Page 56 of Driving My Obsession

I contemplate tucking my tail between my legs and returning to his apartment. It hasn’t even been twelve hours since I last saw him, and I already miss him. That would be suicide, though. He’d make me pay for hurting him, and I’d deserve it. It isn’t right to yank around someone’s emotions like that, and he was falling just as hard as I was. I’ll just have to forget about the devastatingly handsome man who made me come like I never had before. But that task is easier said than done. He hasn’t left my mind since I closed his apartment door behind me and shuffled to the bus stop.

Since returning to him isn’t an option, I do the only thing I can and apply a little makeup to hide the red, puffy skin around my eyes. I’ve been crying all day. If I wipe my eyes one more time, the skin is liable to fall right off. Sick of moping around my trailer, I dress in a baggy t-shirt and some sweats to cover my dance outfit—the only work attire left standing because it was in the laundry room when Ambrose went on his rampage in my closet—then I head for the bus stop.

The sun sinks below the city skyline as I board the bus and find a seat near the back. Vibrant oranges and purples stretch behind the buildings. It’s the sort of view I would have used to distract myself from the judgmental glares of my fellow travelers, but now I don’t even notice their pretentious eyes. Now I use the sunset to distract myself from yet another impossible dream that has been snatched away from my empty hands.

He asked how we could make this work, and I didn’t answer him because I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t have an answer, but I wanted to find out. More than anything, I wanted to try. But once again, I slid on my dancing shoes and arabesqued my way to the exit. My dream was worth more to me than the family who refused to acknowledge it, but was it worth more than what I could have had with Ambrose?

I’m not so sure anymore.

The bus pulls to a stop near the club, and I trudge down the aisle. Maybe I’ll feel better when the music starts and I can put my emotions into movement.

When I enter the dressing room, my eyes land on something beneath my station. It’s the acorn from the first night Ambrose started leaving me these twisted little gifts. I’m not afraid of it anymore. Like a psychopath, I get on my hands and knees and retrieve the little nut from the shadows. It’s all I have left of him. I slide it into my pocket, then head to the front of the house to grab a drink before my shift officially starts.

A few men sit around the stage, paying more attention to each other than the poor girl grinding against the pole for all she’s worth. It’s pretty dead tonight, which sucks for my finances but bodes well for my psyche. I don’t think I can handle a bunch of drunk idiots pawing at me tonight. Or ever again.

The bartender spots me as I slide onto the stool, and she sways toward me. She asks what I’d like, and I’m a bit shocked by her question. I always order the same thing, yet this girl can’t remember something as simple as a Moscow Mule.

Ambrose knew it.

The thought is an arrow to my heart.

I can never tell anyone about my feelings for Ambrose and how they came about. I’d get analyzed to hell and back, which is wholly unfair. Doesn’t every relationship begin with a little obsession? Yeah, Ambrose needs a little work in the impulse control department, but we all have our flaws. He just refuses to hide his.

The bartender slides the copper mug into my hands, and I take a gulp. God, I miss him, and now that I’ve tasted this monstrosity, I miss him even more. He never went too heavy with the lime.

A couple of guys enter the club. Muscles bulge from their too-tight t-shirts, though they don’t hold a candle to Ambrose’s beautiful build. I don’t recognize either of them, and when they sit near me at the bar, I wish they’d chosen a different spot. I just want to enjoy my disgusting drink in peace.

“No, that’s the beauty of it,” the short blond man says to his taller, balding friend. “All Marty has to do is take the guy out. After that, he can catch the next flight back to Florida with his cut of the door fee.”

I should really stop myself from eavesdropping on this particular conversation. It sounds like these men are talking about a hit. But I’m a nosy bitch, so I keep my ass planted on the stool.

“I don’t know,” Baldy says. “He agreed to fight dirty and knock the guy down a peg, but now he wants Marty to kill him?”

Yep. Definitely a hit. I pull out my phone and pretend to be very much engrossed in my inactive Facebook account.

“Shhh, keep it down.” Shorty looks around, but he doesn’t seem to notice me, even though I’m only one stool away. The perks of being a lowly “whore” in this establishment, I guess.

Baldy shifts in his seat. “Look, I’ll get Marty to do it, but have you seen the guy he’s supposed to fight tonight? I’m not sure anyonecankill him. He’s never lost a fight, for starters. Then he’s got these scars all over. He’s been through some serious shit.”

I nearly drop my drink into my lap. My brain puts all the pieces together, and I don’t like the picture it shows me. A fighter who never loses. Scars.

They plan to kill Ambrose.

“No one is invincible,” Shorty says. “Look, just send Marty the text. Darby says this guy has gotten too big for his goddamn britches. While he was away for a few days, the fights only brought in half the revenue. Now that he’s back in town, he’s threatening to find somewhere else to fight if Darby doesn’t pay more. He’s bad for business. If Marty can dethrone him and shed more blood than this place has seen in a while, we’ll kill two birds with one stone. The fighters will realize how expendable they are and won’t bitch about their pay, and Darby won’t need that disfigured fuck anymore. The bills will pay themselves.”

Disfigured fuck?I nearly lose it. These assholes don’t know what he went through to get those scars. But I can’t say anything. I have to let Ambrose know about Darby’s plan before it’s too late. He’s scheduled for two fights tonight, and I don’t know if the hit is planned for the early fight or the headline.

I switch to my messaging app and shoot a text to Ambrose.

Don’t fight tonight. Darby plans to have you killed.

While I wait for him to see the message, I listen for any more information, but the men have switched to discussions of football as they enjoy their beers. Minutes tick by, but Ambrose doesn’t respond. I’ll have to go to the fight myself to warn him. When I break the rule and show my face to him, he might kill me before I have a chance to tell him why I’m there, but at least this Marty guy can avenge me if Ambrose is dumb enough to slit my throat before I can speak.

I hurry to the back of the building to look for Jake. He’ll have to do without me for one more night, and I imagine he’ll be pretty pissed about it. He already gave me an ass chewing for taking off for several days, and I’m scared he’ll fire me altogether if I leave tonight. But I don’t have a choice. I can’t let these men hurt Ambrose.

I enter Jake’s office and wince when he eyes me up and down. Even in a baggy t-shirt and some grungy sweatpants, I still feel naked when he looks at me. An oscillating fan blows across the desk, ruffling the stack of comic books he keeps on one corner. I don’t think Jake actually reads them. I’m not even sure hecanread. He probably just looks at the pictures.

“Hey, I hate to do this,” I say, “but I have an emergency and I need to leave. I can come in tomorrow and—”

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