Page 23 of Driving My Obsession

What a lame-ass excuse. She’s working at the club because she’s a whore who likes to let men use her body in exchange for cash. I won’t let her tell me this lie. “Why not work a normal job like everyone else? You’d be less of a target for stalkers if you worked a desk job.”

She turns her head toward me and stops clawing at her finger. “Are you victim blaming right now? Seriously? People don’t get stalked because of their profession. People get stalked because there are too many men and women running around with a screw loose.”

Shots fired. But she isn’t wrong. My mother shook a few screws loose when she sank a knife into me more times than the doctors could count.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continues. “If I could go back to the professional dance world, I would, but that just isn’t possible. I was in a wreck six months ago that destroyed my ankle, and the professional dance world demands more than what the plates and screws can handle. I can manage a few minutes on stage at the club, but that’s about it.”

“Do you have to dance?”

She returns her gaze to the window. “Do you have to fight?” When I don’t answer, she knows she’s made her point. “It’s the same thing. Sometimes we’re created to do something, and we can’t deny the drive to do it. I was meant to dance. It’s the one thing that brings me any happiness, and I’m not willing to give up the only shred of joy I have left in life.”

A sign marks the interstate, and I ease the Jeep onto the on-ramp and merge with the trickle of vehicles heading the same way. Headlights cut through the darkness and illuminate her face for a moment. A single tear slithers through her makeup.

“Don’t you have any aspirations?” I ask. “You aren’t happy in your current career, so what’s the end goal?”

A soft laugh springs from her throat. “I can’t look too far ahead. Whenever I try, things seem impossible. Right now I’m focused on getting a car so I can find work at a nicer club outside of our shithole town.”

The speck of sympathy I felt for her blows away on a puff of air. Instead of seeking a way out of her slutty situation, she only desires a nicer place to spread her legs. Which is fine. The last thing I need is for her to give me doubts about ending her life on this trip. Her little admission has only bolstered my conviction. She’s the right target, and the right time is just around the bend.

Then she speaks again, and what she says next drives a chasm through my resolve.

ChapterFifteen

Oaklyn

It’s not easy to open up to someone I don’t really know, but I’m trying. Since I have to be around him for several days in the middle of nowhere, I might as well be a bit more personable, especially when he’s been kind enough to drive me there. Is it the kindness I find myself so drawn to? His good looks certainly help. He’s insecure about the scars on his face, but I see more than that when I look at him. Those marks don’t affect his strong jawline or the way his tongue runs over his full bottom lip when he’s thinking. They certainly don’t detract from his dark eyes.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to tell him about the impossible end goal.

“I have bigger dreams, but I haven’t spoken them aloud to anyone because they feel so silly,” I finally say.

His hands adjust on the wheel, and his shoulders seem to tense. The shift is nearly imperceptible, so maybe I’ve only imagined it. “Are you trying to make it to a whorehouse somewhere in the western part of the country? Is that the real reason you need a car?”

“No, but even if that was the goal, who are you to judge me? Who are you to judge anyone? Sex work is still work.” I regret even opening my mouth at this point. Maybe I should have stayed behind and taken my chances with the stalker. “Never mind.”

His jaw works his muscles into a tight ball, the skin at his temple writhing with every grit of his teeth. “No, go on. What’s your big dream?”

I won’t give him everything. I haven’t spoken of this plan to anyone, and I won’t start with him. But I’ll give him a taste. “I eventually want to stop stripping. Not because I think it’s a dirty profession”—I give him a pointed glare—”but because I just have other aspirations.”

He shifts in his seat and clears his throat. “That’s...admirable.”

It pains him to give this compliment. He struggles to speak the word, as if he’s just forced a shard of glass from his throat. It doesn’t cut me, though. It’s the first genuine compliment I’ve received in months that didn’t pertain to my tits or my ass, and I drink it like wine. I’m left with a warm, fuzzy buzz. If he thought the idea was stupid, he would have said as much. He’s had no problem offering rude remarks thus far. This gives me hope. Maybe my idea isn’t as far out of reach as I imagined. Let the compliment cut him. It’s giving me life.

The miles stretch out behind us as we travel in silence, and the gentle hum of the tires rolling over the pavement pulls me toward sleep. I’ve been drowsy since I woke up. Whatever drug was used on me must have been a powerful one. I rub my thighs together, and the ache between my legs reminds me of the hell I endured while unconscious. Yes. That drug was powerful as fuck. My hand goes to my throat, but I pull my fingers away before they can press into the bruises on my neck. I almost forgot I’d covered them with makeup to avoid any questions. Even though I don’t have a reason to feel embarrassed, I can’t stop the shame from welling inside me. I wrap my arms around myself, providing the comfort I crave.

“Are you cold?” His voice cuts through the darkness, and he reaches to turn on the heat.

I place my hand over his and shake my head. He recoils from my touch, and my stomach sinks. Does he actually view me as a filthy creature? He probably rubs the seats down with bleach every time I exit his car. How can he go from being concerned about my comfort to disgusted in the blink of an eye? This is torture for both of us. I can’t fathom why he’d agree to this when he can’t stand the sight of me.

I’ve had enough.

“Turn the car around,” I say. “I’ll pay for the gas and your time, but I think it’s best if I just go home. This was a terrible idea.”

He grits his teeth and cracks his neck, rolling his shoulders to release pent-up tension. He has no reason to be so tense. “No, I’m taking you to the cabin. What’s the problem?”

“Since you snatched your hand away like I have the plague, I can only assume I’m the fucking problem. I’m not dirty, Ambrose.”

“Sounds like you’re projecting,” he says with a smirk. “Don’t try to pin your insecurities on me.”

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