The Thing About Three

chapter twenty-five | is everything okay?

"HEY, I NEED you to call that lady with the Civic back when you get the chance," Dallas told me on his way to his office the Monday following our somewhat-heated exchange in his loft. "Mr. Mel said her car should be done before closing."

"Okay, let me go give this ticket to Bill and then I'll get on that," I replied, standing up from my seat.

"Oh, and ask Bill when he's gonna start on the red Silverado."

"Will do."

Noah was in the break room when I entered, leaning back in a metal folding-chair and snacking on a bag of chips. Mr. Mel sat next to him, sipping on a styrofoam cup of coffee.

"Hey, baby," Noah winked at me as I passed him on my way towards the door to the shop.

"Quit calling me 'baby,'" I shot at him playfully, still keeping up the pretense that we weren't secretly dating—or whatever it was we were doing.

He grinned. "Sure thing, babe."

Mr. Mel laughed as I dramatically groaned and pushed through the door to the shop, finding Bill at the nearest bay tinkering with something under the hood of a white SUV.

"Hey, Bill, you've got a new job," I told him as I handed him the ticket.

"Aw, man," he jokingly complained. He wiped his greasy hands on the seat of his jeans before taking the ticket from me. "Not another one."

I politely laughed. "Yeah, it's been pretty busy around here, hasn't it?"

"Way too busy," he said back, smiling, his big eyes already starting to creep me out.

"Um, so, Dallas wants to know when you're gonna start on the red Silverado."

"Oh, uh," he glanced at the SUV before him. "I'd say in about thirty minutes or so, I guess. Though you go tell Dallas he oughta stop acting like the boss or something and come help us out over here," he tried to joke.

I gave him a laugh out of pity, but I found the joke more offensive than anything. Dallas practically worked the jobs of manager and mechanic because of how understaffed we were. "I'm sure he'll love to hear that," I said back.

He chuckled. "Alright, girl, go get back to work," he told me.

I nodded, turning around. And then, in a matter of half a second, my content mood and calm demeanor was gone, because that was how long it took for his hand to firmly meet my backside in an almost painful slap.

I jumped away from him when I realized what happened, gasping in shock as I whirled around, meeting his eyes.

He frowned at me, as if my reaction was unwarranted. "What?" he asked. "It was just a little pat."

"It's sexual harassment is what it is," I shot back.

"Oh, come on, I was just messing around," he tried to explain, as if this was all some misunderstanding.

I didn't say anything back to him—didn't really know what to say. All I knew was that I felt disgusted and violated and wanted to be as far away from him as I could possibly be.

I tired to spin around and head back towards the door, but his meaty, grease-marked hand grabbed onto my arm and kept me from leaving.

I froze under his grip, absolutely terrified. It was shocking how, just a minute ago, we were both smiling and laughing.

"Hey," he said gruffly. "Don't go telling nobody, you hear me?"

"Let go," I growled at him, trying to pull away.