Page 57 of Driving My Obsession

“Hold up,” he says, rising from his desk. He walks past me and closes the door, then turns to face me again. “Wouldn’t want the girls to hear this, now, would you?”

I shake my head, but the way he stands between me and the door fills me with an uneasy feeling.

“You’ve already been gone for several days, and I really can’t afford to have you disappear on me again. You’re one of my best dancers, but I’ll have to find someone to replace you permanently if you keep leaving me in the lurch like this.” His eyes flick to my breasts. “But maybe we can come up with an arrangement.”

A light sweat slicks my palms. I don’t like that he’s closed the door and caged me in like this. I’m more concerned about that than his threat to hire someone to take my place. I try to push past him. “Never mind, Jake.”

His fist closes around my arm, and he swings me in front of him. The backs of my thighs hit the chair, dropping me into the seat. When I try to rise, he grips my shoulders and holds me in place.

A smirk slides onto his face as he leans closer. “Maybe you should stay right where you are and show me how bad you want to keep your job. Then I’ll consider cutting you loose for the night.”

A strong garlicky odor clings to his breath, and my stomach clenches as the pungent scent finds its way into my nose. I turn my head to escape the stench, and I’m met with a fist across my lip. Warmth trickles down my chin. I touch my fingers to the heat, and they come away red.

“Don’t turn away from me, you bitch.” He pulls me to my feet and bends me over his desk, slamming my head against the cheap particle board. Stars dance in front of my eyes. “I’ve wanted to do this since the first night you came to the club, and no one is going to stop me this time. Now stay still and take this like the whore you are.”

I don’t have time for this, and I am sick and fucking tired of being labeled as something I’m not. The acorn in my pocket presses against my hip, and I know what I have to do. Instead of giving in and taking it, I’ll do what I should have done a long time ago. I’ll fucking fight back.

As he’s busy unbuckling his belt, my eyes search the top of the desk. A pair of scissors and a pen sit in a cup, but they’re just out of reach. If I go for them, he’ll notice before I can grab them. His zipper falls, and I turn my head to check the other side of the desk. I’m running out of time, but I still don’t see anything useful. Then I spot it. A gaudy letter opener with a woman straddling the top sits inches from my fingertips. I ease my hand forward and grab it as he approaches me from behind.

“Just stay like that,” he says. “The more you fight it, the worse it will be for you.”

His fingertips curl around my waistband, and he’s within striking distance. I spin and drive the letter opener into the first thing I see, which happens to be his pasty, flabby thigh. With a high-pitched scream, he releases his hold on my pants and goes for the metal sticking out of his flesh. I don’t stick around to deal with the aftermath. I bolt for the door.

I duck through the back hallway and head straight for the dressing room. While grabbing my bag, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My lip has swollen on the right side and my tears have smeared my mascara. This isn’t how I want Ambrose to see me when I go to him, but I don’t exactly have time to fix myself up.

My ankle groans with each step as I run toward the bus stop. The overworked joint begs for me to take it easy, but I can’t. The bus is already pulling up to the little booth, and it’s the last one for at least an hour. I don’t have that sort of time to spare.

A loud hiss comes from the massive vehicle as it prepares to resume its journey. I raise my bag in the air and flail it around as I cry at the top of my lungs for the driver to wait. I’m almost there, but I won’t make it. It’s pulling away.

A flash of color rushes past one of the bus windows, and the behemoth comes to a stop before it’s too far off the curb. As I near the vehicle, the woman with the massive carpet bag returns to her seat and eyes me through the window. She stopped the bus?

The doors open and I climb inside as Jake barrels from the building. His waving fists and angry words shrink into the distance as the driver pulls away. I turn and start down the aisle, and the old woman slides her bag into the space beside her on the seat. No words pass between us, but I think I have a better understanding of her now. All this time, I’ve imagined people were judging me because I was so accustomed to receiving criticism from everyone I let near me. Meanwhile, I’ve been placing my own misguided judgements on others.

The old woman doesn’t have anything against me because of what I do for a living. She just likes to sit by herself.

I have been so blind, but I refuse to keep walking through life with my eyes closed. Maybe throwing away my family to chase my dance dream was the right call, but I never should have walked away from Ambrose. I should have stayed and fought for him, even if it meant fighting with him. If he doesn’t kill me when he sees me, I’ll tell him how I feel. I’ll beg if I have to.

But first, I have to save his life.

ChapterThirty-Three

Ambrose

Islide from the Jeep and shrug out of my leather jacket. A fresh sleeveless t-shirt clings to my sweat-coated body. I haven’t even gotten into the ring yet and I’m already dripping with it. Adrenaline rushes through me like a drug. I’ve been away from the ring for too long, and I’m ready to get that release I feel when a punch lands with a solid crack.

A few people mill around the parking lot, but most of the crowd waits inside. Their animated voices reach me from here, and each step I take raises the noise level another octave. By the time I reach the door, it’s a roar. They came for a show. They came to see blood. And I won’t disappoint them.

“Scar!” a booming voice calls from my right.

I roll my eyes and turn to face it. “Darby,” I deadpan.

“I tried to call,” he says.

My shoulders lift in a shrug. “Left my phone at home. Didn’t want any distractions.”

He motions me up a flight of metal stairs that leads to his office, and I follow because I don’t have a choice. As long as I fight in his ring, he’s my boss.

He pulls a cigar from a box on a shelf and pops it into his crooked mouth, then offers me one. I shake my head. I don’t put anything other than oxygen into my lungs before a fight. He shrugs and returns the box to its spot before dropping into a leather chair and lighting his cigar.

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