Page 8 of Hero Daddy

"Hey, sweetheart! Nice ass!"

My steps faltered. There were four of them, lounging against a building, sharing what looked like a bottle in a paper bag. They weren't following me, weren't even on my side of the street. Just ordinary jerks being jerks.

"Why don't you come over here, let us see the front too?"

One of them made an obscene gesture that sent the others into laughter. My face burned with humiliation and something deeper—a raw, primal fear that had nothing to do with logic.

I quickened my pace, clutching my purse close to my body, my knuckles white around the strap. Their catcalls followed me down the block, each one hitting like a physical blow. By the time I reached my building, I was practically running, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I fumbled with my keys at the entrance, dropping them once before managing to get the door open. The safety of the lobby washed over me, but the relief was tainted by anger—at those men, at myself for being afraid, at the world for making this normal.

I took the elevator, too drained to face the stairs. Inside my apartment, I locked the door, then jammed the security bar under the knob—a ritual that had become second nature in just three days.

After a shower that couldn't quite wash away the crawling sensation on my skin, I sat on the edge of my bed, wrappedin my robe. My gaze fell once more on Chad's business card. I picked it up, turning it over in my hands, feeling the weight of the cardstock.

"Brave isn't something you are, Daliah. It's something you practice."

His voice had been so sure, so confident. Like he knew things about me that I didn't know myself.

There had been something in his tone, too—a note of command softened by care. That sense that someone stronger was watching over me, guiding me, expecting the best from me while protecting me from the worst.

Something stirred in me—a desire to be sheltered but not smothered, guided but not controlled, protected but still able to grow.

My fingers tightened around the card. Did I want self-defense lessons? Yes. But there was more to it than that. I wanted to feel safe again.

And deeper still, in a place I barely acknowledged even to myself, I wanted to see Chad again. Wanted to stand in the circle of his calm authority. Wanted to earn that look of quiet approval I'd glimpsed when he'd said, "First lesson's free."

The realization sent a flutter through my stomach that wasn't entirely fear. Something shifted inside me, a small but significant realignment, like a dislocated joint sliding back into place.

I placed the card back on my nightstand, but differently this time—not hidden under a book or tucked away, but prominently displayed where I'd see it first thing in the morning.

Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow I would call. Tomorrow I would begin to practice being brave.

***

Morningarrivedwithunusualclarity. I woke before my alarm, the watery light of early Saturday filtering through my blinds, my mind already alert despite another night of broken sleep. The business card sat on my nightstand where I'd left it, cream-colored against the dark wood, waiting with silent patience.

I grabbed the card and sat up, cross-legged on my rumpled sheets. The apartment was quiet, that special weekend stillness when the world seemed to move at half-speed.

My phone lay beside me, screen blank, innocent. I picked it up, then set it down again. Ridiculous. It was just a phone call. People made them every day. I wasn't asking for a date or a favor or anything complicated. Just information about classes.

So why did my stomach feel like I'd swallowed a handful of moths?

I forced myself out of bed and through my morning routine—teeth brushed, face washed, hair combed back into a ponytail. In the mirror, I looked marginally better than yesterday. The dark circles under my eyes had faded from purple to a softer mauve. Scant progress, but progress nonetheless.

Back in my bedroom, the card and phone waited for me.

"Just do it," I muttered to myself, channeling a lifetime of Nike commercials. "Just pick up the phone and call."

The clock on my nightstand read 8:27 AM. Was it too early to call on a Saturday? Did martial arts instructors keep regular hours? I had no idea.

I could wait until later. Maybe around noon . . .

No. If I put it off, I wouldn't do it at all. I knew myself too well.

Before I could reconsider, I punched in the number, my thumb moving with surprising steadiness despite the flutter in my chest. The phone felt slippery in my sweaty palm as I lifted it to my ear.

One ring. Two. I held my breath, half-hoping for voicemail.

---