Chapter 2 #2
I flip one over. There’s the tiny heart I doodled in the corner. The same bills I gave him earlier to pay for my car.
Why would he do that?
I push through the front door, heart pounding, and look down the street but he’s gone. All that’s left is the echo of his motorcycle fading into the distance.
“Thanks,” I say to the wind.
I hate the feeling curling in my stomach. It’s a raw mix of gratitude and something that feels too close to shame. I don’t want to be a charity case. But I am thankful. And I really, really needed that money.
So I go back inside. Feeling seen. And for once, not entirely alone.
The rest of the day passes without a hitch. Bruce offers to stay and clean up, but I wave him off, and he’s gone before I finish the sentence. After the last light’s flipped off and the front door locked, I head out back. The air is cool, the sky heavy with stars. But rain is in the air.
I make my way to my car and immediately notice something different. The driver’s side handle is fixed. I tug it, and it opens smoothly. Circling the car, I test the others. Swag didn’t just fix one. He fixed all of them.
“Well, that was nice of him,” I murmur, surprised.
I slide into the driver’s seat and instantly realize two things.
One: he moved my seat. I can barely reach the pedals.
Two: he left behind his scent. That sharp, clean, spicy kind of masculine smell that somehow clings to the air like it belongs there.
I inhale without meaning to. Then again, maybe I did mean to.
I shake it off and adjust the seat, starting the car.
Five minutes into the drive, I notice the black truck. Tinted windows. Close behind. Too close. Just to test it, I turn right. No blinker. The truck follows.
“Crap,” I whisper, my voice tight with fear.
My thoughts race. Is it Ricky? Timmy? The police station’s ahead, but I hesitate.
Going there means questions. They’ll want my ID.
They’ll run my information and see that the address on my license leads to the library downtown.
And then the questions will start. I’m nineteen so they can’t make me go anywhere, but I’ve learned how easily concern can turn into interference.
So I keep driving.
Everything’s fine until the gas light flicks on.
I groan, slamming my palm gently against the steering wheel. “Seriously, Swag? You took my car all the way to Baton Rouge and didn’t fill the tank?”
Cursing under my breath, I pull into the next gas station, cutting the engine.
The truck follows. And parks right behind me.
My heart slams against my ribs. I glance toward the gas station window.
A man’s inside, but he’s too absorbed in his phone to notice anything outside.
Would he even look up if something happened?
Isn’t this how it happens? Trafficking. Kidnappings.
One second you’re minding your business, the next you’re gone.
I’m so deep in panic-mode that I don’t even see the shadow approach until there’s a tap on my window.
I scream, jerking away from the glass, heart in my throat, already halfway across the seat.
“Easy, little girl,” a voice says. “It’s just me.”
“Swag!” I exhale hard. “What the hell? Why were you following me?”
He opens my door without waiting for permission, crouching down beside me.
“I forgot to tell you that you needed gas,” he says simply. “Pop the door and I’ll fill it up for you.”
Still stunned, I press the button and the door clicks open.
He gets up and walks to the pump like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
And I just sit there, trying to figure out how this rough, unreadable man keeps crashing into my life—half guardian angel, half uninvited chaos.
But I don’t stop him. That’s the part I can’t figure out.
I sit in the driver’s seat, still gripping the wheel like I’m bracing for a crash.
Swag moves around the car with a kind of controlled energy, like every step is measured so he doesn’t break something.
Probably someone. I glance in the side mirror and catch the edge of his profile: sharp jaw, furrowed brow, focused.
He’s muttering something under his breath as he unscrews the gas cap and slides the nozzle in.
I’m too stunned to move. Too tired to make sense of anything.
He finishes up, replaces the cap, and knocks lightly on my window. I roll it down.
“You’re good to go,” he says, eyes scanning my face like he’s trying to read a page I didn’t give him permission to open.
“Thanks,” I manage. “You really didn’t have to?—”
“You’re welcome,” he cuts in, not unkind, but firm. “Where you headed?”
His tone is casual, but warning bells go off in my head.
“Just driving around,” I lie.
He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Just watches me.
Then he says, “Your shift’s over.”
I shrug. “Needed some air.”
“It’s about to storm.”
“Nothing better than fresh air in a storm.” I let out a small laugh. “What’s with all the questions?”
“Just trying to figure out what you’re doing with a sleeping back stuffed behind your seat and a trunk full of clothes and belongings.”
My chest tightens. I swallow hard, suddenly aware of how much the weight of everything I own gives me away.
His next questions guts me.
“You living in your car?”
I flinch like he’s slapped me.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Swag, it’s not your problem?—”
“The hell it isn’t.”
His voice is sharper now, less steady. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to keep it together.
“You planning on sleeping at the park tonight?” he asks. “During a fucking storm?”
The bottom drops out of my stomach. “How do you?—?”
“You really think I’d fix your car and not notice the ID on your floorboard? You know. The one that has the library listed as your address? Or the fact that you’ve got no real place to go?”
I look away, shame curling hot under my skin.
“I’ve got it handled,” I say quietly.
“No,” he snaps. “You don’t. You’re a kid sleeping in public parks and in an office at a shitty diner. That’s not ‘handled.’ That’s barely surviving.”
“Why do you care?” My voice breaks before I can reel it in. “You don’t even know me.”
Something flickers in his eyes—rage, maybe, or something worse. Sadness.
“I care because no one else seems to.”
That stuns me silent.
“I’m not offering charity,” he says, stepping closer, voice low. “I’m offering a locked door and a safe bed. One night. No strings. You take it or you don’t. But don’t you ever make me follow you again and find out you’re sleeping on a bench like no one gives a shit.”
I look down at my hands, fingers curled around the edge of the wheel, knuckles white.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” I whisper.
“You’re not,” he says simply. “You’re just someone who deserves better.”
I want to argue. I want to tell him he’s wrong. But I’m so tired. So, so tired. And no one’s ever said that to me before. So I nod. Just once.
And Swag exhales, like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.
“Follow me,” he says, stepping back toward his truck. “I’ve got a place.”