Rules of a Rebel and a Shy Girl(65)

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.





Chapter Twenty



Willow



My mom doesn’t come home that night, and part of me is glad. I don’t want to see her or my dad yet. I’m honestly not sure I want to see any of them again, even if I do feel guilty and sick for thinking such awful things.

I consider cutting Chemistry class the next day to avoid another problem I’m not ready to deal with, but I’ve never been one for cutting class, so I drive to school, worried my current employment will be the topic of juicy gossip. Apparently, Everette isn’t much of a gossiper, though, something I discover after class when I run into him in the hallway.

Literally.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” I sputter an apology, stumbling back from him, feeling like an idiot for slamming into him while staring at my phone. I was distracted, checking my email to see if any of the jobs I applied for responded back.