Page 68 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
But it’s not like I could have predicted yesterday. The ride to the lookout. The unexpected confessions. How she stood in the hallway stepping into me with the ocean at her back and desire palpable between us.
I’m not a have sex, then get up and leave while the sheets are still warm kind of guy. But I’m also not a let’s fall asleep, wake up, have sex again, and figure out how to spend the day together type of guy either.
So why was I wanting to do just that?
Positioning the claw of the hammer under the shingle, I push down and shove it up. Remove it. Toss it off the roof with a thud.
Damn complications. I have an agenda. Face the cardboard box. Thank Smitty by finishing the repairs to the house. Figure out how to make things right with my family: Rylee, Colton, my brothers, the crew, my fans. Then actually do it.
I’m here to simplify shit. Not make it harder. And yet the minute I got exactly what I wanted—Getty spreading her thighs for me—I dove headfirst into complication.
And hell if I don’t want to do just that again.
Hammer. Nail. Pound the shit out of it. The release I was looking for when I came up here is nonexistent. Frustrated, I sigh and roll my shoulders.
I need to clear my head. Gain some perspective. Get away from the house for a bit so I stop thinking about Getty’s soft lips and enticing body. Take some time for myself.
It’s not like I haven’t done the friends-with-benefits thing before. But I’ve never done it when I’m living with the person. That causes some problems. Like when you want more benefits, all you have to do is walk ten feet to the next bedroom rather than step back, tell yourself to cool your jets, and either use your hand or wait until you can meet up again.
That’s gotta be why I’m feeling like this. Because the meet-up is right in front of my face, so keeping my distance is going to be harder.
Shit. I’m out of nails. I glance down to the box of them on the sawhorse bench I’ve set up on the ground.
Adrenaline. It’s what I need. To remind me I have a career to return to. To reinforce that my time here is limited. That I need to finish these repairs sooner rather than later. That Getty’s just a fling: some hot sex. A friend with benefits. To stop making promises I won’t be around long enough to keep.
Adrenaline’s the cure-all. I’m decided. It clears my head. Reminds me of the start of a race when I’m forced to focus on me and only me, which is exactly what I need.
Not on Getty.
I give up on fixing the roof. I’m gonna grab my keys and a jacket and head out exploring. Alone. Might as well see the island, since I won’t be here for much longer. Find an empty stretch of road and break the speed limit just for a bit while I’m at it. Get the adrenaline. The clarity I need to put my head back where it needs to be.
I take the first step down the ladder.
Keep lying to yourself, you pussy.
Next step down.
If you’re not on the roof, you’re not repairing it.
Move down another rung.
If you’re not repairing it, you can’t leave yet.
Almost there.
If you can’t leave yet, you get more Getty.
Last rung.
Pretty convenient, if you ask me.
My shoes hit solid ground.
Shut the fuck up, I tell the voice in my mind. The one mucking it up with lies. I’m still shaking my head, convincing myself I just need a little me time, when I open the door and walk in the kitchen. I’m irritated, frustrated, and annoyed.
And when I lift my head up, the one person who’s making me feel that way is standing right in front of me. Her hair is piled on top of her head, cheeks are flushed, eyes wide, and mouth shocks open into an O shape.
Damn gorgeous.
