Shifting Gears: The Complete Series (Sports Bad Boy Romance)

by Alycia Taylor

  “You get out!” I retort.

  I’m surprised when she does.

  She’s only a few steps out of my room before she starts talking, though, “Yes, my name is Jill Chavez…yes, the one who called a few weeks ago,” Mom is saying.

  I hate that everyone knows her. It makes them believe they have to take her crap seriously.

  I’m out of bed, putting my clothes on faster than I ever have in my life, and I’m rushing after her.

  She’s downstairs, standing before the front window.

  “Mom, wait,” I say. “We’re both adults. You can’t keep calling the cops on him just because you don’t want to get to know him.”

  Mom doesn’t even look at me; she just keeps talking on the phone.

  “Yeah, I don’t know why he thought he’d ever be welcome here, but that’s how it goes with these street people,” she says.

  “He’s not a street person,” I tell her. “He has his own place, he’s got a car, two of them, actually. He has a job. Mom, he’s a really nice guy if you’d just-”

  She holds her hand up at me, cutting me off mid-sentence.

  “Fine,” I growl, and I rush back upstairs.

  Eli’s not in the room.

  I check under the bed, I check the closet. I would have seen him if he’d tried to come down the stairs. His clothes are gone, though.

  I don’t know where he went, but it looks like he managed to get out of here. So I turn and start heading back for my door when I hear a thumping sound outside my open window.

  Wait, why is my window open.

  I walk over and look out, finding Eli dangling from the side of the house, his fingers clamped on the bottom of the windowsill.

  “Come on,” I tell him. “I’ll help you back in. There’s not much time.”

  “Come with me,” he says. “You don’t have to deal with the police, either. Let’s just get out of here.”

  I look down at him hanging there outside my window. His eyes are wide even as he’s trying to convince me to follow him out there.

  “Come on,” I tell him. “It’s a long drop. Trust me.”

  Mom comes into the room, saying, “What I will never understand is why you want to throw your entire life…” It’s about this time that she notices I’m not just looking out the window. “What is he doing?”

  Maybe it’s not the best move, but the only thing I can think to do is tell Eli to, “Get out of here as fast as you can,” and close the window.

  “Just look at yourself,” Mom says. “You’re an adult woman trying to sneak her boyfriend out of her room. Is this who you want to be?”

  I’m about to fire of my retort when there’s a knock on the front door downstairs.

  She doesn’t say anything more, she just turns and goes. As soon as she’s out of the room, I’m opening the window up again.

  Eli’s not there.

  “Kate!” Mom calls from downstairs. “Come on down here; these officers would like to have a few words with you.”

  The police have better things to do with their time than to chastise a grown woman for having sex with her boyfriend in her parents’ house. I happen to know this for a fact.

  Still, my parents give enough money to the policemen’s union that I wouldn’t put anything past them, either.

  So, I can go downstairs and face the music. I’m sure there’s no chance of me being arrested, but I’m sick of dealing with this.

  I’m done.

  I’m out.

  I can hear footsteps coming up the stairs, so I don’t have time for the sheets.

  My heart is pounding as I climb out the window and lower myself down as far as I can, though I doubt it’ll make much of a difference.

  I know it’s possible to drop from this height without getting hurt, but I don’t exactly have a lot of experience jumping out of buildings, either.

  It’s all about the tuck and roll. That’s what they say anyway.

  Releasing my grip, it looks like we’re about to find out.

  I hit the ground, and I certainly roll, though the tuck could use quite a bit of work. The wind knocked out of me as I get to my feet, and I’m looking to see if there are any officers who may have seen the maneuver.

  I’m alone on the side of the house.

  There doesn't seem to be any serious injuries, but it’s still a little tough walking at the moment. Hobbling is about the best I can do for now.

  I manage to climb the neighbor’s fence, and once I’m on the other side, I’m pulling my phone out of my pocket. There’s nothing left for me to do right now but see if I can meet back up with Eli and try to figure out a better approach in regard to my parents.

  This one is obviously not working.

  Chapter Twelve

  Two-Bit Racer

  Eli

  Kate has to work tonight, but I can’t let that distract me.

  I just got the call.

  The woman on the phone told me the next race’s starting point is going to be on Sixth and Michigan here in town, and so I drive. It’s only a couple of blocks away. Mick will wait a couple blocks away with the truck in case we need to get out of there more quietly. Hopefully we don’t have that issue.

  I’m the first to arrive, but all of my competitors arrive within the next minute.

  My opponents for this race are going to be a Mustang GT, a Honda Accord (though I’d imagine it has a few more attachments than Kate’s), and a VW GTI.

  I’m trying not to feel too confident. All three of these people already won their own races the same way I did. They wouldn’t be on the line if they couldn’t drive.

  A man in a suit, different from the one who started my first race, comes out into the middle of the road, in front of and between the two center cars. He’s holding his hands up and he drops them.

  The Chevelle’s body twists slightly; raising its front tires a couple of inches as I hit the gas. All around me are shrill tires and thundering engines.

  I come to the front of the pack, but I’m not pulling away like I’d hoped. This isn’t going to be an easy one.

  At first, I’m so busy looking for any streetlights on the road ahead that I almost don’t notice the detour sign with a spray painted green arrow pointing left. By the time I do, I’m almost past it.

  Two of the others fell into the same trap, but the Accord takes the left while the rest of us are trying to get back on the course. I’m second to last when I finally make the turn.

  The Mustang behind me lets loose its nitrous, and he tears by me as if I’m standing still.

  I’m in last. I don’t like being in last.

  It takes some self-control, but I refrain from hitting my own nitrous in an attempt to catch up. When we get to the next detour sign, this one also pointing to the left, the Mustang misses its second turn of the race and I climb into third.

  The Chevelle comes out of the drift hard, throwing me against the driver’s side door, and the taillights ahead already look unreachable about two blocks ahead.

  I’m checking the road ahead for the next orange detour sign, but it must be further down the road. My thumb settles in the air above my nitrous button.

  Taillights turn into brake lights ahead, though. There’s no detour sign to signal the turn, only an arrow pointing to the right, painted just before the intersection in bright green spray paint.

  I pump my brakes, trying to initiate the drift, but I’ve got too much speed coming around the corner and my back tire runs up onto the curb, spinning, before sideways momentum turns into forward momentum and I get all four wheels back on the road.

  The two cars that were ahead of me now make up the slower half of the pack, the guy in the Mustang still managing to stay close on my tail.

  There’s no way I’ve found yet to know how long each race is going to be. I’m not even entirely sure we’re following the right arrows, though there weren’t any better indications of which route to take.

  On the straight, the Mustang falls back a lit
tle and the GTI capitalizes, not only passing, but immediately cutting off the driver of the Mustang, who ends up on the sidewalk.

  As long as they’re vying against each other for second, I’m in a decent position, but the infighting doesn’t last long.

  The GTI is about two car lengths back, and I’m trying to push the gas pedal all the way through the floor. I’m edging out the competition, but not by much.

  Another green arrow on the road points left and I’ve hit my stride. I kiss the apex of the turn just right and barely lose traction as I come around the corner.

  Way up about seven or eight blocks ahead is a red stoplight. I’m not sure yet if that has anything to do with me or not, but that’s where my sights are set.

  The Accord hisses past me, and I hit my own nitrous. If that is the end of the race, I can’t spare a second.

  The GTI, oddly, seems like it’s out of the race, but the Mustang hasn’t given up yet. It may as well have, though.

  So, it’s me in a race with a souped-up Honda Accord, and as much as I’d love to say it wasn’t going to be a contest, I am not creeping up on it the way I’m going to need to if I’m going to win the race.

  Everything changes as I spot the green arrow pointing to the right on the road two blocks from the red light. I almost don’t make the turn. The Accord doesn’t.

  The very next block after the turn, there’s a red light at the intersection. I won’t know if this is it or if I’ve just lost the race, but my foot is down hard as I go through that red light.

  I’m looking around for any indication whether I’ve won, or whether I’ve thoroughly screwed up. It’s not until I ease off the accelerator until I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket.

  Pulling the phone out of my pocket, but still keeping my foot partially down on the accelerator, I look at the number.

  I don’t recognize it.

  That’s a good sign.

  I answer, “Ransom.”

  “You will find your winnings in the glove box of your truck,” the now-familiar woman’s voice says and she hangs up the phone.

  There’s no reason to stop on my way back to the flatbed, so I don’t.

  When I get there, Mick is standing at the back of the truck with his hands over his eyes. His hands don’t move when I pull up, but they fly out of the way when I honk my horn a few feet away from him.

  He lets out a large breath and moves out of the way so I can pull up the ramp he never bothered to take down. I turn off the Chevelle, and get out to cover and secure it.

  I wait until we’re in the truck and on our way back to the shop before asking, “What were you doing?”

  “Some of Jax’s people showed up a couple of minutes before you pulled up here,” Mick says. “They told me to go to the back of the truck and make sure I couldn’t see anything.”

  “So you decided to go hide-and-seek with it, huh?” I ask. “Open the glovebox.”

  He opens it and a white envelope falls out.

  “Want me to open this, too?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Open it and pray there’s more than $2,000 in there. I’m starting to lose money.”

  “That’s just because you won’t let your Galaxie die like it’s been wanting to for years,” Mick says, leafing through the cash in the envelope. “$5,000 cash,” he says.

  “Hey, look at that,” I tell him. “That one was almost worth it.”

  “How was it out there?” he asks. “I didn’t see anything, but I heard a lot of it.”

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “My opponents may have been easier this time, but the course was difficult. Most of the time, I didn’t even know I was supposed to turn until I was almost on top of it.”

  “Well, at least you didn’t lose your car,” Mick says. “Was Jax there?”

  “I don’t think so. What was he driving when he took you down?”

  “Is there any way you could say that with a little less enthusiasm? ‘What was he driving when he took you down,’” he adds in a mocking tone. “You’d think you’d be over it by now.”

  “If you think that, you don’t know me very well,” I tell him. “Is there anything else in the envelope? Is there anything in there besides the money?”

  “Nope,” Mick says. “Is there supposed to be?”

  “How should I know?” I ask.

  We drive back to the shop and Mick helps me get the Chevelle unloaded and into its spot before we take the flatbed back to the shop.

  The thrill of the win is only just starting to set in, and I pull out my phone to call Kate. Actually, I’m going to tell her in person.

  “How’s the Galaxie running?” I ask Mick.

  “It’s your car,” he responds.

  “Yeah, but you said you were going to take a look at it today. Did you?”

  She’s shaking his head no, even though he’s saying, “Of course, man.”

  I decide to check for myself.

  One would think that having replaced just about everything on the Galaxie except for the frame would mean it’d run just like new. One apparently hasn’t met my car.

  I get behind the wheel and turn the ignition, eliciting little more than a sputter before nothing but the click of the starter.

  “Yeah, I guess I didn’t get around to that yet.”

  “Give me your keys,” I tell him.

  “I’ve got to get home, too,” Mick says.

  “You should have thought about that while you weren’t working on my car today,” I tell him. “Come on, I know you’ve got the GT86 here, hand ‘em over.”

  “Fine,” he says, handing me the keys, “but I’m going to need a ride home first.”

  “You probably should have said that before you gave me the keys,” I tell him. “I’ll be back in a while. We can see how the Galaxie’s coming along then.”

  Grudgingly, he turns and heads toward my chronically broken-down car as I make my way outside.

  Mick is one of those guys who can’t drive unless he’s in something that’ll give him some attention. He races his ’69 Chevy Camaro ZL1, but when it comes to driving around, he has to have the newest thing on the block.

  He won’t have the GT86 much longer. It’s almost a year old.

  As soon as I get in, I can’t help but think that this is the kind of car I want to drive around in, but I’m not ready to let the Galaxie go. It may be a dark symbol of my past, but isn’t getting rid of it just admitting defeat?

  I don’t want to think about any of that right now, though. It won’t be too much longer until Kate’s off work, and we have some celebrating to do.

  The drive is wonderfully uneventful. I don’t have to check my mirrors for cops like I would have to in the Chevelle, and there haven’t been any signs of extreme vehicular distress—one of Maye’s favorite terms for lemon—like there would have been in the Galaxie.

  It’s a little weird getting from point A to point B without having to look over my shoulder or under the hood.

  When I get to the hospital, I park and make my way inside.

  It’s hard to tell where Kate’s going to be at any given time, but toward the end of her shift, she usually tries to spend a little bit of time with her friend Paz. If I can find Paz, I can find Kate.

  It’s moot, though, as I walk into the hospital and peek into the ER, finding Kate making her way from one patient to another.

  “Hey there,” I say as I approach. “Sorry to just drop in on you, but I thought you might like to hear it in person.”

  “Yeah, you really need to go,” Kate says, not looking at me.

  “Yeah, I won,” I say and then her words finally compute in my head. “I thought you were off in a little bit.”

  “I am,” she says, “but you shouldn’t be here right now.”

  She must be in work mode. “I guess I should have called, but I was just so excited to tell you,” I start again, but she cuts me off.

  “Just leave, please,” she says, glancing up just long enough to see the
stern expression on her face.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Go,” she says, “now.”

  I get that I just dropped in on her, but this is a little much. As much as I’d love to figure out what her problem is, though, she’s clearly not in the mood to talk about it.

  I’m fuming as I turn and start walking back toward the exit.

  She’s working. I understand that. Still, she could have gone about that differently. She didn’t have to be so-

  “Oh hey, Eli,” a very friendly voice comes from just ahead. It’s Paz. “Hey, I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “There’s someone who’d like to have a few words with you up in room 303,” she says.

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  Evidently, Kate just wasn’t in a position to talk where she was. I don’t know why I jump to conclusions like that, but in my defense, she was pretty standoffish.

  “Yeah,” Paz says. “Try not to get seen by too many higher-ups on your way, though.”

  I nod and say, “Thanks, Paz.” With that, I head for the elevator.

  The doors open on the third floor and I follow the signs to room 303, only it’s empty.

  “Kate?” I ask at the threshold.

  She may be a minute or two, so I just step into the room. Only, when I go to close the door, someone’s already on top of it.

  “I can see you have no reasonable sense of self-preservation,” Kate’s mom asks, closing the door behind me, leaving us in the room together with her between me and the door. “I thought you and I should talk.”

  I’m stuck.

  “Mrs.-” I start.

  “I think you’ll find this will go a lot more quickly if you’ll keep your mouth shut and listen.”

  This is Kate’s mom. I’ve got to at least try to be nice, so I bite the inside of my cheek.

  “That’s better,” she says. “Now, I’ve been trying to figure out what it is I could have done or said to instill in you and my daughter the seriousness of the issue before us.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You,” she answers. “You’re a nice fling, I’m sure, but are you really so deluded as to think that you and my daughter have anything in common?”

  I start again, “We seem to have a great deal-”