Dancing with a stranger

Chapter |4✨

I walked into the salon, the familiar scent of shampoo and hair spray hitting me first. Teresa was at her station, working on Ms. Betty's haircut. The sweet old lady glanced up in the mirror as she got to her feet, ready to head to her nail appointment. Ms. Betty was routine personified—haircuts on Thursdays, nails immediately after, sometimes lunch with her daughter Debra.

"Hi, Teresa," I said, smiling, giving her a quick hug. I hugged Betty too, who beamed at me in return. She didn't need to know what really went on here. Most of the customers didn't, though everyone knew my father's name.

"I'm here for business," I added with a light laugh, letting them assume whatever they liked.

I slipped down the narrow hallway toward the back, past the hum of blow dryers, into the dimly lit room where the real work happened. Leather, cologne, and something metallic in the air hit me as I stepped in. Lorenzo was there, small desk cluttered with papers, but his attention snapped to me the moment I entered.

"Who's he?" I asked, perching on the lounge.

"He's Kian Garcia," Lorenzo said, smirking. He leaned back, tossing his head slightly, a teasing warning in his eyes. "You're late."

"Traffic," I said dryly. I didn't feel like explaining.

Ah. James Garcia's son.

Lorenzo chuckled, scribbling something down. He stood and handed me a small, brown-paper-wrapped package along with a check.

"Your father said this needs to be delivered ASAP. I trust you'll handle it," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I slipped the package into my bag and adjusted the strap. "Anything else?"

"Tell your father to be careful," Lorenzo said, his expression darkening. "Garcia's men have been asking questions around town. Things are heating up."

I felt a shiver run through me but kept my face neutral. Garcia always meant trouble. His men closing in meant escalation was inevitable. "I'll pass it along."

"You know what you're getting into, right?" Lorenzo asked.

"I'm not new to this," I said.

He gave me a hard, steady look, then nodded.

⸻

I left the salon, moving efficiently. Following my father's instructions, I dropped the bundle in the abandoned bowling alley parking lot. Ring the track phone, drive away, make sure no one follows. Some cops liked to tail people in these situations, but mentioning my father's name was enough to keep them at bay.

The transaction complete, I headed home. Handing the money and package to my father, I caught the small, predatory smile that always made my skin crawl.

"Well done," he said, voice calm—too calm. Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode back toward his office.

Navy-blue suit. The same one he wore to Mom's funeral. Always feels like grief draped over his shoulders. Every time he wears it, the air shifts. Cold. Oppressive. Heavy.

He wasn't that old—late 40s, scruffy beard, hair graying in patches—but something about him made him seem older. Harder. Unreachable. I didn't comment. I never did.

⸻

Upstairs, my phone buzzed. Grace.

Grace 🤍: come to this other bar I found with me and Charlie
Me: fine, I'll meet you there 😘

Jeans, boots, and a red shirt that screamed boldness, confidence, and a little danger. Quick swipe of makeup. Keys in hand. Out the door. Escape. Relief.

But then...

"Hey, sweetheart."

My father's voice—too casual, too controlled. I froze mid-step.

"I know you can handle yourself, but my enemies... they'll come for you too."

A punch to the gut. Sharp, dangerous.

I met his eyes, holding mine steady. "Okay. I'll be careful," I said, keeping my voice calm.

A beat. A nod. But the warmth I craved never came. His gaze stayed cold. Commanding. Protective. Twisted.

I could feel the weight of him pressing on me, his version of love. Part of me wanted to run. Leave it all behind. But that wasn't an option—not while danger circled. Not while Garcia was out there.

I stepped past him, letting the tension follow me out the door.

EDIT:2/23/26