𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.✓ completed

Untitled Part 19

 Chapter Nineteen

Willow

Work sucks big time. Van keeps reminding me that I'll soon be up on stage, even going as far as discussing what outfit I should wear. By the time I leave, I'm exhausted and worried and scared and feel so dirty. My fear only doubles when I notice the Mustang in the parking lot. Thank God I'm not alone and have Rowan, one of the dancers, walking with me to the car.

"When you start up onstage, you'll really want to be careful coming out here," she tells me as she puffs on a cigarette. She's wearing a leather jacket over a sequined pair of shorts and a bikini top, the outfit she wears on stage. "A lot of guys will try to buy time with you, but they need to go through Van to do that."

I nearly stop dead in my tracks. "That goes on here?"

Smoke snakes from her lips as she gives me a duh look. "Um, yeah. What did you think the back room was for?"

"I don't know." I zip up my jacket. "I thought maybe it was storage."

She laughs, ashing her cigarette. "Van's right. You're definitely going to rock on stage with that whole innocent act."

I offer her a tight smile, not bothering to mention that I'm going to quit before that happens. I only wish I had a damn job lined up already. "Well, thanks for walking me to my car."

"Yeah, no problem." She puts her cigarette between her lips before turning and walking off.

I dare a glance at the inside of the Mustang as I slip my key into the door. Dane isn't inside, thankfully, but my nerves don't lessen as I open the door and climb in.

The second my butt hits the seat, I shut the door and push down the lock. Then I slide the key into the ignition and ...

Glug. Glug. Glug ...The damn engine won't turn over.

I pound my palm against the steering wheel then slip my hand into my jacket pocket to get my phone, unsure who to call since no one knows I work here. Well, except for my mom, but she wouldn't be any help even if I could get a hold of her.

"Car trouble?"

The sound of Dane's voice sends a surge of fear through my veins.

Swallowing hard, I fix my attention on my phone. "I'm fine." I open my text messages and scroll through my contacts, pretending to be calm when I'm one window knock away from peeing my pants. My heart only pounds harder when Dane tries to open the door.

"Come on; let me in," he says, jiggling the door handle. "I'll get your car to start for you. And I won't even charge you cash."

"Go away." I honk the horn, and he jolts.

He then quickly recovers, pressing his forehead to my window. "Honk all you want, sweetheart. No one can hear you out here. And if they did, they wouldn't care."

He's right. Well, mostly right except for Everette. He cared.

But he's not here, is he?

And the only other guy in your life who's ever protective of you is about thirty miles away and doesn't know about your dirty little work secret.

No, you're going to have to handle this on your own.

I reach for my pepper spray, and start to roll down my window, ready to spray him in the face. But when a Mercedes rolls up beside my car, I freeze. Terror whiplashes through me as a man in his forties wearing a button down shirt and jeans hops out and strides toward the front of my car.

Good God, I'm going to die tonight, either by the hand of Dane or this man who's clearly stalking me for reasons that probably have to do with my mom.

You're not going to die. Just fix the problem. Call Beck because it's either that or let Dane or rich dude end you.

My fingers tremble as I start to push Beck's number, ready to accept the consequences of my actions and pray I don't lose him. But I pause as the older guy storms toward Dane, slams his palms against his chest, and shoves him to the ground.

"What the fuck!" Dane shouts, scurrying to his feet.

The man puts his boot on Dane's chest, pinning him to the ground. "If you so much as come near her again, I will fucking end you. Got it?"

My jaw nearly smacks my knees. Who the freak is this badass old guy?

"Fuck you, old man," Dane spits, struggling to get up. "This isn't any of your business." His face bunches in pain as the man leans more of his weight on Dane's chest.

"I don't think you're really in a position to decide that, are you?" the man asks, rolling up his sleeves and revealing his muscular, tattooed arms. "Now, I'm going to move my foot. You have exactly five seconds to get up, get in your car, drive away, and never, ever come back here." With that, he steps back, removing his foot from Dane's chest.

Dane launches to his feet, balling his hands into fists. "You're going to regret ever doing that."

"One," the man starts counting, sounding kind of bored.

Dane spits on the ground, as if that somehow proves he's tough.

"Two," the man continues, and Dane's eyes briefly widen. "Three."

Dane spins around and barrels for his car. The man keeps counting as Dane starts up the engine. He reaches five as the Mustang flies out of the parking lot, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Once the taillights have vanished down the road, the man turns to me.

"Are you okay?" he asks cautiously.

"Um ... Yeah ..." I don't know what to say. Why did he do what he did? If he expects some sort of payment ...

He must read my hesitancy because he says, "I just wanted to help. That's all."

"Okay ... Thanks." I stare at his eyes, which look strikingly familiar under the glow of the lamppost. "Do I know you?"

Instead of answering, he walks toward the front of the car. "Pop the hood, and I'll see if I can figure out why it won't start."

The fact that he knows about my car trouble puts me right back on edge.

"I can't pay you," I say, "with money or anything else."

His eyes enlarge, and then he promptly shakes his head. "I don't want anything at all."

"Then why are you doing this?"

"To help you."

I don't know whether I should trust him, but the doors are locked and the pepper spray is in my hand if I need it.

"Fine." I pull the lever that pops the hood.

He flips the latch underneath and raises the hood, disappearing out of my sight.

I hold my breath as he works, my finger hovering over Beck's contact number, preparing to dial if I need to. Several minutes tick by before the man peers around the hood.

"Turn the key and see if it starts," he says.

I turn over the key and breathe freely again as the engine grumbles to life.

The man pushes down the hood and walks over to the driver's side window with his now greasy arms crossed. "I think you might really need to consider getting a new car. I temporarily fixed it, but the engine's about to fall apart."

"Thanks for the advice," I say, moving my foot toward the gas pedal, eager to get the heck out of here. "And thanks for temporarily fixing my car."

"Anytime." He lowers his head to level his gaze with mine, and again, I'm struck with an odd sense of familiarity. "I'd really like to help you get one."

So much for his nice-guy act.

"I already told you I'm not that kind of girl."

"What kind of girl do you think I think you are?" he asks, a crease forming between his brows.

"The kind of girl who ..." My cheeks heat, and the words won't leave my mouth. I gesture at the club. "The kind of girl who can be bought."

Shock floods his eyes as he jerks back. "That's not what this is about."

"There must be something you want," I snap. "Or else you wouldn't have just offered to help me buy a car."

He inches closer, shoving his hands into his pockets. "There actually is something I want."

I shake my head, questioning why I'm even still here. "Of course there is."

"Your time," he stresses. "That's it."

My hand on the steering wheel begins to tremble as anger burns under my skin. "And I can only guess what we'd do together while we're spending time together."

"Will you stop saying that kind of shit? That's not what this is about." He looks appalled. No, more than that. He looks utterly sickened, like he's about to puke all over the gravel.

I don't know how it clicks or why. All I know is that one moment, I'm looking at some stranger who saved my ass from Dane, and the next, I'm looking at my father. Only, he's fifteen years older than the one I remember.

"Willow, please just hear me out," he says, probably seeing the recognition on my face.

I shake my head, shoving the shifter into drive. "Stay away from me!" I shout before peeling out of the parking lot.

I drive like a mad woman back to the apartment, checking the rearview mirror every so often to make sure he doesn't follow me. He doesn't, and I don't know what that means. Will he try to talk to me again, or will he walk away? I don't know what answer scares me the most. By the time I pull up in front of the apartment, my skin is damp from an approaching panic attack.

Parking the car, I get out and stumble into the house. I head straight for my mom's room and begin digging through boxes and drawers, looking for something—anything—that will prove that man isn't my father. That he didn't just try to come back into my life after leaving me with a mother who couldn't take care of herself, let alone a child.

When I was younger, I spent nights pondering the idea that perhaps he died and that's why he never came back. It hurt to think he was dead, but it hurt just as much to think that maybe he just didn't want me anymore.

After nearly tearing the room apart, I find what I'm looking for tucked underneath the mattress. My mom said she threw everything of my dad's away, but I knew she was lying. And I was right.

I gather the few photos in my hand and then sink to the floor as I study the man standing beside my mom and me. The tattooed arms. The familiar eyes. The man from the parking lot.

My chest throbs with an old, aching wound. But I refuse to cry anymore over my father, so I bottle up the sadness and the excruciating ache and lock it away with the rest of the problems I'm not ready to deal with.

I know I'm only biding time. Sooner or later, all of this is going to catch up with me.