Page 55 of Driving My Obsession

There has to be a solution to this. A compromise lies somewhere, but he has to be willing to see it. “What if I stop doing private dances? I can tell Jake I’m only available for stage time and nothing else. That way, I can keep dancing and you’re the only one getting a private show.”

“No,” he says, leaving no room for compromise.

I fold my arms over my chest and look away, unwilling to continue this conversation. If he can’t see how irrational he is, rubbing his nose in it won’t help. It’s already right in front of his face.

He releases the bed railing and stands upright, his muscles tensing beneath his shirt as he comes toward me. I flinch when he reaches my side, expecting him to grab my throat or fist my hair, but he does neither. He leans forward and kisses me hard. His fingers rake my scalp, and he grips the red tendrils tightly enough to make it hurt while sending a shiver through my core. He made me come only minutes ago, but I’m already hungry for another mind-blowing orgasm only he can provide. When he pulls away, I’m breathless.

“The bus stop is two blocks down,” he says against my lips. “If you’re gone when I get back, I’ll respect your decision. I can’t promise you won’t see me in the shadows every day for the rest of your life, and I can’t promise you won’t wake up some days with pain between your legs and the memory of the previous evening erased. I can only promise that if you leave, I will kill you if you ever come looking for me. You can’t have it both ways, tragedy, so choose wisely.”

He releases my hair and leaves the bedroom. Seconds later, the front door slams and I’m left with an ache between my legs and an impossible decision.

* * *

Ambrose

I leavethe bagel shop with two orders because I can’t stop myself from hoping she’ll still be in my bed when I get back to the apartment. Guilt claws at my throat, begging to burst from it in the form of an apology when I return. I’m no better than her shitty family for forcing such a decision on her.

But I won’t apologize and I won’t change my mind. Sharing her isn’t an option.

I meant what I said. I’ll let her go if she chooses to keep dancing, but she better not show her face to me again. If I want to see her, I’ll find her myself. Probably on a regular fucking basis. I’ll continue to take what I want from her, but she’ll no longer reap the benefits of an amicable arrangement. Maybe I’m no better than her family, but if she can’t choose me, she’s no better than my fucking mother.

Pulling into the apartment parking lot, I take a moment to prepare myself for what I might walk into. An empty home never bothered me before, but the thought of it now pulls my stomach to my feet. I want her to be inside when I open the door. I want that more than anything I’ve ever wanted before, and I don’t know how I’ll handle the disappointment if she’s not there. She came into my life and fucked everything up, and now she holds the final thread of my sanity between her fingers. If she’s severed that thread, I don’t know what I’ll do.

I grab the brown paper bag containing our breakfast and start across the parking lot. Anxiety badgers my brain, and I can’t even be bothered to cover my face from the prying eyes that seek out my scars. Let them look. Hell, let them take a fucking picture for all I care. I just need to get inside and learn the answer to the question that’s been burning through my mind since I left the house.

Did she stay?

I unlock the front door and step inside. My footsteps brush along the carpet, then shift to a thud as I toss the sack of breakfast on the counter in the kitchen. Her bag no longer sits beside the sink.

Maybe she grabbed it so she could shower and change clothes.

My heart grasps at excuses, but logic shouts the truth over each weak argument. I won’t find her in the shower. I won’t find her in the bedroom, either. I won’t find her anywhere in this apartment because she probably left as soon as I drove out of the parking lot. Silence greets me in every room, and I’m forced to face facts when I reach the bedroom.

She’s gone.

My brain tempts me. It tells me I should rush straight to my Jeep and hunt her down so I can put an end to my torment, but that organ fails to realize I’ll be tormented either way. She chose to leave, and I have to let her go. Killing her doesn’t solve anything anymore. At least if she’s alive, I can still watch her. And use her.

I go to the couch and sit down with the breakfast I no longer have the stomach to eat. My tragedy has lived up to her nickname, but not in the way I anticipated when I first coined it. She was supposed to meet her tragic end in the finale, but she turned the tables and brought about my tragic end instead. Fucking plot twists.

My phone chimes, and I roll my eyes when I read the message. Darby caved and scheduled me for two fights. I’ll go head to head with Boris for the first bout, then I’ll face a newcomer in the final match of the night. I squint at the screen and study the man’s name. He must be new to the street fight scene entirely because I’ve never heard of him, and I know everyone worth knowing. It isn’t like Darby to put a rookie in the ring with someone like me, so he must be looking for a bloodbath.

If that’s what he wants, that’s exactly what he’ll get. I have a lot of pent-up frustration to let out.

I try to sit back and get my head in the game. When I have a scheduled fight, I need to warm up my bodyandmy mind. The crowd thinks it’s all a game of thoughtless jabs and kicks, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Sure, all the heavy blows and sprays of blood are fun to watch, but the opponents are playing a different sort of mental chess in the ring. We’re searching for weaknesses and exploiting them. We’re calculating. It helps when you know your opponent, though, and the unknown elements for the final match are grating on my nerves.

It also doesn’t help that my thoughts keep circling back to Oaklyn. I picture her in the crowd, watching me do what I do best. I know what it feels like to hear people cheering me on because they’ve got money riding on my win, but I’ve never had someone root for me because they support me. And now I never will.

She made her choice, and it wasn’t me.

On top of everything else, my body aches and I’m tired. I’m in no shape to fight tonight, but the money is too good to pass up. My opponent won’t care if I’m in top form, though. He won’t care that I’m mentally exhausted. He will happily kick my ass with a smile on his face if I can’t get my shit together. Most of these fuckers couldn’t beat me on my worst day, but I won’t risk my winning streak for anything. I have to focus.

I lift my phone and consider telling Darby I can’t come in tonight, that I’m sick or hurt or some other fabricated story. But it’s no use. Like Oaklyn needs to dance, I need to fight. I just have to make sure I don’t lose.

ChapterThirty-Two

Oaklyn

Dressing for work doesn’t feel the same as it did before I met Ambrose. I never considered how much skin I show to the men who watch me dance, but now it’sallI can think about. Even though I chose to leave, I still feel like I belong to him. It doesn’t feel right to give these parts of myself away anymore. They aren’t mine to give.

---