Down Shift by K. Bromberg
“I’m going to leave your door open, just in case you need me,” he says before his shadow leaves the doorway toward his room.
I hold back the immediate urge to go shut it should my nocturnal need arise again to have fake sex with him.
Sinking deeper into the mattress, I scrub my hands over my face and can feel the smile on my lips. I go back over the dream in my mind, because unlike what I told him, I remember every single part of it. Each kiss. Every touch. The sound of his voice thick with desire.
With a deep breath, I shake my head and feel like such a fool. How did I not know it was a dream? My lack of modesty and constant insecurity over my ability to orgasm should have been a dead giveaway. Even asleep, I should have caught that.
How am I going to face him in the morning? How am I going to look him in the eye and ask him if he wants a cup of coffee with his roommate who was getting off while fantasizing about him?
I close my eyes but can’t sleep. There’s no way in hell with the buzz of my orgasm still echoing through both my head and body.
Because if I thought a little piece of my heart was lost to Zander for his kindness, then a huge part of my awakening libido just pledged allegiance to him too.
Chapter 14
ZANDER
There’s a bite to the air. A chill that burns in my lungs and stings my cheeks. It may be the start of the summer season, but shit, mornings are cold here. Hopefully I’ll be heading back home to Los Angeles before I get a chance to acclimate.
And I hate that my feet falter at the idea. Hate that the next fucking thought in my head is, What is Getty going to do when I leave?
This isn’t a thing.
She isn’t supposed to become a thing.
But fuck me, she is.
Then of course there’s the voice mail from Rylee today, my adoptive mom. The one who saved me from my silence and deafening fear after my mother died and my dad came back to finish me off. The one who had to have known the truth all along from day one. I don’t even have to replay the message because I can still hear it plain as day.
Zander. It’s me. Her laugh. Nerves I’m not used to hearing in it vibrate through the connection. Of course it’s me—who else would it be, right? I just wanted to hear your voice, let you know I was thinking about you. A lot. I miss you. Of course I’m worried about you and want to call and text you to make sure you’re okay, but I also know you’ll call when you’re ready. Oh . . . and thank you for texting Scooter and then Ace back. He’s taking this hard . . . all of it . . . so thank you for responding and letting him—us—know you’re okay. I’m sorry I’m rambling, but there’s so much I want to say to you . . . so much I want to ask, but I know you’ll come home once you figure whatever it is you need to work through. Silence for a few seconds. A shaky sigh. Her not wanting to let go just yet. He won’t admit it, but Colton misses you too. He’s moody and a bear to be around and won’t talk about what happened that day between the two of you. . . . Another sigh. A few words started and then stopped. Her concern is palpable in the silence and I know she’s struggling to not give me her two cents on the matter. To keep the disappointment out of her voice and not rail into me that I’m the one who needs to man up and apologize for all of this. It doesn’t matter. I hope you find whatever you’re hoping to find while you’re gone. And I can’t help but feel like there’s something you’re not telling us. All we want . . . all we’ve ever wanted is the best for you Zander. I love you.
I’ve listened to the message several times this morning. It’s become a type of fuel to feed my guilt over what I did, how I acted, and reinforcement that I need to really get my shit together. Open the box, face the facts. Deal. Cope. Yell. Rage.
Move on. Live life with a new norm I can’t shove away but can start to put behind me.
Quit being such a pussy. Accept that whatever else is in that box doesn’t affect who I am or what I’ve made of my life. It is what it is.
Easier said than done.
God, how I wanted to pick up the phone and call her back. Ask her the questions I need to ask: Did she know? Why didn’t she tell me? What was her reasoning for keeping the truth from me all this time? Then I could get angry with her answers. Shout and rage and get all this pent-up emotion out. Then apologize ten times over for the ways I’ve hurt them . . . but pride is a hard thing to swallow when you feel like it’s all you have left.
Right now my own need to cope is more important than the urge to call her. But fuck if I don’t feel guilty at the sadness in her voice.
Push it away, Donavan. You’ve got to face the facts first and then you can face Rylee and Colton. Fix you, then them. You’ll know what to say then. How to say it. Accept who you really are.
When I reach the porch steps, I brace my hands on my knees and gulp in the bitter air. My chest hurts from pushing myself too hard. But after Getty last night and my less-than-satisfying jerk-off in the shower this morning while thinking of her, I needed to work off some of my frustration.
When I grab a Gatorade from the refrigerator, thoughts about our unexpected kitchen interlude litter my head. And isn’t this why I went on a run? To clear my head? But the minute I’m back here, with the scent of her perfume and a pair of her discarded socks sitting on the family room floor, she crawls right back into my damn head.
Everything about her gets to me.
The look on her face when I was close to her. Her ball-tightening kiss. That little jolt of fear that I felt go through her muscles and sweep across her face. Her fear over something. How I had to step back and take stock. Remember she’s not some road groupie wanting to get it on with points champion Zander Donavan. The Golden Boy. No, she’s clearly a woman on the mend from something. One running from a past that was obviously shitty.
That in itself is enough reason for me to pause and step back, because when she gets that look in her eyes, like she has to look over her shoulder and make sure no one’s there, she reminds me of my mom. The way I remember her to be: skittish, always apologizing, withdrawn. And that’s a huge problem. It’s a bright fucking beacon warning me away and yet I keep walking right into its light wanting to help, to be there for her, to get to know her better, when I shouldn’t. Hell, I’m the furthest thing from qualified to help her.
What I should be thinking about is sex, sex, and more sex. With her preferably and not my own hand and a bottle of lube.
I can’t get involved more than that. I have enough to do with my own issues that I need to figure out. And yet even though I warned her, I can’t figure out why she keeps occupying my thoughts.
Living day in and day out with her is like tempting an alcoholic with a bottle of gin. You want to taste, want to sample, but know it’s just going to bring you back to being selfish. Wanting only what you want without regard for anyone else or the damage it’s going to do. While gin’s not my thing, it sure as shit doesn’t mean I wouldn’t take a sip if I’m thirsty.
And last night, damn was I thirsty. What I wouldn’t have given to take advantage of the situation—a gorgeous woman whose kiss tastes as good as her laugh sounds—but I couldn’t willingly let her spread her legs without being up-front with her.
Well, I could have. I could’ve been a prick, enjoyed the coming weeks with her moaning beneath me without a scratch on my conscience about how my time here will come to an end. Have some fun, some great sex, and then part ways with nothing more than a thanks for the good time and an empty promise to call every once in a while.
But I can’t treat her like that. There’s something about Getty that has gotten under my skin.
At first I thought it was the want-what-you-can’t-have type of thing. The temptation after promising myself to cut out the complications of adding a woman to the mix. I’m supposed to be here for me. But it’s not that. Then I thought it was the innocent-woman thing. Her big doe eyes and blushing cheeks and obvious unease with men
Maybe it’s just because I actually like her. Think she’s smart and naturally beautiful without trying to be, and when I can pry her out from behind the protective wall I know all too well, her personality is killer. And it’s the mad respect I have for her for doing what my mom never did: getting out of an abusive relationship. Because while she may have never said it out loud, the signs are there. The ones someone who has lived in an abusive household can spot like a road sign even all these years later. And a woman that does that deserves the happily-ever-after she never got the first go-round.
So I’m fucked. I want her but can’t give that to her, and hell if I’m going to be the one to add on to the hurt that already lingers in her eyes. I’m not that much of an asshole.
But I’m also not going to deny how much I wanted to slide between her thighs last night, clear the counter behind her with a swipe of my arm, and take and taste and satisfy until the sun came up. Instead I showed restraint like I’ve never had to before. I stepped back. Told her I wouldn’t be staying long term. Gave her an out if she wanted one. And hopefully earned my conscience the A-OK to be free of guilt when we do sleep together, because it’s her choice now.
A clear conscience, a conflicted heart, and a frustrated dick. Quite the trio. I have to hope that when she says yes, she still doesn’t get hurt in the end.
Because she will say yes. I saw the answer in her eyes and heard it in the way she called my name. But I still walked away, albeit with an ache in my balls, before shutting the door so I wouldn’t be tempted to go back.
Now I glance in her room before I enter mine. Recall how goddamn bad I wanted to slide into her bed last night, pull her against me, and comfort her after her nightmare. But that’s being selfish, because I’m lying to myself. I wouldn’t have been able to stop at just feeling her body against mine. Not hardly. Let’s be real here.
Go fix her car, Donavan. Do something useful other than waiting with your dick in your hand for her answer. No time like the present. Besides, I’m already sweaty and dirty.
Maybe even earn me some brownie points too.
When I walk into my room to grab a clean shirt, the box in the corner catches my eye. Especially the chicken-scratch writing on the envelope taped to the outside and the Los Angeles postal origin. The letter in said envelope, from the person who is technically my aunt, explained that my uncle, my only living relative, died of an overdose.
Is it bad that I couldn’t care less? Is it heartless that after a failed attempt to foster me when I was twelve for the monthly stipend to fund their habit, the both of them ceased to exist to me? That I’m grateful for their fuckups because it led to Rylee and Colton adopting me?
Why all this time later would she think I want to look at stuff she came across while cleaning out my uncle’s things? Maybe she’s just being decent, returning the contents because it’s all I have left of my childhood. Then again, an autopsy report? Placing it as the first thing in the box so I’d be sure not to miss it. Maybe it was her final fuck-you.
So it’s no wonder I’m hesitant to see the rest of the contents.
Besides, it won’t be the first time I’ll say good-bye to Mom. Or my dad. But that’s just it. Will delving further into the box bring back more? Will it make me remember things my mind tried to protect me from?
“Fuck,” I mutter while my mind keeps running. Fuck you and your doubt that makes me fear the worst, and fuck you and your hope that makes me want something more.
Thoughts of burning the box rise up as I stare at it—I long to watch it go up in flames so I can hold tight to the memories I have. Of thinking my mother walked on water.
Bodies are buried for a reason—shouldn’t their secrets be too?
Torching the box would make it easier all around. Rid myself of the source of anxiety that caused me to lash out and risk every single thing I’ve been given and worked for.
But since when has anything in regard to my childhood been that easy to get rid of?
Is it too much to want to connect to some good thing in the box? The kind of thing every kid deserves to have from his past? Would it be too much for there to be pictures? Something with smiling faces and my mom’s arms wrapped around me with love? Something I can utilize to will back a positive memory to help smother the bad ones?
But what if there aren’t any good memories there?
My fingers toy with the flaps of the box. The internal war continues to rage. Fuck it. Just open the damn box. Shit or get off the pot. Look at one thing per day until you can handle more. That’s why you came here in the first place, right?
The sound of cardboard scraping against itself fills the room. Curiosity and dread rifle through me simultaneously. The stapled packet of paper is on top right where I left it.
My fingertips fidget with edges while I chew the inside of my lip, and I don’t need to see the outlined diagram of a body with marks indicating stab wounds or read the words describing what I can still see in my mind.
I feel stupid for the nerves that have me hesitating—upset with myself for having them—but know men are creatures of avoidance by nature. We want to dominate, be in control, and yet the slightest crack in our foundations can rock our world.
And I’ve survived too many earthquakes already in my lifetime.
I set the report down and shuffle through the contents, purposely not looking at them closely. I need a good memory today, something to help ease the power this box holds over me. So I dig through the unorganized mess intent on finding the smooth, distinct texture of a photograph.
When I touch one, I know it instantly. My fingers make out what feels like a rubber band on the thin stack and I sigh in relief. I might retrieve another memory. A piece of normalcy from those first seven years of my life. My hands shake as I step back and sit down on the bed, nervous over the glimpse of my past I’m going to get.
She’s beautiful. It’s my only conscious thought when I see my mom for the first time in almost twenty years. Dark hair, light eyes, and a genuine smile. Sure, her clothes are worn and the car she’s sitting in front of is a patchwork of Bondo and mismatched colors, but she’s even prettier than I remembered. Time must have dulled the memories.
And sitting in her lap is a little brown-haired boy with skinned knees, a baseball cap crooked on his head, and a mitt on the grass to the right of them. It’s me. The picture of a carefree little boy I don’t ever remember being but who seems perfectly content in his mom’s lap. I stare down at it until my eyes blur, try to commit it to memory as if the picture is going to vanish.
I’m so lost in the photo I forget there are more behind it. Once I remember, I continue the process with each one, studying it, trying to pull a memory from the image, thankful for the chance to reconnect with a lighter side of my childhood.
I look like her. That’s what I see as I flip through them. The same eyes, the same-shaped mouth, a similar nose. It’s weird to actually be looking at the pictures and be able to draw a comparison of myself with someone.
Then I come to a picture of my dad. He seems less scary then I remember. Faded jeans torn at the knees. Thumbs hanging in his pockets. A cigarette dangling from his mouth. His hair long and unkempt. His body scraggly. Bruises visible on the inside of one of his arms.
I stare at his face for the longest time, not to remember him, but rather to make sure I’m nothing like him. I take in everything about the picture, pick it apart, study it. And no matter how hard I try, all I see is the monster standing in the darkened doorway, covered in my mom’s blood. And the vacant look in his eyes as he held a gun on Rylee wh
When I’m convinced we’re nothing alike, I flip to the last picture in the batch. My mom’s lying next to a sleeping me, my back to her front, her arm wrapped around my abdomen holding me close, and a soft smile on her lips.
Without thinking, I run my fingertip over her face and all of a sudden I can hear her voice humming “Are You Sleeping?” in my head. It’s weird and I don’t know what to make of it other than I vaguely recall how she used to curl up beside me on my bed, her lips to the top of my head, and the heat of her breath warming my hair as she sang the song to put me to sleep.
My heart pounds from the memory I never knew I had. A disbelieving smile spreads on my lips as I close my eyes and try to recall more, flipping through the pictures over and over, hoping to jog something else loose.
Excited about the prospect of having more memories from my first seven years to block out all the pain, I move back to the box to see what else it holds. I grab a stack of papers, then notice the cover sheet on the first packet I pull is the rap sheet for one Lola Sullivan. I glance over petty misdemeanors and then toss it back in the box immediately. I have zero desire to taint the image I’ve just gotten back of her in my head. There are newspaper cuttings that mention the murder and the search for my dad. Tiny one-by-one squares with no compassion for the woman who at the time was my everything. The next packet of paper is thicker. It’s a case file from the Los Angeles Child Protective Services.
With my name on it.
By the width of the file, I have a feeling its contents won’t surprise the man I am but might derail the little boy in me still looking for closure. It might blow the only memory I have of my mother when she’s not covered in blood—the one I just got back—to smithereens and I don’t think I’m ready for that just yet.
So I take the pictures, the reports, everything I don’t want to face, and put them back in the box, tuck in the flaps so they stay closed, and walk out of the room without looking back.