14. Rachel
14
RACHEL
I t had been two weeks since I told Derrick I was done with Dreamary. Two weeks since he diminished me on the subway platform, and I was still furious.
She's not worth our time…
I’d sent him a text later that night telling him that I was done working for him. It had been rash, but I thought he'd realize his mistake and beg me to come back. But that didn't happen. He had responded with one sentence, I’ll pass this on to HR . And then radio silence.
Well, he could take his company and shove it.
Except…I regretted sending the text. I regretted quitting. I'd been impulsive and short-sighted. My plan had failed before it began. I liked working there. I liked the people. And I really needed the job for the extra money.
My mom's boss, the NICU medical director, had emailed me and asked me to contact her if I needed anything else and to confirm the trip.
I hadn't been able to bring myself to respond and tell the director that it wasn't going to happen. I’d screwed up.
I was at the Pilates studio, thinking about all this as I walked the last client out the door before I closed up. I was distracted, and the door stuck as I tried to pull it shut. Groaning, I tugged harder, until I realized someone's foot was shoved between the doorframe and the door, preventing me from closing it.
"Hey!" I hollered, stumbling back, ready to snatch my taser from behind the desk until I saw who it was.
Derrick stepped into the doorway, his large frame blocking out the evening light. "Can I come in?"
"Uh, sure." I stepped back.
My heartbeat sped up, but I nonchalantly walked through the studio, shutting down the computer, fixing the reformers, and turning off the music, Derrick following behind me.
I chewed my lip, trying to control the nervous anticipation about why he was there. I was hoping he was there to apologize and offer me my job back. The Pilates studio had become stale, and these past two weeks had shown me how over this job I was.
"Are you going to tell me why you're here?" I asked, adjusting one of the reformers. "Or just follow me around like a creeper."
"Since you've ignored all my messages, this was my only recourse," he said, unmoved.
I spun around. "You haven't sent me any messages."
"I sent half a dozen."
I mentally palmed her forehead, remembering. The moment after he’d sent his frustrating reply, I’d been so furious I’d silenced him on all my devices.
My phone was under the desk, and I grabbed it, opening my messages and searching his name. And there they were. A row of texts, each one becoming more insistent and concerned. My stomach flipped, relieved.
Maybe my plan had worked.
"Sorry. I didn't think you'd be contacting me again," I said.
"So you blocked me?" Derrick asked.
I shrugged, trying to portray a calm demeanor, but inside my emotions were running hot, and I couldn't think clearly. I wanted to work for him again. I wanted to say I was sorry. I wanted him to not hate me. But I didn't know where to start.
"You know, you were the one in the wrong," Derrick said. "Not me."
I opened my mouth to shoot back an angry retort, but that's what had gotten me in trouble in the first place. Instead, I bought time and ducked into the back office to grab my belt bag. I slung it diagonally across my chest and walked back to the small lobby where Derrick waited.
"Look, I'm sorry. Is that what you want to hear?" I asked.
"Yes," he said simply.
We stared at each other, neither one of us ready to let our guard down.
"Do you mind?" I asked, looking at the door he was blocking.
A little muscle ticked in his jaw. "Why did you quit?" he asked.
"They need me here," I lied. In reality, Gianna had been frustrated with me, sensing my lack of enthusiasm. "Please move."
"Are you mad at me?" he asked.
"No," I lied again.
"Bullshit." Derrick's gaze hardened. "I'm the one who should be furious."
"I was going to apologize sooner, but then you snubbed me in front of that woman, so I figured you wouldn't miss me. Now get out of my way, Mr. Jackass." I yanked his arm, but he was like Iron Man, unmovable.
"You can't blame me for being pissed," he said, raking his hand down his short beard. "And you didn't finish your job."
"I finished it!" Heat shot up my neck. "I organized your office into an inch of its life."
My chest rose and fell rapidly, and I glared at him. He glared back, and something shifted in the air, something electric ricocheting between us. A strange look crossed his face, and as he stepped toward me, I swore there was lust in his eyes.
"Derrick?" I tentatively rested my hand on his forearm. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Like what?" he asked, but didn't move.
I gripped his arm, digging my fingers around his thick muscle. "Did you only come to ask me back?"
"I don't know." His voice was low, like he was fighting against something.
This weird energy circled us, and I took a step closer, my toes hitting his shoes. My thumb traced a circle over his wrist, and he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"No." He yanked his arm out of my grip. "This isn't…I shouldn't have?—"
And that's when I saw it. The unmistakable bulge in his pants.
"Are you turned on right now?" My jaw dropped in surprise, and little sparks of lust hopped around my belly at the sight of his arousal. Fuck me, that's a big bulge.
I was expecting him to cover it with his hands or turn away, but he stood perfectly still, the only movement a tick in his jaw that I could barely see through his trimmed beard.
His gaze was clamped on mine, and I was unsure what was happening. He was obviously turned on, but he wasn't making any moves on me.
"I thought you couldn’t…" I trailed off, not wanting to upset him again.
"It was one incident a long time ago." He sucked in a deep breath and turned away from me. "This isn't why I came. I'm sorry. Just give me a second."
I heard him taking long, deep breaths, his head bent, regaining control. When he turned around again, his “swelling problem” was gone.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "That was inappropriate. I'm gonna have a lot to talk to my therapist about next time."
"Is that a joke?" I asked, surprised.
"Yes." The corner of his mouth ticked, like he was holding back a smile.
"Do you see a therapist?" I asked.
"Actually, we're on a break."
A laugh popped out of my mouth.
"Why are you here?" I asked again, the tension between us loosening.
Derrick glanced at the front door like he was searching for the words. But then he stepped forward, pressing his face against the glass, alarmed.
Suddenly, he shoved through the door, hollering at someone. "Hey! You! Stay there."
I followed Derrick's gaze and gasped. He was there, across the street. My stalker. I hadn't seen him in weeks but there he was, hiding behind a tree.
In a flash, Derrick jetted across the busy road, dodging cars.
"Derrick. Don't!" I yelled, thinking the guy could have a gun or something. But then I remembered Derrick was an ex-cop and knew what he was doing, and I shut my mouth.
The man ran down the street, and I followed in the same direction on the other side of the road as Derrick booked it after him. I was dodging pedestrians, flower beds, and leashed dogs, trying to keep them in sight.
The man darted between two parked cars, but Derrick snatched the neck of his shirt and yanked the guy back to the sidewalk.
When I crossed the street, Derrick had the man on the ground, with his hands twisted behind his back.
"Call 911," Derrick said to me, holding the guy's arms in a tight grip.
"Wait," the guy spoke against the sidewalk, his head sideways. His hat had been knocked off, and I saw I was right. He was Eastern Asian, possibly Chinese. "I'm not bad guy."
"Why are you following me?" I yelled, the adrenaline from the chase spurring my anger. "Who are you?"
"Rachel, shut up and call the police," Derrick said. People were gathering, phones out, recording. Derrick yanked the man to his feet and pushed him forward. "Come on. Let's go."
"Where?" I asked, running alongside him.
"The studio. Less gawkers."
My fingers shook, and I couldn't unlock my phone. Finally, I got it open and dialed, but before I could press the call button, the man spoke.
"You look like her." The man stared intently at me. His eyes were filled with tears, and he didn't look dangerous. He looked like a man who had found something precious that he’d lost.
"Who?" I asked.
"My daughter. Your mother."