Page 25 of Driving My Obsession

The smile drops from her face. “No, I chose this diner because I used to come here with my parents. We’d drive to New York for dance competitions a few times a year, and we’d always stop here on our way home. It was a tradition.”

A waitress approaches our table and asks for our drink orders. I order a Coke, but Oaklyn requests some special blackberry concoction from their vintage soda fountain. When the waitress delivers it to our table, I hardly have words. The glass is twice the size of mine, and I don’t know where she plans to put all that liquid.

With wide eyes, I motion to her drink. “You don’t plan to drink all that, do you? We’ll have to stop nine times before we’re even out of Pennsylvania.”

“I’ll use the bathroom before we leave. I have a strong bladder.” She pulls the monstrosity toward her and takes a massive sip through her straw. “Besides, when will I have the chance to come here again? Probably not for a very long time.”

Probably not ever, I think. Guilt rears its ugly head once more, and I shove it down. It’s getting more difficult to deny what I’m feeling for her. How fucking disgusting.

“Let’s make this quick,” I say. “We need to get back on the road.”

We have to reach the cabin so I can finish the job before this girl makes me question my plan. The goal isn’t to fall in love and run off into the sunset. Even if I wanted that, she’d never accept me for who I am or what I look like. I don’t want her, either. I hate her because she’s so much like the woman who took a knife to my body. If I’m not careful, my tragedy will take a knife to my soul. But not if I can strike first.

ChapterSixteen

Oaklyn

We’re almost an hour from the cabin, but I can’t hold my bladder any longer. It would be impressive if I’d held it this long, but I’ve already asked him to stop several times since we left the diner. Four times, to be exact. I squirm in my seat, pressing my thighs together and counting the cars we pass on the interstate to keep my mind from wandering to the pulsing pain in my abdomen. A slight whimper escapes my throat, and Ambrose’s head whips toward me.

“Again? Jesus fucking Christ.” He aims the Jeep toward the offramp and searches for the nearest gas station. “I told you this would happen.”

“I’m sorry for my very normal need to piss,” I mutter.

“Pissing is normal, yes, but not every five minutes.” He pulls up at a rundown gas station and throws the car into park beside the pumps. “Make it quick.”

With a huff, I get out and slam the door behind me. A metal bell rings when I enter the gas station, and the attendant behind the counter leers at me as I head toward the back of the store in search of a place to relieve myself.

“You gotta go around the back of the building,” he calls. “You also gotta buy something. We ain’t running a charity here.”

I snatch the first thing I see from the rack beside me—a bag of chips that are probably as stale as this man’s soul—and rush toward the counter. My hand works into my pocket, and I pull out a five. I’m almost desperate enough to leave the change and the chips behind, but every dollar counts right now. It’s a good thing I waited, because he slides a key attached to a long stick back to me, along with my change.

“Thanks,” I say. I gather everything into my hands and shuffle out of the building.

Late-morning sun beams down on my skin, and cotton clouds hang in the sky. A lone sparrow pecks at a few soggy french fries lying in a puddle on the pavement. I open the bag of chips to toss it a few as I rush past, but it flies off. I dump them near the ground by a trash can and throw away the bag. Hopefully the little bird will come back and enjoy the dry snack I’ve left it. I’m only sorry I didn’t have more time to put them somewhere a bit cleaner.

I round the corner of the building and nearly collide with a couple of drunks hanging out on the sidewalk. For someone who isn’t running a charity, the station owner sure doesn’t seem to mind the two brown-baggers hanging around the bathroom door. I guess they bought the booze inside. The acrid scent of spilled urine claws toward me as I swing open the door, and I make a mental note to bathe twice when I reach the cabin. I go to lock it behind me, but there’s no way to turn the deadbolt on this side.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I whisper as I scramble to unbutton my shorts. I’ll just have to be quick.

Hovering over the filthy toilet seat, I breathe a sigh of relief as the pressure in my gut lessens. The feeling is only second to a really good orgasm. My eyes drift shut until I’ve completely emptied everything in the tank, then I reach for the toilet paper in the little silver holder to my right. A cardboard roll brushes against my fingertips. More whispered curses explode from my lips, and I search around the bathroom for something to wipe with. Men have it so easy. They only need to shake the dribble away. I wiggle my ass to see if I can achieve the same effect, but it doesn’t work. Not wanting to sit in piss-damp panties for the rest of the drive, I groan and hobble toward the paper-towel dispenser with my shorts around my calves. I don’t enjoy the thought of dragging that stiff crap through my crotch, but it beats the fuck out of the alternative.

As soon as I’ve pulled a few of the rough sheets of brown paper from the dispenser, a sound catches my attention and I freeze. Footsteps. They crunch across the gritty sidewalk outside, and the shuffling gait nears the bathroom door.

“Someone’s in here!” I shout as I run the paper towel across my tender skin with a grimace. It feels like sandpaper, especially when it grates against the tears between my legs.

The footsteps stop outside the door, and someone raps against the metal.

“I’m almost done!” I call. I yank up my shorts, flush the paper towel—because fuck this guy’s plumbing—and turn on the faucet to wash my hands. I don’t know why I expected soap, but I’m still disappointed when I don’t see any. The disinfectant spray on the back of the toilet tempts me, but I settle for water alone. As I grip a few of the useless paper towels to dry my hands, my heart refuses to beat.

The door’s reflection glares at me from the dirty mirror. It’s only open a crack, but an unmistakable eye peers through the tiny opening. Fine hairs rise along the back of my neck. A panicked cramp squeezes my stomach.

The eye blinks, and it’s enough to break my frozen state. I move toward the door and put my weight against it, wedging my sneaker at the bottom in a desperate bid to keep the hunk of metal from opening again. I close my eyes and hope I only imagined it; maybe my stalker issue has caused me to see something that wasn’t there.

Then the door moves. Whoever is out there is very real, and they want to get inside.

I press my shoulder against the cool metal and scramble to keep my feet planted. I’ve used my good leg against the door, but my busted ankle cries out any time I’m forced to rely on it as backup. Fear grips my lungs in a chokehold, and I struggle for every breath. I can’t keep this up much longer.

“Help!” I scream, but I don’t know who I expect to come running. Ambrose is too far away to hear me, and I doubt he’d come to my rescue anyway. But what other option do I have? “Please! Ambrose, help me!”

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