning myself for the millionth time on why I picked this location. The answer was simple back then when my only thought was to get as far away as possible. The combination of the island’s seclusion mixed with a place to stay for free was more than enough for me.
But I don’t owe an explanation to anyone, least of all him.
“I need to get my car fixed.” I say it again, mentally calculating how much tip money I’ve stowed away in my secret hiding place while also estimating how fast I can get the consignment shop to sell my clothes to earn more.
“I can fix—”
“I don’t need your help.” I bite the words out. Mad and upset and overwhelmed.
“I’ll call a tow truck for you, then.”
My eyes well with tears. My stubborn anger turns to embarrassment. “No.”
“No?”
“I can’t afford it.” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Come again?” I hate the condescending tone in his voice. The disbelief.
“Leave me alone, please.” He’s still behind me when I speak, but a rush of heat floods my cheeks in a mortification like I’ve never known before.
“You can’t be that broke living on your trust fund.”
I swear my neck almost breaks from the whiplash his words cause. They’re completely out of the blue and so far off base that I don’t know how to respond or why he’d make such an assumption. I try to regain my footing, but my anger at his shitty comment overrides all reason.
My glare meets his and the smirk on his lips is so chock-full of arrogance I say the only thing I can. “Fuck. You.”
“Why not just call Mommy or Daddy up? I’m sure they’d overnight the money.”
Poke. Poke. Prod.
Angry tears burn in my eyes. Disbelief that he’s saying this shocks me momentarily as I try to figure out how I was so wrong about him. How, after his offer this morning, I thought he was a good guy. Nice. Caring.
And now all I can see is the truth. To say it stings is an understatement. To admit I was wrong, even more so.
I look at him as I shake my head in astonishment that I’d actually thought I had a friend in this solitude. And yet I was so very mistaken.
“Just a phone call away.”
Poke and poke and prod.
“You don’t know shit about me, asshole.”
“I know designer clothes when I see them. Seen enough to know that robe you wear costs a pretty penny. You can dress them down, shrug me off, but there’s no hiding how expensive your threads are.”
