Chapter 9
NINE
CHANGE
Adrienne
Sometime after dawn this morning, I stumbled out of bed and found my way down to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. Although, I couldn’t be entirely sure that at this juncture coffee would do the trick.
Nevertheless, I tried.
I pour a cup and make my way back upstairs, narrowly missing running into Gabe.
Jesus. He moves like a cat. When I left my room, the door to the guest room was closed. Now, here he is, standing in the hallway and scowling at me.
“I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I didn’t see you.”
“Man my size,” he says, “hard to miss. I’m starting to doubt your self-preservation instincts.”
I look up at him, startled. Is he making a joke? Weird. I didn’t think robots could manage that… although Alexa is pretty funny. The other day she told me a banging knock-knock joke. Also, I realize that it’s weird that my closest relationship is basically a computer and a speaker.
“Sure… uh… yeah,” I ramble, trying to get my words to work. “I’ll get right on that.”
And I swear his lips twitch like he thinks I’m being funny. It’s like I woke up this morning in some alternate timeline. Is this the Mandela effect? Am I going to find out we’ve been spelling the title of bear books wrong for decades and Shaq wasn’t in Space Jam.
“Yeah, babe,” he says. “Best get on that.”
“Uh-huh.” And then I turn on my heel and make my way back to my bedroom to get dressed for the day. The whole way down the hall, I don’t look back because I’m afraid of what I’ll see… like aliens or AI taking over the world one refrigerator at a time. And why do they need wi-fi all of a sudden?
I chug back a big gulp of coffee before placing my mug on the bathroom counter, then race into my closet, stripping off my pajamas as I go.
I pull on panties and a sports bra, yank a pair of spandex shorts up my legs, and then pull a lavender ribbed tank top down over my head, making my way back into the bathroom.
I grab a brush and yank it through my hair then drop it to the countertop and scoop up a hair tie, gripping it between my teeth.
I plait my hair down my back in a French braid.
It’s too hot to leave it down on the track, and it gets in the way.
Since a ponytail doesn’t fit under my helmet, this is my style of choice.
I brush my teeth, scrub my face, and slather on some moisturizer and sunscreen before running back to my closet to grab a pair of Chucks and slide my feet in. All of my gear and my suit are stored at the track.
The last few sips of now cold coffee get dumped down the drain and I run the water in the sink to rinse it away.
Then with the stoneware in my hand, I race back down the stairs.
When I get to the mouth of the kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks, because something about the view in front of me is wrong.
Gabe is in a pair of worn jeans, boots, and a black T-shirt that is so tight across his broad shoulders it should be illegal. He’s leaning against the island, scrolling through a phone, and by the leopard-print case, one can only guess it isn’t his phone.
I know exactly whose phone it is, because it’s mine.
He notices movement at the doorway and looks up. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
“Is that my phone?” I ask the obvious.
“I asked you a question,” he says, his deep voice rumbling.
“I could say the same,” I snap as I come unglued from where I stand. I make my way over to the dishwasher, where I put my mug in the top rack and turn around.
His face is carefully blank, but his eyes are… heated. It sends a shiver down my spine and a tingle to an unwanted place.
“Go fucking change,” he orders, his voice low and firm. He’s not yelling but this is almost worse and I don’t like it at all.
“Excuse me?”
“I am not leaving this house until you put on something else.”
“Fine,” I reply, feeling embarrassment heat my face. “Then don’t leave. I’m not even sure that I need you.”
“Oh, you need me,” he responds, his voice quiet… ominous. “Now go change.”
“No.” I dig in my heels for a fight. “I wear this every day so I can have something under my fire suit. I’m not changing just because you don’t like it.”
“Well, I’m not having my men walk around with hard dicks in their pants because you want to get in touch with your feminist side and parade around in front of them dressed like a stripper.”
“That was notably sexist,” I reply quietly.
What I do not voice is the fact that he’s hurt my feelings…
again. There’s a fine line in this business between being labeled a capable woman who is sexy as hell and one who does things she shouldn’t have to in order to move up the ladder.
I’m a goddamned professional driver for one of the most elite racing teams in the world.
No one screams at male drivers if their bodies are attractive, why should I be labeled?
Someone else’s reaction to me is not my problem.
“Babe.”
“What?” I snap when he breaks our stare down.
“Do I look like I care?”
Sometime during our tête-à-tête, he straightened to his full height that’s more than a little imposing and folded his arms over his chest. Intimidating, yes. But I’m not changing my way of life for his bullshit hang-ups. If his guys can’t control their dicks, that’s not on me.
“I think I don’t care,” I reply. Then I race around the island on the far side of him, snatch my keys off the hook by the door, and run toward the garage.
Two steps down from the house, Gabe hooks me around my belly with a strong arm and hauls me up off my feet. Argh!
He holds me to him with one arm and beeps the locks on his key fob with the other before flinging open the front passenger door of his SUV.
He tosses me onto the seat and orders me about with a tersely spoken “Stay,” and then he slams the door closed before walking back to the house to lock the door.
Even with the obvious level of his anger on the rise, his movements are still fluid and catlike.
This man is a predator and not a plaything. I would do well to remember that.
I sit in the front seat with my arms folded across my chest, silently fuming while I stare out the front windshield.
He makes his way back to the SUV and climbs into the driver seat. When I open my mouth to let him know I am not playing these bullshit games, he slices a palm through the air and holds it out to me.
“Don’t spew a bunch of bullshit at me,” he growls. “I’m here to protect you. I am not here to pamper and spoil you. And by the look of you, you don’t have any want in that department, fresa.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” he replies. “I don’t hold hands with spoiled celebrities. You want to stay alive, then do what I say. You don’t, then your dad is the one who will have to live with the consequences of your actions.”
“Ouch,” I whisper. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“I’m not a very nice guy,” he replies.
I think I agree with him there.
And I’d do well to remember that too.
Instead of responding, I turn my head toward the window and watch the highway pass by, lost in my own thoughts as we make our way to the track in East County.
It’s early enough that traffic is minimal which is saying something because this is still San Diego County.
There are over three million people who live here and drive on the freeways.
When we get there, he pulls through the gate with ease. Apparently, security was briefed yesterday, because he drives right around to my garage, where he parks in my spot. I try not to let that chafe, but it does.
I pull in a steadying breath and turn to unbuckle my belt, making a pointed effort not to look him in his eyes. It’s foolish and it’s weak, and I hate that he’s made me feel so, but worse than that would be if he found out how badly he actually hurt me with his callous words.
I need to get out of this vehicle as quickly as possible.
It’s stupid—I’m well aware. I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me, so why am I letting his words, as mean as they are, cut me so deeply? I shouldn’t; that’s the answer. So with that in mind, I won’t let him.
He’s here to do a job, and that is to protect my life.
My job is to win some fucking races so I can earn the life I was meant to live.
That’s it. And I’m going to remember that and ignore anything else.
We’re not going to be best friends who stay up late, braiding each other’s hair and sharing our deepest secrets.
We’re also not going to be lovers. So now I really need to get out of this fucking car.
His hand stills mine over the latch to my belt, and I suck in a deep breath but don’t lift my gaze to meet his.
“Fresa,” Gabe calls gently. “Look at me.”
I bite my lip and look up at him. I don’t want to, but the warm gold of his hazel eyes pulls me in.
“It’s going to be okay,” he says softly.
I let him treat me with kid gloves for a moment. I’d rather he think I’m scared of some stalker than actually hurt by this man with too much testosterone.
“I know.”
“I need to know that you’re going to listen to me and do exactly what I say,” he says calmly, and the tight leash on my control begins to fray.
I want to yell and scream. How dare he tell me that I need to come to heel? Not to mention his insinuation that the precarious turn my life has taken is somehow my fault is more than a little offensive. But I’m not going to let him get a rise out of me again.
I pull in a calming breath, and then reply, “I can’t guarantee I will act and react the way you want me to, but I can promise to try my best to stay out of your way and not do anything to compromise my safety.”
He watches me for what seems like a ridiculously long time. It feels like he somehow sees everything, even the things I want to hide the most.
I can’t take any more of his watchful gaze, so I snap, “Can I go to work now?”
“Yeah,” he replies gently. “You can go to work now.”