by K. Bromberg
“Oh man, this is so cool,” the guy says, eyes wide and movements jerky as he shifts his stance and sticks his hand out. “Glen. Glen’s my name.”
“Nice to meet you, Glen,” Zander says with a nod, eyes remaining on the man and smile still on his face, but there is a different feel here. Almost like he has a front up, on display, and I can’t take my eyes off him or stop trying to figure out what I’m in the dark on.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I told my wife it was you, and she bet me I wouldn’t come over here and find out. . . . Man, this is so exciting!” He rubs his hands together. When I look back to Zander, I can tell he’s completely comfortable with strangers approaching him.
“Getty.” Liam’s deep baritone calls through the loud chaos of the bar and as much as I don’t want to care about this mystery man who has waltzed into my life and seems to be here to stay for a while, I do want to know.
Struggling between curiosity and duty, I take a fortifying breath and nod my head to my boss, let him know I’m on the orders stacking up. Reluctantly I step away from my position that was perfect for eavesdropping, but not before I hear Glen say, “I’m sorry about losing your ride.”
Those words repeat in my head during the rest of my shift. The bar only gets busier, so any spare moment I have is spent stretching my back or running to the bathroom, although I’d like to be asking Zander for an explanation.
I watch him, though. Sitting on the other side of the bar, surrounded by fellow patrons and to my dismay a few females. And it’s not like it’s because I care or anything, because I don’t. Definitely not. It’s just because I want answers I can’t get while he’s busy flirting aimlessly with women he’ll probably never even see again.
His laugh floats across the bar and it’s like the breeze fanning the fire of my irritation with him. I have no right to be annoyed except for what he told Darcy, and yet with each passing minute he’s over there laughing and having fun, it increases.
I finish the next set of orders, realize that the end of that hour Liam mentioned to me is coming up. My eyes flicker back to Zander. To his dark hair curling up at the neck of his shirt and to how his fingers trail up and down the lines of condensation on his glass. Or that easygoing smile that says he doesn’t have a care in the world although obviously he does or he wouldn’t be here running from turbulent storms and white squalls.
“Why don’t you pull yourself a pint and get off your feet for a bit? Sit with the locals and watch the last few innings.”
I look over to Liam, who’s wiping his hands on a rag with that look in his eye that says there is no arguing with him. “Tell me something. You ever heard of the name Zander Donavan before?”
He gives me a slow and steady nod as his eyes narrow in thought. “A race car driver. Indy, I think. Pretty damn good from what I recall. Popular too. I seem to remember overhearing something on SportsCenter,” he says, motioning to the televisions that blanket the bar, “that he left midseason with some controversy—”
“Liam!” His name is shouted from the other end of the counter and he holds up a finger to tell one of the regulars it will be just a minute.
“Is that . . . ?” Liam says, all of a sudden the dots connecting for him as he looks across the bar to where Zander is seated. He stares, lips parted, as recognition makes it hard for him to find the words to speak. “Holy shit, it is him. Well, what do you know? In my bar of all places too.”
“Lucky us,” I mutter under my breath with a hint of sarcasm that apparently only I can hear, because by the look on Liam’s face he is more than thrilled to have Zander here.
Great. Now the man is invading this space of mine too.
“That definitely can’t be bad for business. Him coming in here when you’re on shift.”
“What?” How is he even aware we know each other?
“Small-town life,” he answers for me. “Everyone knows the two of you are living together up in the place on Canary. I knew he looked familiar, but couldn’t place him. Just figured he looked like someone I knew.” He shakes his head and looks over to where Zander is speaking to four guys who have stopped at his table to talk. I thought they were just patrons being friendly, but now the constant revolving door at his table makes so much more sense; they are fans who recognize Zander.
Beside me, Liam clucks his tongue and draws my attention back to him. The concentration on his face tells me he’s trying to figure a way to market Zander’s presence, and I hate the idea instantly. There’s no need for him to be more in my space than he already is. “Lucky for me you’re the one working here, since he seems only to have eyes for you. Hot damn!”
I roll my eyes, the rebuff on my tongue when his words really hit my ears. Only has eyes for me? Is he joking? When I glance over to my boss, he’s dead serious. And now I’m the one having trouble forming words.
“Oh no. We’re not together. I mean it was a mistake—”
“Your shift’s over, Getty,” he says with a knowing smile, saving me from my flustered response. “Go grab a glass of the poison of your choice. Enjoy the full house while I sort your tips out.”
“Thanks.” He retreats to the other end of the bar while I’m left trying to figure out what just happened.
* * *
It’s the hum of the bar that I love, just not the people who make the sound. But I’m not caring whatsoever, because the Tom Collins in my hand is empty and my head is slightly fuzzy. Definitely one good thing about never being allowed to drink: You get buzzed off your first one.
And luckily tucked in the corner on the side of the bar like a hermit, I get to keep mostly to myself and enjoy the atmosphere but not really be a part of it.
“We never got to finish our conversation.” I don’t know why Zander’s voice is akin to nails over chalkboard to me—possibly because I’ve been sitting here stewing about him and how much I don’t want to be—but the minute he slides into the booth beside me, I jump. Without a single word, I rise from my seat, walk behind the bar and through the door to the back room that serves as a quasi break room and a storage area.
“What’s your problem?” His voice is too close behind me—obviously he’s following me when he’s not allowed back here.
For some reason I don’t take him as one who follows rules.
“I just want to get away from you.” I turn around to face him, realizing all of a sudden how small this room feels with him occupying it. “I told you, I don’t like you.”
And why is that, Getty? Because he makes that fluttery feeling happen in your stomach? He only has eyes for you. Because you don’t want to think about him or care about his white squalls and yet you do?
I shake the thoughts from my head, my own little devil and angel warring within me. It’s the last thing I need when I have a fight right in front of me that needs my attention.
“You’re obviously angry at me for something. An argument goes a little smoother when both people know what the fight’s about. . . .” He lifts his eyebrows and all I see is a taunt instead of a question.
“Shall we start with the word again? Darcy.”
“You mean name.”
“This is exactly why I don’t like you. You’re frustrating and arrogant and you think you can waltz back here, tell me what is going to happen, how to fight, what to do, after you don’t even have the courtesy of telling me who you are.” My words fall out in a tirade that makes no sense even to me. Why am I hurt, though? Is it because he didn’t trust me enough to tell me?
And neither did Darcy, her nonresponse flickering through my mind: “That’s for him to tell you. Just as your story is for you to tell him, if you want.”
It’s not like you’ve told him anything either.
“Does it matter who I am?” His shoulders square as he takes a step closer, hands at his side, eyes searching mine for the truths behind my words.
&n
bsp; “No. Yes. Damn.” Brilliant.
“That’s a great answer. Very decisive.” The smirk is back. So is the seductive scent of his cologne.
“Quit mocking me.” I fight against the urge to walk out and leave this argument behind, uncomplicate things that are already so damn complicated.
“Does it matter who I am? What my job is?” I can sense he cares about my answer for some reason.
“No. Of course not. But you could have at least told me.”
“It doesn’t change anything, Getty, other than now you can go search on the Internet about me, about my past, and read shit that may or may not be true. Is that what you want? Because I have a feeling there is a helluva lot more you want to say, so have at me.”
“Oh.” It’s my only response, and our eyes lock. The prospect of looking him up never really even crossed my mind. But now of course that he’s mentioned it . . . the idea will nag at me. And in that instant I think of myself, how upset I’d be if someone told him who I really was and how vulnerable and betrayed I’d feel. And then I wonder if that’s his whole game plan here: make me feel bad so that I walk away from this argument feeling sorry for him. I don’t think he has any clue that I’ve spent so many years being the wallflower in the corner, taking the blame, not fighting back, and I just can’t do that right now.
Silence fills the space between us. Part of me wants to ask more and the other half that doesn’t want to give more becomes a conundrum all in itself. The quid pro quo that I won’t let happen. So instead I focus on him being in my space, in my house, in my life, when he shouldn’t be. When I don’t want him to be.
And yet he’s still here, still waiting for my answer, still taunting me by his mere presence. A constant reminder of everything I don’t want, can’t have in my life, don’t have the luxury to even consider.
“So can you tell me what my driving a race car for a living and Darcy have in common?” His voice pulls me from my thoughts, brings me back to him standing a few feet in front of me. “Are those what caused that huge chip on your shoulder to weigh you down so much you’re being irrational and picking a fight with me for no apparent reason?”
“No reason? Are you crazy?” The smirk he gives me in return goads my temper and at the same time tells me I am giving him just what he wants: a fight. And yet I can’t stop myself. I welcome it. “You called Darcy and told her that I agreed to be roommates with you.”
“And?” He says it like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“And?” I screech. “I didn’t say that. I didn’t even think that. How dare you tell her that I was willing to live with you when that’s the farthest thing from my mind?”
“You’ll come around.”
“I’ll what?” Each time I respond, the pitch of my voice rises. Each time he responds, I want to strangle him.
“You heard me,” he says with a shrug as he takes a step forward, prompting me to take one back because right now I despise him with every part of my being.
“You’re an asshole.”
A lightning-quick grin flashes over his lips. “If you want to insult me, Socks, you better think of something better than that, because that’s not an insult when it’s a well-known fact.”
All I can do is shake my head and tell myself this isn’t worth it. There’s no use trying to reason with someone who’s being unreasonable, and he’s taking the cake in that category. Drawing in a fortifying breath, I close my eyes for a moment; it’s probably best for the both of us if I leave right now before things are said that shouldn’t be said.
“Forget I said anything.”
His hand is on my arm the moment I try to step around him. I should have expected it, should have prepped myself for it, but I didn’t. I was too wrapped up in my emotions and my temper to steel my reaction. Biting back the startled yelp I want to emit, I yank my arm back as memories flicker and fade in my mind.
Breathe, Getty. This isn’t home. He isn’t Ethan. It’s okay.
He looks at me, head to the side, eyes narrowed, as he releases my arm, but the question over my reaction is in his eyes. I do the only thing I can, lift my chin up in defiance and show him and myself that I’m not intimidated by him.
“Spill it, Getty. Let’s finish this here and now. Get it over with. Why else are you mad? You want to throw the whole kitchen sink in? There’s one right over there—I can try to yank it out for you, and add it in if you want.” Sarcasm is thick in his voice and yet there is an underlying strain there as well that I can’t quite figure out.
Let’s face it, I can’t figure anything out about him other than one minute he’s nice and the next minute he’s annoying. And that damn cologne of his. It’s just frustrating that it’s everywhere.
“Talk. Get it out,” he taunts as he steps in to me.
I don’t want to go here, don’t want to sound like a whiny woman, like I’m the emotional wreck that I really am, so I reach deep down and make sure my voice is strong and steady when I speak. “The other morning, in my room . . . what was that all about?”
You hurt my feelings. My eyes say it, but my mouth remains silent.
“Ahhh. That,” he says with a purse of his lips and a stoic expression.
“Yeah, that. See? Asshole.”
“That was on me, Getty. Not on you.” He blows out a sigh as he breaks eye contact and moves around the small space. And even though he’s spoken the words, I’m not sure I truly believe them, because in the few seconds since he’s answered me, his posture has changed, just like it did the other day. Defensive. Pensive.
“Look, I’ve lived with one man who had a temper and moods that flicked on and off.” His movement falters from my words and he turns to look at me again. I swear the atmosphere of the room shifts instantly—tension and curiosity thick in the air around us. I know I’m telling him more than I want to, but he has to understand. “I can’t live in that unpredictability again and you just forced me to with that phone call to Darcy.”
“And the other morning I was unpredictable, and that, what . . . ?”
“It pissed me off. Made me feel like I did something wrong when I know I didn’t. So do you mind explaining to me what the hell happened? Why you went from nice to asshole in a split second?”
“I warned you I was moody.” It’s the only explanation he gives, but I don’t buy it.
“And I told you I’ve seen nice. That was a huge glimpse of it. What made you turn into a jerk? Why’d you walk out of the room, Zander?”
“Jesus Christ,” he says as he moves across the room again, hands running through his hair, and teeth chewing his bottom lip. “I walked out because I promised myself I’d come here, straighten out the shit I’ve made a mess of lately until I could right all the wrongs. It’s complicated and all I want is for life to be simple again. Black-and-white.”
“But what does that have to do with me?”
He laughs softly, lines suddenly etched in the set of his mouth as he contemplates his response. “Because you complicate my plan.”
“I do?”
“Yes.” He shoves his hand through his hair again and steps up to where I stand. “Fuck yes, you do.”
“You’re making absolutely no sense. You don’t even know me. What am I to you?” I throw my hands up, exasperated at the language gap between male and female.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Screw you.” Hurt rifles through me. He’s perfectly accurate and just made the point I was making myself, and yet hearing him say it with disassociation in his tone and indifference in his body language stings. My own insecurities rear their ugly head again as everything becomes crystal clear to me.
“Exactly.” He chuckles a low and self-deprecating laugh and I’m so lost in my own confusion that I don’t really hear it, comprehend what he’s saying, because I’m already trying to piece together my next words.
I’m out of breath, and anger and rejection are roaring through my blood as he stares at me, eyes wide, lips lax, head shaking slowly back and forth as he digests what I’ve just said. As he realizes I’m an intelligent woman who has his entire game figured out.
“You’re certifiable, you know that?” He takes a step toward me, a smile slowly spreading across his lips. And I hate that he’s mocking me, despise that he’s secretly laughing at me. “That’s a great scenario you’ve conjured up in that female mind of yours, but I hate to tell you, you’re way off base.”
“Really? I’m off base? Why’d you tell Darcy you want to live with me?” My hands are on my hips; my tone demands a no-bullshit answer.
“Because I want to.”
It’s my turn to laugh and roll my eyes. I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing, but I’m over it. Over him and his back-and-forth and making no sense. “You want to and yet I complicate things.”
“Yep.” He nods slowly.
“That’s all you’re going to give me?”
That chuckle again. The one that tells me there is so much more behind it than humor and yet I wish I understood why.
“No. Yes. Fuck.” He scrubs a hand over his face and for once I notice he seems uncomfortable and unsure of himself.
“That’s very decisive,” I mock.
“You complicate things, Getty,” he murmurs as he steps into my personal space so that I can clearly see the look in his eyes even in the dimly lit room. And this time when our eyes meet, the amusement has been replaced with an intensity that I didn’t expect. “Because there is something about you that continually reminds me why I came here. I don’t know why you’re here and you don’t know why I’m here . . . and yet for some reason every time I look at you, I know I need to stay when all I want to do is run again.”