Rules of a Rebel and a Shy Girl(63)

“Just do what you always do,” she replies in a sugary sweet tone. “Bat your baby blue eyes to get your way.”

“I so do not fucking do that.”

“You do that all the damn time, and I think you know you do.”

“Whatever.” I raise my head from my hand and sit up straight. “I’m going to hang up so I can call Willow.”

“Let me know how it goes. I worry about her.”

“So do I.” More than anything.

After I hang up, I dial Willow’s number. The call goes straight to voicemail, and seconds later, I receive a text.

Willow: Hey, I’m at work, so I can’t talk. I don’t get off until late so can I call you tomorrow?

Me: Actually, can we hang out tomorrow? I really need to talk to you.

Willow: Sure. Is everything all right? You sounded a little irked on the phone.

I shake my head. Leave it to her to worry about me when she’s buried up to her chin in stress.

Me: I’m fine. I swear. I just really want to see you.

Then, as an afterthought, I add: I miss you.

She doesn’t reply right away, and I start to worry I spooked her. Then my phone buzzes with an incoming text.

Willow: I miss you, too. I have class tomorrow. I get out at two if you want to stop by. I have work later. Maybe we can grab something to eat or something.

The restlessness in my chest relaxes since she’s being cooperative. Then again, she doesn’t know what I want to talk about.

Me: Sounds good. If you want to call me when you get off work, too, you can. In fact, I wish you would.

Willow: If it’s not too late.

I sigh, knowing she won’t yet grateful she’s at least hanging with me tomorrow.

Me: You can always call me. Whenever. Wherever. Any time you want.

I end the messages at that then try to shove my worries of Willow aside for the moment and plug my phone into the computer. Then I copy the files in my father’s personal business folder, files that I’m pretty sure prove he’s committed tax fraud. I’m not positive yet, but I know a very smart girl who might be able to help me understand them better. And while I don’t know what I’ll do if I find out the information is true, it doesn’t hurt to have some blackmail material handy in case he refuses to quit blackmailing me into working for him.

Once I get all the files downloaded, I put my phone away and reach for a piece of paper to work on solving a problem that desperately needs solving: convincing Willow to move in with me.

While I don’t think getting her to agree is going to be easy, I might have an idea to help her see why living with me is better than living with her mom. A way to help her understand. A way she understands.

I press the pen to the paper and start writing a list.





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.