Page 7 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Yeah?” My voice is cautious because I know what comes next and don’t really want to venture there.
“If
there was some kind of problem . . .” I’m not sure if the flash of hurt in my eyes stops his words, but they stop nonetheless. He nods in silent understanding. “Well, if you need any kind of help, I’m here, okay?”
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I murmur softly. “Good night.”
I walk away, knowing he hasn’t moved and is watching me make my way through the night toward my house. He’s sweet and kind. So very different from what I’m used to, and so I need distance between us. It would be way too easy to lean on him, use his friendship to get through this, when I know better than anyone that the only person I can depend on is myself.
And yet the weight of his stare and the concern in his eyes are like magnets pulling me backward, begging me to find someone I can confide in, when all I really need to do is learn how to manage this new life on my own.
Keep walking, Getty. You can let him in once you figure yourself out.
I look out toward the moonlit ocean view beyond and take stock as to why I’m here. It seemed like the stars aligned when my mother’s oldest friend offered to let me stay in the vacation house she and her husband were renovating before they could flip it. And because of that, I have a roof over my head. A place to reflect on what I want. A solitary space where I’ll be able to come to terms with the mistakes from my past so I can have a better future.
You don’t know they’re mistakes until you make them. Or learn from them. Let’s hope I’ve done both and can move forward.
I walk down the alleyway, past my car, parked in the narrow, shrub-lined driveway, to the front door of the old cottage. Skipping over the third step to avoid the broken wood slat, I remind myself that should be first on the very long list of repairs that I need to schedule for the house.
It’s the least I can do, considering she’s letting me stay here for free during the renovation.
Exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks once I’m inside. I move through the darkened foyer quietly, in practiced precision, as if I’m still back in the Palo Alto house. I flick the light off in the kitchen, surprised I forgot to turn it off before I left, and ignore my grumbling stomach for the enticing hot water of the shower. Hopefully the muscles in my lower back will get used to my standing on my feet for eight-hour shifts soon, because this constant ache is annoying.
But it also means I’m doing this. Changes are really happening. And the past is over.
In a show of defiance no one will ever see and only I will understand, I make a trail of my discarded clothes as I walk down the hall toward the bathroom light I purposely left on at the end of the hallway: a beacon of imagined hot water calling my name.
Shoes. Shirt. Bra. Skirt. Panties. All come off one by one, throwing them to the floor in a messy trail as I go.
I’m exhausted, my mind still preoccupied with the mistake I made tonight dropping the bottle, so that when I clear the doorway, it takes me a second to come to my senses. The reaction is instantaneous—an earsplitting scream, a physical jump back, a shock to my heart, and hands immediately reaching to cover my pelvis and breasts—at the sight of the man standing in my bathroom.
And not just any man.
No.
But a buck-naked man. Dripping in water. I see a flash of ink on his back in the partially fogged-up mirror’s reflection. One hand holds a towel up to his wet hair. The other is doing I don’t know what, because I’m so fixated on his presence that thinking clearly isn’t a priority.
“HELP!” I scream the moment I get my wits about me, body frozen in fear, mind reeling.
And even though his blue eyes look as shocked as mine probably do, his mouth spreads into a slow, disbelieving but definitely cocksure smile. “I’ve had women go to extremes before,” he says with a chuckle, silencing my next shriek for help, “but this takes it to a whole new level.”
In my confusion, my guard comes up instantly, although for some reason I don’t actually feel threatened like a rational person would. I’m naked, hunched over trying to cover all my lady bits, caught between stepping back down the hallway and grabbing my last discarded item to cover myself up. But I know damn well my panties sure as hell aren’t going to make a very good shield. Add to that there’s no way in hell I’m giving him the wrong impression, that I’m retreating in fear.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I’m shaking with adrenaline as I hop around in the I’m-naked dance, every ripple and roll of imperfection on my body on display in the wash of bathroom light into the hall. My eyes flicker desperately to assess the situation I have absolutely zero control over. I want more lights on to flood the house and don’t want them on at the same time.
“I believe I should ask you the same question,” he says as he slowly lowers his hand, the towel now hanging at his side. Of course I look.
And there it is. . . .
I jump back like my eyes have been burned and yet first impressions are hard to erase: cut abs, that V of defined muscles, a trail of happy, and a more-than-impressive package. What the hell is wrong with me? There is a man in my house. He obviously just showered in my bathroom. And I’m staring at his dick.
“Put that thing away!” I command, with my hand reaching out to gesture at his waist before I realize that I’ve just removed my hand from my own breasts and offered a peep show of my own. Of course I replace it promptly but not before the man throws his head back and emits a deep laugh. It causes his Adam’s apple to slide up, then down, chest to heave, and dick to bob.
I force myself to look away because . . . well, because he’s a stranger. In my house. Naked. And oh my God, something is wrong with me, because I’m not running and calling 911 like I should.
When his chuckle subsides, he brings his head back down, so I can see the tears in his eyes from laughter. “That thing is my cock, and since this is my bathroom and you seem to be attempting to seduce me in my house, I don’t think you have any right to tell me what to do.” And with that, he leans a hip against the counter and folds his arms across his chest, eyes locked on mine and one eyebrow lifted. Everything else is left hanging out there in the wind.
“Your house? Seduce you?” At that point I realize I’m sputtering and shaking my head. “This is my house. You’re in my house.”
