Page 37 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
Poke and poke and poke and prod.
Fury still burns through me, but my need to gain back some ground turns out to be even stronger. The conversation from the bar with his fan the other night flickers in my head, gives me the ammo I need.
Poke and poke and prod and poke back.
“You want to get in my business—how ’bout we start digging into yours, huh? Why’d you lose your ride, Zander? What are you running from? You’ve got to screw up pretty bad to lose your ride and all of the sponsorships I’m assuming go with it, right?”
“Fuck. You.” He mimics me, but I can see that my barb has made its point. That my I’m-gonna-hurt-you-because-you’re-trying-to-hurt-me got the reaction I wanted. “Fuck this. Figure out how to fix your car on your own, then.”
He throws his empty water bottle into the sink, knocking some silverware with it. The clatter fills the empty space around us before he strides down the hall.
“No worries,” I shout after him. “Pretty ironic I have the revered race car driver Zander Donavan living with me, but he’s such a goddamn pretty boy, I bet he couldn’t find his way underneath the hood to fix an engine if he tried.”
The door to his room slams, windows shaking with the force as I’m left standing in an empty room, frazzled, hurt, and very late for work.
Chapter 9
GETTY
“If anyone cancels or calls in, I’ll make sure to get you the extra shift.”
“Thanks, Liam,” I tell him on my way to the door of the Lazy Dog, fingers crossed in the hopes for extra tips.
“You okay getting home? It’s blowing like a bitch out there.” Liam steps around the back of the counter he’s wiping up, concern etched in his kind eyes.
“I’m good,” I lie, not wanting any company. “Zander’s going to pick me up.”
“I knew he was a good guy like that.” I force a tight smile. “Next time have him come in before closing. He’s the talk of the town, albeit it doesn’t take much round here. He’s good for business,” he says with a wink. “I still can’t believe the Zander Donavan is here on our little island.”
“Night,” I say just as the door closes so he doesn’t see me roll my eyes.
The wind hits me the moment I step outside, whipping the strands of my ponytail at my cheeks and stinging my skin with pinpricks. Instantly I regret not having my umbrella, but honestly, I didn’t want to stay in the house another second with Zander, so thoughts of finding it went by the wayside.
And now of course as the sheets of rain pour down beyond the overhang where I’m standing, I regret it.
A perfect ending to a shitty day.
With a sigh, I slink along the overhangs of the waterfront stores, my body tired and my mind emotionally exhausted. Worry over how to fix my car still looms front and center, but now there’s the added dread that I have to go back to the house with Zander there and figure out how to coexist with him with minimal interaction.
Because I definitely don’t want to talk to him.
The overhead protection from the storefront ends and rather than venture out into the rain, I perch on the edge of a bench. The whitecaps froth on the water, their color a stark contrast to the churn and twist of the dark sea. I get lost in the night, in watching the waves, my thoughts veering to earlier. To the fight with Zander. To the sudden about-face in his actions. To the slow night in the bar that allowed me too much time to think. To the ghosts and doubts Zander stirred up with his accusations.
“Don’t waste any more time on him,” I mutter to myself with a shake of my head. When I’m sure there’s no lightning, I start the walk home. Within a matter of minutes, my hair is plastered to my face and my clothes are sopping wet. My fury at Zander intensifies with each squish of my sodden shoes. Plus these are my one good pair I use for work to minimize my achy back and now they’re completely waterlogged.
And if they don’t dry right, if they shrink, if they get mildewed from this damn walk home in the pouring rain, I don’t have the budget to buy new ones. Especially not with the unexpected outflow of cash to get my car
fixed.
With each whip of wind, each squish of a step, the closer I get to the house, my temper is more primed to finish addressing the bullshit that Zander started. To get answers as to why it’s okay for him to ask and demand and yet when I push at him in turn, he storms out and slams the door.
My teeth are chattering and I’m so damn cold I’d rather risk the rickety deck than take the extra time going around to the front of the house. I climb the crooked stairs with caution, making the frame creak with each step, but it’s quicker and brings a hot shower that much closer.
Luckily when I enter the house, even though the kitchen light is on, Zander’s nowhere to be found and his bedroom door is closed. Good. He can stay there for all I care.
The shower feels like heaven—the hot water stings my face and turns my skin bright pink from the extremes in temperature. My irritation, my anger—everything builds as I know Zander’s in his room nice and cozy warm while I was walking home in the freezing cold rain. I know it’s not his fault my car didn’t start, but he was the asshole who got me so flustered I didn’t get my umbrella.
Definitely his fault.
