Page 7 of Hero Daddy

"Think about it," he said, taking a small step back. "First lesson's free."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Chad remained where he was, just looking at me. Not at my body in that assessing way I was used to from men, where I could practically see them calculating my dress size and finding me wanting. No, Chadlooked at me like he was memorizing my face, like what he saw there mattered.

For the first time in years, maybe ever, I didn't feel the urge to suck in my stomach or turn to my more flattering angle.

Chapter 2

Threedaysaftertheattack, I couldn’t shake the anxiety. Every creak in the floorboards, every distant siren from the street below sent my heart racing. I'd reinforced the door with a cheap security bar bought online with express shipping, but my dreams didn't care about the extra protection. In my sleep, the hooded man still found me, his fingers still dug into my shoulder, and the tree trunk still slammed against my spine.

I'd slept maybe four hours total since that night, and it was taking its toll. My body ached for rest, but every time I closed my eyes, I saw the yellow teeth of my attacker grinning from beneath his hood.

Until the image shifted, blurring and transforming into something else entirely—Chad's face appearing from the darkness, his movements precise and controlled, his eyes scanning me for injuries. The memory of his voice saying, "You're safe now" would momentarily chase away the nightmare, only for it to return when I drifted back to wakefulness.

I dragged myself from bed after another broken night and padded to the bathroom. The woman in the mirror looked haunted—dark circles beneath her eyes, skin pale despite her natural olive tone. I touched the fading bruise on my shoulder where my attacker's fingers had dug in. The mark was yellowing now, almost gone.

My eyes fell on the cream-colored business card sitting on my nightstand. I'd placed it there that first night, intending to call him the next day. Three days later, I still hadn't worked up the courage. My thumb had hovered over his number countless times, but something always held me back—a mixture of embarrassment, fear, and a feeling I couldn't quite name.

"Wake's Jujitsu Academy," I read aloud, my voice scratchy from disuse. The embossed black lettering felt expensive under my fingertips. I traced the handwritten number on the back, imagining Chad's fingers holding the pen, writing the digits out.

My phone buzzed with a reminder. Work in an hour. I couldn't call in sick again—I'd already missed a day after the attack, and I needed the money. Reality didn't stop for trauma.

At Glimmer Beauty Salon, Trina looked up from the reception desk as I walked in, her eyes widening. "Jesus, Dali, you look like shit," she said, her voice carrying across the salon floor.

"Thanks," I muttered, hanging my coat and heading for my station. I checked my schedule—Mrs. Henderson at nine, followed by three other regulars. At least I'd be busy.

Trina followed me, lowering her voice. "So is it true? You got attacked in the park?"

I froze, polish bottle in hand. "How did you—"

"Small town, honey. Marge's daughter's boyfriend works park security. Said some drunk tried to rob you."

Of course. News traveled fast in Oak Haven. I'd been hoping to avoid this, to slip back into my routine without the pitying looks and whispered conversations.

"I'm fine," I said, arranging my tools with unnecessary precision. "Nothing happened."

"I heard some guy beat the crap out of your attacker. Some kind of super hero?" Trina leaned closer, hunger for gossip overriding any concern for my wellbeing. "So, was he hot?"

The question caught me off guard. Was Chad hot? The word seemed so inadequate, so superficial for what he was. Powerful. Commanding. Protective.

"He was just . . . there at the right time," I said carefully.

Trina looked disappointed by my non-answer. "You know, you should get into politics. Well, in any case, thank God hewasthere. I always said that park was sketchy after dark." She patted my arm in what I supposed was meant to be a comforting gesture. "Maybe stick to the gym from now on, hon. Safer that way."

The suggestion stung, though I knew she meant well. Of course she thought I should go to the gym.

Mrs. Henderson arrived promptly at nine, settling into my chair with her usual air of entitlement. I braced myself for questions about the attack, but she seemed oblivious, launching instead into a story about her neighbor's awful new fence.

I worked on autopilot, filing her nails, applying the base coat, listening without really hearing. My mind kept drifting back to the card on my nightstand, to Chad's words: "Brave isn't something you are, Daliah. It's something you practice."

Was I practicing bravery, going back to work, pretending everything was normal? Or was I just hiding?

The day dragged on. By seven, my last client had left, and Trina was counting the register. "You can head out," she said. "I'll lock up."

Outside, the spring evening had turned chilly. I pulled my coat tighter and began the three-block walk to my apartment, my pace quick, my eyes scanning my surroundings with newvigilance. The streetlights cast long shadows that seemed to reach for me like grasping fingers. Every person I passed became a potential threat—the businessman on his phone, the teenage girl with headphones, the dog walker with his golden retriever.

I hated this new fear, hated how it made me see danger everywhere. This wasn't living; it was surviving, and barely that.

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn't notice the group of men across the street until they called out.

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