by K. Bromberg
“No. Let’s go back to the first comment.” He braces his hands on the counter and leans across it so I’m unable to hide from his stare.
“Let’s not.” End of topic, Zander. Let it go.
“Who’d be looking for you, Getty?” His tone—the don’t hide this from me part—makes me want to scream and yell and stomp my feet and tell him he’s crossing those boundaries I don’t want crossed.
Instead, I make sure my voice is implacable when I answer him. “No one.”
“Is that what Ethan would say?”
Everything about me freezes—my mind, my heart, my lungs—at the sound of the name. My past, my fears, the place I never want to see again, rush through my mind like I never left.
“Did he send you here?” My voice is quiet steel when I speak, although my insides are a twisted mess of anxiety.
“Who is he, Getty?” His voice softens, but the determination in his eyes never wavers.
“No one you want to know and none of your business.” I force myself to stop fidgeting with the pad on the counter, my unease clear as day.
“Except for the fact that he’s the reason you’re running.”
“Butt out, Zander.” I begin to round the L-shaped counter so I can exit the tiny kitchen, but he just steps in front of me to block my path.
But unlike with Ethan, I feel no fear of him. I don’t have to scramble to see where I can disappear to. Rather there is the need to protect my secrets, keep my place and identity here limited to only what I want people to know about me.
“If you’re in trouble, Getty . . . please, I can try to help you. All you have to do is ask.”
His words tug on every part of me that’s tired of fighting this alone, tired of being lonely. And yet I know more than anyone that all it takes is one person to know, for that person to comment offhand to someone else, and somehow, someway, Ethan would find out.
“Boundaries.” It takes everything I have to utter that single word. Body tense. Pulse racing.
“You don’t want me to step on your boundaries, then don’t come in my room a little tipsy and act all hell on wheels and compare me to your ex. Because he is your ex, right, Getty?”
“I said it’s none of your business.” I grit the word out between my clenched teeth. Hating myself and worrying over whatever else I said last night and at the same time needing to stop this conversation before he pushes too hard.
“Like hell it is. Don’t you think it’s important for me to know if some man is going to waltz in here to try to take you back or whatever the fuck is going on here, so that I know how best to protect you?”
Put the wall up, Getty. You need no one. That’s how you’re going to survive this—heal from this—by depending solely on yourself. Push him away. Protect yourself.
“First off, Ethan is no one to me. Secondly, no one is going to be waltzing in here, and more importantly, I’m not yours to protect.” I hold his stare, meet it with a resolve I definitely don’t feel. His words start to sink in and break a chip off the walls I have up around me. I can’t think about it now, about how a man I just met is offering to protect me when the ones that should have done it never did.
“You keep thinking that, Socks. Keep thinking that just because you’re not mine . . . whatever the fuck that means to you . . . that I shouldn’t defend you, and I’ll keep pretending you’re not running from anything, and we’ll see how far that gets us.” There’s a bite to his voice telling me I’ve offended him, and I welcome the sound. If I’ve pissed him off, then maybe he’ll keep his distance.
“Can I go now?” I’m a bitch in how I say it, put out, annoyed, but I can’t be any other way. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hurt, distrust, disbelief. I can’t put my finger on it, but I really can’t care, because I need to escape this situation.
This time when I try to move past him, he lets me. And thank God for that, because a few seconds longer and he’d see the tears welling in my eyes and my hands shaking and I don’t want him to.
I don’t want him to know how much hearing that simple name has affected me. How in a split second it’s like Ethan is here, his voice angry in my ear, and all the progress, all the strength I’ve gained, disappears.
With my bedroom door closed at my back, I slide down it until I’m sitting on the floor.
The mental chastising begins immediately. The disbelief of how stupid I could have been to drink enough to say something about Ethan. What else did I say that I don’t remember? What other information did I give Zander to be curious about?
Then comes the worry. The fear. The doubt. Zander mentioned Ethan one time and I go into shutdown mode: lash out, be a bitch, protect myself, push away. I thought I’d gotten further than this emotionally.
Just proves the invisible scars are the ones that cut the deepest and stay with you the longest.
A part of me wants to go back, talk to Zander, apologize, thank him for his concern. But I know I can’t. I know my biggest asset right now is my isolation. My aloofness. The knowledge that I need absolutely no one.
So I hold on to my anger and fear. Hold on to the memories of the mansion in the hills where everything from the outside looked perfect, but on the inside life was as cold and controlled as a prison.
Stay strong, Getty. Stay strong and smart and alone and he’ll never be able to hurt you again.
* * *
The sky rumbles angrily as I look out the front door. Hues of gray and charcoal mar the horizon—there’s another storm about to hit PineRidge. Grateful to have heard Zander leave earlier to get his run in before the storm hits, I know I have no chance of bumping into him before I leave for work. No opportunity for him to ask more questions.
I head back into the kitchen and grab my keys out of the basket there, resigned to having to drive my car to work so that I’m not stuck walking in a downpour tonight when I get off shift. Besides, it’s probably best to run it, considering I’ve barely used it since I’ve come here.
When I put the key in the ignition, the engine turns over a few times but never starts. Panic tickles the nape of my neck. It’s just that I haven’t used it in a few weeks. That’s all.
But after the third or fourth time, still nothing.
No. No. No. The word repeats over and over in my head as I fight back the tears that sting and the emotion welling up like a dam, which I fear I’m not going to be able to stop once it starts.
Can this day get any worse? First Zander pushing boundaries with his mention of Ethan. The confrontation with him buckled my resolve, like a slap in my face, showing me how quickly I can be pulled back into that dark place I’d emerged from—the fear and the lack of control—making me realize that I’m nowhere near as strong as I thought I was. And now there is something wrong with my car when I don’t have the money to pay someone to repair it.
And I need my car. It’s my only way to run should they find me. The symbol of my freedom and a reminder of that first step I took to make my life my own.
Ethan and my father would turn their noses down at this old car and maybe that’s part of the reason I love it so very much. The symbolism. The defiance.
The fuck-you to them.
“One more time,” I murmur as I turn the key again. Once again there is nothing but the sound of my choked sob when the first tear falls. And being in emotional-overload mode, I’m mad at myself for crying. Pissed at the car. Unfairly furious with Zander because he started my day like this and the ball just kept on rolling downhill.
I get out of the car, slam the door shut, and just stare at it for a minute while I work myself up to walk to the Lazy Dog.
“Sounds like something’s wrong with your car?”
Zander’s voice has me gritting my teeth and wishing him to go away. I don’t answer, just wipe the tears from under my eyes with as much dignity as I can, and start toward the ho
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.”
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.
Dressed in warm jammies and hair wrapped up in a towel, I leave the bathroom to find the house absolutely freezing. Wind rushes down the hallway and I hate that tickle of dread in the pit of my stomach. Why is the front door open? The inherent fear creeps up my spine over the possibility that my influential father and his puppet Ethan have found me and come to take me back home.
No, not home. This is my home now.
I glance back to Zander’s door—still shut—and debate whether I should knock and ask him to go check it out, my own overactive imagination taking over.
No, Getty. You don’t need any man, let alone an asshole like Zander, to help you. And the notion that I immediately wanted to get his help makes me dislike him even more. If he didn’t barge into this house, lie about us wanting to be roommates to Darcy, then I wouldn’t have a choice in the matter. I wouldn’t be able to hesitate. I’d have to act. And that’s the whole point, right? I came here to prove I don’t need anybody or anyone and yet the first time I get a little scared, I become a chicken.
