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

by Alycia Taylor

  Eli asks me if I’m all right as we get out of the car.

  “Fine,” I tell him. “I guess I’m just a little weirded out by my dad and all that.”

  “Got ya,” he says and then goes on like that’s the end of the story.

  If I knew how to articulate what I’m feeling, I’d probably say something else on the topic, but I’m still working on that at the moment.

  We’re seated and Eli’s looking over the menu while I sit here and look at my water. This shouldn’t feel so strange. Nothing’s changed between Eli and me. The only difference at all from what I can tell is that my dad’s no longer spouting Mom’s propaganda.

  Still, as I look at him on the other side of the table, looking over his stupid menu, I can’t help but feel this frustration growing inside of me. For now, though, I do what I can to not let it show.

  The waitress comes back to take our orders. Eli orders something I’m not paying attention well enough to hear and then the waitress turns to me, only I don’t know what I want to get.

  How can I decide? I haven’t even had a look at the menu.

  “Would you mind giving me another minute?” I ask.

  “Sure thing,” the waitress says, smiling.

  She walks off, and I’m leaning over the table, saying, “You know, I’m really not feeling all that well. I think I might just need you to take me home. Is that all right?”

  “Yeah,” Eli says, setting down his water glass. “I’ll find the waitress and let her know to cancel the order and we’ll get out of here. You gonna be okay?”

  “I will be all right,” I answer. “I think I just need to lie down for a while.”

  I do feel sick, but it’s more existential ennui than it is any physical ailment.

  Eli gets up to find the waitress, and I gather my things. As I didn’t really bring anything into the restaurant, gathering my things adds up to moving my purse a little closer to my body and positioning my legs so I can get out of this booth with a single move.

  When Eli returns, I’m already out of my seat, and we walk back out of the restaurant, eliciting confused looks from a few of the waitresses as they half-heartedly tell us to “come again.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Eli asks as we’re walking to the car.

  He really is a caring guy, Eli.

  “I’m sick,” I snap at him. “People get sick, it happens. Can you just take me home?”

  Okay, that was a little more than I meant to say.

  “I’m sorry,” he says as he opens my car door and holds it for me until I get in.

  He closes the door, and while he’s walking around to his side, I’m muttering, “Oh, I’m sorry, Kate. I’m sorry things are going so well for you and you can’t be happy, Kate. I’m sorry you can’t realize that I’m just the nicest guy in the world, Kate.”

  I manage to get through the last one before he opens his door.

  He gets in and starts the car.

  “What is with this stupid thing, anyway?” I ask.

  “Why?” he returns. “Did you hear something? Did something come off of it?”

  I sigh. I don’t know why I’m being so short with him. I’m just so angry right now.

  “It’s a piece of crap,” I tell him. “How many times have you had to fix this thing since we met? What, like five? Ten? How many do I not even know about?”

  “Whoa,” he says. “I get that you’re not feeling well, but you don’t have to take it out on me.”

  “Maybe I want to take it out on you,” I snap back.

  “Yeah,” he mutters, just loud enough that I can hear him over this stupid car’s stupid engine, “every time a door closes, a window opens somewhere nearby for me to jump out of to my horrible death.”

  It’s close enough to how I’m feeling that I just let the comment slide.

  We’re back at my house. It feels like we only left five minutes ago. I guess that’s not too far off the mark, though.

  “Do you want me to help you inside?” he asks.

  I look toward the driveway. Dad’s car is still here. Mom’s isn’t.

  “No,” I tell him. “I just need to lie down. Thanks.”

  I open my door and get out without anything further said or done between us. As I’m walking to the door, it’s unclear whether Eli’s waiting to see that I get in the house all right or if his car just broke down again. Personally, I don’t really care at the moment.

  Whatever’s bothering me isn’t his fault, but that knowledge only frustrates me more. Things get even worse when I walk into the house and Dad starts asking me why I’m home so early. I just turn and head up the stairs without a word.

  This isn’t the kind of end to the evening I was hoping for before Eli came by to pick me up, but after Dad started swooning, I lost my appetite for everything but solitude.

  It’s not Eli’s fault. I don’t know whose fault it is.

  I feel bad about talking to him the way I did, and for my behavior as well, but my hand never goes for my phone to call and apologize. Right now, I think I’d just rather be alone.

  What’s changed, though?

  Eli hasn’t been doing anything differently as far as I can tell, and yet every time he would open his stupid mouth, those stupid words would come out, and finally, I just couldn’t take it anymore.

  Maybe Mom’s been right all along. I haven’t mentioned this to her or Dad, and I think Eli just thinks I have an odd schedule, but I’ve been missing class and work. Everything Mom tried to convince me was going to happen is already happening.

  It’s ironic that it took my dad changing his mind about Eli for me to realize it.

  I can’t say Eli’s entirely to blame. I’m the one that’s been shirking my responsibilities, but he’s the one that’s always talking about how people should do what makes them happy instead of wasting all their time on something that’s never going to be worth it.

  Okay, so he’s never said it quite like that, but that’s basically the idea, right?

  That kind of thinking was all well and good when I was a teenager, but I’m an adult now. If I don’t get prepared for my life, how am I supposed to be ready when it comes time to start living it?

  I can’t believe I let Eli set me back this far.

  My mouth is getting a bit dry, so I leave my room and sneak downstairs for a soda, hoping to avoid my dad on my way. I’m not so lucky.

  “Hey, you came back and headed up to your room so quick I didn’t know if you were all right. I was actually just about to come up and check on you. What happened?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “I just came downstairs for a Pepsi.”

  “Something’s obviously bothering you,” he says. “Are things not going so well with Eli?”

  I scoff. “Why? What made you change your mind about him anyway? A week or two ago and you were right there letting the slander fly right along with Mom. Now, you’re like Mr. Rogers or something.”

  “I do have a fantastic collection of sweaters,” he says. I’m not in the mood for joking. “Sweetheart, I just realized I’d been unfair to him. Once I got a chance to talk to him a little, we hit it off pretty well.”

  “When did you have a chance to talk to him?”

  Dad lifts his head like he’s getting ready to nod, saying, “He didn’t tell you we talked, did he?”

  “He said you two talked when he was taking Mick to the hospital for a checkup or something, but you were nothing but vitriol about the whole idea of him and me. What changed?” I ask.

  “I just realized that he’s eager to protect you much the same way I am,” Dad says. “When you’re a dad with a daughter, you want to make sure whoever she ends up with is going to look after her, take care of her-”

  “Eager to protect me?”

  Dad’s eyes flash wide for an instant, and he’s putting his hand on my shoulder now, saying, “I don’t generally condone violence, but you’ve got to admit that young man had it coming.”

&nbs
p; “You’re talking about Mick?” I ask. “How did you…” I trail off as it all comes together.

  I’d seen the bandage on Mick’s nose and there was the fact that he didn’t want to talk about that so much as he wanted to apologize to me profusely, all the while asking if it was all right for him to apologize.

  I’m not stupid. Even though Mick wouldn’t say anything, I figured what happened to his nose had to have been Eli’s work.

  Still, thinking that and knowing that are very different things.

  “So Eli did break Mick’s nose?” I ask myself just as much as I’m asking Dad.

  He nods.

  “If he’d just beat someone up, I’d be even more against him than I was,” he starts, “but the man was, if you’ll excuse the expression, defending your honor. How can I not be on board with that?”

  I’m such an idiot.

  I’ve been so short with Eli. Tonight, I probably would have been better off if I’d stapled my lips closed before he showed up to pick me up for our date.

  I glance at the clock on the wall. Eli didn’t know where the drag was going to be earlier. He told me when we made the date that he doesn’t usually find out anything but the meet spot with any kind of advanced notice—he may have phrased it differently—but by now, he’s probably already there.

  “I’m going to start looking for my own place to live,” I blurt.

  It’s not what I’d planned to say.

  I was going to say something about how I’m going to go and see if I can catch up with Eli, but I don’t know what to do with the words now that they’re spoken. The funny thing is I don’t take them back.

  I may not know what to do with the words, but the idea is just as sweet as it’s always been. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking—after all, it’s not like I suddenly came into money—but it feels good to say the words.

  “I’m going to start looking for my own place to live,” I repeat. “I know that’s not going to be easy on you, but I’m never going to get any clarity about myself or what I want to do with my life, much less with my boyfriend, if I’m always here.”

  It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to happen overnight, but I don’t plan on unsaying anything. One way or another, I’m going to make this work.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Eli’s Night

  Eli

  I’m driving home from what was supposed to be a fun night out with Kate when I get a phone call.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  There’s a lot of background noise, but through the sounds of glasses clinking, loud music and the occasional “Woo!” I hear my friend and former informal bareknuckle boxing opponent saying, “Hey, Rans, it’s Mick. I’m out here with some of the guys, thought you might want to tag along if you’re not doing anything.”

  “I’m really not in the mood,” I tell him.

  “I thought it might be nice for you and me to get out and do something,” he says. “You know, kind of bury the hatchet.”

  “I’m still not in the mood,” I tell him.

  “Come on, man,” Mick says. “All our stuff aside, when was the last time you got out and did something?”

  “I do stuff all the time.”

  It’s not really smart to go into details over a cell phone, so he’ll have to take my meaning.

  “That’s work,” he says. “It’s good that you’re motivated, but everyone’s got to blow off some steam every once in a while. You could use a vacation.”

  “Bye, Mick,” I say and hang up the phone.

  I’m not sure why I answered it in the first place.

  Neither of us has been openly hostile toward the other since Mick got out of the hospital, but it’s still going to take me some time before I’m ready to be all buddy/buddy with him again. Even if I were, I wouldn’t feel like it tonight.

  Kate’s pulling away, and I really don’t know why.

  It’s possible when she saw Mick in the shop after our “little talk,” she felt I’d gone overboard and is two minutes away from ending the relationship.

  Did I overreact?

  I don’t know. It really seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I mean, I did take the guy to the hospital.

  Still, I can see how she might think I went a bit too far. The guy’s nose is pretty hilarious right now.

  It’ll heal, I’m sure.

  Other than that, the only thing I can think is that Kate’s mom spiked her daughter’s water with something that made her a lot more open to the idea of hating me. Hate’s an exaggeration, no doubt, but she’s obviously not too happy with me right now.

  I get back to my humble apartment on the western edge of town, making sure to keep the lights off until I’ve got the front door closed behind me. The neighbors don’t need to know what kind of stuff I have in my home.

  Sometimes people have larger mouths than wallets. There are a few things in here I didn’t exactly earn working at the shop.

  Every once in a while, a recently-defeated opponent will manage to talk me into taking something other than money to pay for the honor of seeing me beat them on the pavement. I’ve never had pity with a pink slip, but with the right offer, a $1,000 win can turn into a flat screen the size of my mattress.

  Thanks to my overwhelming generosity, I’ve ended up with a lot of stuff.

  Now with the light on and the door closed behind me, though, I feel like I haven’t really been home in a while. It’s a strange feeling, especially because I haven’t slept anywhere else since that morning Kate and I had to make our great escape from her second-floor bedroom.

  I sit on the couch and grab the remote, but I can’t convince myself to press the power button.

  Mick’s right: I could use a vacation. I’m not sure if I want to go out boozing with him and whatever group he’s cobbled together for the night, but getting out wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

  It’s difficult to pin down why, but being here, surrounded by things I either won directly off of other people or bought with money from other races, I feel so small, so unmistakably alone. It’s not a feeling I like.

  I pull out my phone and find Kate’s number. Maybe if I just give her a call, we can talk and work out whatever problem we’re having this week.

  It’s too soon, though. Whatever the reason, she’s not thrilled with me right now, and it doesn’t really seem to me that calling her up right now isn’t going to do much good.

  I glance back at my enormous television, standing on the antique chest of drawers I won off a guy in a Honda Civic. He was pretty broken up about it, but it was either that or his shitty car. He hadn’t done nearly enough to that thing to make it worth my time.

  Usually, I can squeeze a sense of pride looking around my apartment, but right now I just feel like an intruder stuck in a room with a whole lot of other people’s things. I’m starting to feel like I can’t get out.

  Looking back to my phone, I find Mick’s last call and I call him back.

  “Change your mind?” he asks, answering the phone.

  “Where can we meet up?”

  I hate to admit it, but after being home for less than ten minutes, I’m looking forward to a night on the town.

  * * *

  The night starts out innocent enough. I meet up with Mick and some guys I know from the pavement and we have some drinks, talk cars.

  Looking back over the last half hour, I’d say the moment things went wrong was when we all agreed that we should check out the new piano bar in town.

  I can live with piano music. It’s not the kind of thing I’d play in the car—if I had a car that had a radio, CD player, tape deck, eight-track player, or MP3 input—but it doesn’t bother me, either.

  It’s not the music that’s making this so uncomfortable, though.

  With a name like The Branded Sub, I probably should have figured out that it wasn’t just a normal jazz bar. At first, I was looking for some kind of naval thing, but once we got through the doors and into the club itself, i
t became clear enough.

  See, along with being a piano bar, The Branded Sub is also a BDSM club.

  Now, I’m not one to judge what consenting adults do in their free time, but this isn’t my scene. From the way the other guys are hunched forward, trying not to look at anything but their drinks, I’d say I’m not alone here.

  Our waiter—a twenty-something man wearing a black corset, his hands elaborately tied behind his back and a stamp on his forehead in the shape of a crescent moon that’s made to look like someone branded him with an iron—comes by the table with a pleather-clad blonde woman carrying a bullwhip in one hand and a tray of drinks in the other.

  “Down,” the woman says, and our waiter drops to his knees and leans forward. Once he’s negotiated his positioning with his hands behind his back, the woman sets the tray on his back. She looks up at us with narrow eyes, saying, “He’s been bad. Make him stay there a while.”

  Up until this point, the only words that have escaped any of our mouths were our drink orders. Now, we’re all looking at each other, just waiting for the first person to say it.

  “So,” Mick says, but he doesn’t follow it up with anything.

  I kind of want to take the tray off of that guy’s back and tell him he doesn’t have to be our drink holder, but I really don’t know what they do to you for something like that here. It’s entirely possible he’s the one that would get mad if we did that.

  Gingerly, we pass out our drinks, leaving the tray on the man’s back. When in Rome, I guess.

  Still, as I’m finishing up my pint of beer about fifteen seconds later, I think I’ve about hit my limit with this place.

  There’s a stage with what looks like a catwalk in the center of the bar. There is a piano sitting on it, but nobody’s playing it right now. Instead, a man wearing an oversized bull’s head mask is holding a microphone against the mouth of his mask, and he’s saying the malevolent fashion show will be starting in twenty minutes.